Uppercase Woman

Consistency, the Impossible Dream

Hello Daily Kos visitors! If you are interested in my story about having a "partial birth abortion", a great place to start is here.

We now resume normal blogging.

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Now that my daughter is a bit older and walking around, it has become significantly more challenging to keep her out of trouble. She's only been walking for a little over a month and she is into EVERYTHING.

I know all you other moms are nodding your heads and saying, oh, yes, I know what you mean. I'm not sure you do. When I mean everything, I mean EVERYFUCKINGTHING. At the story hour at the library, Tori doesn't just pull books off the shelves, grab all of the toys, and steal pacifiers from other parent's infant car seats. She will also rummage through your purse if you left it on the floor, go through the trash behind the librarian's desk, and attempt to operate the CD player being used during story time.

I watch everyone else's kids, and I have spotted exactly THREE other kids as mobile, insistent, stubborn and grabby as Tori. And while I realize that many of the kids at the story hour are older than Tori is (usually we go to the ones offered for kids two and under, and she's not quite 16 months old), they ALL seem to listen to verbal commands better than Tori does.

I'm sure that more experienced moms are chuckling along and rolling their eyes at my plight. Sure, it doesn't rank very high on the world peace scale, but it's still scary. Tori will pick up everything from the ground and put it in her mouth. No, really, everything. She eats the dog's food. She eats dirty Kleenex if she can find it. She has pulled a lamp in the living room off the table four different times and shattered the light bulb. Not too long ago I found her sucking on a bottle of insect repellent that was zippered into her diaper bag.

I understand, from reliable sources, that children do not learn anything resembling impulse control until they are two. But Tori is nearly as agile as the two-year-olds we know (really, she is--I'm not just saying that cause I think she's special), which leaves me with a smart, physically talented kid that has no desire or willingness or (OK, I'll concede the point) capacity for responding to her parent's shrieks of OH MY GOD STOP STOP STOP.

What's even more frustrating is that when I mention this to some parents I know, they say things like, "Oh, we never even put up a baby gate--we just trained him/her/them to not go in areas they weren't allowed." Really? With what, a fucking cattle prod? Cause short of electrical shocks, I'm not sure Tori is trainable. And knowing her, she'd just laugh cause they tickled.

Advice from this site says:

Toddlers need to feel independent and capable.You can help them use their developing language skills to label their own and others' actions. Learning to describe actions, thoughts, and feelings with words is key to having good impulse control.

Oh, thanks. That is so helpful. Now I'll just say, "Tori, you are really great at pulling the lamp over and I know you think it's fun. But it throws the lamp to the floor and makes the bulb shatter into a million pieces that will cut up your little feet--whoops! See what I mean?"

I'm sure THAT will help.

I understand that the key to success in this area is consistency. When I was discussing this with my best friend this morning, she was discussing how much easier it is to be inconsistent. When you're tired, you don't want to have to fly off the couch and go grab the kid away from the bowl of dog food. It's not like it's poison for fuck's sake--let her eat it. I (much to other mother's shock and chagrin) allow Tori to chew on sticks she picks up at the park (I guess it's my vet tech experience that's to blame there--after all, dogs like chewing sticks, why not kids?). But of course she can't be expected to know the difference between a stick and someone's half-gnawed candy bar or a tasty bit of dog poop.

I do try. I really do. But toss my husband into the mix and consistency becomes utterly IMPOSSIBLE.

When Charlie and I first met, I had a wonderful little dog named Misty. I'd trained Misty to not beg while I was eating. She knew that when I was done eating I'd put the plate on the floor (oh, stopping saying ew--dog's mouths have an enzyme in their saliva that is practically antibacterial) and then it would be all hers. But when Charlie started hanging out at my house, he was so eager to get in her good graces that he began feeding her little tidbits off his plate constantly, and just like that, poof! Eight years of dog training went out the window.

So if I try to tell Tori that everything on the top shelf of the end table is OFF LIMITS and take her hands off the things she's trying to grab, a half-hour later I'll catch my husband obligingly unplugging the baby monitor that sits there and letting her play with it.

But it's not just him. He's way more safety conscious than I am, so when Tori crawls to the edge of our bed he will say "No!" and pull her away from it, while I allow her to push the boundaries there--the end result being that she's fallen off the bed three times in my care, and none in his.

Sarah said it's like training a dog, but it's not. Dogs are way easier. Dogs start at loud noises instead of turning around and laughing and indicating that the noise (usually consisting of me yelling NO or STOP or DON'T) should be repeated cause it was so funny. Not one dog that I've trained has ever done that. Dogs spit out things that taste bad instead of trying a different section of the same thing because it might be different on that corner! Dogs also don't usually pull lamps off end tables. Well, OK, sometimes they do.

There is, of course, one way to instill impulse control or train kids Tori's age--hitting them. Slapping hands, spanking, whatever. I won't, and can't, do it. I don't think it really helps the kid in the long term, and I can't be the one that causes pain (at least not until she's a teenager and then it will be angst and not pain).

Short of that, I'm totally at a loss. It makes it difficult to take Tori places, even the houses of my friends with kids. Where most children are content to play with the offered toys, Tori wants to play with the stereo equipment and pull nails out of the wall or screws out of the screen door (no, really). She's smart, stubborn, clever, willful, and a problem solver--and short of six-foot high brick walls (or, OK, a well-placed baby gate) nothing will keep her out of what she wants to get into. Nothing.

Shit. That sounds an awful lot like her mother...

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I just want to add a quick note about the current debacle concerning the new social website owned by Google called Orkut (like Myspace and Facebook). Apparently, every single teenager in Brazil has decided it is hilarious to steal images of little kids Tori's age from Flickr and creating fake profiles for them on Orkut. If you've been checking out Tori's photos on Flickr, you may have noticed that I've marked them all friends and family only now to try to prevent her from getting her very own profile (you can send me an email within Flickr if you want me to friend you so you can still view them). Sarah has more info about it here. Orkut has apparently been in trouble already with the law regarding child pornography, so if you have public images of your kiddos out there on the web, you might want to check it out. Yuck.

One Tiny Battle in the Mommy Wars

Most people, when they talk about the "mommy wars" are discussing the endless debate about whether or not it's better to be a stay-at-home mom or a work-outside-the-home mom. There's the shaming of "oh my god, you've "opted out" and are now bringing down all women everywhere." Then there is the lengthy discussion about "who makes a good mother." Then there are the "but I thought being a mom was an important job but now everyone thinks I'm boring" articles.

But I don't want to talk about any of THOSE aspects of the "mommy wars". I want to talk about the dynamics of the story hour.*

Since I wrote about my first story hour experience, I have gone to five story hours at four different libraries. Why so many? Well, I'm lucky enough to live in a large urban area and have probably a dozen libraries or more within ten miles of my house. Also, because I know Tori needs to spend more time around other kids and this is a great way to do it, and I want Tori to value libraries the way I do. But the real reason is because hardly anyone speaks to me at any of them, and I keep hoping I'm going to find the perfect fit.

Here are the stats and a brief accounting of each library:

Library 1

Located in the center of my inner-ring very old suburb, this one had the smallest attendance with only about ten parents and kids. While my town is demographically about 50% African American and 50% Caucasian (with a smattering of other races), two thirds of the children and parents present were white. Mostly moms present, but there was one dad. The story "hour" consisted of three books and three songs, with books and songs alternating, and a lovely and engaged story time coordinator. The parents all sat with their kids in a circle and participated in the activities (singing, clapping, mooing, etc). After story time, everyone hung around and the kids all played with the library-provided toys and books. This was my most friendly experience; almost every mother chatted with me a bit, although during play time the group split clearly along racial lines with the African-American moms going off to their own corner. Tori was mostly well behaved, not hitting or grabbing too much (with the major exception, of course, being the binky stealing episode).

Library 2

Located the next town over, another old inner-ring suburb, but one significantly more well-to-do than mine, and much less racially diverse (in fact, most folks in this town are white Catholics). This story hour happens to be at my library of choice (featuring the best book selection for adults, and cool trans-gendered librarians). This story hour was huge-- 32 kids and moms--and everyone was white, white, white. Here we were all shuttled off into special room for story hour, and the format was again three stories and songs alternating and the reader was enthusiastic and engaging. All the mothers eagerly participated, singing along and clapping, etc. The only mother that spoke to me at any length was also there for the first time, and a bit worried because she'd brought her three-year-old daughter to the "infant" story time and was afraid it would upset people. All other mothers ignored me completely, even when I spoke to them directly (all I got was faint smiles). Tori was very good and danced and sang and clapped and didn't steal any toys or binkys.

Library 3

Located two towns over, in an outer-ring suburb where all the big chain stores live, this one is in a solidly middle-class neighborhood. The format again included books and songs, but also included some counting games and other things, and was also in a separate room from the main children's section. About 25 kids and moms (and the same one dad that came to Library 1) were there and the group was almost all white but with two Indian moms and kids. This library offers two story hours, one at 10am and another at 11am, nearly every day of the week and has two librarians (additional bonus--a playground right next door). Who spoke to me? The two Indian women, and another mom with a ten-month-old daughter (her baby was wearing a black t-shirt--the only time I've seen a girl at these story hours not wearing pink or flowers or frills--and that includes Tori). Everyone else said "Thank you" to my complements about their kids and promptly turned away from me. Tori was well behaved and roamed the room at will, and I will say that every mom she stopped by included her in their singing and gave her big smiles.

Library 4

Located in West Philadelphia, near two major universities and the home base for the local anarchist movement, I thought that HERE was where I'd find my people. West Philly is pretty much like the United Nations; you name a country, and someone from there lives in West Philly. At this group the format included books, songs, and a craft (making play dough pizzas), but the librarian was very nervous and didn't let all the kids see the books while she read them, and she read too fast. None of the parents sang along to the music, so neither did the kids, adding to the librarian's anxiety. While there were only a dozen kids and parents there, this was by far the most ethnically diverse group--Tori was one of only three Caucasian kids and the crowd included at least four different languages being spoken. While everyone spoke to me, only one mom chatted with me at length and then the group split along racial lines again (there was another lone dad there, but he didn't even make eye contact). Tori was more tired and hungry this time and she had a hard time sitting still; she stole the librarian's puppet, tried to knock over the CD player, and ran out of the room three times. But because this library doesn't have a regular story hour, most of us were there for the first time.

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So it seems that no matter what I do, I cannot crack the code and get these other moms to chat with me. I've included a lot of information above, but I really want to make it clear that I'm not basing my impressions on just one library, or just one town, or even one demographic or type of neighborhood. At each library I've wandered around the room, following Tori, and I've tried to say something chatty but mild to each mother I've met (like, "your daughter is beautiful!" or "I just love that dress on her"). The only folks that spoke to me long enough for introductions were at Library 1 (although today at Library 4 I thought I recognized someone, and we introduced ourselves). At each one I've kept my tattoos demurely covered, and I've arrived clean and unstained. But still, no luck in making new mom friends.

I have no doubt that Tori is benefiting from all these story times. She has a great time, and we're getting her lots of kid exposure. But I have not felt this ostracized by other women since I was in middle school. I realized that this was bothering me when I began contemplating going shopping for clothes for the first time since I left an outside-the-home job. I need to get some new clothes for cooler weather, and without even realizing it, I started looking online at outfits I've seen the other moms wearing at story hour--meaning, t-shirts covered with light hoodies and matching track pants.

Because I have noticed a uniform, and it's not just the clothes or the moms. The women all look very similar; hair is usually in a ponytail, and they all wear mascara but not lipstick. The little boys are all dressed in casual but rugged clothes, but the girls are always very girlie and almost ALL have something in their hair; barrettes or ponytails or ribbons or bows.

I do realize that this could change; after all, I have only gone to one place twice (tomorrow will be my third time at Library 2) and it could take a while for folks to become chatty. But the one factor that is present at each story hour is ME.

Sigh.

I know I intimidate people (this is a chronic problem for those of us with strong personalities) so it could be that. I have been the only "fat" mom at each library (although I'm sure some of those moms would claim they were fat, they weren't). I've been the only tattooed mom, and often the only one with just one child, and sometimes the only one without a ring (I get a rash under my wedding ring if I wear it all the time, and these days it's off more than it's on). But I do have a cute baby wearing cute clothes (often brand name!). So why can't I get any traction with these other moms?

I probably wouldn't even care if my little fledging play group hadn't died; the other mom in the group simply stopped responding to my emails. So I'm beginning to feel like there is something seriously wrong with me. What gives? I'm not really someone with low self-esteem, but MAN. Make me regularly face a bunch of women I don't know, and damn if I'm not just as awkward and uncomfortable as I was in seventh grade. Why do we, as moms, do this to each other?

I'll keep going to story hour, but I might have to stop thinking it's a place I'll make friends and instead just know it's a place that Tori will get to play with other kids and hear some good books being read. But that makes me very sad. I will say this; I'm not going to bother covering my tattoos anymore. Fuck it.

*I just want to note that all of this nonsense is the luxury of the middle and upper classes; poor women don't worry about this shit. They face other, more compelling issues like were discussed in the comment section of my last post, such as "If I get too big a raise I'll lose my state-funded health care and my kids will have to use the emergency room for their medical treatment" and "I can't afford regular daycare, so do I trust my kids to the woman down the street that runs an unlicensed daycare out of her house and chain smokes?" The so-called "Mommy Wars" are the luxury of the well-fed and the well off. So please know that I understand that as I talk about my recent experiences on the "mommy war" battlefront.

And why is a government run medical insurance program bad again?

When I was in seventh grade, back in the late seventies, most of my weekends were spent at the roller rink with all the other kids my age. Ah, memories; the disco, the couples-only skate, the bad music and the bad lights. I loved it, and I was a pretty good skater most of the time, even managing to skate backwards well enough to be on the floor during the backwards-only skate.

But one lovely Saturday I was skating when an employee of the rink flew by me, fast, and he knocked my skate with his and I went flying. I thrust out my left arm to catch myself, but I was moving too hard and too fast and just like that--snap--both of the bones in my arm broke clean through.

It's funny how much I remember from that day. I remember the shock on the face of the guy who knocked me over. I remember my arm looking oddly like a floppy "z" because the hand and wrist just kind of hung there like meat off the end of my arm. I remember someone putting ice on it, and then asking them to take it off because it was too cold, and then asking them to put it back on again because looking at my broken z-shaped arm made me want to throw up.

I don't remember the ride to the hospital, but I do remember the huge Navajo nurse that hovered around me like a protective bear and how he soothed me when I saw the size of the needle they were going to put in my arm to numb it up for manipulation. I remember watching sweat running down his face as he and the doctor bent and twisted my arm back and forth until with a huge "SNAP!" the bones realigned. I even remember the happy and surprised looks on both the doctor's and the nurse's faces when they felt my arm and realized it was back in place (they really thought I'd need surgery). I remember the smell of the plaster as they put on my cast, and I remember feeling sad that I had to have a clunky white cast and I couldn't have the much cooler, brand new pink fiberglass cast.

Why couldn't I have the fiberglass? Because we didn't have insurance.

When my mom picked me up at the roller rink, her face was a study in fear. She was afraid for me and my broken arm and suffering from that horrible, helpless feeling that a mother has when her child is hurt (a feeling I understand much better now), but she was also afraid because it was clear how badly my arm was injured, and that meant hospitals, doctors, and bills bills bills.

Eventually, due to shitty record keeping and bullying bill collectors my mom ended up having to pay cash out-of-pocket for my broken arm TWICE. Unlike most insurance companies, my mom didn't have an entire department of accountants scanning invoices for double charges and billing mistakes, and she certainly didn't have a lawyer to go to her defense and keep her from paying twice. She was young, scared, and she just did the best she could.

Luckily, things are somewhat better now for poor families than they were for me and my mom. Most states now offer some sort of low-income health care benefits for children, and are actually doing a pretty good job of educating families about the availability of such programs (according to this study, only 9% of families were still unaware of the options).

But there are still big ol' holes in the system. In my state, the state-run insurance program for children is actually open to ALL uninsured children, regardless of income (those with a higher income pay a small monthly premium). But in order to qualify, the child has to have NO INSURANCE. So when we tried to sign Tori up to the state plan (at a savings of over $250 a month for the exact same plan), we were denied because we are unwilling to allow her current insurance to lapse first.

As you may of heard, President "I'm totally profile as long as the children haven't been born yet" Bush has been hoping to actually widen that gap, requiring children to remain uninsured for an entire YEAR before they qualify for these programs. He is so insistent, in fact, that he is willing to veto the current funding bill in its entirety to prove his point--leaving many states forced to cancel the program for thousands of children.

Back in 1979, my broken arm cost my mother about $1,000 (the first and second times). While my mother worked hard to keep us off welfare and stopped relying even on the meager help that food stamps provided, she still did not earn near enough to give us medical insurance. Even without my breaking any bones, I was not a cheap kid medically--I had pretty severe asthma and allergies, and was in and out of emergency rooms with asthma attacks (of course, without insurance, we were unable to work with a doctor to manage my care to decrease the frequency of attacks). Adding another $1,000 in bills to our budget nearly broke us. I shudder to think about the things my mother had to give up to pay it off--TWICE (that twice thing really galls me, can you tell?).

Does President Bush have any idea what can happen to a family whose child has no health insurance in a year? What about a child with a chronic illness, or one that requires surgery, or one who has an accident like my broken arm? You know what happens? Bankruptcy. Eviction. At the very least, a ruined credit rating--preventing the parents from buying a home, a car, or any other piece of the American dream.

I remember that fear on my mother's face all too well. It left me with scars; for years, even though I had insurance from my jobs, I waited until I was deathly ill to see a doctor. Basic health care management was beyond my comprehension until I was in my late twenties. Because I don't want Tori to ever worry in that way, Charlie and I spend about a quarter of our monthly income on medical insurance for our family, nearly $1,200 a month (more--much more--than our mortgage).

Hillary Clinton attempted to change the health care climate when her husband was president, and we all remember how well that was received. But, brave woman that she is, she is still trying to do something about it. Her new health care proposal is similar to the Massachusetts plan (in a wonderful touch of campaign irony, Mitt Romney supported the plan when he was Governor of Massachusetts, but is railing against Hillary's plan), and would help families like mine find a level of health care coverage that would be affordable and provide the coverage we need.

I know all the arguments against state-subsidized health care, and some are valid. But the problem remains that health care costs are not only bankrupting families, they are driving companies out of business--look at what is happening with the United Auto Workers and General Motors right now. Maybe if GM didn't have to worry about the constantly increasing cost of health care (at my last job, the cost to my employers went up over 25% in two years) they might re-open some factories instead of closing them all down. Who knows?

With some sort of health care support from the government--in whatever form it takes--companies will be able to hire more workers, everyone will be healthier thanks to better managed care (thus driving down the overall costs of health care), and no more mothers will have to have terror strike through their hearts each time their child is knocked down at the roller rink. Seriously, people--why don't we care enough about our children--and hell, our adults--to do this?

Contest!

Wow. You guys are just fucking awesome! I feel really excited and challenged. I'm starting to put together some research for an entry tomorrow, but today we have another order of business.

If I'm really going to do this--try to professionalize this blog a bit and challenge myself to write more topical things--then one last little thing has to change.

The blog name.

I've been told that my blog has a great name. But, funny enough, that name--you know, "...and I Wasted All That Birth Control"--came out of my, well, ass. I was signing up for my Typepad account, and I didn't put one second of thought into it. Not one. I actually thought that I would change it again (that's why the blog address is the much more generic "zia.blogs.com"). It seemed like all the good infertility blog names were taken already, and I just typed in "and I wasted all that birth control" as a filler. I never intended it to be the name of this blog for four years.

So.

Since infertility is no longer the primary focus of this blog (not that I'll stop talking about it--you know it will still come up), I figure it should no longer be the major focus of the title either.

I've recently registered the domain name www.mscecily.com, and you'll see that it points you right to this blog when you type it in. But I don't really want that to be the name of the blog. I want something better, something that will perfectly capture the foul-mouthed, liberal, feminist, fat, alcoholic, ranting mother, wife, woman and writer that I am.

I'm drawing a complete blank. Luckily, you are all completely brilliant. So! I'm proposing that you send me your suggestions. I'll pick my favorite five, then you can vote on them and the winner will be the new title of my blog!

Prizes will be decided later (I promise they won't suck). Ok? Let the naming begin!

PS: If you are all thinking that this little contest is just an attempt to trick you into not being pissed off about the name change, you are totally right. Heh.

Keyboard at the Crossroads

My maternal grandmother went off to college at the age of 17. Her roommate, a much more mature woman of 20, was named Lucy Johnston Sypher. Ms. Sypher went on to write four widely read (at least by me) children's books about growing up in Wales, North Dakota. When I was little, Ms. Sypher gave me a subscription to a new magazine for children called Cricket Magazine. Ms. Sypher had excerpts from her books published by Cricket, and I adored the magazine so much that at Girl Scout camp one summer I was nicknamed Cricket by my troop.

Cricket Magazine has changed; it's now four-color and glossy (back then it was a tiny black and white thing). But it was such a great format for budding readers; if words or concepts were complicated, the page edges where lined with drawings of little bugs that both told their own story but also would give definitions and explanations about details of the print story. They also featured poetry, both for kids and by kids. Each month they had a poetry contest.

I was six years old the first time I wrote two poems that I wanted to submit to the magazine. I don't remember much, except that they were supposed to be on the theme of magic and I wrote about the mountains in Albuquerque that were a stony purple-gray by day but turned a flaming pink when the sun went down. I don't remember if I actually ever submitted the poems, but it was then that I was bitten by the writing bug.

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I kept putting pen to paper. In sixth grade, I won a poetry contest with the following poem:

I am a cat, stalking a bird.

I am a bird, fleeing from a cat.

I am a tree, watching it all.

I am fortune for the cat.

I am death for the bird.

The prize wasn't much--I think it was published in some school journal or something. But I'll never forget my teachers face when she read the poem. She was moved and, most importantly, impressed.

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In high school, my poetry sucked. It was filled with typical teenage angst and drama, and lovelorn soppy bullshit. But I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. I still have a lot of those poems.

The one thing I didn't do was read much poetry. I read a lot of fiction that impressed me greatly, like The Color Purple which was actually forbidden at my school but my teacher slipped me on the side in a desperate attempt to get me more involved with school. Because of course, alcohol and boys had me very distracted, and I was no longer interested in much else.

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I was still writing teen-like love poetry when I first met Charlie. He saw me sitting at the bar writing (at 19, I was already getting into bars quite easily), and came over and struck up a conversation. He'd just begun to write as well in the Bukowski style and was already getting poems published. When we met up again, he read my poetry politely but was more interested in "dating" me than reading my work. We did go out a couple of times but it was clear it wasn't going to work out.

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Years later, when Charlie and I did become a couple, poetry was at the heart of our relationship. Charlie and I began going to poetry readings (and hosting one) and for the first time I became exposed to a wide range of poets and poetry. I began reading poetry, and, naturally, my work began to improve. I became deeply invested in the poetry scene and I wrote constantly, often four or five new poems a week.

But with the rise of poetry in my life came the rise of alcohol, the introduction of drugs, and then all of a sudden it wasn't cool anymore. I was sticking needles in my arm, contemplating fucking a dealer so I could keep getting my drugs, and then BAM! I overdosed, got sober, and the words stopped coming.

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It took a year of sobriety for me to clear up enough to write again. The good news was the poems were much better--tighter, concise, and tough. I loved them. But they came rarely, and as we became less interested in being part of a poetry scene and more interested in growing the fuck up, they stopped coming completely.

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Many years later, we were beginning to think about starting a family. I was still reading extensively (I was working for a bookstore), and I finally began reading memoirs. First I read the memoir by Anne Sexton's daughter (Anne Sexton being a favorite poet at the time). Then I discovered Anne Lamott, who is still my writing hero. Ms. Lamott was sober, struggling with politics and God, and I adored her writing. Luckily, at the same time I was also working with author Rachel Simon, who became my mentor in many ways (she worked for the same bookstore at a different branch). Rachel took the time to help me perfect my writing and taught me a great deal about choosing words carefully, and how to say exactly what I meant.

Not much later, I discovered blogs. I was reading a lot at various forums here, and since I knew we were dealing with a male factor issue I frequently popped in to the "donor sperm" forum (although we didn't end up using donor sperm). Someone there posted a link to Dooce, Grrl, and Julie (I am forever grateful to that person).

I read all three of their blogs avidly, and went back through their entire archives (at that point, they weren't that old--Julie had only started blogging about six months before I found her). This led me to Danae (gone), and Karen (Naked Ovary, now defunct) and many others like Tertia.

We were just launching into our first IVF cycle, and I began sending funny emails to my friends updating them with the latest steps in the process. It was already clear that bloggers were effecting my writing style, and I finally emailed Julie and asked her how to do this blogging thing. She kindly showed me the ropes, and viola! My first entry appeared.

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When I started this blog, my intentions were simple: share what was going on and try to become part of this amazing community of bitter and funny women that were sharing my struggle.

But something else happened during the last three and a half years: I became--more fully and completely than I had ever been before--a writer. I found my voice. I found the way I wanted to write, what I was best at writing, and was able to tell people with confidence that I was a writer. I stopped trying to write poetry (although I joined the editorial board of a local poetry magazine to keep my hand in) and focused on writing the personal essays that became my best blog entries.

Since Tori was a few months old, I've floundered here. Without a current election, an impending FET cycle, or impending birth, I didn't know what to write about. I've tried to keep the blog relevant, and I am so honored and grateful that you all keep reading. I didn't want to walk away, as so many of my favorite bloggers did after they had kids. I was--and am--committed to this blog.

But. Of course there is a but; there always is, right?

But as a writer, I am at a crossroads. I know what I want to write, and I've been hoping to get a paid blogging gig to give me the forum to do it, leaving this blog as it has been--a blog of personal meanderings. But that clearly isn't going to happen anytime soon, so that leaves me with a choice.

Do I keep this blog as it is, or do I take this opportunity to try my hand at some writing that not everyone that reads here will enjoy? Stuff that is more topical, and maybe a little less personal--still in my voice, but not as much blog-like. More essay-like.

I timidly suggested something like this months ago and was deluged with emails and comments begging me to "not change a thing." But I've changed. My life has changed. This blog has changed, and not in a good way--at least not in a way I'm proud of.

So, at the risk of offending some of you, I am going to make some changes 'round these parts. I'm going to write about less "inside" stuff, and tackle more "outside" stuff. Stuff like body images issues, and being a fat girl in America. Politics. Books and movies. Issues about choice, infertility, and other medical stuff. Of course parenting (obviously) and issues surrounding parenting.

There will still be plenty of Tori, and, I'm sure, a lot of me. But as a writer, I need to challenge myself, and I need to take the next step down the path to being a professional, capital W, Writer.

Bear with me.

Mulling Things Over, and Having a Pity Party: Join me?

I know I haven't been blogging much lately. A lot of that is because I haven't been feeling well; I'm still fighting off this damn cold (seriously, still tons of coughing and green snot after more than three weeks and one course of antibiotics; but at least the antibiotics stopped the spiking fevers). Also, my cycle has been such that I'm in peak migraine country these days; I had a migraine every day last week. Toss in the fact that my stupid doctor's office wasn't calling in my prescription refills to my pharmacy (they drive me crazy), and I therefore I spent the week having to ration out my (mostly ineffective) medication, you can guess it was a bad week physically. 

It was fun.

But all my cranky bitching aside, that's not really why I haven't been writing. It might be why, though, I let a recent email I got from a reader get to me so much. An email that told me I was now boring and writing about things that "aren't so terribly intriguing." I don't mean to pick on the reader that said it; the only reason it got to me is that I feel the same way. I constantly worry that I've become incredibly dull, and I wonder if that's why so many other infertility bloggers shut down and go dormant.

Most people, I think, write best from a position of pain or anger--and that's certainly true for me. When I'm in agony, I get very sharp and funny and focused because that's how I cope. But lately, my life is really, really good--so it's very easy to either focus on the small things (like binkygate, as Anne dubbed it) or bigger things that aren't earth shattering, like manners.

What do I really have to complain about these days? I mean, I'm lucky enough to be working from home now so I can be with my daughter; my baby is here, and I'm not planning to get back on the baby making merry-go-round; my husband is sweet, faithful, and supportive; my friends are brilliant and talented. All is well.

Does this mean I should stop blogging? God, I don't know. But being told I'm boring sure took the wind out of my sails.

There are things I could write about. I'm absolutely infuriated at the amount of money we are putting out for our health insurance--for very little coverage (today I'm going to have to put all my prescriptions on a credit card cause I haven't been paid in a bit and we're in a budget crunch, and my insurance doesn't cover them). The impending election is making me crazy already--it amazes me that Hillary Clinton's cleavage got more press than her policy. The Jena 6 story is frustrating and stupid.

But the truth is, when I'm feeling pretty content and happy with life, it is difficult to choose anger and despair just for a good blog entry. In recovery it's said that "righteous anger is a luxury of normal men", meaning that the way we alcoholics internalize anger and channel it into resentment is bad for us. Maybe part of the reason I'm unwilling to take up the flag and march lately is because I've been spending a little more time focusing on my recovery again in the last month or so. I don't know.

I realize that this post is going to come off as a plea for a thousand "oh, you aren't boring, don't stop blogging!" comments. Really, that's not required, and it's not what I'm after (nor do I, as yet, have any plans to quit blogging). If you blog, I'd be interested in knowing how you manage this sort of thing--the negative comments or criticism, and continuing to write when life is just, well, life. If you don't blog, tell me what you'd like to see me write about. Maybe between us we can get me jump-started.

Manners

I think I know, now, why I can't get paid to blog. It's because I'm not making myself understood, and regardless of what that pesky Saint Francis prayer says, it's really more important to be understood than understand. Right?

Heh.

To make myself clear, I wasn't mad at the binky woman. I was confounded by her response, and her unwillingness to let me help her by washing the binky off. Having spent only a little time around moms I don't know well, I wasn't really sure if my behavior was what was expected and appropriate (after all, the last big gathering I went to with a lot of kids was at a fellow blogger's and there was much stealing among the kids of sippy cups, and no one minded). Her reaction--meaning not giving the binky back to her kid--made sense. I'm the only freak around who is totally pro-bacteria, and that's only because I feel certain that the current anti-bacterial craze is going to lead to most of humanity dying off in the future from the common cold.

But I digress.

Someone mentioned that perhaps my tattoos intimidated the woman, but no. I carefully wore a t-shirt that covers my arms up so that I won't have to jump that hurdle at our first story hour. In unknown groups, I always opt for the tattoo reveal to be later rather than sooner (ever since someone referred to me and Charlie as "bikers with that big pit bull" I've been cautious).

I realize, in the scheme of things, that this incident wasn't at all a big deal. I mean, today I met a woman who's daughter-in-law just delivered a stillborn daughter at 35 weeks. That's big stuff, and it's horrible and sad and tragic and critical. My failed bonding with a stranger that lives in my small 'burb pales in comparison.

The reason the incident struck me, however, is because I've been thinking a great deal about manners--about teaching manners to Tori.

If I can give Tori four things in life, I want them to be intellectual curiosity, a love of reading, trust in her mind and body, and manners. I want Tori to say "please" and "thank you" and to not interrupt adults unless it's an emergency. The importance of manners in children came through to me big time this summer at our pool club--which was full of manner-less, toy-stealing, bullying children (one kid actually stole a toy out of Tori's hand and then told me it was his, the little jerk). Our local magazine even has a huge cover story on "How well-meaning Philadelphians are screwing up their kids," so I'm not the only one that has this stuff on my mind.

Focusing on this issue has made me review MY manners. Which suck ass. I often ask things of Charlie without saying please or thank you. I yell at the dog to get out of my way without being kind to him and I toss the cats unceremoniously off the table without an explanation or gentleness.

And I see Tori's big blue eyes watching, watching, watching. So, lately, I've been much more aware of my behavior and I've really made a concerted effort to be pleasant, kind, and respectful of everyone--including that damn cat that thinks she can be on the dining room table. I want Tori to have empathy, and to be kind, and to realize that she broke that little boy's heart a teeny bit (only in the moment, of course) when she stole his binky. He cried because of what she did, and what she did was rude.

I know she's too young yet to have anything resembling impulse control, but I still know that I have to change how I behave if I'm going to effect her behavior.

So while it wasn't a big deal, I just wanted reassurance from you guys that I wasn't out of line, because I'm still learning here. And while it may be a small thing, it fits into the bigger picture. Now do you see what I mean?

Ten Things I'm Confused About

Before I start this rant, all hail the arrival of the darling Lauren! I'm still dancing a jig about her.

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1. Tori's nap schedule. It's clear she wants to do just one nap a day, but today her one nap was only an hour and a half long. That seems like very dramatic to go from four hours of naps a day to suddenly less than half that. It might have been because my mom was babysitting today (she napped while we were at a meeting). I'm not sure how to ease this transition. Suggestions?

2. Other parents. The great thing about one nap is that I can do things like take Tori to our local library's story hour, which we did for the first time today. It was really awesome (aside from the simply horrid Philly accent that the leader had), and Tori just loved it. There were about ten kids there, and three of them were her age (one little boy even shared her birthday!). The only bad moment came when Tori stole another kid's binky (pacifier or plug for some of you). The boy she took it from was quite a bit younger than Tori, and he just wailed. His mother wouldn't meet my eyes and even though she said it was OK, (I obviously took it away from Tori and gave it back right to her) it clearly wasn't. She didn't give it back to her son (clearly more germ-phobic than I am, I would have just wiped it on my shirt and given it back) and wouldn't take me up on the offer to wash it (since she had two kids there I figured it was easier for me to just take Tori to the bathroom to wash it). Her son was horribly upset; I felt so bad. I feel like I behaved appropriately; the only other thing I could have done was stop talking to another parent and watched Tori more carefully so that I stopped it before it happened, or, you know gone back in time to stop it. Should I have done something differently? Maybe I'm the clueless one and I am not following proper story time etiquette. This is just the sort of shit that makes me not want to ever go again.

3. Why I can't get paid to blog. I'll admit it; I'm jealous of other bloggers. First Dooce and then Finslippy at Alpha Mom, and then Julia and now Julie at the Redbook Diaries. I've sent pitches to several places, submitted my credentials and writing samples to probably about fifty blogging jobs I've found listings for and with the exception of the lovely folks at Babble (totally my favorite parenting site), no one has even responded. It's like my queries are vanishing into cyberspace. Is it the swearing? Fuck. It's probably the fucking swearing. I would love to blog about spirituality, politics, parenting, being fat and trying to lose weight--whatever! Someone just pay me! WAAAAHHHHH!!!

4. Why it's taken me so long to discover Keri Arthur's paranormal romance series. When I found her first book I knew I was going to love it--while it was titled the rather dull "Full Moon Rising" the book jacket said, "Half werewolf, half vampire--all trouble." She's like all the good stuff about Laurell K. Hamilton (the author of the Anita Blake, vampire hunter series) without all the bad. There's tons of hot sex, but it never slows down the plot, and the writing is SO MUCH BETTER. Seriously, she's awesome, and I have no fucking idea why her books are called romance. They are more mystery/fantasy than romance. By the way, I just took ten books out of the library and I think only one of those did not involve vampires or werewolves in some fashion. Heh.

5. Why no one is buying Sarah's photos from her way-cool website. Except for me, of course. I know it's a shameless plug, but seriously, the woman has talent! I bought this photo of me for Charlie for his birthday. Everyone should have Sarah take their picture nude. It's an empowering experience.

6. Why I am having so much trouble getting through this book. I've been asked to review it, and I just can't make myself read more than a chapter at a time. I should love it--I mean, the material is near and dear to my heart--but so far the nicest thing I can say about it is that it's the perfect gift to get for that annoying aunt that says stupid shit like, "I just don't get this IVF stuff." There are so many of us bloggers that could (and have) do it better.

7. Why I love TV shows about dysfunctional people. We watched HBO's new show "Tell Me You Love Me" the other night, and while of course it's very good (it's HBO, after all), I'm not sure I can get that into it. Well, except for the near pornographic sex (seriously, I do NOT know how they faked it so well). Charlie and I both felt so much better about our relationship after it was over, I have to say. One of the couples has gone over a year without sex. Shit. And I thought my sex drive was low.

8. Why there aren't more shows like Californication. Have you seen this new show on Showtime? Holy fuck it's awesome. First off, David Duchovney is HOT. Seriously, HOT HOT HOT. He plays drunken asshole writer so very well. And the script is so snappy we have to rewind it constantly to catch every word. Great, great show. Sad it's only a half-hour.

9. Why I'm talking so much about TV. My summer shows are all wrapping up (The Closer--which I love; Saving Grace, love love love; Mad Men; The 4400--although I think I'm the only person that watches that show). All I want to know is, when the fuck does Heroes come back (Sept 24, apparently)?

10. Why I persist in writing list posts. Cause I've been doing so much writing for work I think I've bruised my writing bone. Sorry.

15 Months

My Darling Tori Anne,

Amazingly enough, another summer in your life has gone by, and here you are, 15 months old. It's becoming more and more obvious that you are moving away from being a baby and plunging headlong toward being a kid. As much as I wish I could keep you my little baby forever, you are growing up.

You continue to amaze me. You are an incredibly agile child, and just a couple of weeks after walking became easy for you, you started climbing. One day you climbed the entire flight of stairs in our house; your Daddy was working in his office when he suddenly heard the pitter-patter of your little feet. I was working at my desk downstairs and didn't see you go. Fast as we could we bought a baby gate for the bottom of the stairs, and after much wrestling, cursing, and screaming we got it secure. Now you climb up the two steps to it and hang from the bars much like a prisoner on cell block C. We never carry you up the stairs anymore; we just let you climb. We almost never use the stroller either--you love to walk too much. While you don't yet run, you do have this adorable fast walk where you really throw your shoulders into it. It cracks us up every time.

We continue to drag you to new places and do new things. Recently we took you to Coney Island, a place I've read about extensively but never visited. We crammed  a whole lot of new stuff in that day. You rode on an enclosed Ferris Wheel and a merry-go-round, and saw the ocean.

You loved the ferris wheel and the merry-go-round, but you were undecided about the ocean. You looked at the water and then looked at me with an expression that said, "Mom, that water is MOVING." You found the waves to be scary, and instead contented yourself with eating some, um, nutritious Coney Island Sand.

You've become much more cuddly this month. Since you first started cruising you've been all about going places and doing things. But it seems that the ability to walk has assured you of your mobility and you are happy to cuddle with us on the couch sometimes, especially when you can have patting access to the dog.

You love the dog. You've been much more vocal lately and you've put together the concepts of dog and woof and Bubba (which is our nickname for Hammer the Best Dog Ever). So now whenever you see him, you say, "Bubba!" which is nothing short of head-poppingly cute. But you call other dogs Bubba too, and you also say "Bubba" whenever you hear a dog barking, so we still have a little work to do to straighten that all out. Your Daddy frets about that.

You say lots of words now, and you answer questions. You can point (most of the time) to your eye, ear, nose and belly button when asked. You can tell me what a dog, a cat, and a tiger say. You know the tub-spout cover is in the shape of a duck and greet it each bath time with shrieks of "DUCK! DUCK!" Sometimes you even know a duck says "quack," and a train says, "whoo-hoo." But the most startling thing is that a week or so ago we realized that you will indicate your preferences if we ask you direct questions. If I ask you if you want to go to the playground you nod with your whole body and walk to the front door. If I ask you if you are tired and want to go to bed, you nod again, walk over to the stairs and climb up to the gate and start waving goodbye to Daddy and Bubba. It's amazing, and I have to fight the impulse to tell you that you are smart constantly (apparently, we aren't supposed to tell you that anymore say the psychologists). But you are. You are fucking brilliant.

You've become much more expressive, learning both an awesome surprised face (pictured above) and an angry face. The angry face was quite funny because you started making it before you were actually angry, just to practice. Now you are quite the pro with the mad face. You look a bit like Shirley Temple when you do, which is quite funny.

Your Daddy and I still feel so blessed to have you. We've decided recently that you will be our only child, as both of us are getting older and poorer. If we had more time, we might try to get you a brother or sister, but I'm not really up to having a newborn and a toddler in my 40's and since we'd have to use your Godmother Sarah's uterus to make that baby, it too would over 40 before we'd be ready. So you'll have to just make do with your two older brothers as guardian angels and your Godsister for siblings. It's not so bad; your Daddy and I are both only children (although I have some half-siblings, we didn't grow up together, so I'm defacto an only child) and we liked it. Besides, with any luck, we'll be home with you all the time. A fact you love now, but will hate when you're a teenager. Heh.

I love you, little girl. You've brought me more joy than I believed was possible. Thank you for lighting up my life.

Brain. Fried. From. Work.

I'm sorry I haven't posted again--I've been writing frantically for work. I promise to do Tori's monthly post tomorrow. Thank you for all your wonderful suggestions--I'm going to hit some sales, some thrift stores, and I will be sure to buy snow boots ASAP. I'm off to peruse Ebay for "new with tags" clothes from my fav places like Gap Baby and Gymboree. Sigh.

Today, since I'm totally fried, I'll leave you with this: did you know gremlins are real? Check out the Aye-Aye (here's the wikipedia write up). Freaky. Found from Dooce's link to this cool list of weird animals.