Fetching

All I wanted was a dog that would fetch.  Nothing fancy. Just a good old medium sized canine that had the instinct to collect and return whatever I chucked out there.

I guess that's not really the beginning of the story.  It probably starts with Maggie. 

Maggie was a German Shepard mix found at a private shelter in Newport, RI.  I had been dating this guy, (engaged to him, actually) when he told me he wanted a dog of his own.  I, honestly, felt myself to be more of a cat person and indeed, had a cat.  We lived in a one bedroom apartment on the second floor...there was no yard and no place all that close to run, but we still knew we didn't want a little yip-yip dog.  Boy didn't really have a job, so most of this was my responsibility. And by "most of this," I mean, "everything."  I spoke to the landlord about wanting a dog and I had lived in this apartment long enough for him to know me, so he agreed.  Actually, I had lived in this apartment for a year, then moved out, then back in almost a year later.  This man, unlike most landlords, knew I was a tenant who left the place in better condition than I'd found it.  In the ghetto of Pawtucket, RI., I was a rare bird and it wasn't much of a risk, this dog ownership.

Cory and I (that was the boy's name) trolled several shelters, all of them depressing.  We saw hundreds of homeless dogs, but none of them felt like the right dog.  We met a Boxer through the bars of his kennel and as we knelt down for a better look the brindled dog eye balled us as if we were criminals and gave us a low, motionless growl.  Moving right along...

Someone at some juncture in our search finally recommend we check out the Potter League for Animals in Newport.  I was in massage school and we weren't in any huge rush, so a few weeks later, we made the thirty minute drive and hit homeless-doggie-shangri-la.  This place had, what seemed to be, acres of green grass...clean kennels...obedience classes and a waterfall for Christ's sake.  Not just nice, this place was amazing.  We took a stroll around, and while impressed with the facility, we didn't quite find the dog.  We spent some time wtih a Golden Retriever mix with light blonde hair and blue eyes, but she was hyper and seemed not a good fit for apartment living.  We hung out with a purebred Dalmation, but was told she peed on furniture and wasn't good with kids.  (The beauty of a private shelter is you actually get this added info.)  We were about to leave, feeling defeated, when we spotted a bunch of dogs in the Saturday obedience class with volunteers.  There was one in particular,a black mutt, who seemed like she could be easily overlooked, but had the biggest ears of any dog I'd ever seen.  We asked to see HER.

We were brought back to the same large, open spaced room with the speckled linoleum floor and sat in the same seats we had sat in with hyper dog and furniture wetter.  This dog, named Kelly, just stood by us patiently.  She backed her rear end up to us and gently looked over her shoulder, making eye contact with both of us and wondering which of us would scratch her hind quarters.  We both did and this seemed the greatest thing she'd ever received.  When satisfied, she slowly sat down between us and checked out the room, licked our legs and hands.  We'd found our dog.  We signed papers and they took her away to bathe her before her trip home with us.  We were told she came from the Warwick shelter where she was on death row.  The volunteers thought she was a good, adoptable dog and requested she be transferred to Potter League.

Even though we had discussed at length what we would name a dog if we got one, we never could come to a decision. But getting into my Nissan Sentra, Kelly wearing a new red bandana around her neck and smelling like shampoo and skunk, I looked at Cory and said, "we should name her Maggie.  She's the baby."  He was a huge Simpsons fan and didn't hesitate.  Agreed.  And off we went back to Pawtucket with Maggie hanging out quietly in the back seat. 

Now, don't get me wrong, I thought Maggie was great.  But, she was HIS dog.  Regardless of the fact that I paid for her.  I really just wanted him to be happy and he wanted his own dog.  And although we called her "ours," I really knew who she belonged to...

Until we broke up.

And that's where things get fuzzy.

It ended pretty abruptly and not all that pretty.  But, as the rejected bachelor Ben said on the finale of the Bachelorette, (yep, I'm about to quote something from the Bachelorette!) "nothing good ends well."  That may be a misquote.

There was a lot of anger, mostly on his part.  He didn't get it.  He didn't understand how things could change so suddenly.  But they did.  When I realized I'd be carrying us along financially.  Forever.

He wanted Maggie.  He said he couldn't take losing me AND her.  I told him fine.  He could have her.  But only when he had a place to live that allowed her.  Rumor had it he'd been couch surfing, but mostly sleeping in the car I'd bought him.

Months went by...there was much arguing and crying and clearly, we weren't getting back together.  I'd rebounded to my old boyfriend and gone online to dating websites; pretty much anything to not have to feel what I felt.  Maggie hung out with me and I walked her across the street to "shit park."  Nicknamed because it was the only place to bring a dog to poop, and everyone did.  And then didn't pick it up.  There was a bench with a statue of Ray Croc, founder of McDonald's on it.  We were across the street from a McDonald's.   And regardless of my being alone with Maggie, I still didn't feel like she was my dog...for about 2 years.

I decide I was moving to Tahoe.  I called Cory and asked him if he wanted Maggie before I left.  He told me he was working on getting an apartment and then he'd take her.  By the time I left in September, he still didn't have a place.  I wasn't surprised.  I took Maggie on a plane and off to Tahoe we went.

I was there for a year when I decided I was probably moving to Los Angeles.  I went online and looked for places to live, looked for roomates.  No one wanted me to have a big dog.  She weighed 75 pounds and people had a 15 pound limit.  So I called Cory again.  "I'm probably moving to LA and it's going to be hard for me to take Maggie.  Do you want her?"  And he said no.  He said he never wanted to own a dog alone...and he still didn't have a solid place to live.  And that's when I decided she was totally mine and now I wouldn't give her to anyone even if they asked.  I couldn't believe he'd say no.  I suppose I got the part about not having a home...but....shocked. 

Maggie and I went on many hikes in Tahoe.  She played with my new boyfriend's dog, Bagheera.  They travelled the neighborhood together. Up there, it's like living in the 1950's where dogs just run around free.  They once walked all the way down the mountain and went into a grocery store together.  We got a call to go pick them up.  Mags loved hiking, hated swimming, and never chased a thing I threw.  Or, well, she'd chase it, maybe pick it up, toss it, then run in the other direction.  Not a fetcher.  I just wanted a dog that played fetch.

But Maggie was the greatest dog that ever lived.  She snapped at me the very first night we had her when she was sleeping on our bed and I tried to move her.  It never happened again.  She never had an accident in the house.  Never barked.  Was sweet to everyone she met.  Kids, cats, men, mail persons...didn't matter.  She loved everyone equally.

So eight years later, when I was living in LA with my husband and her arthritis was so bad she could hardly walk, I felt like someone had run me over when we made the decision to put her down.  It was February 5th and raining....it was late, about 9:00...and she was laying on her spot on the couch and whining.  I knelt down beside her and looked her square in her dark brown doe eyes.  I asked her to lick my face if she was ready to go.  Just one lick if she wanted out of this body.  And she looked back at me and licked my cheek.  I couldn't ignore her misery or her sign language and so told Sweeney we needed to take her tonight.  It was time. 

Putting her down was the most gut wrenching thing I've ever done to date.  I cry just thinking about it.  I'm crying right now writing about it.  She had my heart, this big eared dog...she grew on me and over me and she just had me.  I held her head as the doctor inserted the needle, first giving her a sedative, then the lethal injection.  I watched as she put her head down and listened as she exhaled one last time.  And I couldn't believe she was gone...this dog who chased a bear in the woods...the dog who let me put my glasses on her and take pictures...the one who snuggled with my 17 year old cat, Elvis.  What. The fuck. Was I going to do.

I cried. And cried and cried.  Came home in the car numb and not crying and then sobbed hard on Sweeney's chest, crying out and writhing like someone who just came out of a war.  It felt like I was dying.

I came home from work every day the next week and looked on Craigslist.  Read about dogs.  Wrote about Maggie, looked at her pictures....and then I saw a dog who looked like her listed at the North Central shelter in downtown LA.  I wanted to go see him.  Not to take him home...just to visit.  And so I made the treck.  It took about 45 minutes in traffic, but I got there.  And he didn't look as much like her in real life.  I visited him briefly, this dog named Pat, and then moved on to the other cages, all of them full.  North Central has one of the highest kill rates in Los Angeles.  It's over-crowded and downtown, where people are poor, uneducated; don't fix their pets.  I spotted this scared red dog in the back corner of her kennel and made eye contact.  She didn't lift her head off her paws, her body curled into a tight ball, but her tail wagged.  And I knew, in all her silent cuteness, that this was a dog I needed to save. I called her over to me and she wouldn't come. Didn't lift her head still.  Just wagged.   I called Sweeney and he told me he trusted me, that if I wanted the dog, to get her.  I had never wanted a puppy and this dog was listed as being five months, but she just called to me. I left and then thought about it for a day, and then went back the next and adopted her.  It was Valentine's Day weekend and they were having a special.  Her adoption fee was lowered and that was my incentive.  Maggie had been gone a week.  I just couldn't take the sad and all the empty.

After being fixed, I went to the vet to pick her up.  She wouldn't walk on a leash, and so I wrapped my arms around her and carried her out.  She was a Lab mix of some kind and her ears flopped at their tops.  Her forehead wrinkled and surrounded her eyes in a way that made you feel sorry for her.  She came into the house and snapped at Elsa and then slept for a few days.  Once acclimated to the house, she got along with the Beagle...and most of all....I threw a ball....and she got it. Brought it back.  I had found my dog that played fetch.  And I felt like Maggie was happy I had saved this little life....

What the Hell?

I don't really watch television.  And I don't say that with the pretentiousness of someone who is better than you (television watcher.)  I just don't really have the time.  And I'm not afraid to admit to you and God and everyone that I am honestly, humbly, addicted to The Bachelorette.  If that show was on seven days a week, I would record it and find the time, at 2am if I had to, to watch it.  (I was pissed it was a repeat on the 4th of July! What the F#*@!?) 

But also, I don't watch television because it helps me avoid the "news."

I'm pretty sure "news" is a subjective term anyway, but here in LA, it gets a little crazy.  I mean, what news is to the people in Minnesota can be totally different than the people in California (Southern Cal, specifically, it seems.)  On any given night, there could be coverage of a forest fire, a flood, a murder, or the new tattoo Jennifer Aniston got on her foot.  And this isn't E Entertainment news....this is ABC/NBC/CBS.  Awesome.  I find it depressing (both the murder coverage and Brittany's new hairstyle.)  I wish they covered the people going to Skid Row to feed people, or that lady who adopted 25 mentally handicapped children.  I wish they covered the guy who paid your toll ahead of you and the lady who made up "free donut Tuesday" at Dunkin Donuts.  I mean, I care more about those people than I do about Jennifer Aniston.  Just sayin'.

I have successfully avoided all coverage of the Casey Anthony trial, but it has saturated the media, and the minds of my friends, co-workers and people in line at Starbucks.  So now I know about it.  I'm not sure I want to know about it.

I believe in mass consciousness and energy effecting how things work...I believe that when people get together and focus on something, it creates more of that something.  What we need right now are more good parents.  We don't need another inhuman human.  We, as a people, could use less people who kill people.  And yeah, for the record, while you're talking about it, I think she killed her.  (I don't have chloroform in MY trunk...do YOU?  If you do, you probably killed someone, too.  See? I know details of this case and I never even watched an ounce of it on TV.   The power of the media is vast and reaches into the minds of those who go out of their way to avoid it.  Maybe what we resist, persists.  But I digress...)

I didn't have an original point, really, so I'm ok with this being all over the place.  I'm drinking a Diet Dr. Pepper and life is moving slowly this morning.  There's a baby asleep and no dogs barking, so life is looking pretty good.

In closing,  1) I wish there was less media and more social gatherings around campfires.  I had friends make me s'mores on Saturday at a fire and that, THAT, my dears, improved the quality of my life.  2) We need to focus on the good people and the good things they're doing if we want more good things done.  Maybe if the media got all frenzied over people taking care of other people, more people would be inspired to do it; even if just for the shot at being on TV.  And 3)  I'm giving diet soda a chance, but honest to God, I still really hate diet soda.

Good day.

Entitlement and the quick decline of society.

If you want to see, up-close and personal, the blooming seeds of entitlement that have been planted for the last ten to fifteen years, become a teacher.

I feel old lately and really do catch myself saying, "back in my day..."  because really...I don't get it.  I don't remember being disrespectful to my teachers, neither in grade school, nor in college or massage school.  I don't remember feeling like someone needed to remind me every ten seconds that homework was due.  I don't remember being allowed to "make-up" the seventeen classes I missed in college because I was hung-over.  I don't remember having a book of excuses to draw from when I failed.  It was just me. It was just that I wasn't doing the work that needed doing; and I knew this.

My parents, for all of their flaws, never allowed me to get away with SHIT.  If they thought, for even one second, that I was lying to them, I got slapped across the face.  And in no way am I advocating hitting your child or any form of child abuse, but I'll tell you what: I may be many different things...a liar is not one of them.

I had a paper route when I was 10.  I made about three dollars a week delivering the Quincy Sun on Wednesdays until I got a little older and could handle the daily Patriot Ledger.  Then, I made about 12 dollars a week.

I remember one Saturday morning feeling tired and cranky and those papers were heavy in my over-the-shoulder paper carrier.  I could only carry about six papers at a time and had to keep returning to the corner to pick up more papers.  It's an understatement to say I had a temper as a kid and I know now I also suffered from depression.  That being said, I took the remaining papers on the corner after I'd delivered about half and tossed them, hurled them, really, onto the pavement.  Garfield comics and coupons flew in the wind across the street and onto lawns.  I sat on the curb screaming and bawling my eyes out and my Dad came outside and made me put together the papers the best I could and deliver them as is.  That was the end of the paper route.  He made me give it up.  And that 12 dollars a week was never to be heard from again.

I feel like today, the parents would just give the kid a twenty and call it a day.  Or the tough-love types would drive that kid around every Saturday morning and not take any gas money from the profits.  I didn't feel entitled to it. I knew I fucked it up. And that was the end of that.

I ended up getting a job at a grocery store when I was 15.  I needed to pay for my driver's ed class and if I wanted to go to the movies, that was on me, too. If I showed up five minutes late, I was terrified. And by the way, the produce prices changed daily and we had to memorize them.  So everyday, there was a quiz.  This sucked.  And I didn't complain to anyone about it.  I just did it.  Because Annie, my manager, said so.

And even though I didn't get paid... even though I PAID to go to college, I would get a knot in my stomach if I entered my dance class five minutes late.  I would dread the glare the teacher and other students would give me.  I did NOT view myself as a consumer who should receive amazing customer service and be able to do whatever the hell I wanted.  I did not feel like I owned the classroom and could deface it. I did not have the attitude of, "shit, I pay your salary, mutherfucker" towards my math teacher.  Even when he wasn't nice to me. And I CERTAINLY didn't expect anyone to call me the night before a paper was due to gently remind me to bring it to class the next day. If I forgot an assignment, I didn't blame the teacher; I just jumped into self-loathing like a good early twenty-something.

I think social media and technology has helped to create this "drag-along" mentality.  Everyone is too easily reached and people expect you to use those means to remind them about stuff.  I have students (who are all over 18, by the way) calling their classmates' cell phones so that they can pass along the message to me that they'll be late or absent. Or worse, ask the student to hand the phone to me in class to tell me they'll be late or ask if they can miss class.  What do they want me to say? And do they think because they called their friend's phone or sent a picture of their being sick to show me, that I won't mark them absent?  Feel sorry for them and give them credit? I don't get it.  I understand sending me an email if you're missing class, but why wait until it's already started and then interrupt everyone else's experience?? Oh. Right.  Because it's all about you. I forgot.   But mostly, they don't let me forget. I hear about 20 times a day, "I pay $15,000 to go here."  No kidding?  So what?  So what does that mean?  That we should hand you your diploma? That now you don't have to work for it?  Really.  Baffling.  Those words carry entitlement in them.  Spread thick like frosting on a shit cake.   I had a student yesterday have the gall to tell me, essentially, I'm a bad mentor to him because I wouldn't let him join the student an hour and 15 minutes late.  That I wasn't asking him what was wrong, so therefore, I had an "attitude."  Back in my day, we called that "projection."  You know, when you have an attitude with someone and then tell them that they have an attitude with YOU.

It has to be something we're doing wrong out here. Something parents aren't teaching their kids, or teaching them accidentally by doing everything for them.

Let your kid do their own homework or not and suffer the consequences. Make them get a job, for Pete's sake.  Don't clean their room for them.  Please.  For me. For all of the other teachers, department store clerks and Starbucks Baristas that have to deal with them.  You aren't doing anyone any favors by spoon-feeding that child... least of all, them.

So I had this baby....

I had that baby I was pregnant with. Almost 4 months ago now.  I still feel a bit like I'm living in a bubble and things have taken on a surreal, dreamy quality I can't describe properly.  I'm breastfeeding this baby because I want her to have whatever immunity I've got to give her against the world's bad stuff...and it's cheaper than formula.  And I touch her a lot because studies have shown that babies who are touched more often than not have a greater chance of NOT being a serial killer.


I just want to raise a person who has a conscience and contributes to the world somehow; in big or small ways.  If she does no harm, I'll be happy.

I've gone back to work, but this time, it's a new work.  I'm a teacher at National Holistic Institute and I teach people how to be massage therapists.  This job, ironically enough, is really pointing out to me how much I don't know.  I guess teaching is like that.  It's nice to have a regular paycheck and hours and such and I get to bum around the house in the morning in my pajamas with this baby becuase I teach at night.  Of course, I rarely see my husband, and that's a pitfall...like my neighbor Alan so bluntly stated, "I hope you guys don't get divorced or anything!"  Me too, Alan....me, too...

I don't imagine us ever getting divorced. We respect each other a whole bunch and do what we have to do for our little family.  And I think that's what makes something work.  But what the hell do I know?  Someone in our life who has been married for 25 years just announced to us that they're separating.  These people seemed so in  love.  Crap, they TOLD us they were so in love...just a few short years ago at our wedding, they "hoped we would still be THIS in love 22 years later!"  And in less than 3 years, what...fallen out of love?  I find it confusing.  And scary.  I feel like....if it can happen to them, it can probably happen to anybody.  But I choose to live in the moment and not cave under the fear.

Speaking of fear...

So having a baby creates a whole new world of fear, doesn't it, kids?  Those of you with them, know, I'm sure.  I'm already scared about her going off to school and having people pick on her...I see cars running stop lights and get scared one is going to run one into ME while that baby is in the car...is she too hot? Too cold? Hungry?  I'm pretty laid back, but still.  College scares the shit out of me.  There will most likely be boys there.

I've had the urge to make lists and I think it's because my brain doesn't work right anymore.  If you've had a baby, ever, then you know of what I speak.

Here's a list of things I want to buy because we need some of them.  And some of them, I just want:

Sofa.    Smartphone to replace my semi-stupid phone.  Computer.  Mattress.  Area rug for both bedrooms.   Clothes that fit and make me feel like I might be cute still.  Haircut.  Shoes that don't hurt my feet.  Plane tickets to tropical location.

The list was longer once.  About an hour ago when I could remember the other stuff I wanted.  But everything costs money and at the moment we need to do things like save for said child's education, etc. 

One of these days I'll write about the birth.  Or tell an interesting story from this other life I used to have.  But for now, I just wanted to say hi and see how everyone is doing.  So, how are you doing?

So, where's that baby???

At present, I am pregnant.  I mean, really, really five-days-past-my-due-date pregnant.  And if you've ever been in my shoes, you know the discomfort of this and perhaps the anxiety.  It's a good thing I only have residue of the control issues I used to have in my life because this would be even more challenging than it is already.  This, I've come to realize, is way beyond me.

 I suppose it's a good problem to have, but I have countless people in my life who give a crap and want to know how I'm doing.  It's all very well-intentioned, but if one more person asks me, "so, where's that baby?"  I may cry.  I control my sarcasm because these are people I love I'm talking to...but that baby is exactly where it's been for the last nine months.  Snug and warm in my enormous uterus.  I've told people I'll be sending out a text message when she gets here, but the many texts, phone calls, facebook messages and emails haven't stopped.  This, creates more anxiety.  (And if you're one of the people who has been asking, this post is not to make you feel bad, but just to talk about my own anxiety over the situation! Thanks for loving me as you do...)  Whilst not one of them is insinuating I'm failing at something, there's something in me that says I'm failing at this.  That my "plan" wasn't....planney enough and therefore isn't happening.  Or that I should have more control over this thing that I don't.   As it stands, and perhaps you remember, I wanted a home birth and wasn't able to get that.  We just couldn't find someone we could affford (and honestly, now that she may be late and require induction or c-section, I'm sort of happy about that. I don't think midwives give you a refund! Hey, everything happens for a reason!)  As a digression and update to that point, I found a doctor I love and am happy with the hospital we'll be at...after finally being able to change insurance companies during open-enrollment...

Yeah, so there have been countless things beyond my control during this process and I have to continually remind myself it is SO not about me.  Eating enough, gaining 40 pounds, 5 different blood draws, 300 times peeing in a cup, a brief hospital stay, 2 months of no-work bed rest...all of these things were beyond my control and the first things I did for my child. And that's ok.  Waiting past my due date and potentially not having the airy-fairy natural birth I envisioned are and may be, now on my list of things.  There will be bigger things on the list as the years go by, I am certain.  And that's the other thing I need reminding of: this is just the beginning; a drop in the parental bucket.  This is probably the briefest of things, this waiting beyond the anticipated due date.  There will be childcare and doctor's visits and school and high school and college and who-knows-what.  If anything, I think often that while I'm done being pregnant, at the same time, this is the safest I will ever be able to keep her. I know where she is, what she's eating...who she's hanging out with 24/7.  

 Anyway, this whole thing is so enormous to me, this having a child.  It is amazing to me that people go into it on a whim...or that teenagers will often do it on purpose.  I feel at 36, I am still questioning if I will ever be ready to be someone's mother...and the answer better be yes because I'm on the train and it's next stop is motherhood, yo.

(That's me at 35 weeks....yep, I've gotten bigger!) 

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

I was working on a client yesterday who asked me if it's true that if you massage a pregnant woman's feet you can put her into labor.  "No. Absolutely not." I said.  And she asked why there is so much mis-information about pregnancy and massage--and if it's so dangerous why is there pregnancy massage anyway?  And I replied, "There is pregnancy massage because it is good for mother and baby and there is mis-information because people love to scare pregnant women."  She chuckled at this.  I don't think she believed me.  But I was dead serious.  Let me tell you some things I'm supposed to be afraid of while I'm pregnant:

Eating sushi will give me parasites that will eat my baby.  
Drinking a cup of coffee will give my kid ADD.
A glass of wine is going to land my baby with fetal alcohol syndrome.
If I don't eat organic produce, my child will come out with 3 arms.
Apparently, if my feet are massaged the wrong way, I will be instantly thrown into an uncontrollable labor.
If I don't have my baby in a hospital, I am an irresponsible person who lacks common sense and has no concern for the well-being of my baby.

This last one was pretty much told to me by said woman on the table, though she has no idea of my plans for giving birth to this child.  However, without knowing any of my ideologies or own values, felt free to share hers while I massaged her, gabbering non-stop.  She told me her wrist really hurt and that it was leftover from the epidural she received 15 months ago during the hospital birth of her child.  I was a little confused and asked if it was the IV spot and she told me, "no, it was from nurse Frankenstein who grabbed my wrists so hard, they hurt more than the epidural itself, all in an attempt to not let me move."  Well, that certainly sounds unpleasant.  And then she proceeded to tell me her best friend lost a baby because she was seeing a midwife, "which may as well be a witch doctor...I mean, forget the doctor and his 8 years of medical training when it comes to the well being of your child...let's see a hokey-pokey midwife! Duh!" I believe was the quote.  Essentially, the woman was having some cramping around week 24 and called her midwife, who told her to get some rest...and then never called to get a second opinion on it from her backup doctor.  And went into a labor a few days later, losing the baby.  The friend believes had she called the doctor, he would have admitted her to the hospital, they would have given her drugs to stop the contractions and the baby would be here today.  And that may be true.  But why does one misstep by a midwife make all of them "hokey-pokey?"

                                                                         

I was on anti-depressants for five years and came off of them when I got pregnant.  BUT--my primary care physician, who didn't know me that well, and didn't ask me very many questions, told me it would be best for me to get off them while I was TRYING to get pregnant.  She told me to wean off them and gave me specific instructions.  She had 8 years of medical training, so I trusted her.  The way she had me come off of them made me go nuts and I almost killed myself.  I called her to let her know, and after my 3rd message to her office, she called me back.  She all but admitted she didn't know what she was doing with psych drugs and I needed to see a psychiatrist.  It was a reminder to me to use common sense and while doctors are knowledgable, they don't know everything. 

Nobody. Knows. Everything. And everyone, no matter how tragic, makes mistakes sometimes.  I had an intuit that I shouldn't go off the meds right then and in that way, but ignored it.  And paid for it.  So the lesson here is: trust yourself more than you trust anyone else and tap into your common sense.

I want to have my baby in my house, in an environment I can control, not surrounded by beeps, bright lights and craziness.  I am not sick.  My baby is not sick.
"But what about if there's an emergency?? What then!???" is the most frequent question.  We are all programmed to believe any and all births are dangerous and to be afraid.  "Well, we'll call an ambulance if we need to.  Midwives are trained to recognize emergenencies and the woman we're planning on using has only had to call an ambulance once in 30 years. Those are good odds."  People don't want to hear about the odds, though.  They're too invested in the fear.  And I'm a huge feminist, so it doesn't escape me that the fear is all on the woman...the guilt...the worry.  We're supposed to be submissive and do what the good doctor has dictated we do.  "But more women and infants die in hospitals than at home..."  I say.  This is a proven statistic...and people will say "huh. I didn't know that."  But still take no comfort in my idea of a home birth.. "America has one of the highest infant-mother mortality rates in Westernized civilization.  We have the same rate as Cuba."  But still....the safest place for me, is apparently, according to... well, everyone--the hospital.  Why are we so willing, as a nation, to sweep facts under the rug?  Global warming isn't real.  The Polar Bears would be dying whether we were here or not....hospitals are safe....It doesn't matter if cows are injected with hormones...cloning animals for food is a good idea....Money seems to be at the root of all of these ideas that are killing us and I find it utterly tragic.  So I choose to not give my dollar to big businesses I find not in my best interest.  And nothing I do is uninformed.  I have read more books on midwifery, birth, hospitals, than the amount of books I read in college.  More interventions at hospitals cause complications in delivery than help...and I trust my body.  I trust my intuition.  And I am pro-choice for women to make whatever decision they are comfortable with when it comes to their body, their birth, their life.  Plastic surgery...abortion...home birth vs. hospital....I think if we take away these freedoms, we strip women of control over their own bodies.  And if THEY aren't controlling them, I beg the question....who is?

In conclusion, I feel the need to say I know many fears are rooted in things that are true--too much coffee, too much alcohol, too many fries....all bad for me.  But do I deserve that glare at Starbucks when I order one cup of coffee with my baby bump?  I don't think so.  But I get it anyway.  And doctors, hospitals, have their place and I'm glad they exist and I'll be the first one there if it is deemed necessary...but I do I really deserve the lecture because I'm not starting out there?  I don't think so. But I get it anyway.  And am I judging anyone's choice to birth in a hospital because they think it's best for their baby, their body? Hell NO!  I'm just tired of being told how afraid I should be. About everything. 

I choose to walk my life in love and freedom and education and choice.  Fear is for someone else.

(But they got me on the sushi thing.  I haven't eaten any of it since being preg.  Though, FYI....women in Japan eat raw fish while pregnant. And Japan still has people!)

I was bullied as a child and didn't commit suicide.

Though, honestly, I thought about it.  A lot.  And I think it is miraculous that I made it through.  I describe my elementary and high school experiences in terms of "surviving"  and "getting through."  I never got my locker peed into, but I hung out with a girl who did.  In fifth grade, I overheard Katie whats-her-face saying to Vinny Anderlionis (the cool, cute boy all the girls liked), "I DARE you to ask out Jen Tobin."  His response?  "Who's Jen Tobin?"  And she, "the short nerd with the glasses..."  I'm not sure what had happened in Katie's life to blacken her heart and suck out her soul, but clearly, she had no concern for anyone else's feelings, and never even tried to keep her comments out of earshot of her victims.

That Summer, she invited me to her birthday pool party.  My friend Colleen, who was also invited, informed me she invited me just for the present.  So I went.  Because I wanted to swim in her pool. And I brought a shitty gift.

Society is fooling themselves if they think this is a new problem, this children killing themselves due to harrassment at school.  I'm not sure exactly what has shifted among us (because clearly the hate still exists) but I'm happy to see parents not sweeping the issue under the carpet as it has been.  The recent media attention these suicides has gotten has been focused around these kids being tormented for being gay (or kids believing the victims were gay) but I just want to point out that kids get bullied for being shy, smart, short, different, poor, black, having glasses, standing up for themselves and indeed, liking people of the same gender.  Hate really doesn't discriminate.

I blame the parents.

We can point fingers at teachers and principals and the kids themselves, but where does everything in a child's life begin?  At home.  With their hateful parents.   I inherited a lot of things from my folks.  The idea that you need to work 9-5.  The word "Chink"  and the belief that if you let a black man into your home, he's most likely going to steal something.  Now, this blog is not to call my parents out on their ignorance or make them seem like awful people.  They have evolved since my childhood and to be fair, they inherited these things from THEIR parents.  It's all passed along like diseased genetics, this thing called hate.  And whether or not we experience it via our religion or lack of education as a whole, is almost irrelevant.  It exists.  And the question is: How the fuck do we change it?

I'm the first person in my family to graduate college on my father's side, and perhaps, the only one.  I lived away at school and found myself face to face wtih people of different races, homosexuals, JEWISH PEOPLE for Christ's sake.  I didn't even know Jewish people existed outside of the Old Testament.  I didn't know they were still a real thing.  Was I sheltered as a child? Maybe slightly.  In a school where the one half Chinese kid was exotic (remember our friend Vinny?)  I'm pretty sure I had never MET an honest to God "Homo" in my life.  We took a family trip to San Francisco when I was 15 and I spotted a man wearing purple socks.  My father felt the need to point out, "that guy's a little light in the loafers."  I wasn't sure what that phrase meant exactly, in a literal way, but I was sure his purple socks indicated his love of men.  And really, weren't all men in San Francisco gay?  It was, in my house, pointed out that being gay was "disgusting." So was touching yourself.  I never really took heart to either of these ideas because the lights would go out and my hand went straight down my pants.  And honestly, I didn't see the problem with a man kissing another man. I DID, however, find it disturbing that my father believed every gay man he came into contact with would want him and try to turn him gay.  I mean, my father was ok-looking, but I'm not really sure why he thought he was so hot.  Most gay men have much better taste than to fall for a straight guy who drinks too much and owns nothing but flannel.  Just sayin'.

Maybe it was that I was picked on myself, or that my mother really did instill in me the importance of being kind (if not afraid) to other people, but I never bullied other kids, even in my hurt.  I mean, I suppose I did some crappy things behind people's backs in self-preservation (the old eat or be eaten) but I certainly wouldn't have had the audacity to call someone a dork to their face.  And this, really, is the least of it.  The kids who recently killed themselves had their ribs broken, their sexual exploits secretly taped and posted on the web, etc.  Admittedly, that is a whole other level of hate.

 The problem I'm really having, though, the real issue to me, (aside from the obvious-beyond-terrible-point that kids are dying) is that parents who need to hear these things most aren't available for the hearing.  They are wrapped up in their religion, their "rightness," or they are uneducated and don't read blogs, or they really believe they are serving their children by scaring the shit out of them into believing that people who are different are bad.  We can all talk about all of this and try to reach the kids being affected, but until we rip the roots of the hate straight out of the ground and pour bleach on the unholy place they were planted in, we will continue to see the seeds of hatred, prejudice and injustice sewn in ours, the Land of the Free. 

 My husband teaches at a crappy school in LA and tells these kids that a lot of the thinking their parents have been doing for them is wrong.  (He and I are both former Catholics so aren't talking out our ass here.)  He explains to the Catholics in the class (which is most of them) about how being divorced, a parent out of wedlock and having sex before you're married are ALSO against their religion.  But, for some reason, their parents only choose to tell them the part about how being gay goes against God...  while they're banging strangers and multiplying like good Christian straight people.  Kids don't know too much about hypocrisy, they just blindly participate in it because it's what they're told to do.  And even more so, what they're shown.

 I really do believe in empowerment and I think if kids were made to help those other kids who have less (because no matter how bad off it is for you, there is always someone with less...) maybe there could be compassion in there over-riding the hate.  And maybe the kids being empowered could somehow pass it on to their parents...and the cycle could be halted one generation at a time...

We definitely need to keep talking about it.  To let kids know they aren't alone.  To stand up and say, "Hey, kid, I'm 35 and poeple hated me as a child...and now look at me.  I have a way better life than most of the fuck-wads who made fun of me as a child.  And I can call them out by name in my blog on the internet!  So hang in there so you can, too.  Because really....it feels good to be 30-something and see that kid who made fun of you bald and divorced."  Oh, and...

 "I don't care what they do/say to you...you are worthy of love.  They are afraid of your light...because darkness cannot exist in the presence of light...and darkness is all they know."