And of course he loves it. How could he not, the mama's boy? Anyway, we totally listened to this in labor...
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The Sweetest Thing
Never foresaw this moment in all my years of Dave Matthew's groupie-ing, but somehow this seemed like the perfect soundtrack to my morning work sesh with little man playing under the table at my feet,
And of course he loves it. How could he not, the mama's boy? Anyway, we totally listened to this in labor...
And of course he loves it. How could he not, the mama's boy? Anyway, we totally listened to this in labor...
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Aloha means I love you
Loving this party hosted over at Betty Beguiles, providing me with the opportunity to reflect back on (nearly!) 2 years of marriage and the fabulous, sun-drenched fortnight that started it all.
Yep, we went to Hawaii. All.out. Our philosophy was, we're only gonna do this honeymoon once, might as well do it right. Even to the detriment of our wedding budget. And my relationship with my mother, which did eventually recover despite the presence of faux silver plastic cutlery on our reception tables. Ahem. Let's just say we had bigger plans for our teeny budget.
I must say our wedding was still lovely and elegant and sacramental and all the good things one hopes for when looking back on the big day... but let's be honest folks; we got married to go on the honeymoon. Period. (Well, and to build a family and help one another to Heaven, etcetera... but first, the glorious honeymoon.)
My dear husband spent months beforehand scouring the internets for deals. After being laughed at by not a few travel agents upon mention of his budget for a 2 week tropical fete, he decided to go it alone, armed only with his trusty Orbitz faretracker and an iron will.
And boy oh boy did he hit a home run. We stayed in a little mother-in-law apartment attached to a gorgeous villa on the Big Island of Hawaii (my completely unbiased favorite of the chain), with the dormant Mauna Loa volcano serving as our front yard and the sapphire expanse of the Pacific Ocean as the view from our lanai.
It. was. awesome.
We did everything we wanted to do plus a few things we hadn't known we wanted to do ... and we stayed on budget. And we had pa-lenty of downtime, let me tell you...
When you're young and carefree and have time (but not money) to burn, those timeshare presentations can yield some worthy rewards for the stouthearted. Let's just say we paid next to nothing for a snorkel cruise, royal luau and rental gear after enduring a mere 4.5 hours of full-court press retail interrogation. In our opinion, totally worth it.
Upon arriving at our island home, we were woefully informed by the Thrifty rental agent that our reserved Seabring convertible (or some other equally embarrassing luxury sedan) was no longer available, and that there was another convertible on the lot we could have and he was so, so sorry...
We weren't.
So cherry-red Mustang convertible keys in hand, we set off for our first adventure as husband and wife - a giddy-fying reality that I revealed to each and every person with whom we came in contact, whether they wanted to know or not.
We went to Mass outdoors on Thanksgiving day and heard the crash of the surf during pauses in the homily. We ate sushi on top of an active lava flow and watched liquid magma pour into the sea. We hiked through Jurassic Park and only narrowly avoided being eaten by dinos. We body-boarded on the most beautiful strip of beach this side of heaven, we snorkled with sea turtles and trigger fish, we drank lots and lots of fruity drinks and gained back all our stress and diet-induced pre-nuptial weight lost ... and we fell more deeply in love.
Because we had eachother to wake up to every day. Because God had finally answered our prayers and our vocational discernment. And because the answer was a person, more real and more wonderful than we could have imagined.
Aloha. We'll be back, be it 10 years or 10 kids from now...
Yep, we went to Hawaii. All.out. Our philosophy was, we're only gonna do this honeymoon once, might as well do it right. Even to the detriment of our wedding budget. And my relationship with my mother, which did eventually recover despite the presence of faux silver plastic cutlery on our reception tables. Ahem. Let's just say we had bigger plans for our teeny budget.
I must say our wedding was still lovely and elegant and sacramental and all the good things one hopes for when looking back on the big day... but let's be honest folks; we got married to go on the honeymoon. Period. (Well, and to build a family and help one another to Heaven, etcetera... but first, the glorious honeymoon.)
My dear husband spent months beforehand scouring the internets for deals. After being laughed at by not a few travel agents upon mention of his budget for a 2 week tropical fete, he decided to go it alone, armed only with his trusty Orbitz faretracker and an iron will.
Exhausted by his efforts
It. was. awesome.
We did everything we wanted to do plus a few things we hadn't known we wanted to do ... and we stayed on budget. And we had pa-lenty of downtime, let me tell you...
When you're young and carefree and have time (but not money) to burn, those timeshare presentations can yield some worthy rewards for the stouthearted. Let's just say we paid next to nothing for a snorkel cruise, royal luau and rental gear after enduring a mere 4.5 hours of full-court press retail interrogation. In our opinion, totally worth it.
Upon arriving at our island home, we were woefully informed by the Thrifty rental agent that our reserved Seabring convertible (or some other equally embarrassing luxury sedan) was no longer available, and that there was another convertible on the lot we could have and he was so, so sorry...
We weren't.
So cherry-red Mustang convertible keys in hand, we set off for our first adventure as husband and wife - a giddy-fying reality that I revealed to each and every person with whom we came in contact, whether they wanted to know or not.
We went to Mass outdoors on Thanksgiving day and heard the crash of the surf during pauses in the homily. We ate sushi on top of an active lava flow and watched liquid magma pour into the sea. We hiked through Jurassic Park and only narrowly avoided being eaten by dinos. We body-boarded on the most beautiful strip of beach this side of heaven, we snorkled with sea turtles and trigger fish, we drank lots and lots of fruity drinks and gained back all our stress and diet-induced pre-nuptial weight lost ... and we fell more deeply in love.
Because we had eachother to wake up to every day. Because God had finally answered our prayers and our vocational discernment. And because the answer was a person, more real and more wonderful than we could have imagined.
Aloha. We'll be back, be it 10 years or 10 kids from now...
And I sure as hell won't be working this bikini.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Aborted Fetal Cell Lines
Had to share this fabulous resource with ya'll - first time I've seen a comprehensive list of those vaccines (including manufacturer info) which have been formulated using one of two aborted fetal cell lines. Check out this fabulous site for info to help you as parents make informed, ethical and moral decisions about your children's health.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Dads Who Fight
I got my oil changed today. For the record, in the almost 2 years I've been married, I believe I've spent more time inside the lobby of a Grease Monkey than in the previous 26 years combined. Needless to say, my better half believes in 'preventative maintenance,' something not a one of my siblings were aware of, I believe, until the year 2009. (My daddy taught us a lotta things right, but this weren't one of 'em)
Anywho, Grease Monkey... home of the 1.2 million dollar oil change which boasts a 'complimentary' tire fill up and crushed-Goldfish-cracker-and-raisin-removal. As I wait for my gleaming sports car to be polished to a high sheen, my little man cruising around a filthy coffee table gnawing at old issues of "Field and Stream" and "Allure" (what kind of place are they RUNNING here?), a friendly Mexican dude strikes up a conversation with me.
"Is he the only one?" pointing towards Joey.
I awkwardly put my hand over my still covert midsection and say something really eloquent like, 'uh, next one is en route.' ( I just don't know how to answer that question gracefully yet!)
"Another boy?" prompted my new friend.
"Uh, well, it's too soon to tell, heh heh, we'll see." (damn I'm awkward)
"Hope it's a boy... girls are muy loco. Impossible with a girl!"
I shook my head emphatically, not because I agreed with him that all females were, indeed, very crazy, but because I myself was once a teenager from hell and, judging from his age and appearance, I had a hunch he was currently in the trenches with a high-school daughter.
"My daughter, she wants to go to the quinceaneras, wear the skinny jeans that come down and show her belly, everything... she tells me all the time 'I hate you,' 'Why can't I do what my friends are doing?' 'What are you doing in my room?' I tell her I'm her father, it's MY room... I'm just lending it to you."
He sat back, looking satisfied, before continuing.
"Last week I told her, ask me again on Saturday night about quinceaneras ... and I'll give you a reason why you can't go."
He went on to explain that she had come to him again that past Saturday evening, begging to be let out with her friends to celebrate this traditional 'rite of passage' with her friends and their families. Telling her to grab her jacket, he led her out to his truck and told her to hop in before driving her out to the abandoned warehouse district where he knew the festivities were being held. As they pulled up they could hear techno music spilling out into the night, and drunk party-goers were stumbling all over the dark parking lot.
Turning to his daughter, the father asked her what she saw, and she was silent.
"You see those men?" he asked her, "Those are men 30, 35 years old... they've been drinking, I don't know who they are... Do you know what happens to you if I let you go someplace like this? You get raped. Or worse. And even if I come and find you, it might be too late. Is that what you want?"
He looked pained as he recounted the story, and I have to admit to being simultaneously impressed with his parenting technique and terrified of eventually parenting a daughter, God-willing.
I told him she was lucky, that more girls needed to have dads looking out for him, and he nodded solemnly.
And then he said the weirdest thing.
Leaning forward, he confided, "I don't want, you know virgins or something, but I want her to be happy, to wait... to find not just a 'nice guy,' not just get pregnant. I tell her 'you come to me when you are ready, I'll get you a Pill, whatever."
Dumbfounded, I collected my thoughts while he got up to pay at the counter. He turned and continued talking to me as the cashier rang him up.
Clearing my throat, I volunteered the information that, you know, those hormonal pills are really bad for young girl's bodies, to which he nodded in agreement.
We barely had time for another couple sentences before he was out the door, but as he left he told me good luck with my little guy, and I told him to keep his little girl safe...and I wondered if I had said enough.
Here was this perfect stranger, pouring his heart out to me about holding his children to a higher standard than the culture around them and protecting them from harm, and then he went and admitted to being willing to enable her physical, psychological and moral decline 'when she was ready'...
How did we get here? How was this man - by all appearances , a real man in a sea of little boys just playing at parental authority - willing to equip his young daughter with the very means by which she could destroy her life?
How deeply ingrained the contraceptive mentality has become in our culture. 30 years ago no father in his right mind would have discussed enabling his adolescent daughter's sexual activity to a perfect stranger in an auto care lobby. But times, they sure are 'a changing.
And not for the better, in this department.
It's no wonder young people are so confused and so easily led down the primrose path in the sexual sphere - their parents are no more knowledgeable in this area then they themselves are - and how should they be.
We have swallowed a monstrous lie in the form of a little Pill. And even while bemoaning the general state of moral decline in our society, we quietly condone it by handing our children the necessary equipment to screw up their lives and hearts... often losing them in the process.
St. Joseph, patron of fathers, patron of chastity, pray for us.
Anywho, Grease Monkey... home of the 1.2 million dollar oil change which boasts a 'complimentary' tire fill up and crushed-Goldfish-cracker-and-raisin-removal. As I wait for my gleaming sports car to be polished to a high sheen, my little man cruising around a filthy coffee table gnawing at old issues of "Field and Stream" and "Allure" (what kind of place are they RUNNING here?), a friendly Mexican dude strikes up a conversation with me.
"Is he the only one?" pointing towards Joey.
I awkwardly put my hand over my still covert midsection and say something really eloquent like, 'uh, next one is en route.' ( I just don't know how to answer that question gracefully yet!)
"Another boy?" prompted my new friend.
"Uh, well, it's too soon to tell, heh heh, we'll see." (damn I'm awkward)
"Hope it's a boy... girls are muy loco. Impossible with a girl!"
I shook my head emphatically, not because I agreed with him that all females were, indeed, very crazy, but because I myself was once a teenager from hell and, judging from his age and appearance, I had a hunch he was currently in the trenches with a high-school daughter.
"My daughter, she wants to go to the quinceaneras, wear the skinny jeans that come down and show her belly, everything... she tells me all the time 'I hate you,' 'Why can't I do what my friends are doing?' 'What are you doing in my room?' I tell her I'm her father, it's MY room... I'm just lending it to you."
He sat back, looking satisfied, before continuing.
"Last week I told her, ask me again on Saturday night about quinceaneras ... and I'll give you a reason why you can't go."
He went on to explain that she had come to him again that past Saturday evening, begging to be let out with her friends to celebrate this traditional 'rite of passage' with her friends and their families. Telling her to grab her jacket, he led her out to his truck and told her to hop in before driving her out to the abandoned warehouse district where he knew the festivities were being held. As they pulled up they could hear techno music spilling out into the night, and drunk party-goers were stumbling all over the dark parking lot.
Turning to his daughter, the father asked her what she saw, and she was silent.
"You see those men?" he asked her, "Those are men 30, 35 years old... they've been drinking, I don't know who they are... Do you know what happens to you if I let you go someplace like this? You get raped. Or worse. And even if I come and find you, it might be too late. Is that what you want?"
He looked pained as he recounted the story, and I have to admit to being simultaneously impressed with his parenting technique and terrified of eventually parenting a daughter, God-willing.
I told him she was lucky, that more girls needed to have dads looking out for him, and he nodded solemnly.
And then he said the weirdest thing.
Leaning forward, he confided, "I don't want, you know virgins or something, but I want her to be happy, to wait... to find not just a 'nice guy,' not just get pregnant. I tell her 'you come to me when you are ready, I'll get you a Pill, whatever."
Dumbfounded, I collected my thoughts while he got up to pay at the counter. He turned and continued talking to me as the cashier rang him up.
Clearing my throat, I volunteered the information that, you know, those hormonal pills are really bad for young girl's bodies, to which he nodded in agreement.
We barely had time for another couple sentences before he was out the door, but as he left he told me good luck with my little guy, and I told him to keep his little girl safe...and I wondered if I had said enough.
Here was this perfect stranger, pouring his heart out to me about holding his children to a higher standard than the culture around them and protecting them from harm, and then he went and admitted to being willing to enable her physical, psychological and moral decline 'when she was ready'...
How did we get here? How was this man - by all appearances , a real man in a sea of little boys just playing at parental authority - willing to equip his young daughter with the very means by which she could destroy her life?
How deeply ingrained the contraceptive mentality has become in our culture. 30 years ago no father in his right mind would have discussed enabling his adolescent daughter's sexual activity to a perfect stranger in an auto care lobby. But times, they sure are 'a changing.
And not for the better, in this department.
It's no wonder young people are so confused and so easily led down the primrose path in the sexual sphere - their parents are no more knowledgeable in this area then they themselves are - and how should they be.
We have swallowed a monstrous lie in the form of a little Pill. And even while bemoaning the general state of moral decline in our society, we quietly condone it by handing our children the necessary equipment to screw up their lives and hearts... often losing them in the process.
St. Joseph, patron of fathers, patron of chastity, pray for us.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Was it planned?
Worth it's very own repost here, because the lovely Grace says it so much more pithily and lovingly than I could.
Monday, September 26, 2011
3 Truths and a Lie
Can you find the hidden dose of reality in these headlines?
1. 'Safe' sex: a failed experiment, or a failure to communicate effectively to our youth? The media will never admit how fundamentally flawed and ineffective this archaic policy truly is...
2. Living proof of the triumphant victory of life over death? Perhaps... or perhaps merely an isolated sub-cultural phenomenon? Let's let the numbers do the talking...
3. I think I'd rather deliver pizzas ala Dave Ramsey than start selling off parts, no matter how dire the economic straits.
4. I have a good feeling that I'm getting these for Christmas.
1. 'Safe' sex: a failed experiment, or a failure to communicate effectively to our youth? The media will never admit how fundamentally flawed and ineffective this archaic policy truly is...
2. Living proof of the triumphant victory of life over death? Perhaps... or perhaps merely an isolated sub-cultural phenomenon? Let's let the numbers do the talking...
3. I think I'd rather deliver pizzas ala Dave Ramsey than start selling off parts, no matter how dire the economic straits.
4. I have a good feeling that I'm getting these for Christmas.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
One year already?!
Whew. That was fast!
Sitting here with my little man running (cruising) circles around me as I 'work,' and reflecting on the goodness that has been his first year of life outside the womb. Joseph Kolbe, I love you more than I thought possible. Thanks for being here, bud.
And yes, this is his birthday present. A blog post. Or a blog paragraph, more like it, with a link to his birth story. Eh, we did cupcakes last weekend. Enjoy it kid, you're not an only child anymore...
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Weekenders
Coffee: check
Baby delightfully taken by his Daddy's unaccustomed presence during the morning hours: check
Uninterrupted time to sip coffee and peruse the news: check
Life is good. Hope your weekend treats you accordingly.
Food for thought:
To enrage: just say 'no' to spray tanning. Especially if you can't spell the word 'no' yet...
To illuminate: the reality of an 'open' liberal mind
To encourage: because we can all use a little good news now and then
Baby delightfully taken by his Daddy's unaccustomed presence during the morning hours: check
Uninterrupted time to sip coffee and peruse the news: check
Life is good. Hope your weekend treats you accordingly.
Food for thought:
To enrage: just say 'no' to spray tanning. Especially if you can't spell the word 'no' yet...
To illuminate: the reality of an 'open' liberal mind
To encourage: because we can all use a little good news now and then
Monday, September 12, 2011
Just wondering...
I woke up early (EARLY, Joey. TOO early!) this morning and as I lay in bed, listening to the gentle noises of my almost toddler caterwauling like a suffering tabby, I allowed my mind to wander over the various and sundry mysteries of my (admittedly) small universe and came up with the following:
How much liquid should my almost-one-year-old be drinking each day? Does coffee count? I think he's been drinking my coffee...
Why am I incapable of meal planning? Why does 5:00 pm come up and slap me in the back of the head everyday and leave me stunned and stupid over the impending reality of dinner and the sorry truth that I have to make it. Again. Why can't men live on cereal like we can?
Is there a wittier ripost I might have offered to the Kaiser nurse who heckled me over the phone whilst scheduling my first prenatal visit for this little bug and WHISTLED at me that I've been 'busy?' "Heh heh heh. Somebody's been havin' themselves some unprotected sex!" (I swear I could hear her internal monologue)
Why am I so fat already? Why do I keep asking my husband if he thinks this is so, when I know well and good that for the sake of all that is holy the man is never, EVER going to answer in the affirmative to this one, even should I gain 2.3 million lbs like last time and start stealing his extra-large Kirkland's Best t-shirts to fashion into 3rd trimester mumus. Even then, he knows the right answer to THAT question.
Why are boots so expensive when ground beef is so cheap? Aren't they fashioned from the same creature? Why the markup? WHY?!
Come on. Seriously? A 1,700% mark up? That ain't right.
And finally, is it so wrong that after 28 years of searching, I've finally discovered the real motivating factor for exercise, and it turns out it's childcare?
I've calculated it carefully, and it turns out that in an average month I can score a maximum of 60 hours of babysitting courtesy of my local 24 Hour Fitness. You can bet those girls in the Kid Zone have me on a first name basis. Irony of ironies that my newfound exercise fanaticism is not going to help me get any smaller any time soon...
How much liquid should my almost-one-year-old be drinking each day? Does coffee count? I think he's been drinking my coffee...
Why am I incapable of meal planning? Why does 5:00 pm come up and slap me in the back of the head everyday and leave me stunned and stupid over the impending reality of dinner and the sorry truth that I have to make it. Again. Why can't men live on cereal like we can?
Is there a wittier ripost I might have offered to the Kaiser nurse who heckled me over the phone whilst scheduling my first prenatal visit for this little bug and WHISTLED at me that I've been 'busy?' "Heh heh heh. Somebody's been havin' themselves some unprotected sex!" (I swear I could hear her internal monologue)
Why am I so fat already? Why do I keep asking my husband if he thinks this is so, when I know well and good that for the sake of all that is holy the man is never, EVER going to answer in the affirmative to this one, even should I gain 2.3 million lbs like last time and start stealing his extra-large Kirkland's Best t-shirts to fashion into 3rd trimester mumus. Even then, he knows the right answer to THAT question.
Why are boots so expensive when ground beef is so cheap? Aren't they fashioned from the same creature? Why the markup? WHY?!
vs.
Come on. Seriously? A 1,700% mark up? That ain't right.
And finally, is it so wrong that after 28 years of searching, I've finally discovered the real motivating factor for exercise, and it turns out it's childcare?
I've calculated it carefully, and it turns out that in an average month I can score a maximum of 60 hours of babysitting courtesy of my local 24 Hour Fitness. You can bet those girls in the Kid Zone have me on a first name basis. Irony of ironies that my newfound exercise fanaticism is not going to help me get any smaller any time soon...
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
What's love got to do with it?
Well, everything, at this point. I'm teetering on 8 weeks pregnant as I write this and have been sick.as.a.dog. this time around. I don't know if it's the fact that I'm actively engaged in biological warfare with an 11 month old all day long or that this baby on board is perhaps of the fairer sex (just a guess), but I feel awful. Like, shouldn't-a-had-that-last shot-of tequila-ohmahgawd-where's-the-trash-can awful.
Such is the price which new life demands. I can't see this little one yet - though I do have his/her sweet older brother to look to for a sneak peak of what may be to come - but I already feel such love for this child. Fear, certainly. An overwhelmed sense of responsibility, that too. But over and above the other emotional responses there is love. And the sense of gratitude and wonder that 'I get to do this again!' coupled with 'I'm doing this again?!'
So there it is. Joey's a big brother, and our lives will never be the same.
God is good.
Such is the price which new life demands. I can't see this little one yet - though I do have his/her sweet older brother to look to for a sneak peak of what may be to come - but I already feel such love for this child. Fear, certainly. An overwhelmed sense of responsibility, that too. But over and above the other emotional responses there is love. And the sense of gratitude and wonder that 'I get to do this again!' coupled with 'I'm doing this again?!'
So there it is. Joey's a big brother, and our lives will never be the same.
God is good.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Picking Rotten Fruit
What do contraception, pedophiles and gay 'marriage' all have in common? (Besides the ability to make one's stomach churn.)
I'll give you a hint: trees.
Three different species of rotting fruit, all plucked from the same evil tree of selfishness.
Three wildly variant forms of sexual deviance, one root sin:
Pride.
Pride that asserts one's subjective reality over objective reality. Pride that places personal happiness and 'fulfillment' ahead of the good of the other. Pride that seeks to subvert, destroy and remake truth for the sake of an imagined personal 'good' at the cost of real goodness.
At first blush, predators who seek sexual encounters with children and homosexual adults who seek to enter into 'marriages' with same sex partners might not seem to have too much in common besides an uncommon sexual appetite, but an honest examination of the motivation behind both behaviors reveals an uncomfortable truth.
When we attempt to redefine reality, we have to expect that others will do the same. Gay 'marriage' may be promoted as all about tolerance and love... but in some circles, (widening circles, I might add) so is the notion of 'love' between an innocent child and an adult.
In a disturbing report issued earlier this week, a reporter shed light on a curious conference taking place outside our nation's capital right now. Pedophiles are seeking to destigmatize their deviant, criminal sexual behavior by lobbying the American Psychological Association to declassify pedophilia as a mental illness in the forthcoming edition of the DSM - the 'bible,' if you will, of the mental health world.
This is relevant because it is the same path homosexual activists started down in the late 70's when they lobbied to have homosexuality removed from the third edition of the DSM as an identified psychological condition.
And where exactly does birth control factor into this all?
Well it turns out that everyone is after their own version of 'no strings attached' sex. And if straight, married couples can go on the Pill - which many did for the first time starting in the 1950's and '60's - then why not straight, unmarried couples? Sex, no longer prudishly bound to the constraining, tired and traditional 'construct' of marriage was now fair game for anyone, provided they were 'in love.' (I am well aware that the invention of modern contraception did not single-handedly fuel the sexual revolution. People have been sexually active outside of marriage from time immemorial. The difference is, now it's openly acknowledged and even applauded by a global majority)
Once sex was effectively divorced from marriage by its sterilization, homosexuality - nothing new except in its growing social acceptability - began to creep from the shadows. If sterile, fruitless sex made sense for straight people, than why not for two men? Or two women? Sex, no longer inextricably linked to the possibility of bringing forth new life (in addition to pleasure), became just another method for communication between companions. And who are we to tell anyone with whom they may or may not communicate?
When sex ceases to be primarily about the gift of self, (and, consequently, the gift of life) it becomes primarily a means to self-gratification. And everyone deserves to be gratified. To be satisfied. To be happy. It's one of the last remaining 'virtues' we seem able to agree upon as a culture: happiness. Except sometimes one person's version of 'happiness' turns out to be tantamount to another person's version of 'hell.'
The young girl whose body is used by an older cousin for unspeakable acts of sexual abuse. The toddler whose two 'mommies' special ordered her using hand-picked sperm and cutting edge IVF technology, but who will never know her father. The teenager whose parents divorced during his freshman year of high school, dumping him with relatives while they set out on solo journeys of self discovery to 'find themselves' at a time when he is poised on the precipice of adulthood and in crying need of parental guidance and support. Each of these are the unwilling victim of someone else's pursuit of happiness.
So where does it end?
I would imagine that bestiality and incest will be coming down the pike as the next agenda items in our glorious cultural pursuit of equality. Because if anything goes, then everything goes. And who are we to say otherwise?
I'll give you a hint: trees.
Three different species of rotting fruit, all plucked from the same evil tree of selfishness.
Three wildly variant forms of sexual deviance, one root sin:
Pride.
Pride that asserts one's subjective reality over objective reality. Pride that places personal happiness and 'fulfillment' ahead of the good of the other. Pride that seeks to subvert, destroy and remake truth for the sake of an imagined personal 'good' at the cost of real goodness.
At first blush, predators who seek sexual encounters with children and homosexual adults who seek to enter into 'marriages' with same sex partners might not seem to have too much in common besides an uncommon sexual appetite, but an honest examination of the motivation behind both behaviors reveals an uncomfortable truth.
When we attempt to redefine reality, we have to expect that others will do the same. Gay 'marriage' may be promoted as all about tolerance and love... but in some circles, (widening circles, I might add) so is the notion of 'love' between an innocent child and an adult.
In a disturbing report issued earlier this week, a reporter shed light on a curious conference taking place outside our nation's capital right now. Pedophiles are seeking to destigmatize their deviant, criminal sexual behavior by lobbying the American Psychological Association to declassify pedophilia as a mental illness in the forthcoming edition of the DSM - the 'bible,' if you will, of the mental health world.
This is relevant because it is the same path homosexual activists started down in the late 70's when they lobbied to have homosexuality removed from the third edition of the DSM as an identified psychological condition.
And where exactly does birth control factor into this all?
Well it turns out that everyone is after their own version of 'no strings attached' sex. And if straight, married couples can go on the Pill - which many did for the first time starting in the 1950's and '60's - then why not straight, unmarried couples? Sex, no longer prudishly bound to the constraining, tired and traditional 'construct' of marriage was now fair game for anyone, provided they were 'in love.' (I am well aware that the invention of modern contraception did not single-handedly fuel the sexual revolution. People have been sexually active outside of marriage from time immemorial. The difference is, now it's openly acknowledged and even applauded by a global majority)
Once sex was effectively divorced from marriage by its sterilization, homosexuality - nothing new except in its growing social acceptability - began to creep from the shadows. If sterile, fruitless sex made sense for straight people, than why not for two men? Or two women? Sex, no longer inextricably linked to the possibility of bringing forth new life (in addition to pleasure), became just another method for communication between companions. And who are we to tell anyone with whom they may or may not communicate?
When sex ceases to be primarily about the gift of self, (and, consequently, the gift of life) it becomes primarily a means to self-gratification. And everyone deserves to be gratified. To be satisfied. To be happy. It's one of the last remaining 'virtues' we seem able to agree upon as a culture: happiness. Except sometimes one person's version of 'happiness' turns out to be tantamount to another person's version of 'hell.'
The young girl whose body is used by an older cousin for unspeakable acts of sexual abuse. The toddler whose two 'mommies' special ordered her using hand-picked sperm and cutting edge IVF technology, but who will never know her father. The teenager whose parents divorced during his freshman year of high school, dumping him with relatives while they set out on solo journeys of self discovery to 'find themselves' at a time when he is poised on the precipice of adulthood and in crying need of parental guidance and support. Each of these are the unwilling victim of someone else's pursuit of happiness.
So where does it end?
I would imagine that bestiality and incest will be coming down the pike as the next agenda items in our glorious cultural pursuit of equality. Because if anything goes, then everything goes. And who are we to say otherwise?
As the family goes, so goes the nation and so goes the whole world in which we live.
Bl. John Paul II
Pray for us.
Friday, July 29, 2011
7 (Really) Quick Takes
1. We are unexpectedly moving sooner than I had dared to hope... tomorrow, in fact. And I have my drug-addicted (and apparently parole-violating) next door neighbor to thank. So thank you, Bob the Buffalo... though you probably had a rough night in the drunk tank after the cops busted down your door at midnight, I promise you, you slept better than we did...
2. We are moving into a house. A HOUSE! A house of our very own, with a yard and space to plant a garden that I can watch die and, and... even set up a wading pool. God has a funny way of answering prayers sometimes.
3. My son loves to hear anyone burp, or even pretend to burp. I don't know how he knows that as an eventual adolescent boy he will be required to laugh at said bodily function, but let me tell you, he thinks it is hilarious. Hilarious. Don't even ask how we discovered this.
4. Yesterday me, the boy and the Bob jogger stumbled upon a coyote on our mid-afternoon stroll across the burning wasteland of open space behind our apartment complex. Technically I was on a multi-purpose path through one of Denver's many lovely greenbelts ... but the coyote was in clear, flagrant violation of Denver's leash law and didn't seem one bit sorry. But I bet he was sorry after I growled at him and flailed my arms in most threatening manner. FYI, coyotes are like uglier, dirtier and skinnier versions of wolves... and a lot less aggressive, apparently. Though I am, admittedly, fearsome in my workout gear.
5. 90 Shilling. Go out and buy a 6 pack of O'Dell Brewing Company's 90 Shilling Ale. Tonight. We have rediscovered our affection for this brew after a long hiatus spent dabbling in cheaper, lesser imitations, but no more. If you happen to live in North Pennsylsota and can't get your paws on it... well, that's a shame. A crying shame. Craft breweries are one of Colorado's greatest contributions to this fine nation, and I pity the fool who hasn't imbibed.
6. I am reading this right now and loving it. Every page is causing me to drop the book and sigh and reflect on how very far I have to go in the spiritual journey still... and how very large and wide is God's mercy. I love St. Francis.
7. The following items are necessary to have on hand for any major relocation effort: Sharpies; discarded produce boxes from the grocery store which smell of old bananas; Target bags, scraps of paper towels to wrap delicate items in and then to use to dry tears upon discovery of remains of said item upon arrival; copious amounts of coffee; goldfish crackers to toss on the floor to distract any children who may be present during the operation; wine. Just plenty of wine. Did I miss anything?
Be sure to visit Jen over at Conversion Diary!
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Thank you
The lovely woman who distracted me with conversations about baby gates while cutting me yesterday says she is 99.9% convinced that the mystery guest in my knee is 'not anything weird' which is, I believe, the scientific terminology for 'not cancerous.'
Thanks for the prayers, we sure felt them.
AMDG
Thanks for the prayers, we sure felt them.
AMDG
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Give Us This Day
So I hate asking for help. Even from God, but especially from other people. I'm a d-i-y bootstraps kinda girl, which can get me into trouble every now and then when it turns out I can't manipulate the fabric of reality by sheer force of my will. Ever have one of those days? Anyway, probably with the express intention of inviting me to grow in holiness through trustful surrender, God's thrown me a curve ball, and I wasn't expecting it and didn't ask for it and - wouldn't you know it - that doesn't seem to matter to Him.
One. Bit.
Harumph.
So I am having a very minor surgery today that has me a teensy bit concerned, mostly for the subsequent lab results. Having had very little experience in the world of medical issues, (thanks, God) the past week has been a tad unnerving, so I'm asking for your prayers for us. Mostly that we'd be surrendered to His will, and of course for any necessary healing. Ya'll are fabulous.
AMDG.
One. Bit.
Harumph.
So I am having a very minor surgery today that has me a teensy bit concerned, mostly for the subsequent lab results. Having had very little experience in the world of medical issues, (thanks, God) the past week has been a tad unnerving, so I'm asking for your prayers for us. Mostly that we'd be surrendered to His will, and of course for any necessary healing. Ya'll are fabulous.
AMDG.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Heroic News
I have been a bit - shall we say, infrequent in my online presence these past few months. At least 'round these parts. But I haven't been luxuriating on the couch eating bon bons all day. I've been working for an amazing company called Heroic Media, running a new outreach of theirs called Heroic News. It's a news aggregator, and for those of you not familiar with the concept, it's basically an online clearinghouse of sorts for headlines, articles and links to web resources, all gathered into one, convenient location for you fine people.
The mission of Heroic Media is to harness various forms of news and entertainment media - be it television, internet, print advertising or radio spots - and start conversations about the most pressing issue of our times: life. They run outreach campaigns to women in crisis pregnancies, they fund abortion awareness campaigns in major media markets, and they provide tangible, life-saving and life-affirming assistance to women and families in desperate need. In other words, they are authentically pro life. From the moment of conception onward. So there's no room for the predictable, shallow criticism of pro-lifers 'dropping the ball' once the child emerges safely from the womb.
Heroic News' part in this mission is to deliver breaking news, up to the minute global coverage on wide-ranging life issues including abortion, contraception and sterilization, euthanasia, human cloning and embryonic stem cell research, and the sanctity of marriage.
So tell your family! Tell your friends! And visit every day... because I'm culling through allllll the crap that's out there on the internets ... so you don't have to ;)
The mission of Heroic Media is to harness various forms of news and entertainment media - be it television, internet, print advertising or radio spots - and start conversations about the most pressing issue of our times: life. They run outreach campaigns to women in crisis pregnancies, they fund abortion awareness campaigns in major media markets, and they provide tangible, life-saving and life-affirming assistance to women and families in desperate need. In other words, they are authentically pro life. From the moment of conception onward. So there's no room for the predictable, shallow criticism of pro-lifers 'dropping the ball' once the child emerges safely from the womb.
Heroic News' part in this mission is to deliver breaking news, up to the minute global coverage on wide-ranging life issues including abortion, contraception and sterilization, euthanasia, human cloning and embryonic stem cell research, and the sanctity of marriage.
So tell your family! Tell your friends! And visit every day... because I'm culling through allllll the crap that's out there on the internets ... so you don't have to ;)
Because he's so.darn.cute.
My boys in blue.
The last (sniff) photo of Leonardo Stargazer Gallileo Jesus Christ Superstar (I swear that was all on his pedigree papers) before his untimely and suspicious death. And Uncle Patrick. Who now has 2 kittens and doesn't even remember the dog's name. Youth is a beautiful thing...
Well? Have you?
Moving on then...
The Redneck Yacht Club
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Such Great Joy
Today has really been one of those days where I can see His hand at work in the mundane and ordinary details of housewifery and motherhood. My little man is growing up so quickly - and so very slowly - all at once. Every night waking, every diaper change, and every bowl of cereal mixed and spooned into his needy, open mouth causes me to wonder ... "when will this ever end?" ... while simultaneously causing my heart to seize up with the fear that it will end, and sooner than I can possibly imagine.
Nobody told me that motherhood was going to be such a careful tightrope between fierce love and paralyzing fear of loss, intermingled with moments of sheer tedium which my working-girl-self could only have imagined on the longest days of board meeting prep and Excel spreadsheet creation. (And even then, it would have been a stretch. A mighty stretch.)
Nature abhors a vacuum, and in the absence of adult company and conversation, Hulu comes all too readily to the rescue to fill the void with ... further vapidity. Can I get an 'amen,' fellow WAH/SAHM's?
Now I realize this all sounds like complaining... but it's not. I swear it's not! It's just that, darn it, I didn't plan on being so bored with my day to day existence when I was dreaming about white picket fences and sweet, cooing, dewy-eyed newborns who smelled of linen and baby Gap couture.
Or so terrified that it might be taken from me, either in the inevitable future or in a terrifying, tragic instant.
There is such a mighty daily tug-of-war for my heart, for my attention. Such rapid vacillation between contented fulfillment and wild, grasping tedium. So many little victories of scrubbing floors, dishes and diapers for the Kingdom... followed by slumping afternoons of wasted web-crawling and idle online 'shopping*'
(*no credit cards were harmed in the posting of this blog... nor by my occasional, pathetic, virtual window-shopping binges).
I'm so hot or cold.
I'm still that way as a mom, it turns out. As a 'grown up' who has, shall we say, arrived at her vocational destination. It's all or nothing for me, still. I'm either serving God joyfully with the sweat of my brow and the foaming dish soap of my kitchen sink... or I'm flopped on the couch reading People.com's Style Watch and watching the clock tick down to my husband's return home, 20 minutes prior to which I will begin frantically scanning Foodily.com for, ahem, poultry inspiration.
And yet I have the audacity to write about the glory of family life? The splendor of motherhood? The evils of contraception and the closed-mindedness of our anti-life, anti-family culture.
Well, yeah.
I'm still a crappy sinner, after all. And just because I 'get it' intellectually and, more rarely, spiritually, doesn't mean I live it well. Or at all, some days.
And I don't mean crappy sinner in a snow-covered-dung-hill-Martin-Luther kinda way, just in a realization of my own brokenness and need for ongoing conversion and formation kinda way.
Make sense?
No worries. Not so much to me either. But sometimes I've just got to 'talk it out' on paper. And when it comes to blogging, maybe somebody else sees it and gets some sliver of insight from it.
Or maybe not. But it did keep me off Hulu all morning. So there's a start.
St. Therese... pray for me. Seriously girl, I need it.
Nobody told me that motherhood was going to be such a careful tightrope between fierce love and paralyzing fear of loss, intermingled with moments of sheer tedium which my working-girl-self could only have imagined on the longest days of board meeting prep and Excel spreadsheet creation. (And even then, it would have been a stretch. A mighty stretch.)
Nature abhors a vacuum, and in the absence of adult company and conversation, Hulu comes all too readily to the rescue to fill the void with ... further vapidity. Can I get an 'amen,' fellow WAH/SAHM's?
Now I realize this all sounds like complaining... but it's not. I swear it's not! It's just that, darn it, I didn't plan on being so bored with my day to day existence when I was dreaming about white picket fences and sweet, cooing, dewy-eyed newborns who smelled of linen and baby Gap couture.
Or so terrified that it might be taken from me, either in the inevitable future or in a terrifying, tragic instant.
There is such a mighty daily tug-of-war for my heart, for my attention. Such rapid vacillation between contented fulfillment and wild, grasping tedium. So many little victories of scrubbing floors, dishes and diapers for the Kingdom... followed by slumping afternoons of wasted web-crawling and idle online 'shopping*'
(*no credit cards were harmed in the posting of this blog... nor by my occasional, pathetic, virtual window-shopping binges).
I'm so hot or cold.
I'm still that way as a mom, it turns out. As a 'grown up' who has, shall we say, arrived at her vocational destination. It's all or nothing for me, still. I'm either serving God joyfully with the sweat of my brow and the foaming dish soap of my kitchen sink... or I'm flopped on the couch reading People.com's Style Watch and watching the clock tick down to my husband's return home, 20 minutes prior to which I will begin frantically scanning Foodily.com for, ahem, poultry inspiration.
And yet I have the audacity to write about the glory of family life? The splendor of motherhood? The evils of contraception and the closed-mindedness of our anti-life, anti-family culture.
Well, yeah.
I'm still a crappy sinner, after all. And just because I 'get it' intellectually and, more rarely, spiritually, doesn't mean I live it well. Or at all, some days.
And I don't mean crappy sinner in a snow-covered-dung-hill-Martin-Luther kinda way, just in a realization of my own brokenness and need for ongoing conversion and formation kinda way.
Make sense?
No worries. Not so much to me either. But sometimes I've just got to 'talk it out' on paper. And when it comes to blogging, maybe somebody else sees it and gets some sliver of insight from it.
Or maybe not. But it did keep me off Hulu all morning. So there's a start.
St. Therese... pray for me. Seriously girl, I need it.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Some days are tougher than others...
... and tomorrow will be no exception. Keeping my heart fixed on Heaven and my eyes comforted by this view,
and the knowledge that the current resident-in-chief wasn't too pleased when he was tapped for his new job, either.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Now This
Gay 'marriage' is sooo yesterday. The hottest new trend in progressive social justice today is polygamy. That's right, ladies! Now you too can have it all: live-in 'sisters' to share everything with... clothes, household tasks, child-rearing responsibilities...even your husband!
No more dull, drab dual-spouse marriages where one measly person is expected to fulfill all the needs of the other. No more tiresome monogamy. And no more worrying about whether your husband has been sleeping around on you... now you know for sure that yes, he has!
Coming soon: pedophilia and bestiality: The final frontiers. (That is, until we think of something worse. Like people getting really, really attached to their Prius' ... really, really attached.)
No more dull, drab dual-spouse marriages where one measly person is expected to fulfill all the needs of the other. No more tiresome monogamy. And no more worrying about whether your husband has been sleeping around on you... now you know for sure that yes, he has!
Coming soon: pedophilia and bestiality: The final frontiers. (That is, until we think of something worse. Like people getting really, really attached to their Prius' ... really, really attached.)
Monday, July 11, 2011
In Vitro Violence
I've never given much thought to the post-implantation violence begotten by the process of IVF, but after a heart wrenching discussion with a dear friend last night, I've had my eyes opened to a hidden world of incredible loss and unimaginable evil.
The process of in-vitro fertilization is intrinsically evil in its commoditization of human life by the intentional creation, manipulation of and, far too often, the destruction of designer embryos, purchased by desperate, misguided parents and coaxed into existence by truly mad science.
What I failed to realize was that even after the creation of 7 or perhaps 9 tiny babies, 3 of whom would perhaps be lucky enough to be considered 'viable' and implanted into their mother's womb, these 'chosen ones' were still far from home free.
My sweet girl friend lost one of her precious twin daughters at birth last year, and has been attending a grieving group for mothers of multiples who've suffered similar losses. Except, as it turns out, they have much less in common then one might imagine.
For starters, of all the member couples of their group, my friend and her husband are the only couple with 'natural' twins. All the other parents resorted to IVF to conceive their double (or triple) blessings. What was sickening, however, was the process by which those 'lucky' children were selected for implantation into their mother's wombs.
IVF is known for its practical application of eugenics, whereby the medical team identifies the 'highest quality' embryos for consideration, taking into account the parental preference for health, strength and even gender. Practically speaking, parents can custom-order their children from a sampling of 7 or 9 embryos yielded from a successful round of IVF. What the medical staff will usually downplay, however, is the fate of those unlucky 'extra' embryos - children who end up frozen in sterile labs for an indeterminate number of years at best, or at worst, discarded as so much laboratory waste.
I thought this was where the heartache of IVF ended, but I was wrong.
As the grieving parents went around the group sharing their tales of loss and struggle, a macabre theme began to emerge, as couple after couple recounted choosing to 'selectively reduce' the number in their brood following a successful embryo transfer. Too successful, it turned out.
One couple remembered the feelings of 'relief and certainty' which followed the selective elimination of one of their triplets at 20 weeks. (Note: selective elimination = mid term abortion) The mother shared her certainty over the decision being 'just so right... and that rightness was confirmed when the doctor told us that the remaining twins were one of each gender!'
As my girlfriend recounted the story through her own tears, I gripped her counter top as my head spun, trying to process what I was hearing. Her own loss of a daughter was so raw and recent, and here she was, face to face with another mom in her grieving group who had willingly ended her child's life. But why her participation in a grieving group? Had she been moved to remorse and conversion by her violent choice.
Not exactly.
As the result of her 20 week abortion of baby #3, the perfect, remaining set of twins were compromised when her cervix failed to close completely following the 'procedure.' She was ordered onto strict bed rest and required to lay at an awkward, inverted angle to maintain the pregnancy, but sadly she lost another baby at 27 weeks. A few months later she delivered the surviving triplet, a little girl. Incredibly, this woman went on to share with the group that she and her husband had tried for another child 'just to be fair' to her daughter, now an only child, but were forced to abort baby number 4 after an amniocentesis showed possible evidence of Down's.
In summary, thanks to the miracles of modern medicine, this infertile couple was able to conceive, select, freeze, destroy, and eventually deliver one perfect 'product' of conception into this brave new world... No word on whether surviving daughter came with a warranty or a return policy.
Isn't progress grand?
The process of in-vitro fertilization is intrinsically evil in its commoditization of human life by the intentional creation, manipulation of and, far too often, the destruction of designer embryos, purchased by desperate, misguided parents and coaxed into existence by truly mad science.
What I failed to realize was that even after the creation of 7 or perhaps 9 tiny babies, 3 of whom would perhaps be lucky enough to be considered 'viable' and implanted into their mother's womb, these 'chosen ones' were still far from home free.
My sweet girl friend lost one of her precious twin daughters at birth last year, and has been attending a grieving group for mothers of multiples who've suffered similar losses. Except, as it turns out, they have much less in common then one might imagine.
For starters, of all the member couples of their group, my friend and her husband are the only couple with 'natural' twins. All the other parents resorted to IVF to conceive their double (or triple) blessings. What was sickening, however, was the process by which those 'lucky' children were selected for implantation into their mother's wombs.
IVF is known for its practical application of eugenics, whereby the medical team identifies the 'highest quality' embryos for consideration, taking into account the parental preference for health, strength and even gender. Practically speaking, parents can custom-order their children from a sampling of 7 or 9 embryos yielded from a successful round of IVF. What the medical staff will usually downplay, however, is the fate of those unlucky 'extra' embryos - children who end up frozen in sterile labs for an indeterminate number of years at best, or at worst, discarded as so much laboratory waste.
I thought this was where the heartache of IVF ended, but I was wrong.
As the grieving parents went around the group sharing their tales of loss and struggle, a macabre theme began to emerge, as couple after couple recounted choosing to 'selectively reduce' the number in their brood following a successful embryo transfer. Too successful, it turned out.
One couple remembered the feelings of 'relief and certainty' which followed the selective elimination of one of their triplets at 20 weeks. (Note: selective elimination = mid term abortion) The mother shared her certainty over the decision being 'just so right... and that rightness was confirmed when the doctor told us that the remaining twins were one of each gender!'
As my girlfriend recounted the story through her own tears, I gripped her counter top as my head spun, trying to process what I was hearing. Her own loss of a daughter was so raw and recent, and here she was, face to face with another mom in her grieving group who had willingly ended her child's life. But why her participation in a grieving group? Had she been moved to remorse and conversion by her violent choice.
Not exactly.
As the result of her 20 week abortion of baby #3, the perfect, remaining set of twins were compromised when her cervix failed to close completely following the 'procedure.' She was ordered onto strict bed rest and required to lay at an awkward, inverted angle to maintain the pregnancy, but sadly she lost another baby at 27 weeks. A few months later she delivered the surviving triplet, a little girl. Incredibly, this woman went on to share with the group that she and her husband had tried for another child 'just to be fair' to her daughter, now an only child, but were forced to abort baby number 4 after an amniocentesis showed possible evidence of Down's.
In summary, thanks to the miracles of modern medicine, this infertile couple was able to conceive, select, freeze, destroy, and eventually deliver one perfect 'product' of conception into this brave new world... No word on whether surviving daughter came with a warranty or a return policy.
Isn't progress grand?
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Whew
Well that was a long Lent. Ahem.
Let's see if I remember how to do this thing called writing for leisure. Between work and, well, lying prone on the sofa watching Hulu'd episodes of the artfully cast gymno-epic 'Make it or Break it' (don't judge me) while my tiny tornado naps in the afternoons, it has been preeeeetty busy round these here parts.
So those are my excuses, pitiful as they might be. And here I am, back in the blogosphere, ready to rock and roll.
Except the tornado just woke up. So until tomorrow, gentle readers, I bid you buonanotte. And I'm glad to be 'back.'
Let's see if I remember how to do this thing called writing for leisure. Between work and, well, lying prone on the sofa watching Hulu'd episodes of the artfully cast gymno-epic 'Make it or Break it' (don't judge me) while my tiny tornado naps in the afternoons, it has been preeeeetty busy round these here parts.
So those are my excuses, pitiful as they might be. And here I am, back in the blogosphere, ready to rock and roll.
Except the tornado just woke up. So until tomorrow, gentle readers, I bid you buonanotte. And I'm glad to be 'back.'
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Sacrificium
Another season of Lent is upon us, and in addition to the spiffy black wristbands our parish supplied, one which I'm now sporting, I've got a few ideas for how I'm going to spend the next 40 days. Blogging, for one, will not be a big part of this year's fast, so I'll see you all when He is risen.
Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Life is Good
See those cute little girls standing in front? Don't they look totally retarded? One kindly old man even knelt down to child's eye level and screamed at Sophie, the one holding the baby doll, "GOD ISN'T REAL!", spraying her with spittle. After which point she blinked up at her mom in confusion, who helpfully clarified for her that "that man is just like the mean kangaroo in Horton Hears a Who, remember honey?" ( I might add as a disclaimer, no mention of God was made, either on signs or vocally, but the Dr. Suess quote Sophie was proudly displaying must have set off his satanic rage-o-meter. Note to exorcists.)
Also, the men who accompanied us, (the very handsome and talented men, I might add) they were also "retarded" and "oppressive of women." Even the hot firefighter who was wearing his baby. He was totally oppressing that poor woman by sharing equitably in the childcare responsibilities...
But my favorite part of the day? The absolute radiant JOY which our motley crew displayed, even in the face of unbelievable vitriol and hatred being thrown our way. We were each of us peaceful, smiling, and, for the most part, silent. Standing witness for those whose voices have been silenced most unjustly. And for any who observed the interactions between our two sides, I think the distinction couldn't have been more clear. Evil is ugly, plain and simple. Dress it up and call it what you like, but you can't make it beautiful. Similarly, you can't hide the beauty of the truth. It shines through, casting light into dark corners.
Even dark orange corners.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Grateful
I have so very much to be thankful for. So even though I'm not sleeping, not fitting into the size jeans I'd hoped to by now, and not any better at planning our family meals than I'd expected to be at this point in marriage... I'm feeling the blessed exhaustion that only comes from motherhood.
My little man woke up all night last night, refusing to surrender for more than an hour or two's sleep at most, and I got up with him each time. It was not heroically motivated. It was not a supreme act of sacrifice. It was, quite simply, my job. I've had lots of jobs in my life. LOTS. Probably twice as many as the average 28 year old. I've done everything from running a small non profit organization to slinging pancakes at Denny's to dressing up in a gigantic red bird suit and terrorizing young children. Oh, and I worked at a coffee shop for about a month when I was 15, and it was neither as glamorous or as gratifying as a java fiend might hope...
All this to say, this is just another job, this motherhood gig. It's "just a job" ... and so much more than that, all at once. It's filled with moments of drudgery and angst and frustration and clock-watching, punctuated by days where the weekend looms like a far-off fairytale, sustaining hope where hope has all but left the building. And then there are the other moments. The ones that catch your breath as you look down at your child, sleeping in your arms, breathing softly through tiny, parted lips ... cheeks as soft as duck down and rosy with new life, and you cannot fathom that this is what you "do" for a living. Raising humans is frequently thankless, often exhausting, but always miraculous. The tiny people we're entrusted with literally depend upon us for their survival, let alone their successful and eventual entrance into society. And when I read stories like this one, it stops me dead in my tracks, breath catching painfully in my throat as I realize that there are parents who would give anything for the privilege of being up at night with a fussy, healthy child.
And then I pour another cup of coffee. Brewed to perfection by my handsome husband before he left my "office" for his this morning. Life. Is. Good.
My little man woke up all night last night, refusing to surrender for more than an hour or two's sleep at most, and I got up with him each time. It was not heroically motivated. It was not a supreme act of sacrifice. It was, quite simply, my job. I've had lots of jobs in my life. LOTS. Probably twice as many as the average 28 year old. I've done everything from running a small non profit organization to slinging pancakes at Denny's to dressing up in a gigantic red bird suit and terrorizing young children. Oh, and I worked at a coffee shop for about a month when I was 15, and it was neither as glamorous or as gratifying as a java fiend might hope...
All this to say, this is just another job, this motherhood gig. It's "just a job" ... and so much more than that, all at once. It's filled with moments of drudgery and angst and frustration and clock-watching, punctuated by days where the weekend looms like a far-off fairytale, sustaining hope where hope has all but left the building. And then there are the other moments. The ones that catch your breath as you look down at your child, sleeping in your arms, breathing softly through tiny, parted lips ... cheeks as soft as duck down and rosy with new life, and you cannot fathom that this is what you "do" for a living. Raising humans is frequently thankless, often exhausting, but always miraculous. The tiny people we're entrusted with literally depend upon us for their survival, let alone their successful and eventual entrance into society. And when I read stories like this one, it stops me dead in my tracks, breath catching painfully in my throat as I realize that there are parents who would give anything for the privilege of being up at night with a fussy, healthy child.
And then I pour another cup of coffee. Brewed to perfection by my handsome husband before he left my "office" for his this morning. Life. Is. Good.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
And So We Continue
So this stay at home mom gig... it's a lot of work. And, quite frankly, there are days where I find myself battling unbelievable boredom/frustration/loneliness/insert negative emotion here... but I wouldn't trade it for the world. I've been "officially" working as a full-time mama for just over 18 weeks now, and while that seems like a remarkably short period of time on paper, it has felt like an entire other lifetime after 27 years of living differently.
Today is shaping up to have all the markings of a 'hard' day. I am sick. My baby is sick. It snowed (and is still snowing) and is barely into single digits outside. I have yet to shower (and to be completely honest, I don't know that I will get around to it today.) And it has been no fewer than 8 days since I last worked out. That's more than a week, and no, I'm not pregnant again. On top of it all, I ate half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast, and I don't 'do' carbs. Except that now I do. Because you know what? They're cheap... and it's almost impossible to pack a south-beach friendly lunch for a husband who thrives on culinary variety. Oh, sorry honey, it's a breadless tuna sandwich on romaine lettuce with tomato slices and a hunk of cheese ... again. Yeah, that didn't last too long. And so we have bread in our home once again. And darn it, I eat it. Can't help myself.
So as I type, straining unconsciously to hear a wheezy, sneezy baby from the next room and hoping (praying!) he stays asleep for 10 more minutes, I want to share a few fabulous finds from around the internets... proof that other women are doing this job and doing it well... and living to laugh about it. And to look incredibly stylish and/or crafty while doing it. So enjoy. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be over at FlyLady engaging in a speed vacuuming competition while pondering the wisdom of chasing a pb n j breakfast with a grilled cheese lunch. Or maybe watching the Bachelor on Hulu while nursing. So sue me.
Today is shaping up to have all the markings of a 'hard' day. I am sick. My baby is sick. It snowed (and is still snowing) and is barely into single digits outside. I have yet to shower (and to be completely honest, I don't know that I will get around to it today.) And it has been no fewer than 8 days since I last worked out. That's more than a week, and no, I'm not pregnant again. On top of it all, I ate half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast, and I don't 'do' carbs. Except that now I do. Because you know what? They're cheap... and it's almost impossible to pack a south-beach friendly lunch for a husband who thrives on culinary variety. Oh, sorry honey, it's a breadless tuna sandwich on romaine lettuce with tomato slices and a hunk of cheese ... again. Yeah, that didn't last too long. And so we have bread in our home once again. And darn it, I eat it. Can't help myself.
So as I type, straining unconsciously to hear a wheezy, sneezy baby from the next room and hoping (praying!) he stays asleep for 10 more minutes, I want to share a few fabulous finds from around the internets... proof that other women are doing this job and doing it well... and living to laugh about it. And to look incredibly stylish and/or crafty while doing it. So enjoy. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be over at FlyLady engaging in a speed vacuuming competition while pondering the wisdom of chasing a pb n j breakfast with a grilled cheese lunch. Or maybe watching the Bachelor on Hulu while nursing. So sue me.
- Fashion forward fabulousness
- DIY deliciousness
- Sweet thoughts on living simply
- Nursing support (disclaimer: not for the faint of heart, nor for the males of the species)
Sunday, January 16, 2011
It Doesn't Get Better Than This
Pinch me. I'm going to Rome. Rome! As in, the Eternal City... Audry Hepburn's holiday locale of choice... the Pope's hood... The cultural and spiritual center of the Church. And I'm going with the two men who are most dear to me on earth to witness the beatification of one of the men who is most dear to me in all of Heaven - John Paul the Great.
Stop it.
Seriously God, stop it. But don't really. It's just that, well, over the past year or so of life, He's granted each and every desire of my heart, from the seemingly piddling (a tropical honeymoon) to the profound (marriage to the man of my dreams followed swiftly by the birth of our firstborn son)... and I'm starting to get kinda nervous. Because, you know, things are so good right now that it's almost, well, too good.
As I was glancing nervously over my shoulder this afternoon, wondering whether my own mortality was creeping up behind me ready to pounce, my wiser (and far holier) husband pointed out an alternate - and far less morbid - possibility.
"Jenny, you know, we're living His plan now. This is what happens when you surrender control."
Huh.
I kinda prefer that to thinking I must be approaching imminent death and therefore God, like some kind of benevolent administrator at the Make a Wish foundation, is lining up all my chips so that I can, you know, cash out happy.
But if my husband is right and if this life, this glorious, complicated, unpredictable and highly enjoyable life is really what His plans for us look like... then damn, I wish I'd vacated the driver's seat years ago. But, c'est la vie. Or should I say ... questa è la vita.
Stop it.
Seriously God, stop it. But don't really. It's just that, well, over the past year or so of life, He's granted each and every desire of my heart, from the seemingly piddling (a tropical honeymoon) to the profound (marriage to the man of my dreams followed swiftly by the birth of our firstborn son)... and I'm starting to get kinda nervous. Because, you know, things are so good right now that it's almost, well, too good.
As I was glancing nervously over my shoulder this afternoon, wondering whether my own mortality was creeping up behind me ready to pounce, my wiser (and far holier) husband pointed out an alternate - and far less morbid - possibility.
"Jenny, you know, we're living His plan now. This is what happens when you surrender control."
Huh.
I kinda prefer that to thinking I must be approaching imminent death and therefore God, like some kind of benevolent administrator at the Make a Wish foundation, is lining up all my chips so that I can, you know, cash out happy.
But if my husband is right and if this life, this glorious, complicated, unpredictable and highly enjoyable life is really what His plans for us look like... then damn, I wish I'd vacated the driver's seat years ago. But, c'est la vie. Or should I say ... questa è la vita.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Liberated for Slavery: The Life of a Cosmo Girl
I have a confession: I used to read Cosmopolitan magazine. Really, I did. And while it made me feel kind of dirty and offended my sensibilities as a woman, a Christian, and a human being... there was something, I don't know, almost addictive about reading all about the lifestyle contained within its tawdry pages. It was, for me at least, a precursor to reality television; something you know in your gut is just terrible for you, but something so fascinatingly awful you can't look away. Kind of like "The Hills." But I digress...
The thing is, when I look back on that dark time in my life - the college years - and I remember the girl who used to eagerly devour her roommate's monthly subscription, there's a stark, obvious juxtaposition of my own personal misery to the gospel of liberation Cosmo preached. As I look back over my life, it was during the lowest times that I saw only one set of footprints... okay, kidding. But seriously, during what were for me the least satisfying times of my life, the times where I was living exactly as I pleased, answerable to me, myself and I alone...and hating every minute of it, these were the times during which I found Cosmo relevant.
These were the times, quite honestly, when I found Cosmo palatable at all. They say misery loves company, and with 13 million copies of "the bible" ala Sex in the City being cranked out each month... it would seem to be true. But do I go too far by imposing my own subjective experience onto other women who may legitimately enjoy the read?
Well, have you read Cosmo lately? Even glanced at a cover? I would venture to say that no healthy, self-respecting woman in her right mind, no feminist for that matter (in the best use of the term) would be caught dead with a copy of Cosmo on the reading stand of her StairMaster. Period.
In a recent column for First Things entitled "The Cosmopolitan Life," David Mills pithily dissects the strange need for "liberated" women to subject themselves to the peculiar rhetoric of slavery to male approval which is familiar to each issue of Cosmo and every other magazine of it's ilk. Glamour. Marie Claire. Redbook. They're all preaching the same, tired lines promising mind blowing sex, steamy workplace hookup hints and beauty tips for shrinking one's backside in order to better attract a man whose head is stuck up his. Or so it would seem.
For all its big, blustery talk about being the guidebook of the modern, sexually-liberated woman of the 21st century, it would seem that Cosmo is, in reality, little more than a bit of poorly-crafted propaganda, a misogynistic rag intended for instructing women on the niceties of pleasing and keeping a man.
"But, but..." the editorial staff might sputter, "these women are freely choosing to engage in wild, spontaneous and uncommitted sex. That's progress."
Is it really?
It seems awfully backwards to me to have to fill each monthly issue with remedial instruction on the carefully-crafted art of emotional detachment and hookups. For above all else, Cosmo preaches relations without relationship. Sex without security. Booty calls without boundaries. In other words, unpaid prostitution.
Think about it...at least a hundred years ago or so, women who engaged in casual, meaningless recreational sex were reimbursed for their troubles. And actually in the state of Nevada, I believe some still are... But the point is this; if this is freedom, then perhaps we should ask to be put back in chains, because I've yet to see a truly liberated woman gazing back at me from the cover of Cosmo... or from behind its pages.
Call it freedom, call it progress, call it feminism if you will... but kindly do so with your tongue placed firmly in your cheek.
The thing is, when I look back on that dark time in my life - the college years - and I remember the girl who used to eagerly devour her roommate's monthly subscription, there's a stark, obvious juxtaposition of my own personal misery to the gospel of liberation Cosmo preached. As I look back over my life, it was during the lowest times that I saw only one set of footprints... okay, kidding. But seriously, during what were for me the least satisfying times of my life, the times where I was living exactly as I pleased, answerable to me, myself and I alone...and hating every minute of it, these were the times during which I found Cosmo relevant.
These were the times, quite honestly, when I found Cosmo palatable at all. They say misery loves company, and with 13 million copies of "the bible" ala Sex in the City being cranked out each month... it would seem to be true. But do I go too far by imposing my own subjective experience onto other women who may legitimately enjoy the read?
Well, have you read Cosmo lately? Even glanced at a cover? I would venture to say that no healthy, self-respecting woman in her right mind, no feminist for that matter (in the best use of the term) would be caught dead with a copy of Cosmo on the reading stand of her StairMaster. Period.
In a recent column for First Things entitled "The Cosmopolitan Life," David Mills pithily dissects the strange need for "liberated" women to subject themselves to the peculiar rhetoric of slavery to male approval which is familiar to each issue of Cosmo and every other magazine of it's ilk. Glamour. Marie Claire. Redbook. They're all preaching the same, tired lines promising mind blowing sex, steamy workplace hookup hints and beauty tips for shrinking one's backside in order to better attract a man whose head is stuck up his. Or so it would seem.
For all its big, blustery talk about being the guidebook of the modern, sexually-liberated woman of the 21st century, it would seem that Cosmo is, in reality, little more than a bit of poorly-crafted propaganda, a misogynistic rag intended for instructing women on the niceties of pleasing and keeping a man.
"But, but..." the editorial staff might sputter, "these women are freely choosing to engage in wild, spontaneous and uncommitted sex. That's progress."
Is it really?
It seems awfully backwards to me to have to fill each monthly issue with remedial instruction on the carefully-crafted art of emotional detachment and hookups. For above all else, Cosmo preaches relations without relationship. Sex without security. Booty calls without boundaries. In other words, unpaid prostitution.
Think about it...at least a hundred years ago or so, women who engaged in casual, meaningless recreational sex were reimbursed for their troubles. And actually in the state of Nevada, I believe some still are... But the point is this; if this is freedom, then perhaps we should ask to be put back in chains, because I've yet to see a truly liberated woman gazing back at me from the cover of Cosmo... or from behind its pages.
Call it freedom, call it progress, call it feminism if you will... but kindly do so with your tongue placed firmly in your cheek.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Snow Day
The view outside:
The view inside:
In a supreme act of domesticity, I made the above-featured double cranberry biscotti from scratch last night... with the help of my amazing husband. Come to think of it, we made the the little blue-eyed cutie in the second frame, too. Happy snow day, Denver!
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Joseph Kolbe's Birth Story... An Exercise in Lost Control
My little Joey bug is 3 months old now, and I've sufficiently recovered from the emotional trauma that is childbirth to be able to share his birthday tale. Now I'm not into sharing super personal or gruesome details on the internets, so if you're looking for some seriously disturbing mental images, you might want to hop over here. This birth story is PG-13 at worst, and even then only for the occasional use of adult language rather than graphic violence. So here we go...
I woke up for work on a Tuesday morning in late September with some light contractions, but nothing serious enough to merit staying home. Our little one was due October 7th, and although I was absolutely huge and measuring almost a month ahead (a flipping month!), neither we nor our doctor thought I'd go any earlier than our due date. We'd had a false alarm over the previous weekend, which was shocking as we were the most prepared and studied first time parents in the history of human reproductive history. Seriously. You know, the parents who read everything, take all the classes and cannot possibly encounter anything for which they are not supremely prepared. Right. So as we shamefacedly drove home from the hospital that Sunday evening, I vowed that we would not return until I was 6 centimeters dilated and ready to transition. And then, when we did return, I would be wearing my own fabulous little black "delivery dress", repeating calming passages from Proverbs to myself during the peak of each contraction, and bearing freshly baked cookies to deliver to the nursing staff, along with individual copies of our meticulously detailed, bullet riddled birth plan.
Convinced that I was not going to make my targeted date of September 30th as my final day in the office, my two favorite coworkers took me out for lunch and pedicures at noon, insisting that if we didn't go now, I wouldn't be around to go at all. How true that would prove to be.
So there I sat, blissfully relaxing in a massage chair in a post-pedicure euphoria, a Smashburger extra-spicy-jalapeno laden baja cobb nothing but a delicious and heartburn-producing memory, when suddenly I had to get to the restroom. I mean, my toes were not even dry yet, but I was utterly convinced that I needed to get up at that very second and book it to the ladies room at the back of the salon. And so, shooting out of my chair with greater speed and accuracy than my pedicurist believed possible so late in the gestational game, I lumbered across the salon in my temporary foam flip flops, waddling urgently (but gingerly, mindful of my freshly painted toesies).
Arriving just in time, I heaved a sigh of relief at the minor victory of not wetting the pedicure chair. 5 minutes later, still reveling in that "just in time" feeling, it dawned on me that although I had been drinking gallons upon gallons of water these days, this was probably a different kind of water loss. Just then my delightful coworker Jenny knocked on the door and timidly inquired whether I was in labor or not.
"Ummm... actually... I think maybe?" I replied uncertainly. Muffled squeals and scuffling from outside the door and then...silence.
Great.
I'd been abandoned in the Snappy Nails restroom, and I was going to have to deliver my own baby using only a can of industrial air freshener and a commercial pack of 1 ply toilet paper. Not a minute went by, however, before my second coworker, Brigette, a seasoned veteran of motherhood who was herself with child, though far less obviously, appeared outside the door, calling to me in her heavily accented southern drawl,
"Je-neh-fer...you doin oh-kay?"
Opening the door, I assured her that, other than the massive water loss, I was feeling just fine... too fine, in fact, to be in labor. After all, I knew that nobodies water actually broke in public. That only happened to 1 in 10 women, or in the movies. And I was going to have a remarkably calm, controlled and textbook childbirth experience.
Undeterred, Brigette bundled me in paper towels and grocery bags (this was glamorous, people) and hustled me to the front door of the salon where Jenny met us, grinning, holding a bag of industrial strength pads the likes of which had not been seen since middle school health class.
"I didn't know what else to do so I ran to the grocery store next door and, well, here!"
Still utterly unconvinced of the actuality of my predicament, I allowed myself to be bundled into the car and driven the 2 blocks back to our office parking lot, where we sat for no less than 20 minutes arguing about what to do next. It went something like this:
Me: "I'm fine, I can drive home"
Them: "No, you're in labor, you cannot drive."
Me: "But it doesn't hurt."
Them: "Jennifer...we're calling your husband."
Me: (whining) "But I don't wanna leave a car heeeeere."
Them: "Jennifer, we're driving you home."
At this point I probably should have accepted defeat. I mean, I was in no shape to go back to my desk at the rate I was leaking water (sorry, but no other word will do), and they were using my full name and threatening to call my husband. These girls meant business.
So we headed home, me in the passenger seat and Brigette driving my car, Jenny caravaning behind us in her ride, and about 45 minutes into the drive (did I mention I had a delightful daily commute?), I started experiencing serious pain. I called my poor husband who, at this point, had probably fielded half a dozen phone calls from me assuring him I'm "fine" and to "just stay at work until I say so".
"Babe, come home now. Seriously, NOW."
He did.
Upon arriving, he found me in our bathroom, candles lit and dripping wax all over the tile, trying in vain to practice some of the relaxation techniques we'd mastered. Jenny and Brigette were pacing anxiously in the living room, no doubt nervous about the way I'd gone from zero to 60 in a matter of minutes. Though I was still muttering about the birth ball, the rolling pin and the heating pad we'd carefully laid out for use during my long, home-bound labor, we ran out the front door, obnoxiously huge suitcase in tow, and booked it to the hospital for the second time that week.
One bonus from our previous visit was that all the intake paperwork was done, and upon arrival I was plopped into a wheel chair and wheeled directly to a labor and delivery room.
Despite my plaintive panting cries of protest that I "was not sick" and "could definitely walk by myself" (I was a Bradley-trained mother, after all) I was nonetheless delivered to our richly-apportioned LDR suite on wheels, and then quite suddenly, Dave and I were alone.
I made a beeline for the bathroom of our palatial suite and the giant, sunken bathtub I'd been envisioning throughout my entire pregnancy. 5 minutes of tortured soaking by candlelight quickly disabused me of the notion of a peaceful water birth, however, and I allowed myself to be led back to the dreaded hospital bed where I'd sworn I'd spend absolutely no time at all. At this point our doula, the one we had been planning on interviewing that very evening, called from Panera to inquire as to our whereabouts. 20 minutes later she met us at the hospital, where we hired her on the spot. Her presence proved to be one of the greatest blessings of our labor, which was so far nothing like we'd anticipated.
By 10 pm that night we were sure I was in transition. My contractions had been 2 minutes apart since the car ride to the hospital, and they were increasing in intensity. A truly terrible phenomenon which I would not wish upon my worst enemy, they were double peaked contractions, meaning each brought two high points of intensity rather than one, leaving virtually no time for recovery between them. In addition, I was experiencing back labor and was honestly convinced that someone was dragging a shovel down the inside of my spine, raking each vertebrae with its jagged metal edge. (We'd later discovery that baby was posterior, hence the crazy back pain) I reluctantly consented to an exam so that the nurse could check my progress, warning her that she had exactly 30 seconds before I would be writhing in pain and utterly uncooperative. Expecting to be told that we were in transition and minutes away from pushing, I asked whether our doctor had been called yet.
"Well, you're somewhere between a four and a five, so it will probably be a few more hours." She cheerfully informed us as another contraction slammed though my body.
All thoughts of natural childbirth exited my mind at that point as I yowled our "code word" for epidural use. I had made my husband promise that no matter how badly I wanted one, no matter how convincingly I pleaded with him or with the staff, I was not to be given an epidural. I wanted to do this on my own. But just in case things didn't go as we'd planned, we'd settled upon a phrase which, if uttered, meant, basically, "give me drugs NOW."
About 12 minutes after I started yelling "Portiuncula" (we are seriously dorky Catholics), the anesthesiologist of my dreams arrived and knocked me into 1999. He was handsome, efficient, and utterly in agreement with me that the music of Nora Jones was "terribly annoying" and that pumpkin spice lattes were, indeed, the best part of fall. Nodding and smiling as he adjusted my crack drip, he slipped from my room as I slipped into drugged relaxation, but not before calling my father to tell him that I was "wasted and listening to Dave Matthews" and that it was "just like college all over again." Ahem.
Not my finest moments, those, but 10 hours later when I was still laboring, I was thanking God in heaven for modern medicine, and I was doing so often. And audibly.
Meanwhile, Dave, Jessica the doula and I spent the remainder of the night watching the Hills and listening to Taylor Swift on iTunes, because deep down in my heart of hearts, I am a 15 year old girl. Especially when I am under the influence.
I was hardly having the stoic, empowered experience I'd been envisioning. The experience I'd carefully crafted and prepared for. All of my dreams of a natural, uneventful labor had been destroyed. But in their place, God was doing something incredible in my heart ... and through my body. At 9:45 am on Wednesday, September 22nd after 19 hours of labor and nearly 5 hours of pushing, our wonderful doctor gave one final good hard tug, slipped the umbilical cord from around our little one's neck and placed a writhing, cone-headed little blue alien on my chest as the attending nurse asked Dave, "who is it, Dad?"
Dave looked and, choked with emotion, said to me, "It's our boy...it's Joseph."
My heart exploded. Unimaginable joy flooded through me as I looked at our son, seeing him, knowing him after all these months of unknowing.
"It's you," I whispered to him, choking back sobs, "it's been you all along."
And boy oh boy, was he worth it. Every contraction, every push, every drip of the IV, every sleepless night, every pound gained...and every alteration to my plans, to my preferences...none of it mattered in the end, it turned out.
All that mattered was that our child was here, that Dave and I had been allowed into this mysterious and sacred fellowship of creation with God Himself, and that Joseph now existed because we had cooperated with Him. And it was so good.
And the epidural? Oh yes, that was very good.
I love you, Joseph Kolbe...and I couldn't have imagined a better entrance for you myself.
I woke up for work on a Tuesday morning in late September with some light contractions, but nothing serious enough to merit staying home. Our little one was due October 7th, and although I was absolutely huge and measuring almost a month ahead (a flipping month!), neither we nor our doctor thought I'd go any earlier than our due date. We'd had a false alarm over the previous weekend, which was shocking as we were the most prepared and studied first time parents in the history of human reproductive history. Seriously. You know, the parents who read everything, take all the classes and cannot possibly encounter anything for which they are not supremely prepared. Right. So as we shamefacedly drove home from the hospital that Sunday evening, I vowed that we would not return until I was 6 centimeters dilated and ready to transition. And then, when we did return, I would be wearing my own fabulous little black "delivery dress", repeating calming passages from Proverbs to myself during the peak of each contraction, and bearing freshly baked cookies to deliver to the nursing staff, along with individual copies of our meticulously detailed, bullet riddled birth plan.
Convinced that I was not going to make my targeted date of September 30th as my final day in the office, my two favorite coworkers took me out for lunch and pedicures at noon, insisting that if we didn't go now, I wouldn't be around to go at all. How true that would prove to be.
So there I sat, blissfully relaxing in a massage chair in a post-pedicure euphoria, a Smashburger extra-spicy-jalapeno laden baja cobb nothing but a delicious and heartburn-producing memory, when suddenly I had to get to the restroom. I mean, my toes were not even dry yet, but I was utterly convinced that I needed to get up at that very second and book it to the ladies room at the back of the salon. And so, shooting out of my chair with greater speed and accuracy than my pedicurist believed possible so late in the gestational game, I lumbered across the salon in my temporary foam flip flops, waddling urgently (but gingerly, mindful of my freshly painted toesies).
Arriving just in time, I heaved a sigh of relief at the minor victory of not wetting the pedicure chair. 5 minutes later, still reveling in that "just in time" feeling, it dawned on me that although I had been drinking gallons upon gallons of water these days, this was probably a different kind of water loss. Just then my delightful coworker Jenny knocked on the door and timidly inquired whether I was in labor or not.
"Ummm... actually... I think maybe?" I replied uncertainly. Muffled squeals and scuffling from outside the door and then...silence.
Great.
I'd been abandoned in the Snappy Nails restroom, and I was going to have to deliver my own baby using only a can of industrial air freshener and a commercial pack of 1 ply toilet paper. Not a minute went by, however, before my second coworker, Brigette, a seasoned veteran of motherhood who was herself with child, though far less obviously, appeared outside the door, calling to me in her heavily accented southern drawl,
"Je-neh-fer...you doin oh-kay?"
Opening the door, I assured her that, other than the massive water loss, I was feeling just fine... too fine, in fact, to be in labor. After all, I knew that nobodies water actually broke in public. That only happened to 1 in 10 women, or in the movies. And I was going to have a remarkably calm, controlled and textbook childbirth experience.
Undeterred, Brigette bundled me in paper towels and grocery bags (this was glamorous, people) and hustled me to the front door of the salon where Jenny met us, grinning, holding a bag of industrial strength pads the likes of which had not been seen since middle school health class.
"I didn't know what else to do so I ran to the grocery store next door and, well, here!"
Still utterly unconvinced of the actuality of my predicament, I allowed myself to be bundled into the car and driven the 2 blocks back to our office parking lot, where we sat for no less than 20 minutes arguing about what to do next. It went something like this:
Me: "I'm fine, I can drive home"
Them: "No, you're in labor, you cannot drive."
Me: "But it doesn't hurt."
Them: "Jennifer...we're calling your husband."
Me: (whining) "But I don't wanna leave a car heeeeere."
Them: "Jennifer, we're driving you home."
At this point I probably should have accepted defeat. I mean, I was in no shape to go back to my desk at the rate I was leaking water (sorry, but no other word will do), and they were using my full name and threatening to call my husband. These girls meant business.
So we headed home, me in the passenger seat and Brigette driving my car, Jenny caravaning behind us in her ride, and about 45 minutes into the drive (did I mention I had a delightful daily commute?), I started experiencing serious pain. I called my poor husband who, at this point, had probably fielded half a dozen phone calls from me assuring him I'm "fine" and to "just stay at work until I say so".
"Babe, come home now. Seriously, NOW."
He did.
Upon arriving, he found me in our bathroom, candles lit and dripping wax all over the tile, trying in vain to practice some of the relaxation techniques we'd mastered. Jenny and Brigette were pacing anxiously in the living room, no doubt nervous about the way I'd gone from zero to 60 in a matter of minutes. Though I was still muttering about the birth ball, the rolling pin and the heating pad we'd carefully laid out for use during my long, home-bound labor, we ran out the front door, obnoxiously huge suitcase in tow, and booked it to the hospital for the second time that week.
One bonus from our previous visit was that all the intake paperwork was done, and upon arrival I was plopped into a wheel chair and wheeled directly to a labor and delivery room.
Despite my plaintive panting cries of protest that I "was not sick" and "could definitely walk by myself" (I was a Bradley-trained mother, after all) I was nonetheless delivered to our richly-apportioned LDR suite on wheels, and then quite suddenly, Dave and I were alone.
I made a beeline for the bathroom of our palatial suite and the giant, sunken bathtub I'd been envisioning throughout my entire pregnancy. 5 minutes of tortured soaking by candlelight quickly disabused me of the notion of a peaceful water birth, however, and I allowed myself to be led back to the dreaded hospital bed where I'd sworn I'd spend absolutely no time at all. At this point our doula, the one we had been planning on interviewing that very evening, called from Panera to inquire as to our whereabouts. 20 minutes later she met us at the hospital, where we hired her on the spot. Her presence proved to be one of the greatest blessings of our labor, which was so far nothing like we'd anticipated.
By 10 pm that night we were sure I was in transition. My contractions had been 2 minutes apart since the car ride to the hospital, and they were increasing in intensity. A truly terrible phenomenon which I would not wish upon my worst enemy, they were double peaked contractions, meaning each brought two high points of intensity rather than one, leaving virtually no time for recovery between them. In addition, I was experiencing back labor and was honestly convinced that someone was dragging a shovel down the inside of my spine, raking each vertebrae with its jagged metal edge. (We'd later discovery that baby was posterior, hence the crazy back pain) I reluctantly consented to an exam so that the nurse could check my progress, warning her that she had exactly 30 seconds before I would be writhing in pain and utterly uncooperative. Expecting to be told that we were in transition and minutes away from pushing, I asked whether our doctor had been called yet.
"Well, you're somewhere between a four and a five, so it will probably be a few more hours." She cheerfully informed us as another contraction slammed though my body.
All thoughts of natural childbirth exited my mind at that point as I yowled our "code word" for epidural use. I had made my husband promise that no matter how badly I wanted one, no matter how convincingly I pleaded with him or with the staff, I was not to be given an epidural. I wanted to do this on my own. But just in case things didn't go as we'd planned, we'd settled upon a phrase which, if uttered, meant, basically, "give me drugs NOW."
About 12 minutes after I started yelling "Portiuncula" (we are seriously dorky Catholics), the anesthesiologist of my dreams arrived and knocked me into 1999. He was handsome, efficient, and utterly in agreement with me that the music of Nora Jones was "terribly annoying" and that pumpkin spice lattes were, indeed, the best part of fall. Nodding and smiling as he adjusted my crack drip, he slipped from my room as I slipped into drugged relaxation, but not before calling my father to tell him that I was "wasted and listening to Dave Matthews" and that it was "just like college all over again." Ahem.
Not my finest moments, those, but 10 hours later when I was still laboring, I was thanking God in heaven for modern medicine, and I was doing so often. And audibly.
Meanwhile, Dave, Jessica the doula and I spent the remainder of the night watching the Hills and listening to Taylor Swift on iTunes, because deep down in my heart of hearts, I am a 15 year old girl. Especially when I am under the influence.
I was hardly having the stoic, empowered experience I'd been envisioning. The experience I'd carefully crafted and prepared for. All of my dreams of a natural, uneventful labor had been destroyed. But in their place, God was doing something incredible in my heart ... and through my body. At 9:45 am on Wednesday, September 22nd after 19 hours of labor and nearly 5 hours of pushing, our wonderful doctor gave one final good hard tug, slipped the umbilical cord from around our little one's neck and placed a writhing, cone-headed little blue alien on my chest as the attending nurse asked Dave, "who is it, Dad?"
Dave looked and, choked with emotion, said to me, "It's our boy...it's Joseph."
My heart exploded. Unimaginable joy flooded through me as I looked at our son, seeing him, knowing him after all these months of unknowing.
"It's you," I whispered to him, choking back sobs, "it's been you all along."
And boy oh boy, was he worth it. Every contraction, every push, every drip of the IV, every sleepless night, every pound gained...and every alteration to my plans, to my preferences...none of it mattered in the end, it turned out.
All that mattered was that our child was here, that Dave and I had been allowed into this mysterious and sacred fellowship of creation with God Himself, and that Joseph now existed because we had cooperated with Him. And it was so good.
And the epidural? Oh yes, that was very good.
I love you, Joseph Kolbe...and I couldn't have imagined a better entrance for you myself.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Waking Up Sober
Dare I hope that society is coming to a gradual, grudging awareness of the realities and risks of contraception from at least a biological perspective? Just this morning I stumbled across not one but two fantastically insightful and honest pieces from the secular media concerning the ironies and intricacies of our collective contraceptive mentality which has spawned an industry...and left an entire generation of women to live lives of fabulous freedom, at least until they marry in their thirties and discover that pesky 'problem' of monthly ovulation which they've been so long suppressing is no longer an issue...and pregnancy is no longer a possibility. Cue the intro for the infertility industry to pick up where it left off with the Pill. As this brilliant piece from New York Magazine points out, "The Pill didn’t create the field of infertility medicine, but it turned it into an enormous industry."
Indeed.
Finally, in this piece by New York Times columnist Ross Douthat I found an even more honest admission of the odd contradiction of a society which is simultaneously so hostile to - and so desperate for - the 'product' of fertility: the unborn. The last line pretty much says it all, "This is the paradox of America’s unborn. No life is so desperately sought after, so hungrily desired, so carefully nurtured. And yet no life is so legally unprotected, and so frequently destroyed."
Indeed.
Finally, in this piece by New York Times columnist Ross Douthat I found an even more honest admission of the odd contradiction of a society which is simultaneously so hostile to - and so desperate for - the 'product' of fertility: the unborn. The last line pretty much says it all, "This is the paradox of America’s unborn. No life is so desperately sought after, so hungrily desired, so carefully nurtured. And yet no life is so legally unprotected, and so frequently destroyed."
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