Blog Fail!

I haven't posted in a while. Part of the reason for this is because I am a slacker.

And because I had a baby.

You know, like you do.

Which isn't to say we've added to the nerd herd. I was a surrogate gestational carrier (a people incubator) and delivered a child for another family. Surrogacy: it's a hoot. It's always interesting to run into someone you haven't seen for eons and have them say something like, "Ohmigosh, when are you due? You two must be so exciiiited!?" and have your husband put on a very straight face and say, "It's not mine."

Priceless.

So yep. I had a baby.

Actually, to get things straight, I had a dinner party, and then I had a baby. Because hosting a dinner party while in labor is all the rage these days. In fact, anything involving Thai food, pumpkin cheesecake, and pretty ladies is always going to rank as "all the rage" in my book. (Note to self: obtain a book in which there can be a section entitled "all the rage".)

I'd planned a dinner party for my 25th birthday: a small gathering of ladies, and a large gathering of things that I could devour. The initial plan was to broil some steaks, make a fancy salad, concoct some fabulous dessert, and end the night with a wine toast (grape juice for me, what with the whole gestating thing). Classy!

Instead, at some point during that day I went into labor. I'd been in the hospital a few days prior and was monitored, put on bed rest, peered at by many folks with a wide variety of acronyms tacked onto their names, and introduced to a plethora of beeping machines. All went well, and I was sent home to noodle around and continue onward with the baby-baking.

On the day of the party I am uncomfortable. I've been in labor 3 times before this and decide I should head back to the hospital. I arrive and don one of those terribly attractive paisley printed gunney sacks with that oh-so-chic slit in the back. If assless chaps had a love child with a floral 50's apron, it'd be a lot like a hospital gown.


I park my pregnant self on the exam table. An hour of monitoring and intermittent prodding it I am declared "jumpy". "These contractions are too short to bring a baby," smug midwife says, smiling. "Go home. Don't worry about it."

So home I head hoping to make it in time to my own dinner party. No dinner has been cooked, but whatever. Classy is overrated. TAKE OUT THAI FOOD! That's the plan. Also, wine, grapes, cheese, salads? Pish posh, bitches. Salt and vinegar chips and Keebler cookies for the win!

Friends arrive, many laughs and good times are had. The night progresses. I start making weird faces, and leaning on walls, and saying things like "damn uterus".
Friends say, "Go to the hospital!"
I say, "But smug lady at the hospital says I'm jumpy."
Husband says, "Go to the hospital!"

Homemade cheesecake is sitting on the table being delicious and tempting. It says "Don't go. Stay with me."

Cheesecake nearly wins.

But I head into the hospital. Taking medical advice from cakes is not a sound practice.
(Note to self: add "wicked legit life lessons" section to the book.)

"Har har," says smug doctor. "Your fetal fibronectin test was negative. Meaning you've got a less than 1% chance of going into labor in the next 2 weeks. And you were just seen by another hospital? Yep... well, I guess I'll just do an exam but it's not going to make a diff- OHHHH! Agh! Nurse! You stay right there. DO NOT PUSH."

About 10 minutes later, boom. Baby!

Apparently my uterus and I are equally unimpressed by smug doctors.

So there you have it... the rambliest excuse for blog-fail ever!

PS- Everyone is doing great. :)

Come out, come out, whoever you are!

On National Coming Out Day:

Go forth and get your gay on!
Bring homosexy back.
Play for the other team.
Be a switch hitter.
Have queer eyes for straight (or not) guys.
Show 'em how your manual Trans mission works.
Make that 3 dollar bill WISH it were as queer as you.
Or be the kind of straight arrow that loves the gay blade.

Because I could resist: What kind of undead need this holiday most?

+5 internets if you get my cheese-ball joke.

Too Lifelike

"Can we have a movie night?", my son asked last night. Movie nights in our house are a fairly common occurrence, complete with tea and some
variety of snack. It's all harmony and loveliness with everyone snuggled up together on the couch. At least, it's all harmony and loveliness once we've managed to select a movie.

Therein lies the problem.

The movie tastes of 5 year old boys, at least in my limited experience, are made of kung fu, bad guys, and great quests. This doesn't quite blend in with the 3 year old girl movie tastes for princesses, princesses, and princesses. Sometimes we can manage to find something for everyone, such as Mulan. But there are only so many times one can listen to Mushu's wisecracks without foaming at the mouth and threatening to hunt Eddie Murphy to the ends of the earth. (On a side note, if you've never seen Mulan, it's really a good movie. The first 672 times.)

This is the part where my parenting skills burst onto the scene.

"Of course we can have a movie night. I'll be picking the movie tonight, though." I say, while browsing Netflix.

"Movies for 5-7 year old", suggests Netflix. "Curious George, Mighty Ducks, Three Ninjas, Popeye and Friends"? Really Netflix? Really? But I guess I can't be too surprised. The other day Netflix informed me that I tend to enjoy "Dark Dramas Featuring a Strong Female Lead". Fair enough, Netflix. What do you suggest for me? "The Diary of Anne Frank".

Yea. Apparently Netflix hates me. Either I'll gag my way through a childrens' movie, or sob my way through Anne Frank. Surely there must be a better optio-

Blue Planet! I LOVE BLUE PLANET!

And just like that, the scene plays out before me. Our family, snuggled on the couch with vanilla chamomile tea and biscotti, the blue hue from my laptop illuminated the delighted faces of my two little future-Cousteaus! Behold, little children, behold the magic and wonder of our world! Marvel at the dark depths of the deep sea, the brilliant and bold colors of the coral reefs, the amazing design and diversity of aquatic life! Yes. Blue Planet, all the way!

So, after dinner, and with an hour to spare before bedtime, we settle in with our tea for some Blue Planet time. As the kids marvel over the enormous Blue Whale, and the adorable clownfish, I pat myself on the back for a job well done. Educational, visually captivating, gender inclusive, scientif-

"Maaaaama, why are those birds eating the turtle eggs?!"
"Well, that is what those birds need to eat to survive. It's okay though, many turtles will be hatched and they'll grow up. But some animals need to eat other animals. It's okay."
"Oh."

Phew, crisis averted. To make things even more smooth, they mercifully don't show the frenzied dash to the sea those tiny turtles will need to make once they hatch. I'm a grown woman with an understanding of the whole "circle of life" thing, but man! The second they're born they're under attack! Seagulls snatch them up, crabs crack their tiny little bodies in two, waves flip them over, leaving them helpless and fortheloveofgodsomebodyhelpthem!?!

Thankfully, we're spared this sorrow. I let my guard down. No turtle tragedy today! For the next 15 minutes we relaxed while watching and learning about currents, moon cycles, and fish breeding cycles (Sort of gross, actually. Gross, but NOT traumatic!) Then, the children went to bed filled with wonder and delight and joy.

Only not at all.

Everything was going according to plan, until the Killer Whales.

See, I'm part of the Free Willy generation. Killer Whales with a heart of gold and such! As a result of this, when the pod of Killer Whales began advancing on a mother Gray Whale and her newborn calf, I failed to realize the significance. Even the eerie music didn't give it away. I just sat there, assuming they'd all go leaping over some stone wall to the delighted shrieking of a prepubescent troublemaker-turned-herochild.

This actually looks like the most ferocious uppercut ever.

But of course not. Instead, they pummeled and drowned the tiny-but-still-enormous baby whale, ripping its flesh and spilling its blood in front of its horrified whale mommy. The narrator tugs at (read: yanks violently at) the heartstrings while relating every little detail of the attack, including how the mother feels about the whole her-baby-being-devoured-in-front-of-her issue.

Phoenix begins to sob. "This whole fing is about deffff! All every baby is getting deeeead!"
I try the previously effective tactic. "No, honey. Not every baby gets killed, but these whales are eating that whale because they need to, to keep themselves alive! It's okay."

"But now, having succeeded, they've eaten nothing more than its lower jaw and its tongue," says the smug narrator in his saucy English accent. Thanks. Jerk.

And just like that, the episode ends. The sobbing on the other hand doesn't.

I try explaining that sometimes nature is just this way. But it isn't bad! ... Nope, no dice. I try explaining that life is beautiful, but that every life comes to an end at some point and that's okay! ... Nope, made that way worse. I contemplate briefly trying to explain alignments like chaotic neutral and true neutral, but I refrain (that's a talk for another time!). Aha, idea bubble!

"Papa will read you a book before bed!"

Suddenly the baby whale slaughter is forgotten. Because nature, including the nature of a child's mind, is amazing.

The "D" Word

Raising tiny humans into somewhat larger humans is a process full of hypothesis, theory, trial and error, and error, and error again. This is part of why it sucks.

See, being a parent is all the nonsense that Hollywood and Hallmark rave about. It is the glowing heart's warmth of holding your sleeping child. It's the fun of foam sword fights, watching Voltron in jammies on a Saturday morning, and playing on the playground toys without looking like a weirdo. It's the tender devotion of washing their peed on and/or hurled on bedding. Again. At 3am. And not even minding, just being glad that they'll have clean sheets again soon. It's the swell of pride when they learn to sit up, crawl, walk, talk, spell, not scratch their genitals in public, and say please without prompting at a restaurant. It is saying goodnight to your child after story time, whispering "I love you" even though they're sleeping, and hearing them mumble it sleepily back to you as you walk out of their room. Yes. Parenting is all of these things, and it is grand.

But that doesn't mean it doesn't suck. Sucking and being grand are not mutually exclusive. (Somehow I just made an unintentional hooker joke, and no, I'm not going to edit it.)

See, some things in life rely heavily on relevant, proven facts. Things like math and science, for example. These are comforting, reassuring, sensible. Do this, it results in that. Perfect! Facts and data are safe. Parenting is less like math and more like taking a freshman Introduction to Art class. With a schizophrenic instructor. Who is also a shark.

Parenting isn't about facts. Oh, sure! There are facts involved. There are the standard facts like, "Tiny human needs food, water, shelter, and air." and "Tiny humans are squishy but ought not be squished if continued survival is the goal." These are surely somewhere in some parenting books.

But the majority of the actual child rearing technique is largely a matter of debate. Some "experts" say that allowing your infant to "cry it out" alone in their crib teaches them essential self-soothing tactics. Other say that leaving your infant to "cry it out" teaches them that communicating their needs is futile. Some "experts" say that children should be encouraged to argue with their parents to learn critical negotiation skills, while others say that parents are responsible for maintaining strict pecking order to ensure the child's comfort and expectations within their environment.

As a brief aside, what makes a person an expert on raising children? As far as I can figure, you're no expert until you've raised at least 250, just for a reasonable sample size. And in the event that you have parented 250+ children, absolutely any parenting advice you have to offer is entirely null and void as you are clearly unhinged or too daft to maneuver a condom.

So parenting is an experiment without a clear procedure. Thoughtful parenting is just a lot of well-intentioned theories strung together. But the best laid plans of mice and men often result in swearing 3 year olds. Okay, maybe not often. But definitely sometimes.

I know that sometimes the greatest allure of something "bad" is its very badness. Because of this awareness, I developed the opinion early on in my parenting career that adults swearing should not be taboo, nor should sipping a beer with dinner, discussing touchy topics like sickness and death, or displaying (controlled) strong emotions like anger or sadness. It was my rationale that by living life in a normal adult fashion they would come to see this things a normal, and therefore not forbidden or desirable.

AND I WAS RIGHT!

Up until my 3 year old daughter called her father a douchebag.

Whaaaat? So then came the talk. "Children can do some things that adults cannot, right? Exactly. Well there are some things that adults can do that children cannot. Adults can swear. Children cannot. Sometimes adults are rude, but sometimes they are joking. Children must learn the difference. Children mustn't call people douchebags."

She took it well enough, but I felt like the words I said slightly erased some others I've said before. "It is okay to be angry, but use your words and not your hands." "Words only have the power we give them." "It is good to speak your mind."

I guess what I meant to say is, "It is good to speak your mind... unless at this exact moment you're thinking, 'My dad is being a total douchebag right now.'"

Parenting is difficult because you never really know for certain if you're doing it right. But I'm guessing that if she's not calling people D-bags for another decade or so, I can count that as a step in the right direction. I hope.

10 years later

Since 9/11/01, an estimated 741,747,936 children have been born into the world. While we should never forget the lives that ended that day, I believe it is essential that we consider the lives that have begun. Let us honor the lives of the fallen by cherishing the lives of the living.

By making the most of your lives, by choosing to love and live and fulfill your potential, you pay daily homage to the men, women, and children who never got the chance to do just that.

When the flock gets flack...

In most cases the males of the species are more bold, aggressive, assertive, risk-taking, and defensive than their female counterparts. Our flock is a little different. My husband tends to be more laid back; less boot-stomping, more shoulder shrugging. I am the aggressive, assertive, oh-no-you-didn't, decisive, and determined one. Our arrangement works out well for us. I get riled, he's calm and steady. Most of the time, I'm content with all of this.

Sometimes, though... Sometimes being defensive and surly is surely a burden to bear.

My son came home from his first week of school with more than a few stories. Most revolved around his excitement over new friends, painting, and play time. One story, however, was different. It seems a boy in his class has been pushing other kids, swinging his backpack at them, poking and pinching them, and generally making a nuisance of himself. Worse though, this boy has been telling my son, "I'm better than you. You're no good, and I'm better than you."

Oh yeah? Oh really? Really?!

It was around this part of the story that I had to stop and remind myself that kicking kindergarten children was probably frowned upon.

But how infuriating! It's even worse that there's nothing I can really do about it. I've advised him to try to talk to the boy, and if that doesn't work, to speak with his teacher. But that doesn't mean I don't want to tell this snot-nosed, poorly mannered kindergartener to meet me at the flagpole at 3 o'clock to settle this. Pick on my baby, will you?! Oh.No.You.Didn't.

I'm guessing this is one of those important lessons in parenting. We've all heard the phrase, "Pick your battles." Usually the emphasis is on 'pick'. As in, don't put your foot down about everything. Give them some leeway to make their own choices and mistakes. Allow them to win some small squabbles so they learn to negotiate. All that good stuff.

But in this new variety of "Pick your battles" the emphasis is on "your". And that's tough. Some battles are going to be his, and his alone. More and more my little gent is going to have to learn to navigate the twisting trail of human interaction on his own. Even though I can't defend him in a primal, hackles-raised, don't-harm-my-young-or-I'll-bite-your-face-off kind of fashion, I'm a mother and therefore never helpless.

I can serve as a compass by showing him the right and wrong way of handling conflicts, defending your stance and your opinion, accepting the opinions of others', and remaining bold in the face of adversity. I can act as the navigator by suggesting how to talk things out, who to seek out if talking isn't sufficient, and how to protect himself. I can model proper conflict resolution and help teach him to be a self-sufficient and proud young man.

Which means I can't punt children. Not even a little bit. Even if I want to.

D&D Rules for Beginners

As the "shepherd of the nerd herd" I've got some important responsibilities. I'm raising two members of the next generation of dice rolling, role playing nerds. But sometimes the fundamental parental rules are in exact opposition to the unspoken rules of D&D (which stands for Dungeons and Dragons for my non-nerd readers). What's a mom/11th level dwarven cleric to do?

Today was my son's first day of kindergarten. As a parent, it is my responsibility to prepare him for the world and then unleash him upo- I mean, encourage him to explore it. I'm supposed to pack his backpack and then send him off into a group of kinder-kobolds for over 6 hours. But as the party leader, it's my duty to ensure that we don't split the party. You never split the party! Worse yet, you never send the low-level characters off into major encounters without backup. But that's exactly what I did today.

Because I know he needs the XP.

And maybe I do, too.

Introductions

Introductions are a curious thing. Summarizing all the bits and bobbles you're made out of is daunting. Take for instance the opening questions regarding interests. Questions like, "What are you into?" and "What do you enjoy?" in particular are like a booby trap! Unless you're an international spy, the leader of a successful free love revolution, or an especially articulate octopus with internet access, you're destined for failure upon answering. "Reading, writing, cooking, eating, spending time with family and friends..." Yea, you and every other non-octopus.

So here I am wondering how best to go about introducing myself to you without pigeonholing myself. Lying was an option. ("I'm a professional hang-glider. I've bottle-fed a grizzly bear cub who is now my closest friend. My Scrabble skills are legendary, and a frequent topic of conversation as far south as Paraguay!) But that breaks an unspoken blogging vow of honesty meant to exist between the writer and the reader.

Truth is I wouldn't know my ass from someone else's elbow on a hang glider. I've never even encountered a bear that wasn't stuffed or part of a zoo exhibit. Worst of all, my Scrabble skills are barely known past Venezuela. I hope you'll still accept me for who I am.

I'm sure there's got to be a better way to go about introducing oneself. In fact, let's pioneer a whole new way of assessing someone newly met! Try this. Upon meeting someone simply assume, without any evidence to suggest as much, that they are wicked awesome (or for those readers not located in New England "super awesome"). Actually, let's start using this revolutionary new method slowly. And by slowly I mean just in regards to me.

What's that, you say?
I'm wicked and/or super awesome?
How delightful!