I went back to work last week. I wasn’t excited about it, mostly because I greatly enjoyed the routine I was in while staying home. We found an excellent daycare provider for Robbie and we know that McKenna will adjust in due time.
The first week went by without a hitch. Kids were great, I was right back into the routine and before I knew it, it was Friday. When I arrived at daycare to kick off the weekend with my kids, Robbie was in Miss Gretchen’s arms, smiling at me as he normally does when he sees me or Rob. He looked happy, though a little tired. She told me that he had a great day for the most part, but there was “an incident”. She proceeded to tell me that a two and a half year old accidentally backed up and tripped over him, landing on him. She said Robbie got really mad, had a little blood from his lip, but stopped crying rather quickly. “He’ll be tougher for it. I’ve backed up and tripped over McKenna. It happens and he seems fine.” She proceeded to tell me yet again what an easy going boy he is. I agreed. We said our goodbyes and I put Robbie in the car. He chatted with me for a few minutes before he started to show signs of sleepiness. Before I knew it, he was fast asleep.
After 45 minutes, I got to McKenna’s school. It was quite dark outside because it was already 5:05. I got a spot right in front of the door to the room where McKenna has aftercare and McKenna came out, jumped in the car and we went home. She and I were talking as I picked up Robbie with him asleep on my shoulder and we went inside. I quickly placed him down while I ran into the bathroom. Once I finished my business, I went to go pick up Robbie. I looked down and there was blood everywhere! On his hands, his face, dribbling down his chin, all over his shirt, some on his jacket. He was a mess!
My shocked reaction was met with a smile, a bloody, twisted smile. “What happened to you?” was all I could muster up. Is something wrong with me? I thought. Why I am not in total panic like I was with McKenna? Am I so enamored with his big eyes and beautiful red hair that I’ve become complacent? I cleaned him up and tried to find where the blood was coming from. Definitely his mouth. Lower…no…upper…no…lower…no…upper. He doesn’t even have any teeth! What the heck happened? After about 20 minutes of blood pouring out, a good amount of which he swallowed, I called the Ms. Gretchen.
Me: Hi…it’s Shelley Moore, Robbie’s mom.
Gretchen: Oh, hi! How are you?
Me: (nervous laugh) Well, I can’t get Robbie to stop bleeding and I…
Gretchen: WHAT?! (no doubt picturing a lawsuit).
Me: Well, I’m just trying to find out, where exactly did this kid fall on him?
Gretchen: (stumbling) He just backed up…and landed on his face. I mean, he bled a little, but it was done in about five minutes!
Me: Well, I have him sucking on a wet washcloth. I think it’s coming from the upper part of his mouth but I can’t tell.
Gretchen: I couldn’t see anything either, but he stopped bleeding pretty quickly, so I didn’t investigate more.
Me: Okay…listen, he seems fine so don’t worry. I just wanted to see if maybe the kid landed on his stomach and he was spitting up blood.
Gretchen: No, it was definitely his face…oh my gosh…did you call his doctor? You should probably call.
We quickly said our goodbyes and I look down a Robbie swallowing some more blood. He LOVES blood! Oh my God…he’s Hannibal Lechter! I’ve given birth to a cannibal!!! I then quickly called the doctor’s office. After talking with the late night staff, we determined it was best to go to the hospital. I quickly clipped his nails (bad mommy) and off we went. Sort of…
McKenna: What about my dinner?
Me: If you were covered in blood and Robbie didn’t want to go with me to get you fixed up because he wanted dinner, how would you feel?
McKenna: (pause) But…what about my dinner?
Me: Here…
McKenna munched on tortilla chips all the way to hospital. Of course, by the time we got found a parking spot and physically got to the E.R., Robbie was once again covered in blood.
The security guard yelled for help, fellow E.R. patients offered up seats, and I just said, “Really, I think it’s worse than it looks.” Once everyone saw him smiling, with blood coming out, people relaxed. This includes the guy in triage who signed us in while speaking in a perfect Donald Duck voice. He got wide eyes from McKenna and blood gurgling giggles from Robbie. The doctors (yes, we had two of them!) saw us fairly quickly and informed us that Robbie had ripped open his frenulum, the little thing that hangs down from the upper gums in the mouth. The kid who fell on him probably started it, but because I hadn’t clipped his nails, he continued the damage every time he put his hands in his mouth. Bad mommy, indeed…
We were in and out of the hospital in less than two hours. I called back Ms. Gretchen, who had called for an update (and a little comfort which I provided), and McKenna and I finally had dinner at 9:00. Our usual Friday night movie was watching Barack Obama’s victory speech (her choice...she loves the line when he says his girls get a puppy). Thanks to the nail clippers, some antibiotics and time, he is fully recovered. As for me, well…I will enjoy a nice glass of chianti while waiting to have a friend for dinner.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
From the Mouths of Babes
While I continue to work on two other entries, I wanted to share this quick exchange McKenna and I just had.
Rob walks into the room, sees us laughing and walks out.
Me: I think he'd rather look at the Internet.
McKenna: We are SO much more interesting than the Internet. Trust me!
Rob walks into the room, sees us laughing and walks out.
Me: I think he'd rather look at the Internet.
McKenna: We are SO much more interesting than the Internet. Trust me!
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Our Future is Right In Front of Us
My daughter, McKenna, is six and a half going on 18. Her fascination with politics began about a year ago when she overheard my mom and I discussing why we preferred different candidates, my mother with Hillary and me with Barack. McKenna asked a lot of questions and learned that no matter what, it was cool because it was a woman running against an African-American (politics in the simplest yet most complex of terms).
Then about 6 months ago we took her to Borders and told her she could choose any two books. She picked out "Fancy Nancy Goes to the Museum" and "Barack Obama: An American Tale". To my surprise, she wanted us to read the Obama book to her first. So we did.
As the election grew near, she questioned Grammie on why she was now an Obama "fan" and not a Hillary fan anymore. Grammie did a nice job explaining it. I soon explained to McKenna that I wouldn't be home on certain nights so I could go do some work for Obama's campaign. We talked about problems we face as a country and how I felt about his approaches to improving them.
Before we knew it, Election Day was here. The whole family got up at 5:45am and got to the polls by 6:15. We excitingly waited for 45 minutes to cast our vote. I was thrilled when they allowed McKenna to come into the booth with me so she could watch me cast my vote for the first African-American president. She clapped when it was done.
She took a long nap later that afternoon and begged us to let her stay up to watch the returns. We were so happy with her interest that we agreed. So there we all were, watching three hours of television and talking about things while McKenna helped my husband organize papers he was grading (he's a teacher, too). She kept chiming in with comments like, "Uh-oh! It looks like John McCain is going to win West Virginia...yup...he won it," and "Yes! Obama wins Pennsylvania! That's HUGE! Right, mom?"
By 10:50, we told McKenna she had to go to bed and she did so, as did I, both of us quite reluctantly. No more than 15 minutes later, Rob woke us up to tell us the news. She started clapping and leapt out of bed to run downstairs and watch the people celebrating.
This morning, she was still buzzing with excitement, but it was almost as if she became a pundit herself. "Now, let's just hope he can fix the economy and put the troops in the right country." Wow...she really listened.
Of course, the little princess had one final word, "And you know what, mom? He is soooooooo handsome!"
Then about 6 months ago we took her to Borders and told her she could choose any two books. She picked out "Fancy Nancy Goes to the Museum" and "Barack Obama: An American Tale". To my surprise, she wanted us to read the Obama book to her first. So we did.
As the election grew near, she questioned Grammie on why she was now an Obama "fan" and not a Hillary fan anymore. Grammie did a nice job explaining it. I soon explained to McKenna that I wouldn't be home on certain nights so I could go do some work for Obama's campaign. We talked about problems we face as a country and how I felt about his approaches to improving them.
Before we knew it, Election Day was here. The whole family got up at 5:45am and got to the polls by 6:15. We excitingly waited for 45 minutes to cast our vote. I was thrilled when they allowed McKenna to come into the booth with me so she could watch me cast my vote for the first African-American president. She clapped when it was done.
She took a long nap later that afternoon and begged us to let her stay up to watch the returns. We were so happy with her interest that we agreed. So there we all were, watching three hours of television and talking about things while McKenna helped my husband organize papers he was grading (he's a teacher, too). She kept chiming in with comments like, "Uh-oh! It looks like John McCain is going to win West Virginia...yup...he won it," and "Yes! Obama wins Pennsylvania! That's HUGE! Right, mom?"
By 10:50, we told McKenna she had to go to bed and she did so, as did I, both of us quite reluctantly. No more than 15 minutes later, Rob woke us up to tell us the news. She started clapping and leapt out of bed to run downstairs and watch the people celebrating.
This morning, she was still buzzing with excitement, but it was almost as if she became a pundit herself. "Now, let's just hope he can fix the economy and put the troops in the right country." Wow...she really listened.
Of course, the little princess had one final word, "And you know what, mom? He is soooooooo handsome!"
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
I've Made It Through the Rain
Cheerleading is over. It ended today, Sunday, October 26th, 2008 at 9:54am and I think it's over for good.
I say "I think" for a few reasons. We still have a banquet to attend in November and McKenna still has thank you cards to write to her coaches. I also say "I think" it's over because it's slowly ocurred to me that should McKenna ask to cheerlead again next year, I will not be able to say "no". I can say no to Pop Warner, easily. But can I really tell my child "no" to doing something she enjoys? At some point, I have to trust her to make the right choices, in essence, I have to trust me and Rob on how we have parented her.
For the next 10 months, therefore, we have decided to fill her time and brain with other things. Sunday morning cheerleading is being replaced by church attendance and Sunday school. Her cute little uniform will be replaced with a leotard or jazz pants for either ballet lessons or musical theater class respectively (she thinks she wants musical theater and who am I to argue). Supporting a team will come in the form of helping us with Robbie, cleaning the house and assisting us with cooking dinner.
Am I a prude? Perhaps...but every parent should be, because in our prudishness, she knows that she is loved.
I say "I think" for a few reasons. We still have a banquet to attend in November and McKenna still has thank you cards to write to her coaches. I also say "I think" it's over because it's slowly ocurred to me that should McKenna ask to cheerlead again next year, I will not be able to say "no". I can say no to Pop Warner, easily. But can I really tell my child "no" to doing something she enjoys? At some point, I have to trust her to make the right choices, in essence, I have to trust me and Rob on how we have parented her.
For the next 10 months, therefore, we have decided to fill her time and brain with other things. Sunday morning cheerleading is being replaced by church attendance and Sunday school. Her cute little uniform will be replaced with a leotard or jazz pants for either ballet lessons or musical theater class respectively (she thinks she wants musical theater and who am I to argue). Supporting a team will come in the form of helping us with Robbie, cleaning the house and assisting us with cooking dinner.
Am I a prude? Perhaps...but every parent should be, because in our prudishness, she knows that she is loved.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
She's Friggin' Six!!!
As we all know, I am not a fan of cheerleading. I am a fan of McKenna, however, so when she asked me to sign her up for Pop Warner cheerleading, I obliged.
PROBLEM 1: Cheer: "We're gonna' pick up the pace, so put your foot on the gas, cause we're gonna' kick you in the _____." (rhymes with gas).
Yes, I have a problem with teaching that to 6-year olds, and yes, I said something to the commisioner of the Pop Warner league. Her response: "Oh, the Rockets are doing that? They're not supposed to do it this year. It's for next year." Right, teaching that to 7-year olds is much better...
PROBLEM 2: One of the football coaches is a complete asshole. He yells in the kids' faces at point blank range. Oh, did I mention that the kids are 6 years old? Recently, he was yelling at his son for not paying attention to what he was saying. He then took a swing at the boy as if to kick him, but the kid ran away (Dad ran a few steps after him, but realized it probably wasn't a good idea to do in public). You should know that I'm not sitting by and doing nothing about it. I just need to calm down before I talk to the president of league. As long as Pop Warner accepts the behaviors of that man, they will never get a dime out of me and I will make sure everyone I talk to knows what type of organization Washington Rock Pop Warner is.
PROBLEM 3: McKenna got her cheerleading pics taken. We decided to order just her picture with her on the cover of a magazine (a pretend magazine). The article titles were "Interview with McKenna Moore", "Name Her Moves", "Find Out How She Does It" and "#1 Squad in the State". Very cute. I then read the last title: "Check Out Page 41! Hot! Hot! Hot!" Now, I'm sure there are those of you out there that don't see this as a problem (my guess is that you're a man...). This, however, is a blatant sexualization of girls. Why not something like, "Learn Her Workout Habits" or "Check Out Her Reading List"? I know, some of you are thinking what a prude I've become and have possibly laughed out loud when reading the previous sentence. My question to you would be why is it funny to you? Why do you think I might be unrealistic? Just because "it's everywhere" doesn't mean we have to just stand by and let it be. I called the photography studio and asked for that particular headline to be removed. "Why? What does it say?" When I informed them of their own product and what was written on the magazine cover, the response was, "Really? That's odd? It is obviously referring to her.* Can we get you something else?"
This desensitization to how we treat young girls angers me to no end!!! After a brief verbal kick in the ass to the WOMAN on the other end of the phone, she finally said, "You know, you're right. Maybe we should order a new template." I doubt that will happen.
I think I'm going to start a campaign to call for an end to this type of marketing. Maybe there's already an organization out there. I'll have to check into it and post it on the site. Meanwhile, I look forward to receiving a free 8x10 of McKenna without her being referred to as "Hot! Hot! Hot!"
* Rob, I told you so ;-)
PROBLEM 1: Cheer: "We're gonna' pick up the pace, so put your foot on the gas, cause we're gonna' kick you in the _____." (rhymes with gas).
Yes, I have a problem with teaching that to 6-year olds, and yes, I said something to the commisioner of the Pop Warner league. Her response: "Oh, the Rockets are doing that? They're not supposed to do it this year. It's for next year." Right, teaching that to 7-year olds is much better...
PROBLEM 2: One of the football coaches is a complete asshole. He yells in the kids' faces at point blank range. Oh, did I mention that the kids are 6 years old? Recently, he was yelling at his son for not paying attention to what he was saying. He then took a swing at the boy as if to kick him, but the kid ran away (Dad ran a few steps after him, but realized it probably wasn't a good idea to do in public). You should know that I'm not sitting by and doing nothing about it. I just need to calm down before I talk to the president of league. As long as Pop Warner accepts the behaviors of that man, they will never get a dime out of me and I will make sure everyone I talk to knows what type of organization Washington Rock Pop Warner is.
PROBLEM 3: McKenna got her cheerleading pics taken. We decided to order just her picture with her on the cover of a magazine (a pretend magazine). The article titles were "Interview with McKenna Moore", "Name Her Moves", "Find Out How She Does It" and "#1 Squad in the State". Very cute. I then read the last title: "Check Out Page 41! Hot! Hot! Hot!" Now, I'm sure there are those of you out there that don't see this as a problem (my guess is that you're a man...). This, however, is a blatant sexualization of girls. Why not something like, "Learn Her Workout Habits" or "Check Out Her Reading List"? I know, some of you are thinking what a prude I've become and have possibly laughed out loud when reading the previous sentence. My question to you would be why is it funny to you? Why do you think I might be unrealistic? Just because "it's everywhere" doesn't mean we have to just stand by and let it be. I called the photography studio and asked for that particular headline to be removed. "Why? What does it say?" When I informed them of their own product and what was written on the magazine cover, the response was, "Really? That's odd? It is obviously referring to her.* Can we get you something else?"
This desensitization to how we treat young girls angers me to no end!!! After a brief verbal kick in the ass to the WOMAN on the other end of the phone, she finally said, "You know, you're right. Maybe we should order a new template." I doubt that will happen.
I think I'm going to start a campaign to call for an end to this type of marketing. Maybe there's already an organization out there. I'll have to check into it and post it on the site. Meanwhile, I look forward to receiving a free 8x10 of McKenna without her being referred to as "Hot! Hot! Hot!"
* Rob, I told you so ;-)
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
I'm In Love...
...with the rantings/clarifications of writer Tim Wise. This is for anyone who chooses participate in this year's presidential election. I would honestly love to hear your thoughts, for or against. You know where I stand...
Please click this link for a quick read (if nothing else, you'll understand my thoughts and feelings): http://www.redroom.com/blog/tim-wise/this-your-nation-white-privilege
Thanks for sending it Mom!
Please click this link for a quick read (if nothing else, you'll understand my thoughts and feelings): http://www.redroom.com/blog/tim-wise/this-your-nation-white-privilege
Thanks for sending it Mom!
Monday, August 18, 2008
I Was Thankfully Overwhelmed
There is no doubt that I was overwhelmed when I had McKenna. This was so for a number of reasons: it was an unexpected pregnancy, we were married for just six months (do the math on that one…), I was the first of my closest friends to have a baby so no one was there to offer sound advice, and she was an unhappy, sick baby. My brain was preoccupied by everything relating to babies and being a mom. With Robbie, things are different. I’m enjoying his babyhood much more than I was able to enjoy it with McKenna, also for a number of reasons: he’s our second child, he was very planned (can’t be much more planned than in-vitro), we have been married now for seven years and have overcome our share of differences, I’m probably the last of my group of friends to have a baby so I have plenty of people to turn to when needed, and for the most part, he’s a healthy and happy baby (sans some digestive issues). Not overwhelmed at all.
So when I recently began a series of unfortunate events, I had to wonder if I am once again overwhelmed or if I’m just preoccupied. It was about a week ago when I began to notice a slow transformation of sorts. Nursing Robbie, for example, has brought out the exhibitionist in me. My boobs are exposed constantly, so much so that I forget to close up shop and I’ll walk in front of open windows with my newly engorged porn-star boobs clearly visible to any passersby. I say “boobs” instead of “breasts” simply as a way to put them into a schema that reflects how I feel about them. “Breast” implies fairly firm hand rubbing, flicking of nipples in between fingers and gentle tongue play that leads to stimulation down below. No, that’s definitely not the use for them lately. They’re “boobs”, objects that bring on an animalistic aggression in my son that can lead to blood if not guided correctly by the referee (that would be me). It’s anything but sensual. It’s more like the game Whack-a-mole, except he feverishly tries to attack the nipples before the milk drips down. I’ve become so carefree, in fact, that neighbors have come by and I just sit there, boob exposed, and we have a pleasant conversation. At least that’s my point of view. My neighbors may feel differently about that considering my porn-star boobs are not on a porn-star body.
There have been other small signs that have made me question whether I'm overwhelmed or if I’m preoccupied with mommyhood. I’ve put formula in my coffee instead of my non-dairy creamer. (Luckily, I realized it before I took my first sip, but a definite sign something is amiss.) I’ve had to turn around to go back home because I’ve forgotten to get out of my pajama bottoms and put on real clothes before I’ve left the house. I’ve burned my eggs because I have forgotten I was cooking (okay, that’s not so unusual for me). But I think the real moment of truth came last week when I was getting ready to go to the store.
I couldn’t wait to get out of the house. With Robbie cozy in one arm and a bottle of water tucked in the other, I locked up the house and headed toward my car. The magic doors to my Honda Odyssey popped open and I buckled up Robbie in his car seat. As I pressed the button to close the door and walked around to the driver’s side, I suddenly had a very Eckhart Tolle-living-in-the-now kind of moment. This is it. I am living the American dream. I have a beautiful son, an absolutely amazing daughter, a husband who is loving and caring to everyone, a roof over our heads, two cars, two jobs that are extremely secure, and enough money to buy the necessities that I was about to purchase. I was suddenly overwhelmed. As I’m living this moment, with the deepest feeling of peace running through me, I buckled myself in, turned on the car, and began to back out of the driveway. A jolt and crunching noise abruptly awakened me from what felt like a meditative state. Rob’s car was behind mine and I ran right into it.
Wow…how did I not see that? I jumped out to inspect the damage and except for some swapped paint chips, all was well. I had to laugh at my own idiocy, to the blindness of my own environment, especially since I had to walk in between the cars to put Robbie in. Yes, it was unusual that Rob’s car was parked directly behind mine considering we have a double-wide driveway. But how on earth was I going to explain this one?
When he and McKenna got home from camp, I suddenly felt like I couldn’t admit to another adult my absentmindedness, my carelessness, my recklessness. I didn’t even have time to process the event in my own mind for Robbie began crying immediately after impact. Counting on the presence of McKenna, I turned innocently to my six-year old with my husband watching. “McKenna, I have to tell something to Daddy and I don’t know how he’ll react,” begging her to ask the inevitable “What do you have to tell him?” Being the inquisitive child she is, she did just that. “Well, mommy was backing up her car today and I forgot Daddy parked his car behind mine.” The look on Rob’s face was one of sheer shock as he yelled, “NO, YOU DIDN’T!” I looked at him with a smile and remorseful eyes. Panicked, he ran outside to inspect the damage. McKenna, flustered at his reaction, needed an explanation. “I ran into Daddy’s car today,” I explained. She covered her mouth and giggled. Even she finds it crazy. Rob suddenly came back inside stating, “I need a beer before I do this,” and he ran into the kitchen. “Get one for me, please,” I called out. When he returned with the beers, we all headed outside.
Rob knelt down in front of his car and began to touch the front bumper in a way that made me long for my boobs to be breasts. He looked carefully back and forth between the front of his car and the back of my minivan. He stood up, looked at me with furrowed brows and a lighthearted shaking of the head that said, “Who are you and why did I marry you?” It suddenly occurred to me that cuteness always works. “Look at it this way. It’s like a Reese’s peanut butter cup. I got my peanut butter on your chocolate and you got some chocolate on my peanut butter!” I paused with a smile, hoping he’ll find me quirky enough to see this latest faux pas as an adventure rather than a problem. He simply shook his head, smiled a bit, took a sip of his beer and gave me a kiss.
All was well.
I don’t know if Rob thinks I’m losing my mind or if I’m preoccupied with being a new mom again. But the truth is, at least in the case of the Reese’s peanut butter cup, it was neither. I wasn’t preoccupied. I was pleasantly, joyfully and thankfully overwhelmed with all that I have.
So when I recently began a series of unfortunate events, I had to wonder if I am once again overwhelmed or if I’m just preoccupied. It was about a week ago when I began to notice a slow transformation of sorts. Nursing Robbie, for example, has brought out the exhibitionist in me. My boobs are exposed constantly, so much so that I forget to close up shop and I’ll walk in front of open windows with my newly engorged porn-star boobs clearly visible to any passersby. I say “boobs” instead of “breasts” simply as a way to put them into a schema that reflects how I feel about them. “Breast” implies fairly firm hand rubbing, flicking of nipples in between fingers and gentle tongue play that leads to stimulation down below. No, that’s definitely not the use for them lately. They’re “boobs”, objects that bring on an animalistic aggression in my son that can lead to blood if not guided correctly by the referee (that would be me). It’s anything but sensual. It’s more like the game Whack-a-mole, except he feverishly tries to attack the nipples before the milk drips down. I’ve become so carefree, in fact, that neighbors have come by and I just sit there, boob exposed, and we have a pleasant conversation. At least that’s my point of view. My neighbors may feel differently about that considering my porn-star boobs are not on a porn-star body.
There have been other small signs that have made me question whether I'm overwhelmed or if I’m preoccupied with mommyhood. I’ve put formula in my coffee instead of my non-dairy creamer. (Luckily, I realized it before I took my first sip, but a definite sign something is amiss.) I’ve had to turn around to go back home because I’ve forgotten to get out of my pajama bottoms and put on real clothes before I’ve left the house. I’ve burned my eggs because I have forgotten I was cooking (okay, that’s not so unusual for me). But I think the real moment of truth came last week when I was getting ready to go to the store.
I couldn’t wait to get out of the house. With Robbie cozy in one arm and a bottle of water tucked in the other, I locked up the house and headed toward my car. The magic doors to my Honda Odyssey popped open and I buckled up Robbie in his car seat. As I pressed the button to close the door and walked around to the driver’s side, I suddenly had a very Eckhart Tolle-living-in-the-now kind of moment. This is it. I am living the American dream. I have a beautiful son, an absolutely amazing daughter, a husband who is loving and caring to everyone, a roof over our heads, two cars, two jobs that are extremely secure, and enough money to buy the necessities that I was about to purchase. I was suddenly overwhelmed. As I’m living this moment, with the deepest feeling of peace running through me, I buckled myself in, turned on the car, and began to back out of the driveway. A jolt and crunching noise abruptly awakened me from what felt like a meditative state. Rob’s car was behind mine and I ran right into it.
Wow…how did I not see that? I jumped out to inspect the damage and except for some swapped paint chips, all was well. I had to laugh at my own idiocy, to the blindness of my own environment, especially since I had to walk in between the cars to put Robbie in. Yes, it was unusual that Rob’s car was parked directly behind mine considering we have a double-wide driveway. But how on earth was I going to explain this one?
When he and McKenna got home from camp, I suddenly felt like I couldn’t admit to another adult my absentmindedness, my carelessness, my recklessness. I didn’t even have time to process the event in my own mind for Robbie began crying immediately after impact. Counting on the presence of McKenna, I turned innocently to my six-year old with my husband watching. “McKenna, I have to tell something to Daddy and I don’t know how he’ll react,” begging her to ask the inevitable “What do you have to tell him?” Being the inquisitive child she is, she did just that. “Well, mommy was backing up her car today and I forgot Daddy parked his car behind mine.” The look on Rob’s face was one of sheer shock as he yelled, “NO, YOU DIDN’T!” I looked at him with a smile and remorseful eyes. Panicked, he ran outside to inspect the damage. McKenna, flustered at his reaction, needed an explanation. “I ran into Daddy’s car today,” I explained. She covered her mouth and giggled. Even she finds it crazy. Rob suddenly came back inside stating, “I need a beer before I do this,” and he ran into the kitchen. “Get one for me, please,” I called out. When he returned with the beers, we all headed outside.
Rob knelt down in front of his car and began to touch the front bumper in a way that made me long for my boobs to be breasts. He looked carefully back and forth between the front of his car and the back of my minivan. He stood up, looked at me with furrowed brows and a lighthearted shaking of the head that said, “Who are you and why did I marry you?” It suddenly occurred to me that cuteness always works. “Look at it this way. It’s like a Reese’s peanut butter cup. I got my peanut butter on your chocolate and you got some chocolate on my peanut butter!” I paused with a smile, hoping he’ll find me quirky enough to see this latest faux pas as an adventure rather than a problem. He simply shook his head, smiled a bit, took a sip of his beer and gave me a kiss.
All was well.
I don’t know if Rob thinks I’m losing my mind or if I’m preoccupied with being a new mom again. But the truth is, at least in the case of the Reese’s peanut butter cup, it was neither. I wasn’t preoccupied. I was pleasantly, joyfully and thankfully overwhelmed with all that I have.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Confessions of a Cheerless Mom
McKenna has begun cheerleading this week and I hope she hates it. I highly doubt that will happen since she is naturally loud and energetic, but it’s a wish.
Oh...in case you were concerned, this entry is not about post-partum depression.
I know…I’m a terrible mom. It’s not that I want her to be miserable. I just dislike almost everything that cheerleading stands for. Why does she have to be one of the robots, yes robots, which have to support the boys on the field? Don’t we get enough messages that women are not free to find joy from within themselves, but that joy comes from the men in their lives? As a middle-school teacher, I see evidence of that everyday. Girls will say and do blatantly mean things to each other and to their peers to create a social hierarchy that is centered upon how boys perceive them. The more a girl can do to have boys notice her, the more popular she is amongst the girls. If someone else comes along, a threat is felt and the nastiness begins.
Cheerleading, in my mind, is a (semi-)subtle way of sending that message yet again. “Cheer those boys on girls! It’s very important that we do our best to support those boys out there on the field.” These girls are trained from a very early age to fit a certain mold. “Smile!” “Keep your arms straight!” “Jazz hands!” Individuality is simply out of the question. “Hair must be decided upon by the coaches and team moms. All girls must then wear their hair in the agreed upon fashion (ex: braids, ponytails, etc).” While some may argue that it’s creating a sense of team work, I would argue that it creates a sense of communism. With the 2008 Olympics beginning this week in China, I’ve realized that it’s not that far of a stretch. Yes, I believe cheerleading is a “sport” and I understand the trust that gets developed between the team, but I’ve also seen how it can turn girls against each other. Case in point…this year, a bunch of my students were on the Pop-Warner cheerleading team which just so happen to place first at the national competition at Disney World. Great for them…no easy accomplishment. However, a couple of students confessed to me how they were outcast from the team because they refused to drink and have sex like the rest of “the team” was doing (yes, I’m talking 13-year olds). While I know the argument can be made that this can happen with any sports team, I would beg to differ. As a longtime coach of girls’ basketball, my husband has found that his girls are and have always been, very accepting of the individuality that each player brings to the team on every level. Personality differences, sexual orientation differences, academic differences, etc. It makes sense, considering that basketball is a team sport that thrives on the individual talents of each player. In cheerleading, that’s just not so. The more you are just like everyone else, the better you are. It’s a pack mentality that spills over into the personal lives of these girls.
Why did I sign her up for it then? Well, Rob and I have always encouraged McKenna to have a “polite bite” of everything and that includes activities. She’s tried soccer, swimming, T-ball, dance, gymnastics, and Girl Scouts, all of which she has enjoyed, but has not latched onto. I guess cheerleading is a logical step for an American girl and I’m hoping it will be another stepping stone on the way to something that clearly demonstrates that a girl can do and be whatever she wants and that her sense of self comes from herself, not from what boys say, think or do.
Until then, I will support her enjoyment of cheerleading. I’ll continue to show enthusiasm as she shares with me what new stretches or routines she has learned. But I will do it while reminding her that she brings something unique to the team, that her individual sense of self, her confidence, her humor, her ability to make respectful and responsible decisions is what makes her such an awesome cheerleader, an awesome team player and one amazing little girl.
Oh...in case you were concerned, this entry is not about post-partum depression.
I know…I’m a terrible mom. It’s not that I want her to be miserable. I just dislike almost everything that cheerleading stands for. Why does she have to be one of the robots, yes robots, which have to support the boys on the field? Don’t we get enough messages that women are not free to find joy from within themselves, but that joy comes from the men in their lives? As a middle-school teacher, I see evidence of that everyday. Girls will say and do blatantly mean things to each other and to their peers to create a social hierarchy that is centered upon how boys perceive them. The more a girl can do to have boys notice her, the more popular she is amongst the girls. If someone else comes along, a threat is felt and the nastiness begins.
Cheerleading, in my mind, is a (semi-)subtle way of sending that message yet again. “Cheer those boys on girls! It’s very important that we do our best to support those boys out there on the field.” These girls are trained from a very early age to fit a certain mold. “Smile!” “Keep your arms straight!” “Jazz hands!” Individuality is simply out of the question. “Hair must be decided upon by the coaches and team moms. All girls must then wear their hair in the agreed upon fashion (ex: braids, ponytails, etc).” While some may argue that it’s creating a sense of team work, I would argue that it creates a sense of communism. With the 2008 Olympics beginning this week in China, I’ve realized that it’s not that far of a stretch. Yes, I believe cheerleading is a “sport” and I understand the trust that gets developed between the team, but I’ve also seen how it can turn girls against each other. Case in point…this year, a bunch of my students were on the Pop-Warner cheerleading team which just so happen to place first at the national competition at Disney World. Great for them…no easy accomplishment. However, a couple of students confessed to me how they were outcast from the team because they refused to drink and have sex like the rest of “the team” was doing (yes, I’m talking 13-year olds). While I know the argument can be made that this can happen with any sports team, I would beg to differ. As a longtime coach of girls’ basketball, my husband has found that his girls are and have always been, very accepting of the individuality that each player brings to the team on every level. Personality differences, sexual orientation differences, academic differences, etc. It makes sense, considering that basketball is a team sport that thrives on the individual talents of each player. In cheerleading, that’s just not so. The more you are just like everyone else, the better you are. It’s a pack mentality that spills over into the personal lives of these girls.
Why did I sign her up for it then? Well, Rob and I have always encouraged McKenna to have a “polite bite” of everything and that includes activities. She’s tried soccer, swimming, T-ball, dance, gymnastics, and Girl Scouts, all of which she has enjoyed, but has not latched onto. I guess cheerleading is a logical step for an American girl and I’m hoping it will be another stepping stone on the way to something that clearly demonstrates that a girl can do and be whatever she wants and that her sense of self comes from herself, not from what boys say, think or do.
Until then, I will support her enjoyment of cheerleading. I’ll continue to show enthusiasm as she shares with me what new stretches or routines she has learned. But I will do it while reminding her that she brings something unique to the team, that her individual sense of self, her confidence, her humor, her ability to make respectful and responsible decisions is what makes her such an awesome cheerleader, an awesome team player and one amazing little girl.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
If You Want to Visit...
I think I'm too relaxed about things. I probably don't wash my hands the fifty times you are "supposed to" when handling a newborn. I don't feel the need to sterilize everything the baby touches. Recently, a friend of mine emailed me wanting to set up a visitation date. She jokingly wrote "I can't wait to hold him. You will let me, right?" Below was my response...
Since you would like to hold him, please be able to provide the following:
1) Photo identification.
2) Criminal history report with a copy of a full set of fingerprints.
3) Three letters of recommendation stating years of experience holding infants, years of education received in infant care, and psychological reports on you and your immediate and extended family members. No letters may be written by family members or friends.
4) All articles of clothing worn upon arrival must be washed three times in Dreft and cannot contain remnants of allergens. Clothes will not be provided for you if this expectation cannot be met.
5) Fingernails must be manicured so that nails do not exceed 1/16th of an inch beyond the fingertip. Clear polish only.
6) Shiny jewelry, toys, unique noise-making or any other attention getting contraption will not be tolerated and are therefore prohibited. We wouldn't want to draw his attention away from his mother now, would we?
7) Women must wear a sports bra one full size below their standard wear. This is to deter baby from trying to feed from the wrong person.
8) Men with enlarged breasts must purchase a similar item to achieve same effect as in #7(see Cosmo Kramer for "The Bro").
9) All comments regarding child must be prefaced with phrases such as "This adorable boy...", "He is so lucky because..." and "Girls will melt when they notice..." Visitors must request in writing any additional phrases they wish to preface their statements with at least 48 hours ahead of scheduled appointment.
10) All comments regarding the mother, her pregnancy and/or her post-partum state must include phrases complimenting her with such terms as "exceptional", "phenomenal", "sexy", "hot" and "inspirational".
Failure to complete any of the above will immediately result in eviction from the property and from the life of both mother and child effective immediately. I look forward to your arrival.
Since you would like to hold him, please be able to provide the following:
1) Photo identification.
2) Criminal history report with a copy of a full set of fingerprints.
3) Three letters of recommendation stating years of experience holding infants, years of education received in infant care, and psychological reports on you and your immediate and extended family members. No letters may be written by family members or friends.
4) All articles of clothing worn upon arrival must be washed three times in Dreft and cannot contain remnants of allergens. Clothes will not be provided for you if this expectation cannot be met.
5) Fingernails must be manicured so that nails do not exceed 1/16th of an inch beyond the fingertip. Clear polish only.
6) Shiny jewelry, toys, unique noise-making or any other attention getting contraption will not be tolerated and are therefore prohibited. We wouldn't want to draw his attention away from his mother now, would we?
7) Women must wear a sports bra one full size below their standard wear. This is to deter baby from trying to feed from the wrong person.
8) Men with enlarged breasts must purchase a similar item to achieve same effect as in #7(see Cosmo Kramer for "The Bro").
9) All comments regarding child must be prefaced with phrases such as "This adorable boy...", "He is so lucky because..." and "Girls will melt when they notice..." Visitors must request in writing any additional phrases they wish to preface their statements with at least 48 hours ahead of scheduled appointment.
10) All comments regarding the mother, her pregnancy and/or her post-partum state must include phrases complimenting her with such terms as "exceptional", "phenomenal", "sexy", "hot" and "inspirational".
Failure to complete any of the above will immediately result in eviction from the property and from the life of both mother and child effective immediately. I look forward to your arrival.
Robbie's Arrival: July 23, 2008!
THE RUN DOWN:
1) My dad called the night before the induction and sang, "The sun (son) will come out tomorrow/bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow/there'll be sun (son)...Just thinking about/tomorrow..." etc., etc.. I needed the laugh.
2) 5:30am: Drove through viscious storms to arrive at L&D at 6am.
3) 7am: 1cm dialated. Received pitocin.
4) 7:30: Still no pain but now at 4cm. Because things are progressing quickly, Doc orders epidural.
5) 7:50: Anesthesiologist begins epidural procedure. Due to excessive swelling (yes, even in my spine) he struggled.
6) 8:25: Epidural complete. To his credit, anesthesiologist states he's worried because I felt tingling too quickly.
7) 10am: No change in dilation. Disappointed.
8) 10:30: Doc breaks water to move things along. Doc chit chats with hubby telling him what a saint he is to be married to me. "No matter what wrong you do in your life, you're going to heaven because you're married to her. From the moment she walked into my office, she let me know who was in charge...and it wasn't me." Okay...maybe I've been too proactive.
9) 12:00pm or so: Six cm.
10) 1:30: Turn on Yankee game to help pass the time. Doc and hubby sit and watch the game.
11) 2:45: Doc tells me I'm fully dialated and asks if I can wait until the game is over before we begin pushing. He and hubby laugh and then proceed to sit down to watch the game.
12) 2:50: I ask Doc and hubby if I needed to turn off the TV to get the show on the road.
13) 2:53: Pushing began.
14) 3:06: Robbie arrives!
15) 3:15: I about vomit as I watch the doctor sew what seems to be a quilt down below. He later states it was "just a couple of stitches". So much for perineal massage.
16) 5:00: Spinal headache began do to epidural going "too far". The worst migraine I've ever had. Drugs didn't work, hydration didn't work. Was informed of a last ditch effort to relieve the pressure build up. Have to make decision whether I should "ride it out because it may go away in a week or so" or to do the procedure.
11) 35 hours after Robbie's arrival (1:30amThursday night/Friday morning): a different anesthesiologist and a nurse arrive to do what is called a blood patch. They withdrew 18CC's of my own blood, went back into my spine and injected me with blood to try to create a clot to stop the leakage. I seriously wouldn't wish a blood patch on my worst enemy. It really sucked.
12) Discharged Friday afternoon and I've arrived home to enjoy a family of four!
1) My dad called the night before the induction and sang, "The sun (son) will come out tomorrow/bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow/there'll be sun (son)...Just thinking about/tomorrow..." etc., etc.. I needed the laugh.
2) 5:30am: Drove through viscious storms to arrive at L&D at 6am.
3) 7am: 1cm dialated. Received pitocin.
4) 7:30: Still no pain but now at 4cm. Because things are progressing quickly, Doc orders epidural.
5) 7:50: Anesthesiologist begins epidural procedure. Due to excessive swelling (yes, even in my spine) he struggled.
6) 8:25: Epidural complete. To his credit, anesthesiologist states he's worried because I felt tingling too quickly.
7) 10am: No change in dilation. Disappointed.
8) 10:30: Doc breaks water to move things along. Doc chit chats with hubby telling him what a saint he is to be married to me. "No matter what wrong you do in your life, you're going to heaven because you're married to her. From the moment she walked into my office, she let me know who was in charge...and it wasn't me." Okay...maybe I've been too proactive.
9) 12:00pm or so: Six cm.
10) 1:30: Turn on Yankee game to help pass the time. Doc and hubby sit and watch the game.
11) 2:45: Doc tells me I'm fully dialated and asks if I can wait until the game is over before we begin pushing. He and hubby laugh and then proceed to sit down to watch the game.
12) 2:50: I ask Doc and hubby if I needed to turn off the TV to get the show on the road.
13) 2:53: Pushing began.
14) 3:06: Robbie arrives!
15) 3:15: I about vomit as I watch the doctor sew what seems to be a quilt down below. He later states it was "just a couple of stitches". So much for perineal massage.
16) 5:00: Spinal headache began do to epidural going "too far". The worst migraine I've ever had. Drugs didn't work, hydration didn't work. Was informed of a last ditch effort to relieve the pressure build up. Have to make decision whether I should "ride it out because it may go away in a week or so" or to do the procedure.
11) 35 hours after Robbie's arrival (1:30amThursday night/Friday morning): a different anesthesiologist and a nurse arrive to do what is called a blood patch. They withdrew 18CC's of my own blood, went back into my spine and injected me with blood to try to create a clot to stop the leakage. I seriously wouldn't wish a blood patch on my worst enemy. It really sucked.
12) Discharged Friday afternoon and I've arrived home to enjoy a family of four!
Monday, July 21, 2008
McKenna's Point of View
Life through the eyes of a six year old is simple. Everything falls into a neat, little compartment that they've created in their minds. My daughter is no different, especially when it comes to my pregnancy.
McKenna: So, where do you get the milk from?
Me: Well, the woman's body has the right hormones and chemistry that it makes milk on it's own. We're like cows that way.
McKenna: Boys aren't like that, right? They're more like pigs. They just get dirty!
McKenna: So, where do you get the milk from?
Me: Well, the woman's body has the right hormones and chemistry that it makes milk on it's own. We're like cows that way.
McKenna: Boys aren't like that, right? They're more like pigs. They just get dirty!
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Airing My Dirty Laundry
I wanted to shop today, to walk around and get some exercise. So I went to Ulta and bought some salon shampoo and conditioner and then headed off to Super Stop and Shop to hit the salad bar for lunch. I perused the Starbucks counter and decided "why not?". I got my Mocha Frappacino light, paid for the salad and decided to head to Borders right next door to take advantage of their 40% off CDs coupon. I look down and there it was...three nickel-sized drops of my Frappacino on my nicely bleached, white T-shirt!!! What the F*#!! This will be the third shirt I've had to put on today! The first one was damaged by an overactive pour of liquid make-up. The second was thrown in the laundry bin after I dropped my egg whites on it...unfortunately I like my whites with green taco sauce! Now this? I've decided to become a semi-nudist. It's quite freeing, actually. I'm now walking around the house with my sports bra on and white slippers (my feet hurt--sorry for the visual). That's it. Very low potential of ruining clothes. Granted, I would put some panties on, but here's the thing: I need to wash all of those too. It seems that I've become incapable of removing them before the pee begins to drip out. Sure, I try to wipe the panties with water or soak up the drops, but there's only so many times that can happen before fresh ones are needed. Besides, I'm home alone, so no one can see. Oops...gotta' go...I forgot to close the curtains and the neighbors are out!
My Fantasy Rant to OB/Gyn
Welcome to my blog. After some encouragement from friends, I've decided to begin publishing some of my thoughts and attitudes regarding my pregnancy. Considering I'm due anyday at this point, I guess it's a good way to pass the time. I'm completely over the whole "nesting" concept. Screw it...let my house look like crap.
This was written in my second trimester of pregnancy.
Doctor: How’s it going?
Me: How is it going? Well, it depends on how you are feeling today. If you are in the ‘I really can’t wait to listen to my patients today’ kind of mood, I’ll tell you. If you are in the ‘The weather’s getting warmer and I can’t wait to hit the links. Patients are such a pain in the ass’ kind of mood, I’ll tell you I’m fine. So which is it, doc?
Doc: (pause…pause) Tell me what’s going on.
Me: Well, sir, I’ll tell you. After lying in bed for eight hours, only four or five of which I was actually sleeping, I run to the bathroom hoping not to leak on the way. Once I’m done, I follow your orders and lie back down in bed to put on clean underwear and slip on my vulva supporter…you know, that sixty dollar not-covered-by-insurance contraption that’s basically a jock strap for women, which was no doubt created by a man because all it really does is chafe my inner thighs. The thing doesn’t prevent the blood flowing to varicosities whatsoever; it just rests there looking like a transvestite’s dream. At least they took the time to put decorative lace on the front so I can tell if it’s inside out or not. Once it’s tightly adjusted, I reach over and slap my husband for laughing and I painstakingly get out of bed. I get dressed, but only after I use the body adhesive glue you suggested to keep my compression stockings from falling down. Did I tell you that when I take them off it’s more painful than getting a Brazilian bikini wax, an act I can’t even imagine doing right now? Think about if you had chest hair removed, sir. I finish getting dressed, then I get my six year old ready for school, drop her off and drive 45 minutes to a job where I’m on my feet all day. With each step, the veins remind me that I’m going to be 40 this year. Not just the veins in the legs…I’m talking about the ones in my vulva. Quite frankly, sir, I feel like I have a pinched nerve in my pussy. Imagine if every step you took, every time you got up from a chair or every time you rolled over in bed, someone grabbed your testicles and twisted them. That’s what it feels like. Oh! And lately, that feeling has been entering the walls of my vagina. Not like, “Oh baby, that’s close to my G-spot,”…no. It’s more like “Holy crap, I want my epidural now!” By noon, my ankles have turned into cankles. I’ve taken off my wedding ring, because my fingers are beginning to swell and I don’t want them chopping it off. Lucky for me, I now get the “Oh, look at her. She’s pregnant and single,” look from strangers at Starbucks. Yes, Starbucks. I’m drinking caffeine. One small latte a day, that’s it. I need to, you see, because caffeine is my only vice left. Usually, I drink wine or masturbate, but with the pinched nerve in my pussy, masturbation is not exactly an option and I’d like to wait until my third trimester before I start kicking back some wine every night. Anyway, after I teach a bunch of 13-year olds all day, I race home to pick up my daughter because my husband just started his second straight season of coaching and he doesn’t get home until 8:30 or so. She and I go over homework, I make an attempt at dinner, and I have to remind her why I can’t chase her outside or play tag or baseball. She says, “Oh yeah…the pain in your poonie”. That’s what we call it. It’s Caribbean and it’s much better than ‘vagina’. Once she’s in bed, I lose some more skin cells by ripping off my stockings. I take off my jock strap and stare in wonder at my newly engorged breasts that are spilling out of my bra. I shower, since I’m not allowed to do it in the morning, per your orders. Oh! I once made the mistake of using my compact mirror to look at my vulva. It looks bruised…it’s no longer rosy pink. It’s purple. I then lie down in bed, stuff a small pillow underneath my lower back and sleep for an hour or two before I wake up to the pinching-pussy because I need to switch positions. Furthermore, every Friday I break into tears because I’m exhausted and quite frankly, sir, if I have to work until the end of June, I’ve estimated that I will have drunk about six bottles of wine, denied my husband sex for ten straight months and sue your ass for causing our divorce. So, that being said, may I please go on bedrest?
I did end up having a very similar conversation with my doc. He laughed to a professional level and our relationship has not been the same since.
This was written in my second trimester of pregnancy.
Doctor: How’s it going?
Me: How is it going? Well, it depends on how you are feeling today. If you are in the ‘I really can’t wait to listen to my patients today’ kind of mood, I’ll tell you. If you are in the ‘The weather’s getting warmer and I can’t wait to hit the links. Patients are such a pain in the ass’ kind of mood, I’ll tell you I’m fine. So which is it, doc?
Doc: (pause…pause) Tell me what’s going on.
Me: Well, sir, I’ll tell you. After lying in bed for eight hours, only four or five of which I was actually sleeping, I run to the bathroom hoping not to leak on the way. Once I’m done, I follow your orders and lie back down in bed to put on clean underwear and slip on my vulva supporter…you know, that sixty dollar not-covered-by-insurance contraption that’s basically a jock strap for women, which was no doubt created by a man because all it really does is chafe my inner thighs. The thing doesn’t prevent the blood flowing to varicosities whatsoever; it just rests there looking like a transvestite’s dream. At least they took the time to put decorative lace on the front so I can tell if it’s inside out or not. Once it’s tightly adjusted, I reach over and slap my husband for laughing and I painstakingly get out of bed. I get dressed, but only after I use the body adhesive glue you suggested to keep my compression stockings from falling down. Did I tell you that when I take them off it’s more painful than getting a Brazilian bikini wax, an act I can’t even imagine doing right now? Think about if you had chest hair removed, sir. I finish getting dressed, then I get my six year old ready for school, drop her off and drive 45 minutes to a job where I’m on my feet all day. With each step, the veins remind me that I’m going to be 40 this year. Not just the veins in the legs…I’m talking about the ones in my vulva. Quite frankly, sir, I feel like I have a pinched nerve in my pussy. Imagine if every step you took, every time you got up from a chair or every time you rolled over in bed, someone grabbed your testicles and twisted them. That’s what it feels like. Oh! And lately, that feeling has been entering the walls of my vagina. Not like, “Oh baby, that’s close to my G-spot,”…no. It’s more like “Holy crap, I want my epidural now!” By noon, my ankles have turned into cankles. I’ve taken off my wedding ring, because my fingers are beginning to swell and I don’t want them chopping it off. Lucky for me, I now get the “Oh, look at her. She’s pregnant and single,” look from strangers at Starbucks. Yes, Starbucks. I’m drinking caffeine. One small latte a day, that’s it. I need to, you see, because caffeine is my only vice left. Usually, I drink wine or masturbate, but with the pinched nerve in my pussy, masturbation is not exactly an option and I’d like to wait until my third trimester before I start kicking back some wine every night. Anyway, after I teach a bunch of 13-year olds all day, I race home to pick up my daughter because my husband just started his second straight season of coaching and he doesn’t get home until 8:30 or so. She and I go over homework, I make an attempt at dinner, and I have to remind her why I can’t chase her outside or play tag or baseball. She says, “Oh yeah…the pain in your poonie”. That’s what we call it. It’s Caribbean and it’s much better than ‘vagina’. Once she’s in bed, I lose some more skin cells by ripping off my stockings. I take off my jock strap and stare in wonder at my newly engorged breasts that are spilling out of my bra. I shower, since I’m not allowed to do it in the morning, per your orders. Oh! I once made the mistake of using my compact mirror to look at my vulva. It looks bruised…it’s no longer rosy pink. It’s purple. I then lie down in bed, stuff a small pillow underneath my lower back and sleep for an hour or two before I wake up to the pinching-pussy because I need to switch positions. Furthermore, every Friday I break into tears because I’m exhausted and quite frankly, sir, if I have to work until the end of June, I’ve estimated that I will have drunk about six bottles of wine, denied my husband sex for ten straight months and sue your ass for causing our divorce. So, that being said, may I please go on bedrest?
I did end up having a very similar conversation with my doc. He laughed to a professional level and our relationship has not been the same since.
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