When I was younger, there were a few things of which I was absolutely certain: 1) My parents couldn't possibly understand my angst, 2) my personal boundaries were firm and well defined, and 3) when I died, wherever I ended up, Jim Morrison would be waiting for me and I would finally get laid properly and often. Now I'm older and I can see that, while my parents probably never had the same angst that I had (have,) they had their own brand. Jim Morrison is probably not going to be waiting for me, but that's cool 'cause I'm not waiting for my carnal rewards after death (somewhere along the way, someone in charge finally felt me deserving of a talented man and gave me the strength to say the magic words, "No, darling, a little to the left.") But through the years, my boundaries had become fuzzy, less defined, and oh so easy to cross.
I can almost see when things started going bad. When I was 18, I fell in love with a guy of 21. I totally lost myself to him. I'm not sure why or how, but I'm certain that it was my own doing and I hold nothing against him. Yeah, he made some pretty heinous mistakes, but dear Elvis, he was 21! These days, I wouldn't trust a 21 year old to tie my shoes much less protect my sense of self worth. Besides, that wasn't his job. This guy and I endured a pretty rough experience or two and I came to find myself losing every bit of myself to him. I gave my power away - maybe because I felt like it wasn't enough to protect me. Man, 21 and 18 = the blind leading the stupid.
Regardless, nothing with me was ever the same after that. What followed was about 5 years of self destructive stupidity. We all have those years, eh? I did a lot of things I shouldn't have, said a lot of things I shouldn't have, and certainly let a lot of folks get away with things they never should have gotten away with. I had no boundaries - well, none that couldn't be persuaded. While I'm not proud of a lot of what I did and a lot of the choices I made (and I sure as hell wouldn't repeat them,) I'm not sorry that I went through it all. It's made me who I am. I am learning and getting stronger again. I'm connecting to that bad ass inside more and more often these days. I like who I have become, who I am. And who I am just keeps getting better.
So much better, in fact, that it is again becoming easy (and secretly fun) for me to say NO. No, I cannot come this minute, I have my own things going on. No, I cannot bring those samples because they currently don't exist and I'm not going to kill myself creating them. No, I will not let you eat my last piece of chocolate - I'm bleeding and it's essential to me as oxygen. If you want to keep that finger, you'll get it out of my ice cream right now. Yes I can help you but no, not in that way. No, I will not support you when you continue to make asinine choices. NO, I will not say it's okay when it's not. NO, I will not agree with you when I think you're being an idiot. No, I will not compliment you when you're being an asshole. No, I will not add a zipper to that bag - I didn't design it that way, thank you very much.
You know what? Saying NO works so well that no one argues with it. NO is a complete sentence. Anyone who doesn't listen when you say NO is trying to control you. Heh Heh Heh. Go ahead, sucker, just TRY to control me. Hope you have insurance.
In the coming years, I'll be the one who cannot possibly understand my kids' angst. I'll be the one who is so uncool that I've never possibly experienced anything as profound as their lives. My boundaries will, hopefully, continue to strengthen when they need to and flex when called for, but hopefully my resolve to respect them will grow until the very end. And, when I finally get to where I'm destined after this time on the planet, I just hope Mr. Morrison can handle it when I tell him NO.
Friday, September 30, 2005
And that is how you do that!
In my line of work, the word "Induction" usually evokes one thought - "UGH." Just basic facts - inductions hugely increase the risk of cesarean, labor is often harder to handle and integrate because there's no natural ebb and flow of things, and they are usually LONG and end with a baby looking less than happy and a Mom either being a) drugged or b) so tired she couldn't care less if she gave birth to a boy, a girl, or a gorilla.
Occasionally, however, things are different.
Yesterday, I attended an induction with some clients with whom I've been working for a few months. Induction was the second to last thing that they wanted, but their care provider was giving them the choice of that or the very last thing they wanted, a cesarean. After considering those options, as well as the option of doing nothing at all, my clients decided that an induction would be fine -they wanted to see their baby. These folks had done it all right. They read the *right* books, took the best childbirth education class around, hired a doula, asked the hard questions, made good choices. Both my partner and I felt really good about them. If an induction could be awesome, which it could, then these would be the folks who could do it.
I could go on and on about the nitty gritty details, but 1) you probably don't care, 2) it's not my place to tell their story, and 3) it doesn't really matter. What DOES matter is that this couple made this birth fun. Plain fun. Bullet points of happiness about this birth (from my eyes.)
Congratulations A, J, and Baby Z. You showed them. You showed them all. You did it with style and grace and you did it under your own power, your own way. That's just hard core. I'll come to your baby-having parties anytime.
And that is how you do that.
Occasionally, however, things are different.
Yesterday, I attended an induction with some clients with whom I've been working for a few months. Induction was the second to last thing that they wanted, but their care provider was giving them the choice of that or the very last thing they wanted, a cesarean. After considering those options, as well as the option of doing nothing at all, my clients decided that an induction would be fine -they wanted to see their baby. These folks had done it all right. They read the *right* books, took the best childbirth education class around, hired a doula, asked the hard questions, made good choices. Both my partner and I felt really good about them. If an induction could be awesome, which it could, then these would be the folks who could do it.
I could go on and on about the nitty gritty details, but 1) you probably don't care, 2) it's not my place to tell their story, and 3) it doesn't really matter. What DOES matter is that this couple made this birth fun. Plain fun. Bullet points of happiness about this birth (from my eyes.)
- in 13 and half hours, less than one full IV bag of pitocin was used. Yep. awesome
- positioning was never limited. No one ever said, "You can't do this, you can't do that, get back into bed."
- Internal exams were kept to HER request (unheard of in the hospital.)
- No one flinched at her eating and drinking at will
- Multimedia included music by Johnny Cash, The Who, and the Ramones and TV of King of the Hill, and That 70's Show. You know that makes me happy.
- Mom never once asked for any pain meds and no one even mentioned it.
- Mom chose her desired way of pushing.
- Baby boy born looking happy and healthy (and beyond adorable) and not even once taken out of Mom's arms until she was ready.
Congratulations A, J, and Baby Z. You showed them. You showed them all. You did it with style and grace and you did it under your own power, your own way. That's just hard core. I'll come to your baby-having parties anytime.
And that is how you do that.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Pick a title, any title
Random thoughts -
I posted new pictures to Kohleidoscope today. There are some before and after shots of two bags that were custom ordered so folks can see how they start out and how the end up. Seriously different. And, there are pictures of 2 bags that are knitted and lined - no felting. They're pretty darn cute, cheaper than felted bags of their size, and up for grabs. I'm getting feedback on these things since putting the blog up. Wahoo!
I have been an evil Mom lately. Just really no compassion. Hard assed. Think Red from That 70's Show. Happy Fun Time has been over. Shit, that really sucks for my kids. I mean, come on, they're just a breath away from still be babies, you know? Bad Mom. Bad Mom. Bad Mom. Guess I'll have to fork out the big dough for the stuffed gorillas when we hit the Zoo in a couple of weeks. Yeah, I know, buying my kids. I gotta say, at this point, it it's between buying them and beating them, I'm sure that they'd appreciate being bought. We can sort out the mess later.
I've been working like mad lately. DDFF and I have a slew of clients coming due. That means we're going to births AND fitting in a couple of prenatals every week. And I make appointments to see folks for Kohleidoscope probably once a week. For the last 3 weeks, B has had to put the boys to bed without me at least 3 out of 7 nights. No big deal, in the long run, but I tell you, it's quite a change from the months that I hardly ever missed a bedtime story. It's good for me. And it's good for them. And no one is sneezing at the looser purse strings, you know?
DDFF has written a post about her weight loss. Awesome! She's doing great and I'm so proud of her. I tell you, we're two foxy doulas. Oh my, sometimes I crack myself up.
Kindermusik rocks. Just rocks. Check it out. Enough said.
My doula gig is getting in the way of me enjoying my one (hush, my friends) trashy vice - Days of Our Lives. Yep. Yesterday a baby was born and I have to tell you - just about the ONLY thing they got right is that this baby didn't come out the mother's nose. Holy Cannole, do some damned research, folks!! Even us birthy folks look for an easy escape now and then, a fantasy to get lost in while folding the laundry and wiping noses and cuing up birth videos. DON'T BE A BUZZ KILL. Maybe I'll get a job making sure these folks don't look so asinine. I think Salem could use a doula, eh?
This coming weekend I'm going to a joint party (again, my friends, HUSH, it's not that kind of joint party,) for my nephew and one of my nieces. It's a birthday party. Somehow, they'll be 12 and 6. The 12 year old's, my nephew's, was the first labor / birth I ever attended. A failed induction that ended in a cesarean, this was the birth that made me see that it could be, had to be, another way. Unreal. He's grown into an amazing young man - actually becoming more man than boy every single day. But he still lets me hug him, as long as I listen all about his girlfriends (there are many.) The 6 year old reminds me of myself. She's blond haired and blue eyed and feisty as all hell. She doesn't take shit from anyone. Right on. Happy birthday, folks.
Love and Rockets forever.
I posted new pictures to Kohleidoscope today. There are some before and after shots of two bags that were custom ordered so folks can see how they start out and how the end up. Seriously different. And, there are pictures of 2 bags that are knitted and lined - no felting. They're pretty darn cute, cheaper than felted bags of their size, and up for grabs. I'm getting feedback on these things since putting the blog up. Wahoo!
I have been an evil Mom lately. Just really no compassion. Hard assed. Think Red from That 70's Show. Happy Fun Time has been over. Shit, that really sucks for my kids. I mean, come on, they're just a breath away from still be babies, you know? Bad Mom. Bad Mom. Bad Mom. Guess I'll have to fork out the big dough for the stuffed gorillas when we hit the Zoo in a couple of weeks. Yeah, I know, buying my kids. I gotta say, at this point, it it's between buying them and beating them, I'm sure that they'd appreciate being bought. We can sort out the mess later.
I've been working like mad lately. DDFF and I have a slew of clients coming due. That means we're going to births AND fitting in a couple of prenatals every week. And I make appointments to see folks for Kohleidoscope probably once a week. For the last 3 weeks, B has had to put the boys to bed without me at least 3 out of 7 nights. No big deal, in the long run, but I tell you, it's quite a change from the months that I hardly ever missed a bedtime story. It's good for me. And it's good for them. And no one is sneezing at the looser purse strings, you know?
DDFF has written a post about her weight loss. Awesome! She's doing great and I'm so proud of her. I tell you, we're two foxy doulas. Oh my, sometimes I crack myself up.
Kindermusik rocks. Just rocks. Check it out. Enough said.
My doula gig is getting in the way of me enjoying my one (hush, my friends) trashy vice - Days of Our Lives. Yep. Yesterday a baby was born and I have to tell you - just about the ONLY thing they got right is that this baby didn't come out the mother's nose. Holy Cannole, do some damned research, folks!! Even us birthy folks look for an easy escape now and then, a fantasy to get lost in while folding the laundry and wiping noses and cuing up birth videos. DON'T BE A BUZZ KILL. Maybe I'll get a job making sure these folks don't look so asinine. I think Salem could use a doula, eh?
This coming weekend I'm going to a joint party (again, my friends, HUSH, it's not that kind of joint party,) for my nephew and one of my nieces. It's a birthday party. Somehow, they'll be 12 and 6. The 12 year old's, my nephew's, was the first labor / birth I ever attended. A failed induction that ended in a cesarean, this was the birth that made me see that it could be, had to be, another way. Unreal. He's grown into an amazing young man - actually becoming more man than boy every single day. But he still lets me hug him, as long as I listen all about his girlfriends (there are many.) The 6 year old reminds me of myself. She's blond haired and blue eyed and feisty as all hell. She doesn't take shit from anyone. Right on. Happy birthday, folks.
Love and Rockets forever.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
With thanks
A little boy was born in the wee hours of the morning. I was there, as was my business partner. We've done births together before. Many, in fact. It's always fun working together. Almost always after, we meet for dinner and talk about those moments we'll always remember - the funny thing that Mom said right after that whopper contraction, finding the stash of chocolate, the amazing sight of a baby looking around underwater while waiting for the rest of his or her little body to slide out into the birthing tub. In our line of work, talking about details of a birth with folks who weren't there is a no-no. Sure, we might tell friends, family, and other doulas about this or that, but it's always with a tight lip. Never is a name mentioned, never an identifying detail. We adhere to a strict code of confidentiality in order to protect the family's privacy and the sactity of birth. Birth is passionate. Birth is intimate. Birth is personal. Birth is sacred. It's also sometimes funny, jubilant, intense, annoying, exhausting, trying, challenging, mysterious. It's always emotional. Having a partner with whom to discuss and debrief, for lack of a better term, is a blessing and I'm grateful that I've been gifted with such an amazing one.
Sometimes, having a partner means the difference between hanging up the birth bag for good and slipping on those funky purple Birki's and dashing out the door at 2 in the morning to help greet the next new person in town.
I've always written about the beauty of my job and sometimes the complaints of my job. Really, the beauty goes without saying. I mean, c'mon, I get to see people come out of people. I get to hear a child's first sounds. I get to be present for that magical moment when parents lay eyes on this new person for the first time, and I get to see the realization between long lovers that, "wow, we did it! We made that little human from our love."
The complaints? Well, the hours suck. No question about it. Sometimes I get a nice and easy butter birth and get home in enough time to kiss the kids good night, or at least fall into bed myself early enough to make saying good (very early) morning to my kids less excruciating. Most of the time, however, I go 24 hours or more without sleep after getting called out to a birth about 3 minutes before I finally drift off to sleep after a long, haggard assed day of being Mom. As I get older, it takes longer and longer to recover from a birth and the "hangover" that comes the next day seems to last longer than it used to. Most of the newbie doula birth obsession has long since faded into a pragmatic approach. I don't jump out of bed in the middle of the night with quite so much excitement and fervor as I once did. I'm noticing that I'm becoming less tolerant of labor arresting whining and much more apt to take the, "Yes you can so do this - you're a mother and mothers can do ANYTHING, so get on up and have this baby" point of view.
Some folks may say that I've become jaded. I disagree. I think I'm seasoned - and getting more and more so with each rapidly successive birth. I'm certainly still learning from each one, but when you stop learning from them, you should just stop doing them all together.
This morning, I saw a little boy decide to stay in this world. I saw him come out looking like there was no hope, but feeling and knowing in my heart that he wasn't done here. As the doctor and my business partner worked to bring this beautiful boy into his own awareness with stimulation, oxygen, and the breaths from their own lungs, I helped out by reminding the parents that their son needed to hear them, so talk to him now. RIGHT NOW. I warmed towels, grabbed the oxygen tank, spoke to this old soul in a new body, gathered hats and blankets and faith. As I put hat after hat onto this soft new head, I prayed to every higher power I've ever known, believed in, or even heard of. Please, Elvis, please help him. Help us. Baby, breathe. Please breathe. Come on baby, breathe for us again.
And he did.
As he got his first ride out into the world (in an ambulance - what boy wouldn't be thrilled with that?) he got pink and started to cry. And now, nearly 20 hours after his birth, I'm matching his cries with my own. As it turns out, this little boy is fine and beautiful and, most likely, enjoying a long comforting meal at his mother's breast right this minute. There's some controversy about whether or not he will remember this, whether infants remember their births. I have my own opinions about that and other folks have theirs. What's irrefutable, however, is that I will remember this one forever, as will the other folks who were there. It has had a profound effect on me. This little guy left his mark on my heart.
My partner and I didn't meet tonight for our usual dine and decompress session. We've spoken on the phone several times, but I think we both know that what we experienced together today doesn't need to be voiced- at the moment, there just aren't words. Well, not words that we need to say to each other, anyhow. This is also the advantage of having a partner - sometimes a look or a pause or a breath says it all. DDFF, I know. Oh, I know. For the rest of you, if you know my partner and you know her blog, be sure to read today's entry. It's beautiful. A tribute. A benediction, of sorts. An "I know" moment of her own.
Thanks for taking the leap, little boy. I'm glad you are sticking around. And, in appreciation for what you've given me, I'll tell you where to find the good chocolate - it's stashed in the pantry.
Sometimes, having a partner means the difference between hanging up the birth bag for good and slipping on those funky purple Birki's and dashing out the door at 2 in the morning to help greet the next new person in town.
I've always written about the beauty of my job and sometimes the complaints of my job. Really, the beauty goes without saying. I mean, c'mon, I get to see people come out of people. I get to hear a child's first sounds. I get to be present for that magical moment when parents lay eyes on this new person for the first time, and I get to see the realization between long lovers that, "wow, we did it! We made that little human from our love."
The complaints? Well, the hours suck. No question about it. Sometimes I get a nice and easy butter birth and get home in enough time to kiss the kids good night, or at least fall into bed myself early enough to make saying good (very early) morning to my kids less excruciating. Most of the time, however, I go 24 hours or more without sleep after getting called out to a birth about 3 minutes before I finally drift off to sleep after a long, haggard assed day of being Mom. As I get older, it takes longer and longer to recover from a birth and the "hangover" that comes the next day seems to last longer than it used to. Most of the newbie doula birth obsession has long since faded into a pragmatic approach. I don't jump out of bed in the middle of the night with quite so much excitement and fervor as I once did. I'm noticing that I'm becoming less tolerant of labor arresting whining and much more apt to take the, "Yes you can so do this - you're a mother and mothers can do ANYTHING, so get on up and have this baby" point of view.
Some folks may say that I've become jaded. I disagree. I think I'm seasoned - and getting more and more so with each rapidly successive birth. I'm certainly still learning from each one, but when you stop learning from them, you should just stop doing them all together.
This morning, I saw a little boy decide to stay in this world. I saw him come out looking like there was no hope, but feeling and knowing in my heart that he wasn't done here. As the doctor and my business partner worked to bring this beautiful boy into his own awareness with stimulation, oxygen, and the breaths from their own lungs, I helped out by reminding the parents that their son needed to hear them, so talk to him now. RIGHT NOW. I warmed towels, grabbed the oxygen tank, spoke to this old soul in a new body, gathered hats and blankets and faith. As I put hat after hat onto this soft new head, I prayed to every higher power I've ever known, believed in, or even heard of. Please, Elvis, please help him. Help us. Baby, breathe. Please breathe. Come on baby, breathe for us again.
And he did.
As he got his first ride out into the world (in an ambulance - what boy wouldn't be thrilled with that?) he got pink and started to cry. And now, nearly 20 hours after his birth, I'm matching his cries with my own. As it turns out, this little boy is fine and beautiful and, most likely, enjoying a long comforting meal at his mother's breast right this minute. There's some controversy about whether or not he will remember this, whether infants remember their births. I have my own opinions about that and other folks have theirs. What's irrefutable, however, is that I will remember this one forever, as will the other folks who were there. It has had a profound effect on me. This little guy left his mark on my heart.
My partner and I didn't meet tonight for our usual dine and decompress session. We've spoken on the phone several times, but I think we both know that what we experienced together today doesn't need to be voiced- at the moment, there just aren't words. Well, not words that we need to say to each other, anyhow. This is also the advantage of having a partner - sometimes a look or a pause or a breath says it all. DDFF, I know. Oh, I know. For the rest of you, if you know my partner and you know her blog, be sure to read today's entry. It's beautiful. A tribute. A benediction, of sorts. An "I know" moment of her own.
Thanks for taking the leap, little boy. I'm glad you are sticking around. And, in appreciation for what you've given me, I'll tell you where to find the good chocolate - it's stashed in the pantry.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Monday, September 19, 2005
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Fancy Pants
That's Duck and Stealth with their Uncle B.The wedding was amazing. Just amazing. Of course, lots of things messed up. The flowers were wrong. The cake was wrong. The vocalist messed up. The groom's grandparents had to leave before the ceremony due to the cruel effects of Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, and dementia. My freaking camera decided to choose yesterday to refuse accurate automatic focusing. But, they're married and blissfully happy. And so am I.
Duck and Stealth handled the tuxedos with style.
Pretty handsome, eh?
Friday, September 16, 2005
Fifty bucks
My brother in law is getting married tomorrow. TOMORROW. That means today will be known here on out as The Day For Complete And Total Mental Breakdowns or, if you're the expressive type, HOLY FUCK AND GUACAMOLE. I'm thinking of making it a National Holiday, complete with honorary bird (an exploding crow,) and anthem (We're Not Gonna Take It, by Twisted Sister.)
I'm a control freak. I don't like to admit it, but it's true. If I don't have a hand in things, if I don't know exactly what is going on every second, if I don't have a plan, I go nuts. This is playing an interesting part in this wedding as I actually have NO role in the wedding at all. My sons are ring bearers, my husband is Best Man. I am, apparently, the panic person.
Tonight is rehearsal. I've been told that it's "oh, sometime between 5:30 and 6." I asked about the wedding, where the guys are getting dressed (I will NOT try to put a 5 year old and a 3 year old in a Tux and then drive them out of town,) and I've been told, "Oh somewhere - we just need to be ready for pictures at 4." I asked about timing and dress code and everything and have gotten, "Eh, sometime, something, whatever."
My husband is making a custom mat and frame for the bride and groom. The mat will be set out at the reception and all the guests will sign the mat. Later, the bride and groom will use the mat and frame to frame a wedding portrait of themselves. Cool, eh? The mat should be there tonight or tomorrow afternoon - my husband mentions to me that he's going to have to go buy the mat board after work TODAY and make the mat tonight. Shit on a shingle, nothing like last minute.
I asked my husband if he has black socks. His response? "Eh, I don't know. If I get off work tomorrow (holy shit, he's working tomorrow???) and find that I don't have black socks, there's a Walgreen's about 10 minutes from the church - someone can make a run to buy some!"
My husband mentions that he will work until 2. We have to be ready for pictures (read: men and boys in tuxedos with shoes on and flies zipped) by 4. It's a good 40 minutes from our house to the church. It takes my husband 15 minutes to get home from work. And he HAS to shower somewhere in between. Damn.
Stealth, the 3 year old, hates the tux. HATES it. Refuses to wear it. SCREAMS like a banshee when he sees it. Duck, the 5 year old, refuses to take it off once it's on. Mentions that he wants to look PERFECT for Uncle B's wedding. He's going to break my heart, that little one. My husband says that Duck looks so good in his tux that it makes him catch his breath. Must remember to bring tissues.
I'm really looking forward to it, however. I know I'll bawl like an infant. I know that I'll be overwhelmed with emotion for my brother in law and his new bride (who, by the way, is so amazing.) I know that I'll look up at my husband and my children and be flooded with pride and love and gratitude. I know that I'll look at my mother in law and my father in law and, as the tears flow down their cheeks (which I know will happen,) I'll probably understand why they have been so resistant to let my brother in law go. He's their baby and he's found his partner for life.
And then I'll cuss my bra that is starting to slip and hate the shoes I have on and wish like hell that someone had a little whiskey stashed in their purse.
The bride and groom are so sick of this wedding. They just want it to be over. Sincerely. I understand. They've been living together for awhile now. They own a house. They have been married in the heart from the day they met. I understand that, too. It was exactly the same for my husband and myself.
It makes me think of my wedding to B, coming up on 5 years ago. There was no rehearsal dinner. There were no tux's, no ring bearers, no seating arrangements. No one went into debt for our wedding. No one had to get measured for anything. The whole thing took about 2 minutes and cost us a whopping $50 for the marriage license.
For that $50, I got a new name, a new life, a husband, and peace of mind.
Best money I ever spent.
I'm a control freak. I don't like to admit it, but it's true. If I don't have a hand in things, if I don't know exactly what is going on every second, if I don't have a plan, I go nuts. This is playing an interesting part in this wedding as I actually have NO role in the wedding at all. My sons are ring bearers, my husband is Best Man. I am, apparently, the panic person.
Tonight is rehearsal. I've been told that it's "oh, sometime between 5:30 and 6." I asked about the wedding, where the guys are getting dressed (I will NOT try to put a 5 year old and a 3 year old in a Tux and then drive them out of town,) and I've been told, "Oh somewhere - we just need to be ready for pictures at 4." I asked about timing and dress code and everything and have gotten, "Eh, sometime, something, whatever."
My husband is making a custom mat and frame for the bride and groom. The mat will be set out at the reception and all the guests will sign the mat. Later, the bride and groom will use the mat and frame to frame a wedding portrait of themselves. Cool, eh? The mat should be there tonight or tomorrow afternoon - my husband mentions to me that he's going to have to go buy the mat board after work TODAY and make the mat tonight. Shit on a shingle, nothing like last minute.
I asked my husband if he has black socks. His response? "Eh, I don't know. If I get off work tomorrow (holy shit, he's working tomorrow???) and find that I don't have black socks, there's a Walgreen's about 10 minutes from the church - someone can make a run to buy some!"
My husband mentions that he will work until 2. We have to be ready for pictures (read: men and boys in tuxedos with shoes on and flies zipped) by 4. It's a good 40 minutes from our house to the church. It takes my husband 15 minutes to get home from work. And he HAS to shower somewhere in between. Damn.
Stealth, the 3 year old, hates the tux. HATES it. Refuses to wear it. SCREAMS like a banshee when he sees it. Duck, the 5 year old, refuses to take it off once it's on. Mentions that he wants to look PERFECT for Uncle B's wedding. He's going to break my heart, that little one. My husband says that Duck looks so good in his tux that it makes him catch his breath. Must remember to bring tissues.
I'm really looking forward to it, however. I know I'll bawl like an infant. I know that I'll be overwhelmed with emotion for my brother in law and his new bride (who, by the way, is so amazing.) I know that I'll look up at my husband and my children and be flooded with pride and love and gratitude. I know that I'll look at my mother in law and my father in law and, as the tears flow down their cheeks (which I know will happen,) I'll probably understand why they have been so resistant to let my brother in law go. He's their baby and he's found his partner for life.
And then I'll cuss my bra that is starting to slip and hate the shoes I have on and wish like hell that someone had a little whiskey stashed in their purse.
The bride and groom are so sick of this wedding. They just want it to be over. Sincerely. I understand. They've been living together for awhile now. They own a house. They have been married in the heart from the day they met. I understand that, too. It was exactly the same for my husband and myself.
It makes me think of my wedding to B, coming up on 5 years ago. There was no rehearsal dinner. There were no tux's, no ring bearers, no seating arrangements. No one went into debt for our wedding. No one had to get measured for anything. The whole thing took about 2 minutes and cost us a whopping $50 for the marriage license.
For that $50, I got a new name, a new life, a husband, and peace of mind.
Best money I ever spent.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
The Monkey is a Poet
My friend, Sandie, sent me an email today and I just felt it HAD to be posted. Thanks, Sandie. Viva La Idiot and God help the rest of us.
This is a poem made up entirely of actual quotations from George W.Bush, arranged for "aesthetic" purposes, by Washington Post writerRichard Thompson.
MAKE THE PIE HIGHER!
I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty
And potential mental losses.
Rarely is the question asked
Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the Internet
Become more few?
How many hands have I shaked?
They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.
I know that the human being
And the fish can coexist.
Families is where our nation finds hope,
Where our wings take dream.
Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize society!
Make the pie higher!
Make the pie higher!--
This is a poem made up entirely of actual quotations from George W.Bush, arranged for "aesthetic" purposes, by Washington Post writerRichard Thompson.
MAKE THE PIE HIGHER!
I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty
And potential mental losses.
Rarely is the question asked
Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the Internet
Become more few?
How many hands have I shaked?
They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.
I know that the human being
And the fish can coexist.
Families is where our nation finds hope,
Where our wings take dream.
Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize society!
Make the pie higher!
Make the pie higher!--
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Sound FX suck (or, why I wish I was deaf)
I have 2 sons. This was always what I wanted because I'm terrified at the thought of raising a girl. So, two beautiful boys that I love and cherish. Two boys who fill my heart with such love, my life with such laughter. Two boys who make me glad I'm alive. And who, quite frequently, make me want to stab ice picks into my ears.
It has been slowly creeping up on me, but it has finally hit with full, unrelenting, torturous force - my children have become full time sound effects machines.
From before I open my eyes until I blissfully close their bedroom door at night, I'm assualted by pops, hisses, spits, and assorted Thhhhhhhhhhhhhhhtttttttttttts, phhhhffffffffttttttttttts, bshewwwwwwwws, and shhhhhooots.
I'm telling you, it drives me up the fucking wall.
Ooooooooooom booooooooooop.
CRASH!!!
It has been slowly creeping up on me, but it has finally hit with full, unrelenting, torturous force - my children have become full time sound effects machines.
From before I open my eyes until I blissfully close their bedroom door at night, I'm assualted by pops, hisses, spits, and assorted Thhhhhhhhhhhhhhhtttttttttttts, phhhhffffffffttttttttttts, bshewwwwwwwws, and shhhhhooots.
I'm telling you, it drives me up the fucking wall.
Ooooooooooom booooooooooop.
CRASH!!!
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
I got it, now what?
Yesterday I started writing a post entitled Black Sheep which pretty much dealt with the fact that every family has a black sheep and, in my family, it would be me. What has become clear to me, though, is that there's a bigger picture, a bigger issue, on the forefront of my mind and it has sprinkled it's flavor on every aspect of my life. This issue has touched my black wool and my businesses, my friendships and relationships, my marriage, my intellect, my social passion. It lays out in front of me like a freshman at an afterbar - passed out, inconvenient, and insistent on tripping me up:
Be careful what you wish for - you might just get it.
When I was much younger, I never had moments of wanting to grow up to be "just like" anyone. Yes, it's true, that I once wrote a letter to my sister saying that I wanted to be like her when I grew up, but see, I still wanted to be ME. I have never really patterned myself after anyone, although I have been influenced by many. I'm very much a "little of column A, a little of column B" woman. I have a sprinkle of this, a dash of that, a heaping tablespoon of xyz, etc., blended in with my own individuality that makes me what I am. But, as a result, I see that I've become something almost unrecognizable in comparison to my family members. I spent the better part of the weekend with my extended family (sister and her family, brother and his wife, mother and her husband) in varying forms and combinations. While I was so happy to see them all, I honestly felt as though I didn't belong. That's a hard feeling to have amongst your own blood. They all like the same music - except me. They all like the same TV shows - except me (I've never even seen most of the shows they rave about, nor do I care to.) They all watch the same sport (if you can call it that) on TV - except me. They eat the same foods, drink the same beer, laugh at the same jokes, read the same magazines - except me. We sit at dinner and I have almost nothing - NOTHING - to add to the conversation. Of course, I will admit that most of the things they are passionate about do not interest me in the slightest. And, of course I know that my passions don't interest them a lick. I don't hold that against them and I hope they don't hold my disinterest against me. I'm different than them. I am the black sheep of the family. I love myself and who I am and what I do and all that I'm passionate about. I wouldn't want to change myself. It's distancing, though, sometimes - having nothing to contribute to the conversation and knowing that no one would care to contribute to any conversation that I might start. I wanted to be an original. I wanted to be an individual. I wanted to be independent. I wanted to be unique. I wanted to stand apart. And I have accomplished all of those things. Now what?
I have always dreamed of helping women in birth. I have known for nearly all my life that birthwork is what I am on this planet to do. I have worked hard and studied and practiced and researched and learned. I have made professional connections and can move comfortably around the L&D department of any given hospital, I am relatively well known amongst the homebirth and free standing birth center community in our area. I can tell you when the baby is getting close just by the smell in the room, when the "birth mojo" is heavy and thick. I can, with fairly accurate results, tell how much a woman is dilated by the sounds she is making. I am a doula and I'm good at it. I wanted to be busy. I wanted to attend a lot of births. I wanted to be well known. And now I am. I am so busy that I forget clients from the past and forget the names of the clients I have now. I'm so busy that I, along with my wonderful business partner (shout out, DDFF,) have turned a few potential clients down lately because we're too booked. This is what I wanted. Now, when the phone rings, I give Elvis a holler and ask that it's not a client in labor because I just want to sleep. And then there are days when I beg for a client to call in labor so I can mark one off the calendar. I got what I wanted. Now what?
I love making bags and other fiber arts. Bags, hats, scarves, ponchos, you name it. I dreamed of folks contacting me and asking me to make them one of a kind bags and such and then getting paid to do it. I dreamed of being known as a fiber artist. I have been so blessed to have folks promote Kohleidoscope for me - and now, folks are calling. Folks are emailing. Folks are stopping me in diners and bookstores asking me if I'm "the Sarah that makes those amazing bags?!?!?!?" And I smile and say, "Yep, that would be me." And then, like right now, I freak out about how much people want from me, what they expect from me, "What do you mean you don't have a large inventory and that you prefer to custom make them?," "What do you mean you don't have a store?," "What do you mean you won't cut me a deal - don't you know that I'm your second cousin's old college roommate's veterinarian's hairstylist??" I got what I wanted - now what?
I've always believed that what you put out into the world returns to you. I have always believed that if you ask for something and live in the way that would support what you want, it will come to you. I have always believed that if you live the life of an artist, you will walk in art, that if you issue forth dreams and desires and passion, you will be filled to the brim with those same rewards. And I guess it's my time to cash in.
From my Black Sheep status, I have learned that there's 2 types of family: the type you are born into and the type you birth around you. The family that I was born into might not share my passions for life, my political voice, my love of art and creation, my eclectic taste in music and literature. But they share my blood, my DNA, my lineage. I will love them, and they will love me, until the end of time. While we may not agree on much, we are connected. Because of them and the roots that they have given me, I've become the type of woman who has given birth to my own family. I have chosen a man with whom to share every one of my days - a man who is my best friend, my devil's advocate, my partner in crime. We, in turn, have given birth to two children who are just about the coolest little people I've ever known and I would want to spend time with them, even if we weren't related. Because of my strong roots that I know will support me regardless of my lot in life, I have been able to choose a multitude of people who started out as my friends and are now my family of the heart. My girlfriends who love me and let me love them, who will tell me that I'm out of my mind, who will knock me off my high horse when I need it, and who will throw a parade in my honor if I need it, regardless of whether or not I deserve it. I have men friends who want NOTHING at all from my body, but they want everything from my mind. I have friends who are in their 80's and friends who are 8. And they all are my family - and there are no black sheep.
As a doula, I have been blessed to see many many people take their first breaths of air and many people take their first breaths as parents. I have learned that life doesn't always go as planned and that sometimes it can go awry before it can really truly start - but I've also seen and learned that imperfections don't exist at all through the eyes of love. I've learned to fall asleep anywhere at any time because, frankly, I don't know when I'll get the chance again. I've learned that often times doing nothing at all is more powerful than doing everything you can. I've learned that scheduling is essential - and so is time without a plan. I've learned that I know more than I acknowledge and, with that knowledge, comes the awareness that there's always so much more to know.
Kohleidoscope has taught me that I am an artist and that I need to treat myself as such. I have learned that I am blessed to be creative and have an eye and a hand for fibers. I have learned how to say, "Yes, I am charging $100 for that bag," "No you cannot come to my house to look at samples," and, "It's going to take a few weeks for me to get to your order - I have to eat and sleep sometime." I have learned that a beautiful bag can make anyone feel gorgeous. I have learned that good wool is worth the price and that schwag acrylic is not. I have learned that a discount isn't a discount if it's loaded with resentment.
I've gotten so much out of all my facets. Not a stone has been left unturned, no area left unexplored. I'm spread out like a huge quilt of influences and lives. I'm but a single fiber in the rich tapestry of life.
So, now what? It doesn't matter because, I guess, most of all, I've got the knowledge and security to know that not knowing what comes next is okay.
Be careful what you wish for - you might just get it.
When I was much younger, I never had moments of wanting to grow up to be "just like" anyone. Yes, it's true, that I once wrote a letter to my sister saying that I wanted to be like her when I grew up, but see, I still wanted to be ME. I have never really patterned myself after anyone, although I have been influenced by many. I'm very much a "little of column A, a little of column B" woman. I have a sprinkle of this, a dash of that, a heaping tablespoon of xyz, etc., blended in with my own individuality that makes me what I am. But, as a result, I see that I've become something almost unrecognizable in comparison to my family members. I spent the better part of the weekend with my extended family (sister and her family, brother and his wife, mother and her husband) in varying forms and combinations. While I was so happy to see them all, I honestly felt as though I didn't belong. That's a hard feeling to have amongst your own blood. They all like the same music - except me. They all like the same TV shows - except me (I've never even seen most of the shows they rave about, nor do I care to.) They all watch the same sport (if you can call it that) on TV - except me. They eat the same foods, drink the same beer, laugh at the same jokes, read the same magazines - except me. We sit at dinner and I have almost nothing - NOTHING - to add to the conversation. Of course, I will admit that most of the things they are passionate about do not interest me in the slightest. And, of course I know that my passions don't interest them a lick. I don't hold that against them and I hope they don't hold my disinterest against me. I'm different than them. I am the black sheep of the family. I love myself and who I am and what I do and all that I'm passionate about. I wouldn't want to change myself. It's distancing, though, sometimes - having nothing to contribute to the conversation and knowing that no one would care to contribute to any conversation that I might start. I wanted to be an original. I wanted to be an individual. I wanted to be independent. I wanted to be unique. I wanted to stand apart. And I have accomplished all of those things. Now what?
I have always dreamed of helping women in birth. I have known for nearly all my life that birthwork is what I am on this planet to do. I have worked hard and studied and practiced and researched and learned. I have made professional connections and can move comfortably around the L&D department of any given hospital, I am relatively well known amongst the homebirth and free standing birth center community in our area. I can tell you when the baby is getting close just by the smell in the room, when the "birth mojo" is heavy and thick. I can, with fairly accurate results, tell how much a woman is dilated by the sounds she is making. I am a doula and I'm good at it. I wanted to be busy. I wanted to attend a lot of births. I wanted to be well known. And now I am. I am so busy that I forget clients from the past and forget the names of the clients I have now. I'm so busy that I, along with my wonderful business partner (shout out, DDFF,) have turned a few potential clients down lately because we're too booked. This is what I wanted. Now, when the phone rings, I give Elvis a holler and ask that it's not a client in labor because I just want to sleep. And then there are days when I beg for a client to call in labor so I can mark one off the calendar. I got what I wanted. Now what?
I love making bags and other fiber arts. Bags, hats, scarves, ponchos, you name it. I dreamed of folks contacting me and asking me to make them one of a kind bags and such and then getting paid to do it. I dreamed of being known as a fiber artist. I have been so blessed to have folks promote Kohleidoscope for me - and now, folks are calling. Folks are emailing. Folks are stopping me in diners and bookstores asking me if I'm "the Sarah that makes those amazing bags?!?!?!?" And I smile and say, "Yep, that would be me." And then, like right now, I freak out about how much people want from me, what they expect from me, "What do you mean you don't have a large inventory and that you prefer to custom make them?," "What do you mean you don't have a store?," "What do you mean you won't cut me a deal - don't you know that I'm your second cousin's old college roommate's veterinarian's hairstylist??" I got what I wanted - now what?
I've always believed that what you put out into the world returns to you. I have always believed that if you ask for something and live in the way that would support what you want, it will come to you. I have always believed that if you live the life of an artist, you will walk in art, that if you issue forth dreams and desires and passion, you will be filled to the brim with those same rewards. And I guess it's my time to cash in.
From my Black Sheep status, I have learned that there's 2 types of family: the type you are born into and the type you birth around you. The family that I was born into might not share my passions for life, my political voice, my love of art and creation, my eclectic taste in music and literature. But they share my blood, my DNA, my lineage. I will love them, and they will love me, until the end of time. While we may not agree on much, we are connected. Because of them and the roots that they have given me, I've become the type of woman who has given birth to my own family. I have chosen a man with whom to share every one of my days - a man who is my best friend, my devil's advocate, my partner in crime. We, in turn, have given birth to two children who are just about the coolest little people I've ever known and I would want to spend time with them, even if we weren't related. Because of my strong roots that I know will support me regardless of my lot in life, I have been able to choose a multitude of people who started out as my friends and are now my family of the heart. My girlfriends who love me and let me love them, who will tell me that I'm out of my mind, who will knock me off my high horse when I need it, and who will throw a parade in my honor if I need it, regardless of whether or not I deserve it. I have men friends who want NOTHING at all from my body, but they want everything from my mind. I have friends who are in their 80's and friends who are 8. And they all are my family - and there are no black sheep.
As a doula, I have been blessed to see many many people take their first breaths of air and many people take their first breaths as parents. I have learned that life doesn't always go as planned and that sometimes it can go awry before it can really truly start - but I've also seen and learned that imperfections don't exist at all through the eyes of love. I've learned to fall asleep anywhere at any time because, frankly, I don't know when I'll get the chance again. I've learned that often times doing nothing at all is more powerful than doing everything you can. I've learned that scheduling is essential - and so is time without a plan. I've learned that I know more than I acknowledge and, with that knowledge, comes the awareness that there's always so much more to know.
Kohleidoscope has taught me that I am an artist and that I need to treat myself as such. I have learned that I am blessed to be creative and have an eye and a hand for fibers. I have learned how to say, "Yes, I am charging $100 for that bag," "No you cannot come to my house to look at samples," and, "It's going to take a few weeks for me to get to your order - I have to eat and sleep sometime." I have learned that a beautiful bag can make anyone feel gorgeous. I have learned that good wool is worth the price and that schwag acrylic is not. I have learned that a discount isn't a discount if it's loaded with resentment.
I've gotten so much out of all my facets. Not a stone has been left unturned, no area left unexplored. I'm spread out like a huge quilt of influences and lives. I'm but a single fiber in the rich tapestry of life.
So, now what? It doesn't matter because, I guess, most of all, I've got the knowledge and security to know that not knowing what comes next is okay.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Listen up, Monkey. Listen up.
"So I'm asking Congress, please investigate this now. Take whatever idiot they have at the top of whatever agency and give me a better idiot. Give me a caring idiot. Give me a sensitive idiot. Just don't give me the same idiot.”
Aaron Broussard, president of Jefferson Parish
Aaron Broussard, president of Jefferson Parish
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Jessica survives Katrina!
Mud Mask Fun! 1997 
Many of you know my friend, Jessica Cutter, or know about her, anyway. Jessica and I have been friends for 10 years or so. She's been living in New Orleans for a few years now and, last fall, took over the position of head pastry chef at Emeril's in the Big Easy. Since the storm hit on Monday, I've been unable to get a good nights sleep due to my concern for her.
I spoke with Jessica's mother early this morning and, Thank Elvis, Jessica and 2 of her co-workers made it back to Missouri last night! THEY ARE SAFE!!! This morning, Jessica is driving her friends to KC in hopes that they will be able to find a flight back to their families, and then she will return to her parents home here in Columbia.
Jessica has lost her apartment. She's not sure what, if any, of the structure is still standing. She has lost ALL of her belongings. She has the clothes on her back and one extra set of clothes -- that's it. That's all they were able to gather up before they were forced to leave. New Orleans won't have power for 2 or 3 months and who knows how long it will take after that to rebuild.
I'll be speaking with Jessica sometime today and figuring out exactly what she needs, what other's need, what can be done. Some of her family friends may host a shower of sorts for Jessica in order to give her some of life's basic necessities.
I'm so eternally grateful that my friend is alive and safe. There are so many thousands of others out there, however, who are not as lucky. They have no money, no home, no where to go. Please, support them if you can. Visit the Red Cross website to learn how. Donate money. Donate clothes. Donate food. Donate toothbrushes. Donate whatever you can, even if all you can donate is your thoughts and prayers.
I'll keep you all updated as I learn more from Jessica! Thanks, everyone.
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