Dear Blogiverse,

Since becoming a mom three years ago, I’ve entered a whole new world of expectations for women. In my pre-mom days, my personal goals mostly had to do with my career – if I felt bad about myself it was usually because I wasn’t meeting those goals. But I’ve found that for moms there seem to be a lot of cultural guidelines that determine what makes a good mom – and a whole new list of things to feel insecure about. People seem to think that a good mom:

– Keeps a moderately clean house

– Cooks healthy and tasty meals for the family

– Is thin and beautiful without being too sexy

– Puts the needs of her family before her own needs

– Has a well-kept garden

– Excels at crafting in the form of sewing, knitting, jewelry making, etc.

What’s the deal with the crafting part?  I don’t mind working on a craft that someone else has set up, but I don’t have any Martha Stewartish expectations. I made snowman cupcakes one day around Christmas and they looked nothing like the picture in the book. But who cares? They tasted good.

I’ve noticed that women can have a weird sense of competition around their crafting abilities. Is this true or is it my imagination? Shouldn’t it just be something you do for fun?

Maybe I just don’t really understand women, because my husband has been my best friend for the past 11 years or so. Do I need to become more crafty in order to fit in with the other moms?

Sincerely,

Uncrafty Mom

 

 

 

 

I decided that Friday during the week of spring break was a good day to have a baby, and apparently my son agreed. On Thursday night I went to my prenatal swim/water yoga class and when I mentioned I was 39 weeks along, our instructor said, “Maybe you’ll have your baby tonight.” I said I’d prefer to get some sleep first and then welcome the baby into the world the next morning.

And so, I woke up around 3 am with contractions and couldn’t go back to sleep. I’d been having Braxton-Hicks contractions off and on for the past month or so, so I waited awhile to make sure the contractions were consistent before disturbing my husband. I woke Spencer up at 4:30, and we called our doula at 5, because I just felt like it was rude to call someone before 5 am unless absolutely necessary. My contractions were a little uncomfortable, but doing hip circles and figure eights helped relieve the pressure. Our doula came over around 5:45 and I called my mom at 6 so that she could come watch our almost-3-year-old.

We called our CNM, and she thought I was still in early labor and that it would be a few more hours before we would need to head to the hospital, since I seemed very calm. So my husband decided he would take a nap. About 15 minutes later I told him, I’m ready to go to the hospital now. I wasn’t convinced that I wanted to have a second unmedicated birth, since the first time ended up being a bit, um, traumatic. I just wasn’t in the mood, you know, like how you’re probably not in the mood to go run 20 miles right now. I wanted to make sure we got there in time for an epidural. We arrived in the triage room around 8 am. And when the midwife arrived and checked my cervix, I was dilated to 7 cm. Everyone was surprised because I was handling it so well.

When we got moved into the delivery room about 15 minutes later, I mumbled something about getting an intrathecal. “There might not be time,” said the nurse.

“I either need pain meds or I need to get in the bath tub now.” The midwife checked my cervix again and this time I was at 9 cm!

“What do you want to do?” she asked me. “We can try to get you an intrathecal if that’s what you want.”

I knew that would take awhile and there wasn’t really time. I needed pain relief immediately so I got in the tub. The warm water helped me make it through the rest of transition, although the contractions were still very intense and left my whole body shaking.

“Ok, you’re pushing. You have to get out of the tub now,” said the midwife. “There’s no room to deliver in here.”

I didn’t want to move and lose the only pain relief I had. With my daughter’s birth, pushing lasted about 45 minutes and was excruciating. I reluctantly got out and moved to the bed. “I’m scared,” I said. Like, I would almost rather die right now than repeat what I went through before.

I got on hands and knees on the hospital bed. Last time I’d been on my back and I knew I didn’t want to do that again. I knew this would be over soon-ish. There was some screaming and tears involved, but the midwife kept calmly reassuring me that my baby was helping me with this birth, and I think he was.

Just a few (intense and difficult) pushes, and 11 minutes later – less than 2 hours after we arrived at the hospital – my son was born! I held him in my arms and said, “Welcome to our world.”

The women are crowded into the dressing room, peeling wet swimsuits from their rounded bellies. An unusual cross-section of women – a technology specialist for the school district, a yoga teacher recently moved back home from life in the tropics, a couple of my high school classmates. One woman, 36 weeks pregnant with her second child, is in the middle of a divorce from her addict husband. “It’s better this way,” we assure her. She is stoic, accepting the way things are.

A set of pregnant sisters has come to swim class tonight. “Are you excited that your sister is pregnant too?” one woman quietly asks the older of the two.

“No,” she shakes her head. “But I’m coming to accept it. I’ve been planning my pregnancy for years – hers wasn’t planned. She always gets all the attention, being the younger sister.”

While pulling on clothes over still damp skin, a woman says her husband’s afraid she’ll turn in Regan from The Exorcist during labor. “Hmm,” I say, from the vantage of my second pregnancy. “Are you planning for a natural birth?”

She says she is, though she’s decided on birthing in the hospital rather than the associated birth center. “I need a big room for all my friends,” she says. “They’re weird so I don’t want them hanging out in the waiting room. Some of them have been to one too many Rainbow Gatherings.” She laughs. “Plus, where would they smoke in the birth center?”

“Hmmm,” I say again. I want to say that her friends certainly won’t be smoking in the hospital’s maternity ward, but I just smile and nod.

My first night in class there was just a small group, 5 of us, and one of us expectant mamas cried as she talked about the C-section that was scheduled a few days away for her breech baby.

“I just don’t want to be cut open,” she said.

But aren’t we all about to be cut open, our hearts exposed, in the process of bringing a new life into the world?

We think we are preparing for the marathon of labor, when really, it’s the parenting that we should be saving all our strength for. It’s parenting, more than giving birth, that’s the test of a lifetime.

Me at 36 weeks pregnant.

Me at 36 weeks pregnant with my second child.

Baby brother's coming soon!

Baby brother’s coming soon!

At 39 weeks pregnant, we’re expecting the arrival of Baby Brother any day now. My freezer is full of dinners I’ve thoughtfully prepared for our family in advance. We’ve spent the last several months cleaning and organizing our apartment. I filed our taxes, and made plans for celebrating my daughter’s April birthday in May.

I’ve been doing prenatal yoga, belly dancing, and water “aerobics” (okay it’s more of a relaxation class) for months. I have midwives and an experienced birth doula, and a free postpartum doula service lined up. I’ve reconfirmed my views on alternative vaccine schedules, decided it’s okay to skip the newborn eye antibiotics since I don’t have gonorrhea, and learned about the benefits of delaying baby’s first bath.

In other words – true to my personality – I’ve carefully controlled the parts of this baby equation that I can control. Ah, control, what an addictive and sweet illusion!

Hahaha.

So I mean, I guess we’re ready.

SONY DSC

I arrive at the middle school at 7:30 a.m., a solid 45 minutes before first period. I need time to find the classroom, make sure it’s unlocked, read the teacher lesson plans, understand the lesson plans, and find any necessary materials. “I’m subbing for 6th grade Language Arts,” I tell the secretary.

She looks at the sub info on her desk. Her expression grows concerned. “No,” she says, “It’s art – can you handle that?”

“Of course,” I say. I have 2 years of experience teaching elementary and middle school, a year of student teaching, and a year of subbing at a high school. “I mean, if she has a lesson plan, I can follow it.”

“Hmmm. I think she uses lesson plans,” the secretary says unconvincingly.

I take my substitute teaching ID and find the classroom. The “lesson plan” is bare bones – in each class students are to use the period to work on finishing up their perspective drawings. The teacher desk is a mess, the floor littered with trash. I wander next door and introduce myself to the shop teacher, a friendly older gentleman who says I can send kids to him if there’s a problem. Even when I had my own private school classroom, I often sent kids to the teacher next door, so this comment doesn’t concern me.

First period comes along, a small group of mostly 8th grade boys. Though they mainly choose to goof off rather than work, this isn’t a concern for me. Some of them are working and some are doing other homework. No one is particularly causing a problem.

The 7th grade class is a different story. A large group of 35 or so, they are a mass of barely contained energy, spinning rulers around their pencils and throwing paper across the table at each other. One table catches my eye and I quickly identify the ringleader. His behavior is not the easygoing goofing off of the 8th grade class. I’ve visited several prisons and chatted with inmates, but never before seen the cold, casually hate-filled look that was in his eyes. I certainly wouldn’t expect it in a 13-year-old child. Great, I’ve entered the plot of Dangerous Minds. Here we go.

I remind this table a few times to get on task. I take away the rulers they won’t stop spinning in the air. I hear the ringleader speaking in a threatening way to another boy at his table. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” he says and smiles. “No problem here.”

As this table continues to show no pretense of doing the assignment despite my reminders, I take the ringleader aside and ask him to go work in the shop class next door. “Fuck that,” he says. “I’ll go to the SRC.” I hand him a referral slip, which he throws on the floor as he walks out.

The table continues not to work. This is surprising – I would expect some attempt at following instructions after this. A few minutes later I ask another boy to leave the class, this time escorting him to the shop class next door. Who do I find in the shop class? Ringleader. “You’re not supposed to be here,” I say.

“Bitch, you told me to come here.”

I do not respond, just walk to the shop teacher and ask him to give Ringleader a behavior referral and send him to SRC. When I get back to the classroom, a girl from The Table – a girl who also has cold, empty eyes – has wandered off to the other side of the room and is doing a cartwheel. At this point I no longer care about this class. I look at the clock. There are 20 minutes left and then I will have a lunch break. If I can make it through the day without quitting, I will have earned $150. I look back at the girl. The other students are looking at her and whispering, giggling. Clearly she wants to get sent out of the classroom, too, like her friends. Not going to happen. Now she’s doing something with scissors. That makes me nervous. Sharp scissors and disaffected, possibly gang-affiliated teenagers are not a good mix.

The 20 minutes pass with little incident. Students file out. I assess the area that Gang Girl had been in – damage left is a puddle of paint on the floor. It’s lunchtime now, and in a few hours I’ll be gone. I don’t have to come back to this school, or to any middle school ever if I don’t want to.

I’m sorry for these teachers, sure. But I’m more sorry for the kids.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

photo credit: Paint Job 2 via photopin (license)

Hello reader. It’s been awhile since I’ve updated. Tonight I’m tempted to write a rant about flame retardants, which are carcinogenic, linked to neurological disorders, and can be found in such items as children’s pajamas, changing pads, car seats, and strollers. You know, because babies often fall asleep while smoking in their strollers. Oh, and since we’ve all been exposed to them in mattresses and sofas since the 1970s, they’re stored in our body tissues and can even be found in our breastmilk. Ugh. (Still, and I think the medical community would back me up here, breastmilk is much preferable to formula if you’re able to breastfeed!).

But, I will take a tip from my preschooler – I will take a deep breath and count to four. There is not much point in getting too upset about things I can’t control – which covers pretty much everything in life. Whew! I’ve learned at this point that I can only control my own choices. I cannot control your choices, or my daughter’s choices, or the choices of those who put toxic chemicals in our furniture (and food, and air, and water).

Actually there is good news regarding flame retardants. As of 2014, they were no longer required to be in furniture in the state of California (the only place where they were ever actually required), and as a result flame-retardant-free furniture is becoming more widely available. Although my husband and I are certainly not in a position to discard all of our old furniture and buy all new furniture, we can and will phase it out over time, as it becomes more available and affordable. Also, flame-retardant-free crib mattresses are and have been widely available, and are not too expensive. We got ours at Target. And there are lots of kids jammies that don’t contain them – just check the label.

So when I get upset about this and other issues, I will remember to take a deep breath and count to four. Because I’m pretty sure that stress is carcinogenic, too.

Today I present to you my very own editorial endorsement for Oregon’s upcoming election. This measure is being fiercely battled, and with quite a lopsided amount of money (the No campaign is bringing in double the donations), so I thought I’d throw in my two cents. This measure is also important to me as a mom — as I’ll explain.

Yes on Measure 92, GMO Labeling. It’s hard to believe that this is such a battle. Why wouldn’t we want the right to know what’s in our food? However, with millions of dollars coming in from Monsanto for the No on 92 campaign, it’s become a David vs. Goliath situation. Money buys elections. In case you’re unfamiliar with Monsanto, it is a multi-billion dollar chemical company.  (Here’s an interesting article about them). They’re bent out of shape because if this measure passes then Oregon will be the first state in the U.S. to require GMO labeling. Some pertinent info about this ballet measure, pulled from the Yes on 92 website:

Who else labels? 64 countries around the world require labeling of all GMO food, including all of the European Union, Japan, Australia, Brazil, Russia, and China.

Will labeling raise the cost of food? Labeling will cost about $2.30 per consumer per year.

Why do I care if GMOs are in my food? Most GMO food is designed to be resistant to pesticides. Some even manufacture their own pesticides — in which case, no amount of washing your produce can remove that pesticide residue. We also don’t know the long-term health effects of eating genetically modified foods — we are the guinea pigs to discover if they cause cancer or other health problems.

As a mom, I want to avoid feeding my child GMO food as much as possible, because I’m wary of the long-term health repercussions. I don’t trust food that was made in a chemistry lab. And even if it is safe — we still have the right to know what’s in our food.

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