Tick tock tick tock…….
Getting Called Mama is Freakin' Awesome
I went visiting last night. The family was desperately trying to entertain an 18 month old baby girl, as her mommy had a function to attend. Three adults - grandpa, great grandma, and great aunt - looking frazzled as can be, were singing and looking through her picture books to try and keep her occupied. When I came in, Cutie Baby lit up, and waddled right over to me and grabbed my hand. She didn’t want anything to do with her great uncle, who I entered with. She just wanted me, a person she never met. In truth, many people have noted a resemblance between me and Cutie Baby’s mother. Maybe she noticed as well, and felt I would do until she could have her mommy back. Whatever the case may be, Cutie Baby held my hand, cuddled up on me, gave me kisses and hugs, and even called me Mama. When any other member of her family attempted to take her, she shook her hands, and held on to me. When her great grandmother (Nanny) was changing her diaper, she kicked and cried and carried on. I stepped in, and she smiled up at me as I finished the job. It could have been the resemblance to her mommy thing, or the fact that I was a new face when she had been with the same three people for many hours already, but getting called Mama, and being able to bring comfort to Cutie Baby had my ovaries doing flips. No drug could possibly replicate a Mini High!
Tick tock tick tock…….
Tick tock tick tock…….
A Garden Full of Flowers
I was adopted at birth. Four days old to be exact. My mother begged and borrowed to cover the costs, and raced off to pick me up and bring me to my new home. And she loved me. There were turbulent times, and unfortunate circumstances sprinkled in for good measure, but always one consistent force remained, my mother loved me. Still does, by the way. (I love you too mommy!)
Being adopted was never a secret to me. My mother framed it for me as something special. I was wanted, hoped for, wished for, prayed for….and of course, loved.
I always wondered. It is sort of built into the deal. Some people may choose not to search, but I don’t believe anyone who says they never wondered. You have to wonder. Who do I look like? What are they like? Do they think of me the way I think of them? Nature vs. Nurture…..? Medical histories? Nationalities?
In my mid-twenties I finally received the information necessary to begin my search. Names! So many people don’t ever receive that kind of information. When I was finally given those precious pieces of paperwork, I was blown away. These people had real names. First names, middle names, and last names!
I got to work on the internet, and within a couple of hours had potentially located both of my birthparents. Just like that. There they were.
I gathered up my courage and made the first phone call. SHE was not home, but I left a message and waited. The call came later that evening while I was at a Mexican restaurant. I left my companion to eat alone, and sat on the ledge outside for 2 hours as I spoke to her and her mom at the same time. They were excited to hear from me. I was equally excited, my body shaking as we spoke. We exchanged basics, and addresses, and promises to send pictures and letters. SHE explained that it would not be a good idea for me to contact HIM.
Months passed before anything else happened.
Christmas Eve. One of those sticky notes from the Post Office was left on the door. You have a package, blah blah blah. My companion raced me over to the Post Office only to find that they had just closed. I began to cry. My companion banged on the door, and begged the worker inside to just give us this one package. It’s Christmas. Please! I received my package full of pictures, a Christmas gift, and a letter. All from my birth grandmother. Awesome! I quickly gathered up pictures of myself throughout the years, composed a letter, and sent it off. We have continued this process since that time. We exchange a couple of letters throughout the year, me and my grandmother. We hint at meeting from time to time. SHE is not into having a relationship with me. Her mother wants to wait until SHE is ready. I love my grandmother. At this point, I don’t really care to meet HER, but would like to meet my grandmother, who is a very caring and loving woman.
Years passed, and I continued to wonder about HIM. SHE said not to contact him, and for some strange reason I listened to that advice for 6+ years. Last year, a bit before Christmas, I changed my mind. I wrote him a very vague, yet identifying letter and sent it off with my e-mail address. I heard nothing. Until….
my birthday, a few months later. I came home from work and checked my e-mail. There it was. An e-mail from him. A picture, and a brief but heartfelt Happy Birthday message. I was floored. Had I mentioned my birthday in the letter? I don’t think I gave the actual date. Well, as it turns out, I didn’t. He remembered.
Since then, I have been communicating regularly with him. We have spoken on the phone a couple of times, but mostly we send e-mails and text messages. It is still complicated, as his family is not open to this situation, but it is lovely getting to know him.He is a really special person. And interestingly enough, we are very alike. We think alike, and look alike, and share many of the same interests and talents. This has been a tremendous, life changing experience for both of us. I love him very much.
Cathartic. Healing. Magical.
“Without rain, we would not have flowers”
- A Very Wise Man called Dad
Being adopted was never a secret to me. My mother framed it for me as something special. I was wanted, hoped for, wished for, prayed for….and of course, loved.
I always wondered. It is sort of built into the deal. Some people may choose not to search, but I don’t believe anyone who says they never wondered. You have to wonder. Who do I look like? What are they like? Do they think of me the way I think of them? Nature vs. Nurture…..? Medical histories? Nationalities?
In my mid-twenties I finally received the information necessary to begin my search. Names! So many people don’t ever receive that kind of information. When I was finally given those precious pieces of paperwork, I was blown away. These people had real names. First names, middle names, and last names!
I got to work on the internet, and within a couple of hours had potentially located both of my birthparents. Just like that. There they were.
I gathered up my courage and made the first phone call. SHE was not home, but I left a message and waited. The call came later that evening while I was at a Mexican restaurant. I left my companion to eat alone, and sat on the ledge outside for 2 hours as I spoke to her and her mom at the same time. They were excited to hear from me. I was equally excited, my body shaking as we spoke. We exchanged basics, and addresses, and promises to send pictures and letters. SHE explained that it would not be a good idea for me to contact HIM.
Months passed before anything else happened.
Christmas Eve. One of those sticky notes from the Post Office was left on the door. You have a package, blah blah blah. My companion raced me over to the Post Office only to find that they had just closed. I began to cry. My companion banged on the door, and begged the worker inside to just give us this one package. It’s Christmas. Please! I received my package full of pictures, a Christmas gift, and a letter. All from my birth grandmother. Awesome! I quickly gathered up pictures of myself throughout the years, composed a letter, and sent it off. We have continued this process since that time. We exchange a couple of letters throughout the year, me and my grandmother. We hint at meeting from time to time. SHE is not into having a relationship with me. Her mother wants to wait until SHE is ready. I love my grandmother. At this point, I don’t really care to meet HER, but would like to meet my grandmother, who is a very caring and loving woman.
Years passed, and I continued to wonder about HIM. SHE said not to contact him, and for some strange reason I listened to that advice for 6+ years. Last year, a bit before Christmas, I changed my mind. I wrote him a very vague, yet identifying letter and sent it off with my e-mail address. I heard nothing. Until….
my birthday, a few months later. I came home from work and checked my e-mail. There it was. An e-mail from him. A picture, and a brief but heartfelt Happy Birthday message. I was floored. Had I mentioned my birthday in the letter? I don’t think I gave the actual date. Well, as it turns out, I didn’t. He remembered.
Since then, I have been communicating regularly with him. We have spoken on the phone a couple of times, but mostly we send e-mails and text messages. It is still complicated, as his family is not open to this situation, but it is lovely getting to know him.He is a really special person. And interestingly enough, we are very alike. We think alike, and look alike, and share many of the same interests and talents. This has been a tremendous, life changing experience for both of us. I love him very much.
Cathartic. Healing. Magical.
“Without rain, we would not have flowers”- A Very Wise Man called Dad
Slowly, but surely, I am growing a garden full of flowers!
Making Amends
The 12 Steps of Recovery involve making amends.
Two people in my very close circle are in recovery, and I am proud to be able to say that. Since recovery stresses the idea of anonymity, I will do my best to keep this even more anonymous than normal. This blog is dedicated to one of these people, that I will refer to as GQ.
A few years back, the entire group was going on a cruise to celebrate a big birthday with GQ. I decided not to go. Of course there is that pesky fear of travel that gets in my way, but that was not even my reason. I felt slighted by GQ for so long that I did not want to do something that felt phony. I wrote GQ an e-mail and expressed my feelings. I was hurt by years of dangling by a thread, walking on eggshells, of feeling like no more than a thorn in GQ’s side, of GQ’s bursts of anger, etc… And although it was not my recovery, I did not respect that GQ talked the talk, but did not walk the walk. Where the hell was my amends? I was there too. I was effected by everything that went on. GQ responded to my e-mail. It was not very heartfelt. GQ’s response actually hurt me even more, as it likened the idea of legal ownership as an expression of love.
A couple of years have passed in the interim.
Something has happened, and I don’t know what it is. GQ does thoughtful things for me now. GQ calls me on the phone just to see how I am. GQ ends each phone call by saying “I Love You”. Words are words, but GQ is actually showing me love, and I really like it. It is as if all those years of pain, and hurt are melting away. I feel important. I feel considered. I feel appreciated. So I just wanted to say:
I love you too GQ!Happy Anniversary.
I am proud of you.
Minis ROCK
I have two main mini people in my world right now.My niece, mini A, and my best friend’s daughter, mini L. I’ve always had a thing for mini people, but let me make this very clear, these two minis ROCK.
Recently, I did my mini rounds…visiting both of my girls. On the same day, both minis told me that they loved me. Completely unprovoked by parents, of their own will, they separately told me they love me. Do you know how good that feels? I do! 
An impromptu play date occurred when I was visiting mini A, and mini L and her mother stopped over to bring me something. Mini A’s mom invited them in, and my mini worlds collided. Both minis are accustomed to my FULL attention, and getting showered with my undivided silliness. My minis had never played together before. Sure, they have bumped into each other at nearby mini clothing stores, and mini learning facilities. This was the first time that my minis got to interact with each other. We had a lot of fun: silly puppet shows, drawing, and cooking up a feast in the play kitchen (which included microwaving grapes, and using a toaster as a pepper mill). I had to put myself in overdrive to make sure neither of my minis felt left out. Well worth it, as both minis had a lot of fun and have since asked about each other.
I love those minis so much!
An impromptu play date occurred when I was visiting mini A, and mini L and her mother stopped over to bring me something. Mini A’s mom invited them in, and my mini worlds collided. Both minis are accustomed to my FULL attention, and getting showered with my undivided silliness. My minis had never played together before. Sure, they have bumped into each other at nearby mini clothing stores, and mini learning facilities. This was the first time that my minis got to interact with each other. We had a lot of fun: silly puppet shows, drawing, and cooking up a feast in the play kitchen (which included microwaving grapes, and using a toaster as a pepper mill). I had to put myself in overdrive to make sure neither of my minis felt left out. Well worth it, as both minis had a lot of fun and have since asked about each other.
I love those minis so much!
Me, as a Deep Rooted Tree
It's a running theme in my therapy sessions. Words like roots, rooted, and unrooted come into play regularly. During some fantasy exercises, I become a plant...but still have a problem feeling my own roots. Deeper yet, I want desperately to connect to the roots of surrounding plants, but can not seem to do so.While looking through some old photos, I came across this one of me being part of a tree. It is very fitting.Plants have roots. Roots have two major functions. They hold on to the soil to keep the plant securely in place, protecting it from the elements, and they drink up water to nourish the plant.
Nourishment. Protection.
Nourishment. Protection.
Protection. Nourishment.
Nourishment. Protection.
Protection. Nourishment.
Uncertainty in so many areas of my life, leaves me feeling unrooted.
Past. Present. Future.
My therapist once asked me to draw a family tree. What a loaded assignment that was. My tree resembled a strange creature.
Very un-tree-like! How could one possibly create a tree-like structure with: adoption, and divorces, step-this and step-that, comings and goings, people in and people out...
Do you know that through my many different configurations of family, that I have had a total of 1o siblings? Steps and halves, and whatevers...10 siblings! Of those 10, I have contact with 2. To be fair, there are 4 on that list that I have never met, and didn't know existed until recently. There are also 4 on the list that I knew to be my siblings for years that are no longer my siblings for one reason or another, and I have no contact with for one reason or another. How do you denote that on the tree? Do they get lopped off like a pruning of sorts?
In all, I have had 8 different parent figures, though only one has been a consistent presence for the total of my 32 years. Mom.
So how do you draw in birthmother, birthfather, father, stepfather, stepmother,and stepfather part duex on the tree? It is complicated.
And maybe it doesn't matter what that damn tree looks like, and how to possibly get all these people on the tree. Maybe what matters most is who I want on the tree. My tree.
Or maybe the secret is that I AM the tree.
I want to grow deep roots that protect and nourish me.
Do you ride the crazy train?
I met up with an old friend to go to the beach yesterday. While chatting, the subject of menstrual cycles came up. She commented that she never experienced any symptoms 
connected to her cycle…no moodiness or PMS, no cramps, no bloating, no food cravings, nothing. Huh? Can this be accurate? How can some of us be so HIGHLY effected, and others not at all? Is it that some women are unaware of the effects of their cycles or is there really such a discrepancy amongst menstrual cycles?
My best friend S and I fall into the highly effected category. We both experience severe moodiness, emotionally charged fits of unexplainable crying, breast swelling, cramps, bloating…the whole nine. We have discussed over the years how many women we know that are not in tune with their cycles. These women admittedly are not sure when they ovulate, and generally do not seem to recognize the signs their bodies send them to note which portion of their cycle they are in. Our friend Em clearly gets moody, but doesn’t realize that she is pre-menstrual. We know it, but she doesn’t.
S and I are very familiar with our own cycles. We have even developed our own terminology to define different parts. Some examples of this are: Good Guy Week and Bad Guy Week. These terms have nothing to do with guys, as in men. We refer to ourselves as either Good Guys or Bad Guys depending on the emotional state of the week. We are two menstrual superheroes. We fight the good fight for half the month with the likes of
Wonder Woman in the Hall of Justice, and then cross over to the dark side to join forces with the Legion of Doom.
There is a clearly defined happy-go-lucky, yet very productive week within both of our cycles. There is also a very emotional, unproductive, tired and moody week for both of us. The in-between weeks tend to be a slightly downscaled version of the following week. There is the Week Before Bad Guy Week, which is bad, but not the worst of it. Then, there is the Week Before Good Guy Week, which is good, but it will get much better. We speak in terms of our menstrual cycles on a regular basis. I had a job interview, and thank goodness it fell during Good Guy Week! Can you drive tonight because I am in Bad Guy Week and I just can’t handle it!!! S gets severe skin reactions during Bad Guy Week. I get a scar under my lip that disappears and reappears every month. When I was younger, I thought it was a pimple. It is not a pimple. It is clearly a scar. For most of the month it is nowhere to be found. Then, bingo, it shows up. I also get muscle spasms in my upper left back, an old injury from a car accident, only during Bad Guy Week. Never feel it otherwise. S needs chocolate during Bad Guy Week. I need WHOLE BAG. It doesn’t have to be chocolate, just a WHOLE BAG o’ something. Feel free to fill in the blank with Oreo’s, Extra Cheddar Goldfish, Turtle Flavored Chex Mix, or all of the above.
When I was younger, it was harder for me to identify the signs of my cycle. I was definitely a nasty cat for part of the month. My mother would always say that horrible line to me, “You must be getting your period”. That one sentence was enough to throw everything into overdrive. You want a bitch, now you got a bitch! I would be extra nasty to her, and whomever else wanted to challenge me at that time. Everyone, that is, except for my brother. I can remember several occasions when my brother would call me out on it, “Why are you being such a bitch?”. OUCH! That would be all it took for me to gather up my nasty and tuck it away for a bit. He called me out on my behavior, instead of defining my period as an excuse for treating him badly. It is no excuse. I know that now. It is still not always easy to STOP the MADNESS when it takes effect. I have to do a lot of explaining when I am in Bad Guy Week. Look, I am pre-menstrual so I don’t know why I am crying right now. I am fine though. -OR- It is best if we just don’t hang out tonight because I don’t want to be mean to you, but I am not sure how not to right now.
Without consulting a calendar, I can predict when I am ovulating based upon how I feel. You know, it is those days when you feel like the prettiest little flower in the garden. Hormonal dip the other way? I am the fattest, ugliest piece of whale dung on the planet. About to get my period… I may have the one and only urge to clean or organize something in my house. It’s just like the nesting thing that pregnant ladies get. My entire month is ruled by my reproductive system.
I am SO effected by my menstrual cycle.
Are you?
connected to her cycle…no moodiness or PMS, no cramps, no bloating, no food cravings, nothing. Huh? Can this be accurate? How can some of us be so HIGHLY effected, and others not at all? Is it that some women are unaware of the effects of their cycles or is there really such a discrepancy amongst menstrual cycles?My best friend S and I fall into the highly effected category. We both experience severe moodiness, emotionally charged fits of unexplainable crying, breast swelling, cramps, bloating…the whole nine. We have discussed over the years how many women we know that are not in tune with their cycles. These women admittedly are not sure when they ovulate, and generally do not seem to recognize the signs their bodies send them to note which portion of their cycle they are in. Our friend Em clearly gets moody, but doesn’t realize that she is pre-menstrual. We know it, but she doesn’t.
S and I are very familiar with our own cycles. We have even developed our own terminology to define different parts. Some examples of this are: Good Guy Week and Bad Guy Week. These terms have nothing to do with guys, as in men. We refer to ourselves as either Good Guys or Bad Guys depending on the emotional state of the week. We are two menstrual superheroes. We fight the good fight for half the month with the likes of
Wonder Woman in the Hall of Justice, and then cross over to the dark side to join forces with the Legion of Doom.There is a clearly defined happy-go-lucky, yet very productive week within both of our cycles. There is also a very emotional, unproductive, tired and moody week for both of us. The in-between weeks tend to be a slightly downscaled version of the following week. There is the Week Before Bad Guy Week, which is bad, but not the worst of it. Then, there is the Week Before Good Guy Week, which is good, but it will get much better. We speak in terms of our menstrual cycles on a regular basis. I had a job interview, and thank goodness it fell during Good Guy Week! Can you drive tonight because I am in Bad Guy Week and I just can’t handle it!!! S gets severe skin reactions during Bad Guy Week. I get a scar under my lip that disappears and reappears every month. When I was younger, I thought it was a pimple. It is not a pimple. It is clearly a scar. For most of the month it is nowhere to be found. Then, bingo, it shows up. I also get muscle spasms in my upper left back, an old injury from a car accident, only during Bad Guy Week. Never feel it otherwise. S needs chocolate during Bad Guy Week. I need WHOLE BAG. It doesn’t have to be chocolate, just a WHOLE BAG o’ something. Feel free to fill in the blank with Oreo’s, Extra Cheddar Goldfish, Turtle Flavored Chex Mix, or all of the above.
When I was younger, it was harder for me to identify the signs of my cycle. I was definitely a nasty cat for part of the month. My mother would always say that horrible line to me, “You must be getting your period”. That one sentence was enough to throw everything into overdrive. You want a bitch, now you got a bitch! I would be extra nasty to her, and whomever else wanted to challenge me at that time. Everyone, that is, except for my brother. I can remember several occasions when my brother would call me out on it, “Why are you being such a bitch?”. OUCH! That would be all it took for me to gather up my nasty and tuck it away for a bit. He called me out on my behavior, instead of defining my period as an excuse for treating him badly. It is no excuse. I know that now. It is still not always easy to STOP the MADNESS when it takes effect. I have to do a lot of explaining when I am in Bad Guy Week. Look, I am pre-menstrual so I don’t know why I am crying right now. I am fine though. -OR- It is best if we just don’t hang out tonight because I don’t want to be mean to you, but I am not sure how not to right now.Without consulting a calendar, I can predict when I am ovulating based upon how I feel. You know, it is those days when you feel like the prettiest little flower in the garden. Hormonal dip the other way? I am the fattest, ugliest piece of whale dung on the planet. About to get my period… I may have the one and only urge to clean or organize something in my house. It’s just like the nesting thing that pregnant ladies get. My entire month is ruled by my reproductive system.
I am SO effected by my menstrual cycle.
Are you?
Dichotomy: The Pretty Purple Room
The door to the room would slide open slowly. Painfully slow. I would wake from my delicate sleep hearing the sound of it scratching against the pretty purple rug. Everything in that room was purple. The rug, the bedspread, the dolls….they had to have a discussion as to whether or not the Annie doll could stay in the room, being that 
her dress was red, and not purple. Annie stayed.Everything else was purple. A princess’ lair. Frilly, girlie, precious, and purple.
The footsteps would be deafening, marching in time with the large silhouette approaching my side of the bed. I slept on the left side, closest to the window. She slept on the right side by the closet door. The closet that held pretty, delicate, little girl clothes. Sometimes we would pretend we ran a clothing store. We would hang some of those clothes around the room, and attach our own paper price tags. We were the best of friends, eager playmates, instant relatives, absorbed in our imaginative games for long stretches during daylight hours. But now she slept. Like a brick, like a log, like a….well, like a tired child who had the comforting sense of security that she was protected in the dark of night. The creatures who lurked in that small upper hallway of the caped house were not coming to get her, and so, she slept. 
The overgrown hand would reach for the pretty purple blanket that I tried desperately to hold tightly to me. Slowly, slowly, the safety of the blanket was peeled away from me, leaving me exposed to the elements. I tried to generate excuses for why I couldn’t sleep over. I began throwing crying tantrums every Saturday morning before being picked up. I will miss my mom, my dog, my friends. I don’t feel well. For some reason those sharp words that would thrash around my mouth, just wouldn’t come out. I wanted to tell. I wanted them to understand. I wanted someone to keep me safe. I wanted to let someone else in to my internal prison, my hell. The words would never come out. I give so much credit to brave, courageous children who are able to report that someone is doing a bad thing to them. I was not that child. I couldn’t speak those shameful words. I knew that what was happening was a grown up thing. How could I look into the eyes of the grown ups in my world and say that this was happening to me?
I would keep my eyes closed and pretend to sleep. Maybe it will go away. Maybe if I shut off from this, it won’t effect me. Maybe I can lock myself up inside my head, with my own private thoughts, where no one else can enter.
The overgrown hand would reach for the pretty purple blanket that I tried desperately to hold tightly to me. Slowly, slowly, the safety of the blanket was peeled away from me, leaving me exposed to the elements. I tried to generate excuses for why I couldn’t sleep over. I began throwing crying tantrums every Saturday morning before being picked up. I will miss my mom, my dog, my friends. I don’t feel well. For some reason those sharp words that would thrash around my mouth, just wouldn’t come out. I wanted to tell. I wanted them to understand. I wanted someone to keep me safe. I wanted to let someone else in to my internal prison, my hell. The words would never come out. I give so much credit to brave, courageous children who are able to report that someone is doing a bad thing to them. I was not that child. I couldn’t speak those shameful words. I knew that what was happening was a grown up thing. How could I look into the eyes of the grown ups in my world and say that this was happening to me?
I would keep my eyes closed and pretend to sleep. Maybe it will go away. Maybe if I shut off from this, it won’t effect me. Maybe I can lock myself up inside my head, with my own private thoughts, where no one else can enter.
Morning light would dance around the pretty purple room. She would wake up much later than me, still secure in her slumber. I barely had any sleep, but would spring out of bed at the first acceptable moment. I would reason, the sun is out so I can go downstairs and watch T.V. now. Even in my hell, I was thoughtful about waking others. Hours would pass until people began to join me and the chirping birds in the brand new day. The pretty purple room became a safe haven again. My companion and I dramatizing stories with Barbie and her friends, taking orders for merchandise in our store, deeply immersed in our imaginative play. He wouldn’t dare open that door during the day. I was safe until that next night of hell.How could one room be so contradictory ?
My Views On How To Pop A Mini...
I just went to dinner with S and L. It was one of those tame girlie nights out, as S is about to pop with mini #2. Majority of the convo was focused on having minis. L was interested in my views about natural, non-intervention birthing. I promised to recommend some books for her to read on the subject. This is one subject that I have strong opinions on.
There is most definitely something wrong with the way childbirth is approached in this country. The C-section rate is through the roof (especially for those with health insurance), and doctors and hospitals are so scared that they are quick to push unnecessary interventions. Laboring mothers and expectant fathers are bullied into accepting what they are told because they view doctors/hospitals as the all knowing authority figures. Fear rules in this scenario.
Childbirth is a natural process. When your baby is ready, the process will begin. Why would a doctor determine that you need to be induced? It will happen. When you are induced, your contractions are likely to become too severe and you will need an epidural to handle the pain. Once you have the epidural, your ability to move around and labor in the way that your body tells you to is taken away from you. You are forced to remain flat on your back, which is a very unnatural position to labor in. You may or may not progress. Your chances of requiring emergency surgery are dramatically heightened.
Don't get me wrong, there are a number of situations that could require interventions for the health of the mother or baby, and I am all for those. I am against the unnecessary interventions that have become routine practice in this country. I am against doctors and hospitals that cater to insurance companies and malpractice premiums instead of listening to what is important to the mothers and fathers. Decisions should not be made to accomodate a doctor's appointment schedule, or to turn over a bed in a maternity ward. Birth should be embraced as a beautiful, miraculous, natural process as opposed to a sterile, emergency-ridden,terrifying fiasco.
I should have become a doula or a midwife.
Agree or disagree, whatever...these are my views.
Someday I hope to be blessed to have some minis of my own.
There is most definitely something wrong with the way childbirth is approached in this country. The C-section rate is through the roof (especially for those with health insurance), and doctors and hospitals are so scared that they are quick to push unnecessary interventions. Laboring mothers and expectant fathers are bullied into accepting what they are told because they view doctors/hospitals as the all knowing authority figures. Fear rules in this scenario.
Childbirth is a natural process. When your baby is ready, the process will begin. Why would a doctor determine that you need to be induced? It will happen. When you are induced, your contractions are likely to become too severe and you will need an epidural to handle the pain. Once you have the epidural, your ability to move around and labor in the way that your body tells you to is taken away from you. You are forced to remain flat on your back, which is a very unnatural position to labor in. You may or may not progress. Your chances of requiring emergency surgery are dramatically heightened.
Don't get me wrong, there are a number of situations that could require interventions for the health of the mother or baby, and I am all for those. I am against the unnecessary interventions that have become routine practice in this country. I am against doctors and hospitals that cater to insurance companies and malpractice premiums instead of listening to what is important to the mothers and fathers. Decisions should not be made to accomodate a doctor's appointment schedule, or to turn over a bed in a maternity ward. Birth should be embraced as a beautiful, miraculous, natural process as opposed to a sterile, emergency-ridden,terrifying fiasco.
I should have become a doula or a midwife.
Agree or disagree, whatever...these are my views.
Someday I hope to be blessed to have some minis of my own.
About Apple
Allow me to introduce my best friend, my daughter, my roommate, my confidant: Apple.She was given to me as a gift of love in December of 2004 (born September 1, 2004), and has filled me with love ever since.
What’s in a name?
I decided to name her Apple to pay homage to my favorite band, The Beatles. Apple Corps. (pronounced core, hee hee) was the name of the Beatles business venture in 1968. It embodied their openness to a multitude of creative ventures, involving music, movies, publishing, and even fashion. I considered the common Beatle dog tribute names, such as Lucy, Maggie Mae, Rita, etc… but decided that Apple represented more than just a song reference. It was an idea, a vision of creativity…and I can certainly vibe with that. ‘Apple’ also neatly lends itself to many corny cliches that are very fitting for me and my girl; An Apple a Day Keeps the Doctor Away (true), You are the Apple of my eye (also true), The Apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree (again, true)! She is rarely called Apple, and has a long list of nicknames that she responds to.
Who is SOOOO Smart?Apple understands everything I say. There is approximately a five second delay as she deciphers it all, but she gets it. Her favorite words are walk, and pizza (her love of this word demonstrates the ‘Apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree’ thing). My girl has close to fifty toys, and knows the names of all of them. She will dig through her toy box to produce the one I ask for. The contenders for favorite toy right now are: Quack Quack, Allie, and Simba. She is a great listener. No backtalk for the most part. We do have arguments on occasion as she is quite opinionated. For example, when she feels as though I have spent enough time on the phone, she will yell at me to get off ( I assume she is just minding our finances). She also yells at me when I am preparing to go to the Laundromat. I explain to her that I would be happy to have her do the laundry instead, but that she may have some issues with the unfortunate lack of thumbs thing. Her lack of thumbs also causes some yelling when she feels like having a snack. It is purely my fault, you see. She will start by sitting near the cabinet. Stupid me doesn’t get it. Then she will try the growly attempt at talking thing. Again, stupid me misses the point. Finally, when she can longer put up with my ignorance she yells at me “Can you get me a treat?? I don’t have thumbs to open this damn cabinet!!!!!”. Yes, darling, let me get that for you.
Aside from these minor disturbances, in which we do battle to determine the Alpha dog of our small pack, we get along great. I have trained her as well as she has trained me!
I promise you that during one of her growly-talk sessions she produced the word “MaaMaa”. It was only once, and I have tried my best to bribe her to say it again to no avail.
Interesting Apple FactsShe is quite affectionate and loves to give deep soul kisses right on the mouth, and is encouraged to do so. Yes, I kiss my dog on the mouth.
She loves to play, and will be up for a rousing game of fetch the toy, Frisbee, or chase me anytime she has a willing playmate.
She receives home cooked meals twice a day. This includes chicken, handled and cooked by her longtime vegetarian mother! The things we do for love…..
She may not have thumbs, but can hold onto a good Nylabone, or lovingly grasp the arm of someone who is rubbing her belly, quite well.
She does not visit a groomer, as her mother is neurotic, so she generally has a slightly messy, scruffy look about her.
She has a delicious sleepy dog smell that her mother regularly inhales.
I love you Apple!
Cabbage Patch Kids: In Loving Memory
Take a good look at this Cabbage Patch Doll.
She looks remarkably similar to my beloved Kimberly Sue. I “adopted” Kimberly Sue back in 1983, during the mayhem days when mothers would elbow each other and resort to fisticuffs to secure the holy grail…a Cabbage Patch Kid for their kid! My mother had a friend who worked in a neighborhood store. She convinced this woman to “put aside” a doll for me. My Cabbage Patch OBSESSION began…..
I loved Kimberly for many reasons. She was perfect, with her baby powder scent, and her Xavier Roberts signed ass, just the right size for toting around in my seven year old arms, and those adoption papers…..a cute little gimmick, true….but being an adopted child, those papers held a much deeper meaning for me.
This doll, and the wave she rode in on, brought a sense of understanding to the younger masses. Adoption was not something most kids my age understood. Sure, they had heard of it. Annie was adopted by Daddy Warbucks, after all, and we all LOVED Annie! I would try my best to explain my situation to my peers, but it was difficult for them to grasp. Having Annie as their only point of reference meant they wanted to know what life was like in the orphanage, and if my ‘Miss Hannigan’ was as mean as the real thing. How could I get them to understand that I was a newborn baby when I was adopted? How could I get myself to understand???
I felt a strong connection to Cabbage Patch Kids. Sure, I may not have been born underneath a head of cabbage in some mystical garden, but for all I knew that could have been the case. I knew that I could not relate to Annie’s experience, what with her sisterhood of orphans doing flips and singing songs while they toiled away scrubbing floors, and making things as shiny as the Chrysler building. Cabbage Patch Kids were just born, and then put up for adoption. That I could relate to. My seven year old brain was able to use the parallel to explain it to my peers. It felt good that this Cabbage Patch mania had the word adoption attached to it. Validation, maybe? Acceptance, maybe??
My Cabbage Patch clan grew over time to include Jeffrey, Jill, Jordan (my preemie), Melissa, Craig, Felicia, Lisa and Leigh (the twins), Charmer (the horse) and Cuddles (my koosa cat). I would take my little family with me wherever I went, arms tightly clasped around the bunch. I would change their clothes, and diapers, and bring them to play dates at my friends’ houses. My friend Jennifer who lived next door had her own expanded family, and our ‘kids’ would play together regularly. Her twins Vickie and Mickie were best friends with my twins. Her Carl was best buds with my Jeffrey. Thus, we wasted away hours upon hours in our pseudo world of Cabbage Patch love. Our introduction to motherhood. Ahhh, those were good days.
On a recent visit to my parents’ house I discovered that the box containing my tribe had vanished from the hall closet. I interrogated the family. Where are my Cabbage Patch Kids? What have you done with them, dammit? I WANT MY DOLLS!!!! No one seemed to take this too seriously. They would not confirm my worst suspicions that my dolls were tossed out with the rest of the clutter. I managed to rescue my cheerleading uniform, my New Kids on the Block ticket stubs, and Cuddles, the koosa, from the same fate.
My Cabbage Patch Kids are gone. That one strong, concrete connection to my childhood…gone. Those beautiful yarn haired, hard faced, soft bodied friends….gone.
For some occasion years ago, my parents bought me a gold Cabbage Patch Kid charm to wear on a necklace. I dug this out a few weeks ago, and wore it in memory of my beloved friends.
I love you Kimberly Sue!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
