the modernity ward

Armed and Dangerous

If you have little kids, you're used to the hefting: baby up, baby down, preschooler out of immediate harm's way, groceries, laundry. I was standing in a parking lot yesterday hefting the stroller out of the trunk for the nine frillionth time when I heard, in an approving tone, "Hey, strong arms!"

My admirer was a young man in the next car over. He was either a college football player or a model who plays a college football player in cologne ads, and he was clearly not hitting on me -- just genuinely admiring my massive guns -- so I smiled and pointed to the twenty-five pound baby I was then hefting into the hefty stroller. "Best upper-body workout in the world," I said, or something equally dumb, making sure to flash my braces and maybe a tantalizing sliver of stretchmarked belly from beneath my applesauce-encrusted t-shirt.

"Well, have a good day!" he said, smiling, and drove off. I leaned down to kiss my baby as I buckled her in.

Then I made sure to kiss each bicep.

* * * *

So I've got these mighty arms, like that green cartoon flea with the twirly mustache, and I've got all this barely suppressed anger and rage, and I was thinking that maybe, instead of periodically getting frustrated that the baby is awake again for the fourth time in two hours and karate-chopping the top of the ancient seagrass hamper until it breaks last night, I could harness my powers for good.

I was thinking I could beat up some child molesters or something. Maybe put up an ad on late night TV: "Do you have BAD PEOPLE in your life or possibly your neighborhood? Did you read a disturbing news story about a HORRIBLE PERSON? Do you want a MAD LADY to BEAT THEM UP?" And then there'd be a frame of me standing very still (we couldn't afford a real freeze frame) posing in a muscular, aggressive position. "Five foot four inches of compressed fury, ready to unleash an ARM-ageddon of hurt on whomever is troubling your peace of mind!"

And then I could beat up some wicker furniture or something. To show the extent of my fury.

Of course I'd have to review the evidence in every case, but I was thinking it would be a free service.

Oh My God, Breastmilk Will Give Your Baby Cancer!

Wait, no. No, that's not it at all. Although I'm sure that's the headline I'll read in the paper tomorrow, revealing that 1) most "science" writing is either left to, or filtered by, oatmeal-brained executives who wouldn't know a p-value if it ran down their legs, and 2) it is possible to completely bury the thrust of a study such that the general public comes away with the completely wrong idea. Even my beloved Jezebel is guilty of this practice, with the headline "Breast Maybe Not Best for Babies' Balls."

Yeah, I get the hilarious alliteration, but really, really missing the point here.

Here, a sensible rundown of the new study. While there is a link between exposure of the breastfeeding mother to hazardous chemicals such as PCBs and testicular cancer in the child, the answer is not "well, how about formula then." NO NO NO.

The answer is NO MORE PCBs. The answer is NO MORE HAZARDOUS PESTICIDES. God, it seems like such a no-brainer to me -- why focus on the poisoned milk when we should focus on the FUCKING POISON?

I'll tell you why. Patriarchy. No, really.

It is so much easier, so much more profitable to the powers that be, to aim the blame at women -- mothers breastfeeding their children! The world goes into a tizzy about "breast or bottle?" and meanwhile, nobody is talking about the wholesale poisoning of the world! It's the old divide-and-conquer: if we're all too busy getting butthurt about baby feeding, maybe we won't notice the guys with the 55-gallon drum glupping glow-in-the-dark goo into the river.

Even better is the idea that mothers are poisoning their baby boys. Oh, you evil women! Will you stop at nothing?

The whole argument places all the agency, all the responsibility, upon women, who, last I checked, did not have a whole lot of choice as to the quantity of PCB and hormone mimickers stored in their body fat. It's a sham, a lie, a straw-woman. The mothers have nothing to do with it. The breastmilk is not the problem.

The chemicals are the problem. The collusion of government and industry to ensure that this evil stuff gets into our water, our soil, our bodies, our babies -- that's the problem. And it's not a breastfeeding mother's problem, it's not a women's problem -- it's everyone's problem. That shit doesn't just go straight into breastmilk and stay there.

I'll know we're improving the second that someone looks at a study like that, and the first thing out of that person's mouth is "How can we stop the chemical contamination?" And not "is breast really best?"

What to do in the meantime? I'm taking suggestions. In the personal sphere, buy as organic or integrated pest management as you can (not for the health benefits, and that's another post in itself, the so-called "takedown" of the "organic myth", but because every organic strawberry you buy is that much less fungicide into the waterways, as well as into your mouth), especially the high-contamination foods. Don't use personal care products with phthalates and other endocrine disruptors. (How can you tell when they're not on the label? Avoid anything with "fragrance," for one. And yeah, that includes air freshener and Glade). Here's a nice starter list of things to do.

But what about the subject of the study -- the effect of geographical location? That's a hairy one, and even more tied up with privilege than the stuff I listed above. I don't know the answer, and I hope someone comments who does. I do know there are a lot of locally based groups who work on this kind of thing -- like BURNT here, and MOMS (Make Our Milk Safe) in California. There's also Moms Rising.  Pay attention to the local news, because this stuff, it happens locally. It happens in your backyard, in your town, in your watershed. That's where you can fight it.

And on that note, I'm off to order my No Spray Nashville sign.

Spaced

For some reason I didn't have spacers before I got braces the first time, but for Bracin' Two: Electric Boogaloo, I am the proud recipient of a bunch of little blue rubber donuts jammed down between all my molars. It's a sensation akin to having a giant string of pot roast stuck between those teeth, or a piece of floss on its way out with a seriously funky payload: something mildly uncomfortable, but about to be satisfying. Except the satisfaction never comes. It's like the sneeze that never quite sneezes. Or that Coldplay song that never quite...gets there, if you know what I'm saying.

Flossus Interruptus. Anyhow.

So I have these rubbery things in my mouth, and all was well until I tried to chew a tough-skinned muscadine from the farmer's market and WHOO BOY that was not so much fun. Next week I get the serious metal mouth, and will totally show you pictures.

In other news, both kids fell asleep in the back of the car on the way home from Opry Mills, and you know what I did? I drove my ass to Starbucks drive-thru and got an iced coffee and listened to NPR. And! Speaking of which: I was bemoaning the lack of talk radio (the good kind, we've plenty of the other here), when I heard that NPR is dropping their all-classical, all-day programming in favor of Grownups Talking on the Radio. Seriously, my sanity depends on that shit; I'm like a Dust Bowl farm wife.

The reason we were at Opry Mills, by the way, is that Sophia learned how to tie. On Wednesday she asked for some "tyin' shoes" so I told her sure, when you learn how to tie. So we sat down together and...she learned. Right away.

And OH MY GOD! The baby is crawling RIGHT NOW! About two steps, but she finally JUST NOW figured out how to get back up from a sprawl!

Tempus fugit, huh?

Because You Cannot Sleep for Wondering about the Minutiae of My Life

Well. Two things.

First, Sophia awesomeness: I heard her tell Sean last night that "I love you and mama the same." (Pause) "But I love Daphne more." OH MY GOD the cute.

And then this, this morning: "Mama, is the Army a big building where all the soldiers go to fight in a war?"

Sigh. Stupid NPR.

Second, we are all of a sudden overflowing with friends and neighbors -- many of them in the same boat as we are, recent arrivals to the Nashville scene, small kids, Vandy-employed, stay-at-home moms. So there is a lot of getting together happening. It's wonderful, even though real-life-actual-people interaction drains my energy like that machine* in The Princess Bride.. And of all things, we seem to be liking the Conservative synagogue best so far -- I will report back after we go to adult services, but the kids' version was great. Also, there was a dad with an earring there, and a man whose kippah was a cowboy hat. I still haven't gotten over the delicious thrill of Jews having southern accents thick as sorghum molasses. Love it.

So yes. Good times. And Sean got paid so I'm not stressing out about being able to afford my fancy braces, and by "fancy" I mean "utilitarian and metal, not unlike Lisa Simpson's in the Dental Plan episode". I told the ortho I'd sleep in a football helmet if that was what it took, and he chuckled and gazed off into the middle distance for a minute, so we'll see. I promise you pictures, either way.

And I can kind of not think about how sick my dad is, and how his visit to the liver transplant board coincides exactly with one of Sean's big conferences, meaning I will need to fly two children halfway across the country and put them to bed in a hotel and bring them to the meeting with the board and then fly them back to my empty house because Sean is at the conference. When I get to thinking too hard about that, I just imagine somebody taking a bone saw to my face and then bolting it back together again, and think about drinking a lot of egg white protein and hemp protein shakes because whey makes me explode ass-wise, and soy is...also bad, I think. And having a face like a baseball mitt for a month or two.

Yeah. I just think about that, and the worry melts away. (No, really, it does!)

*I fully intended to link a picture of it, but they are ALL hosted on sites like, and I am not making this up, m@leb0ndageinm0vies.com.

Mrs. Mojo Fallin'

First of all, I busted out the Baby Safe Feeders recently, so as to entertain Teethy McSquirmalot for five-for-the-love-of-Trader-Joe's-minutes so I could take things out of the hot oven, and got to chuckling over my hilarious idea for a post.

Which, as it turns out, I had already written. In 2006. Enjoy.

The main reason I was digging around in the archives in the first place was to make myself feel bad about how I used to get sixty comments on a post and now I get four. No, no, that isn't it. No, it was to make myself depressed about how much funnier I used to be! And how much tighter my...well, moving on. I was actually sifting through the sands of internet time to see whether the Post-Baby Dog Days phenomenon had made it onto the blog. (As what did not?) I don't know if it can rightly be called postpartum -- how long can I chalk things up to postpartum status? Six weeks? Six months? Until I can blame menopause? -- but I have a hazy recollection of chomping at the sartorial and career-planning bit, right about Sophia's eight-month mark.

Very little of that actually ended up on the blog. There is an awful lot about the dangers of plastic from around that time, and some descriptions of Sophia as a baby that 1) cast some light on the state of her personality today and 2) remind me just how easy I have it with Daphne, but not so much otherwise. I mean, it's funny. It's a period of good writing for me. Today, not so much. As we will discuss in a minute. Anyway maybe you should click over to the original blog and start reading around March instead of wasting your time with Droopy Dawg over here.

I do remember that's about the time I started babysitting, though. And seriously jacked up my blogging efforts. I think that was about when I started dropping all the pregnancy weight (I think I weighed about twenty pounds more then than what I weigh now, for reference purposes).

Eh. I don't know. Part of it is living in a new place and being knocked off-routine; part of it is the inescapable shackles of being a stay-at-home mother of two small children. Very fine shackles they are. But I don't feel like Daphne is even ready for the free daycare at the gym yet, and certainly not ready for full-time daycare so I can take my stupid prereqs, so...yeah.

So I feel like I'm spinning my wheels a little bit (in a lovely, predictable way), but the other thing is that we're sort of low on the discretionary funds, like for buying houses or whatever, and what we do have is going to go to my fancy new braces. I feel like a leech who somehow tricked my husband into marrying and then procreating with me -- again! and again! -- and then letting me stay home with the progeny instead of working in the data mines.

Which is patently ridiculous.

I just feel like I'm never going to get my prereqs done and then into nursing school and then finished and then a job and maybe a house eventually and my hair is a mess and none of my clothes look right or feel like ME and OH MY GOD.

It's pretty minor, I know. I just sort of...need my mojo back.

How would I go about that, exactly?

Real Purty Mouth

Look upon my open bite, ye mighty, and despair -- of eating a sandwich with a shred of dignity. Or lettuce.
Yeah, that's me biting down. My four teeth that touch -- two top molars, two bottom -- are together here.

A fun parlor game might be to see what-all can be wedged into my mouth while I'm biting down.

On second thought, no. That would be fun for you. Not so much for me.

Two Absolutely Unrelated Issues

One:

Every time I hear on the news that Hurricane Bill is gaining strength and heading for the Bahamas, I wish it were true of my own personal Bill. I still don't know how much I want to blog about it (although what does it really matter? Either you know my dad and you already know about this, or you don't), but my dad is really sick. How sick exactly? I wish I knew. In the old familiar fashion, he tells everybody a different story, lies to make it seem like things aren't so back -- or is he confused? It sounds like the encephalopathy has cleared enough that it's a deliberate deception. Possibly he underestimates our ability to understand medical speech. Or maybe he just doesn't know about Google.

So he's sick, and there's no way to tell how bad it is, and we're all far away, and he gets pretty nasty when we start talking about coming out there. I honestly think that if I showed up on the porch tomorrow, he would not open the door to me. There's one person he'll talk to, who happens to be out of the country. In the meantime he's "just fine" and "has things under control" and is "too weak to stand" and "shaky"; he "just went to the store" and "hasn't been up off the couch", and eats "tuna salad" and "Furr's cafeteria" and "can't eat but through a straw" and "lives on Ensure." He's "going in to work" and "has been on disability for six weeks."

But I know how to interpret his test results, and the answers are pretty much unequivocal. He needs to be on the transplant list. He can't go on it yet. Thanks to my genetic tests, I know that I share with him one of the genes causing half the problem; the other half was absolutely, one hundred percent avoidable at several different turns. Thirty years ago, twenty. Two years ago I marked the onset of symptoms. He probably went to the doctor oh, six or eight weeks ago. Oh, by the way, he's a physician.

It's a helpless, frustrated love I'm left with.

Two:

I went to the dentist, who is of the Old School of Gentlemanly Behavior and called me "Cutie." As a feminist I am...well, unbothered. Anyway, he did a thorough exam, going so far as to inquire about the provenance of the ugly scratch on my cheekbone (baby fingernail gouge), and then sat back and looked at me.

"How do you eat?" he asked.

People keep asking me that. Obviously I manage. But he has a point; there are only two contact points in my whole mouth, and those four molars are wearing down fast. He gave me a referral to the orthodontist to whom he sends his grandchildren, and suggested that we might be able to avoid surgery through the judicious use of serious orthodonture -- the dental equivalent of removing the side chairs to make room for the outsize sofa. Or something. Anyway it sounds gruesome and expensive but markedly less so than the Giant Skull Nutcracker surgery.

I used to daydream about getting a do-over of sixth grade, except Knowing Then What I Know Now. This is kind of the same thing, no?

I'm Sorry, I Didn't Mean to Leave that Glum Post Up There for So Long

But you know, the house is everting itself like a starfish having a snack, closets disgorging their collections of awesome t-shirts and rusty hedgeclippers only to be filled with orderly stacks of thoroughly labeled boxes, so.

Current hobbies include: Craigslist (why no, I don't mind if you call me at 10 p.m. on a barely intelligible cell phone, as long as you show up tomorrow with eighty bucks and a dolly!), total abdication of meal prep duties and grocery planning, and the late-night viewing of movies (rented to use up our prepaid card at the local arty video place) during Daphne's Wakey Time.

I kind of like packing. I like sorting my stuff and organizing it by type and subtype, and labeling the box, and putting it away. Yes, working in archives did suit me very well, why do you ask?

However, in the packing, I found all my nursing program application stuff. And thought how glad I am that I can start working on that again soon. Also how I need to do some serious shadowing before I pick a specialty. Because what if it turns out I really like, say, palliative care? It is, quite literally, the opposite of midwifery, but. Hm.

Speaking of midwifery: I had the following realization vis-a-vis Daphne's birth. The reason I insisted we decamp for the hospital, and not the close one but the 45-minutes-away one, was that I wanted to get away from my midwives (who were at the time engaged in harrassing my anterior cervical lip). To a lesser degree I wanted to get away from all my kind supportive people, but as they were neither poking around my bits nor insisting I drink a nightmarish concoction of orange juice and honey (seriously, in labor I hatehatehate sweet things) that concern was merely aesthetic.

And you know, in my life as of the past oh, four years, the most alone I ever get is in the car.

Even if someone else has to be there to drive, that person is engaged in that task; our eyes are forward. There's a minimum of interaction. There's also the illusion of escape, but the reality of being forced to sit very, very still.

It was kind of perfect and beautiful, if also absolutely insane.

I was thinking about it because I was reading a stack of Midwifery Today that I found, and also because a recent visit with one of the midwives left me a tad chafed. Look, when you're doing a pelvic? And you see the absence of hair in what is bafflingly termed the "bikini area" accompanied by a smattering of red bumps? That might be a good time not to think "zebras," if you know what I mean. That might be an important time not to bother mentioning that finding, because razor burn as far as I know is not a symptom of many horrifying gynecological diseases, and unless we are doing the differential for scabies, why fucking bring it up?

"Ooooh, I see some red bumps! We been shaving?" in a saccharine tone. An icy "Yesss" did nothing to discourage the line of inquiry. Seriously, though, is this the first time a midwife can have seen what frankly was extremely mild razor burn in that area? Am I the first client to bother trimming enough so that nothing sticks out of my #2 leg swimsuit, or am I the first to have any body hair whatsoever beyond a delicate mist of gossamer blonde? WHICH IS IT?

Anyway. So back to nursing school. After a smattering of prereqs, I'll get to apply...provided I get in, I'll have to choose a specialty. My current skill profile includes being very awesome at giving medicine to recalcitrant cats, removing glass shards from foot of hysterical preschooler who also happens to be my daughter, and extracting a good inch of pencil-end from own foot, all performed calmly and with customary good humor. Maybe I need to look beyond women's health.

So. Yes. Okay. We are moving in nine days. I'll post when I can.

If You Consider Yourself Pro-Life

By which I mean: if you don't agree that abortion should be legal and available at all, ever, under any circumstances.

And yet you don't wish murder upon doctors who provide abortions. You find the likes of Randall Terry repugnant. You are deeply horrified by the murder of Dr. George Tiller. You refuse to use the murder as a cheap pedestal from which to push your own agenda.

Then, people? You need to step the fuck up. Because the evil people have taken over, and they are speaking their malignant speech and rejoicing in murder in your name. You need to shun them and force them out and muzzle the hate-spewers of the media like Limbaugh and O'Reilly.

Say what you want about how you're not like them, and you don't agree with them, but until you contain them and stamp out that part of the movement, until all of you no longer fall under the same umbrella term "pro-lifer," any protestations are meaningless, the distinction difficult to make. If these men don't speak for you, then don't let them.

* * * *

On the other hand: If the thought of women using abortion as a consequence-evader for careless sexual behavior disgusts you, if abortion is a choice you would never make for yourself no matter what.

But you think there should be some exceptions made: for rape. For incest. For fetuses who have defects incompatible with life. When the life of the mother is at stake.

Then: you are going to have to work with pro-choice groups. Why? Because abortion is abortion -- and if you want that choice (such as it is) to be available when your daughter is pregnant after being raped, then you will have to make sure there is legal provision for doctors to perform abortions. You will have to ensure that medical students learn how to do the procedure. You will have to make doctors' offices safe places for the people who work there. When you have a dying fetus in your uterus and are fast on your way to dead yourself, you will depend on the justice system to keep the only doctor who can help you from being shot to death as he seats fellow congregants in church.

If you believe that there is any circumstance under which abortion should be permissible, then you bear the responsibility for making it so. Use your vote. Use your money. Use your typing fingers and your voice in the Fellowship Hall and with your neighbors.

Our national polarization regarding abortion is at the forefront once again, a compound fracture with bone shards breaking the skin. Life is full of gray areas, complexity, shades of meaning, but there's not a lot of middle ground here. Barring a life of domestic terrorism, there are two choices. Either you work to make this a country where doctors can perform abortion without fear of constant harassment and death, no matter what circumstances you consider acceptable for seeking abortion -- or you work through legal, civil means to block all access to abortion, and accept that women are going to die as a result.

* * * *

A note on comments: comments, agreeing or disagreeing, are welcome. However, anything that veers into hatred, threatening, or anything else scary will not be tolerated, and will be promptly deleted. Also, you may have noticed that I am not arguing about anyone's essential feelings about abortion -- just about actions.

Sunday Mourning

I was just thinking, "Wow, Josh Brolin is in everything these days!" and then I realized that "everything" was two separate previews for Milk and then...Milk.

Milk seemed a fitting movie choice for today. An assassination, really a martyrdom. Dr. George Tiller is dead, shot in a church about a quarter-mile from the house I grew up in, where my father still lives. I'm sickened and sad and furious, not just at Dr. Tiller's murder but at the ugly din coming from anti-abortion ideologues who hate -- who? Women. Some of them are women. It makes me want to get out the battering ram. It makes me sort of homesick for Wichita. I remember when they bombed his clinic, I remember the Operation Rescue Summer of "Love," I remember when they shot him the first time, for God's sake. I want to be with people who understand Wichita right now.

May God be with his family, who must have been expecting this -- but how can you ever prepare yourself? -- and may the cops keep Randall Terry away. May the good people of Wichita form a circle around the Tillers and keep back the evil ones who rejoice in the murder of a doctor who saved women's lives.

Oh, and if anyone is considering posting something in the comments along the lines of "But he MUURRRRDERED all the babies!" consider that I will come through the computer and punch you in the neck. And then I will delete your comment. I'm not in the mood.