My Bubble Has Burst

It was going to be a magical night - literally, and figuratively.  Our last night in Disney World, we had plans to go to the "Very Merry Christmas Party" at the Magic Kingdom.  The lines were short and the mood was festive and we even caught the end of the Christmas parade.

A bottle of bubbly was chilling back in our hotel refrigerator, waiting to be uncorked when it was announced at some point that evening that Hillary Clinton would be the first female President of the United States.  It would be a historic event that I would share with my family, and with dear friends who were also on the trip with us.  

I was on the boat back to our hotel when I got the text from my best friend asking if I had seen the news.  What news?  I responded.  That Trump may take Michigan and Wisconsin.  It was then that I knew something was going very wrong.  I was educated during this election cycle, and I knew the swing states and what that meant.  If he had Michigan and Wisconsin, then there was a good chance he would take Pennsylvania and Ohio.  And a few others.  And I was right.  

The whole thing happened so fast.  I broke out the bubbly, but only because I needed a drink to watch the news unfold.  Hours earlier, the news media was so sure of her win.  By the time I turned on the TV back in my hotel room, you could see the writing on the wall from the way John King was talking. And when Vance Jones gave him impassioned, impromptu speech about what he termed the "Whitelash," I shed my first tear of the evening.  It wouldn't be my last.  

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I'm the first to admit that I have a love affair with the Clintons.  It began back in 1992, when for the first time in my life, I become fascinated by politics.  I was from a liberal, Democrat family in the heart of suburban Cincinnati, and the majority of my friends' parents were voting Republican.  I was 13 and awkward and not the most popular girl in school, and in some ways it filled a void for me. I recorded the debates, and the inauguration, and I vowed to be President someday.  Or at least work in politics, for someone like Bill Clinton.

Seven years later I would follow that path straight to the White House as a summer intern, but by that point, it wasn't Bill Clinton that I wanted to work for.  It was his wife.  When I filled out my assignment preferences, my first pick was "Office of the First Lady."  I can't pinpoint why, but over the years, the subject of my admiration had moved from the President to her.  I respected her intellect, her passion, her tenacity, and the fact that she had withstood more public criticism and shame than any other public figure I had seen in my lifetime.  There was talk that she would run for Senate, and if she did, I wanted on the bandwagon.

I had hoped that my White House internship would be a life changing experience, but admittedly, it wasn't.  I felt like a fish out of water in Washington.  I didn't know anybody, and I didn't know how to respond to the namedropping and ladder climbing and manipulation that went on, even amongst the interns.  It scared me, frankly, and instead of rising to the occasion and getting back in there after my college graduation, I cowered.  I moved to England for two years.  And then I went to law school. And the rest is history.

During my days in law school, and even more so when I started my first big law job at Skadden Arps, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't constantly questioning my direction.  Why had I abandoned my political aspirations?  Why wasn't I in DC, working for something I felt passionately about?  Working for Senator Clinton?  Or at least trying to?  I don't know the answer.  Perhaps it was fear, risk aversion, a sense that that ship had sailed on without me, and that I was in too deep to a different career.  I felt lost.  In any event, once I had my children the decision was easy - I would be a stay at home mom and leave a job I was never passionate about in the first place.

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In the aftermath of the election, there's been a lot of talk about bubbles.  And my God, do I live in one.  Half of the American people voted for Donald Trump, and I can honestly say that I only know two of them.  I live in Bethesda, Maryland, right on the outskirts of DC.  In DC proper, Hillary Clinton received 93% of the vote.  In my county in Maryland, she received 76% of the vote.  I don't know a single person in the DC or Maryland area that voted for Trump - at least, they wouldn't admit it if they did.  And I suppose I don't blame them - in my community, admitting such a fact would be shameful.  Myself, and those around me, viewed Trump as racist, sexist, ignorant, and dangerous.  If people disagreed, they didn't make it known.

In Bethesda I live amongst the 1%, and I am one of them myself.  I live in a new construction home in a nice neighborhood.  We send our three kids to private schools, and have access to excellent healthcare.  I was in the incredible position to be able to quit my job and stay at home with my kids when they were young.  Someone comes and cleans our house once a week.  There is an expectation that my kids will go to good colleges and get good jobs.

It's hard to remind myself of how lucky we are at times, because where I live, this is all normal.  Our friends are doctors and lawyers and government employees and professionals.  They are African American, gay, Muslim, and hail from various different countries.  We aren't extravagant, no one owns their own jet, and no one really views themselves as "rich," even though I am sure were are considered so by objective standards.  I drive a Honda minivan, will only buy retail if something is on sale, and have never owned a designer bag.  But we don't stress about money.  And I know that if a crisis occurred, whatever that would be, financially we could weather it.

I know this isn't the normal America.

I have read about the depressed parts of the country - where there are no jobs and factories are closing and heroin addiction is rampant.  I drive through these communities on occasion, when I drive through Pennsylvania or Ohio on the way to visit friends.  I shudder and think about how fortunate I am when all I have to do is pass through.  And I have to admit, I don't feel all that comfortable there.  A month ago, when en route to my 20th high school reunion in Ohio, I was aghast at the number of Trump signs in the yards.  Who are these people?  I thought to myself.

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In the days since the election, I have been reading voraciously. And a few articles have answered that question I posed back in October - who are these people?

I've been comforted to realize that most of the people who voted for Trump aren't the racist, sexist, bigoted people that you see on the news at Trump rallies.  Instead, they are economically depressed, left behind, and desperate.

Today, in an Op-Ed for the Washington Post, Debbie Dingell, the House Representative for Michigan's 12th Congressional District, wrote the following:

The ordinary working man or woman in this country isn't asking for a lot.  They want to make a decent living.  They want to be able to provide for their family, buy a home in a safe neighborhood, put food on the table, go to the doctor when they need to, afford their medicines and educate their children.  What many don't understand is how these things are in danger of becoming unattainable for too many Americans.  

Reading this jogged my memory of something I read back in June by Michael Moore, about the Rust Belt and the "5 Reasons Why Trump Will Win":

From Green Bay to Pittsburgh, this, my friends, is the middle of England - broken, depressed, struggling, the smokestacks strewn across the countryside with the carcass of what we used to call the Middle Class.  Angry, embittered working (and nonworking) people who were lied to by the trickle-down of Reagan and abandoned by Democrats who still try to talk a good line but are really just looking forward to rub one out with a lobbyist from Goldman Sachs who'll write them [a] nice big check before leaving the room.  What happened in the UK with Brexit is going to happen here.  

It's easy for me to feel self righteous when I have the ability to.  When it comes to political issues, I focus on what I feel are social ones.  These are deal breakers for me.  Racism?  Sexism? LGBTQ rights?  Restricting access to abortion?  Restricting access to healthcare?  Gun control?  These are important to me, and I vote accordingly.  The fact that a Democrat in office may mean that we pay more taxes is irrelevant to me.  I feel that the amount of money we would lose out on is worth it for the greater good.  Economic considerations are the last on my list when it comes to politics.

I have the luxury of feeling this way.

But what I have realized in the past few days is that most people don't.

David Wong, in his article entitled Don't Panic, said it best:

That sick feeling some of you have right now?  [Trump supporters] had that for the last eight years. Call them racists if you want - some of them definitely are - but mostly they're regular people who want jobs, security, and safety.  Part of [the] bubble effect is that we're often shielded from "the other side" just enough that only the loudest, craziest assholes leak through.  Some of you never had a single polite conversation with a Trump supporter, but did hear about hate crimes and the baffling Reddit spammers and Breitbart bigots.  You didn't think Trump could win because you didn't think half the country could be crazy assholes.  Well I've got good news: You were right.  If you focus on the racism and ignore the economic anxiety, your intentionally blinding yourself to much of the problem. It doesn't matter how much you hate them; their concerns must be heard and addressed or else this will happen again.  

I have to believe that most people who voted for Donald Trump are decent people.  I don't understand how they could support such a candidate, but I want to.  I want to learn and listen.  

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As a woman, I never experienced blatant workplace discrimination.  Law firms do a pretty good job of recruiting women, at least at the junior levels (becoming partner is a different story), and they walk the PC walk.  But they don't always talk the talk.  And when it came time for me to have children, and ask for a flexible work schedule, I was ashamed.  I was embarrassed.  I felt that asking for more of a balance was an admission of a lack of loyalty and passion for my job.  That I wasn't being a "team player."  Men didn't do that, that's for sure, and I didn't have any women mentors to look to who had paved the way.  Though my request for part time was eventually approved, it was met with resistance.  And in some ways, I never fully recovered from that.  It was easy to eventually quit.

Since leaving my job, I have become much more aware of struggles women face in the workplace, in raising their children, and in ultimately re-entering the workplace.  It's tough out there, and we women get little support.  Little support from employers, from fellow women, and from the government - the United States is the only developed country not to offer paid maternity leave, and the options for affordable childcare are deplorable.

And as a mother,  I also started noticing some other things.

I started noticing that there were "girl" sections and "boy" sections in the toy store, and what was marketed to each.  Girls are mothers, caregivers, and beauticians.  Boys are train engineers, builders, and mechanics.

I started noticing that in Disney movies, the women are always scantily dressed and pining after "Prince Charming."  I mean, have you really taken a look at Ariel lately?

I started noticing that terms like "throw like a girl" and "cry like a girl" are derogatory by their very nature.  I was shocked and appalled to realize that at a young age, my boys would balk at the color pink because it was a "girl color."

When I breastfed my three babies, I started noticing that there really wasn't a convenient place to do so in public.  I endured nasty stares from random strangers, and the insinuation that I was doing something vulgar or wrong.  I started noticing that I was the one that always had to change the baby's diapers when we were outside of the home, because men's public restrooms never have changing tables.

And as I started thinking about re-entering the workforce, I realized that this "break" of motherhood I had taken was really frowned upon.  I started thinking about "resume gaps" and salary reductions and a general notion that I had jumped ship and no one wanted me back on.

I started realizing that patriarchy is alive in well, in subtle and not so subtle ways.

When I initially started admiring Hillary Clinton back in the 90s, it wasn't because she was a woman. But when she received the Democratic nomination for President, the fact that she was a woman was especially thrilling.

I watched most of her speeches and every debate.  I watched her outfits get analyzed and her rare demonstrations of emotions be judged.  I watched her be criticized for the infidelities of her husband.  I watched her get threatened with imprisonment, be faced with her husband's mistresses at a live debate, and be called a "nasty woman" to her face, and her not even flinch.  She stuck to message, stuck to the issues, and handled it with grace and dignity in a way that I never could.  And what choice did she have?  Could she vehemently defend herself?  Get angry?  No, a woman can't do that.  A woman who did that would be a "bitch."  She would be "unstable."  Or, I suppose, a nasty woman.

Throughout the campaign, there was constant talk of how hated Hillary Clinton was by a large portion of Americans.  For the life of me, I don't understand why.  Because of emails?  Because of an attitude problem?  Because of allegations of corruption for which she has been cleared?  Because she was stoic and strong and rehearsed?  Because she's changed positions on issues, like every politician to ever run for office?  I'm not saying she doesn't have her flaws, but there is a hatred towards her that eclipses hatred for any other politician in our modern time.  Is her biggest flaw that she is a strong, independent woman?  Is that too hard to handle for men and women alike?

Here's how I view Hillary - This is a woman that has devoted her life to public service and endured scrutiny, abuse, and humiliation, and she kept on going.  She is smart, she is strong, she is experienced, and she is inspiring.

Hillary Clinton is a hero and I will make sure that my kids know it.

She would have made a great President.

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On election day I woke up in a sleep deprived, hungover haze, and gathered the kids and luggage and went to the Orlando airport, to take our flight back to DC, and back to reality.  Once we had made it through baggage claim, my father called.  We spoke briefly, but it was enough.

The tears flowed, and I had to sit down and have a big, ugly cry.  And I couldn't stop them.  Walking to the gate, running to the bathroom, boarding the plane.  I looked around at everyone else and everyone seemed to be carrying on as normal.  Checking their phones, buying a coffee, pulling their luggage.  I wanted to scream out - DON'T YOU ALL REALIZE WHAT HAS HAPPENED?  DON'T YOU REALIZE THE WORLD HAS CHANGED?  HOW CAN YOU ALL BE ACTING SO NORMAL WHEN THE WORLD HAS BEEN TURNED UPSIDE DOWN? 

This isn't to say that people weren't reeling inside.  I'm sure many were.  But I was desperate to find someone else who looked distressed, who looked shell shocked.  I wanted to hug a stranger more than I ever have in my life.

Instead, I took out my phone and scrolled through my Facebook feed.  I found solidarity there.  I joined every Pantsuit Nation Facebook group I could find.  But there is something to be said for personal contact.  For not hiding behind our phones and computers.  For getting out there and comforting each other.  And so yesterday, I went out sporting my Hillary T-shirt, which had ironically arrived the day after the election.  Just in case someone else needed to know that they weren't alone.

In dealing with my sadness the past couple of days, my first reaction was to hide my tears from my children, who are too young to really understand the ramifications of the election.  I didn't want to scare them, and I didn't want them to see me being "weak."  But eventually, I changed my mind.  I want them to see this.  I want them to remember this.  I want them to say, when they are older, that they remember the day Donald Trump was elected president.  And that they remember their mother crying.

I come from a long line of political activists.  My paternal grandparents were both communists in the 1940s, and loved to brag that each of them had their own FBI file.  My Dad participated in the March on Washington when he was 19 years old, and went on to protest the Vietnam War and join the Peace Corps.  My great aunt and uncle were marching in protests until they got too old to march anymore.

My Great Aunt Evelyn

I've always felt strongly about political issues, but I've never taken it to that next step.  I've thought about it, and I've planned on it, but it just hasn't happened.  Part of it is the fact that I didn't feel there was a need to.  Civil rights, women's rights - that was already taken care of, right?  Gay marriage? Check.  Gun control?  I can't make a difference anyway.

I'm not proud of my complacency and my willingness to live happily ever after in the little bubble I've been residing in.

This week, my bubble has burst.

I don't wish failure upon Donald Trump's presidency.  I hope that he renounces the bigotry and racism some of his supporters have shown.  I hope he backs off on the various threats he has made during his candidacy, like banning Muslims, building a wall, punishing women for having an abortion, and prosecuting Hillary Clinton.

But if he doesn't, I am going to do what I can to fight.  I'm not sure what form that will take, but I vow to do it to the best of my ability, even if it involves time, money, and sacrifice.   I alone cannot change the world, but I can, as Gandhi so eloquently put it, be the change I wish to see in the world.

I start with this post.  Numerous times times during the past few months I considered writing about the election, but I hesitated because I didn't want to delve into politics on this forum, and didn't want anyone to feel ostracized.  Fuck that.  This is just a small blog with a small readership, but it's my space, and shame on me for being silent.

None of us can afford to be silent anymore.  Particularly in the next four years, we must make it our mission to understand each other, to speak up and defend those who are vulnerable, and to make personal sacrifices to fight for what is right.

To those who aren't in a bubble, and who have never been in one - I promise you that I will stand with you for the next four years, and as long as it takes.  You are not alone.

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In an Instant

A few years ago I read Joan Didion's memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking, which chronicles her struggles the year after the sudden death of her husband.  In it, she details how her husband collapsed and had a massive heart attack right before her eyes, while they were sitting at the kitchen table having dinner.

"Life changes fast.  Life changes in an instant.  You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends," she wrote.  

That quote struck me enough to stick with me, some three years later.  And this past weekend, it was one of the things I first thought of when in a mere instant, my life changed as well.

One minute my husband was running on the Canal tow path, getting in an 11 mile run before our half marathon in a few weeks.  The next minute, he was flat on the pavement, being awoken by an EMT asking him if he could remember his name or address.

Who knows how long he had been lying there?  Assuming someone found him instantly, called 911, and then another ten or fifteen minutes for the ambulance to get there - 20 minutes?  Twenty minutes of him seizing, and then lying lifeless on the pavement, bloodied and bruised.  Fast asleep.

When I received the call from the ambulance I was lying in bed with my five year old - encouraging him to leave me alone and watch his movie so I could nap.  I was looking forward to a lazy afternoon and an evening of entertaining friends at our house.  And with that call - in that instant, it all changed.

Unbeknownst to me, while I was lying in bed with my son with Aladdin playing in the background, my husband was lying alone, having a grand mal seizure on a gravel path, and a stranger was summoning help.

How could that be?  How could I not know?

I in turn summoned my village.  I texted my close friends and asked whoever received it to call immediately.  Two minutes later I had arranged to drop off my kids, and a few minutes after that my sister had arranged to pick them up later and bring them back to my house, should I be at the hospital overnight.    I arrived at the hospital shortly after that, with my husband conscious, but confused, and so began the medical jargon.  CT scans and EKGs and blood sugar levels and anything and everything and it all came out normal.

My husband had never had a seizure before, so this was all new to both of us.  And in yet another circumstance, I was reminded that although modern medicine is incredible, in other aspects doctors don't know anything, and can't answer the most important of questions.

Why did this happen?  Will it happen again? 

Don't know, don't know.

There are practical implications.  For one, my husband can no longer drive, at least for the time being.  This is a huge inconvenience, but not insurmountable, and we will make due.  We are lucky that we live in an area with a vast network of public transportation, and that someone invented uber.

There are the big questions.  Seeing Daddy walk in the house bloodied and bruised after a visit to the hospital was unnerving for my two older kids.  We have reassured them that Daddy is fine, but my seven year old seems anxious and knows something larger is amiss.

There's the fear of the unknown.  Of why and how and what the future holds and what we should do about it.

There's the introspection.  This incident has reminded me that life is short, life is unpredictable, and life can change in an instant.  It's made me ponder life and death and how we're all just our bodies and our brains, and how weird and bizarre is that?  It reminded me of a quote from a book I, coincidentally, just read: "Do No Harm: Stories of Life, Death, and Brain Surgery," a memoir of the career of a neurosurgeon.  He writes:

"In neuroscience it is called 'the binding problem' - the extraordinary fact, which nobody can even begin to explain, that mere brute matter can give rise to consciousness and sensation."  

That brute matter - our consciousness - our brain- how can it just turn off?  Or fire uncontrollably? How can it make a 34 year old man who is jogging fall flat on his face, to the ground, unconscious, in an instant, and jerk uncontrollably?   There's a scientific explanation that my rational mind can understand.  But yet, deep down it's mystifying and unreal and not something I can grasp.

Lastly, there's the gratitude.  That he's okay and home and well and that things could be much, much worse. There's an indebtedness I feel to the random strangers who found him on the ground, who stopped, who called 911, and who stayed there until the paramedics arrived.

Who are these people?  My husband has a vague recollection of people looking on as he was carried off by a stretcher, but no memory of who they were or what they looked like.  How odd that complete strangers can play such a large role in a pivotal moment of your life, and then you never see them again?

Both my husband and I would like to find these people to thank them.  So, for people in the Maryland/DC/Virginia area, if you wouldn't mind forwarding this post around, we would greatly appreciate it.  The incident happened on Saturday, October 24th around 1pm on the Canal Tow Path, near Carderock.

Overall, my husband is fine, I am fine, we are fine.  We are happy.  We are normal.  We are going forward.  It's just another one of life's many twists and turns, and there's nothing to do but go with it with a smile.

I Suck as a Mom This Week

Huge mom fails this week.  And they both involve my children being in physical pain that was only exacerbated by me.

Mom Fail #1 - Braden

Braden is one of those kids that is in the nurse's office at school every day.  When he gets a minor scratch on his knee, he limps.  When he has a mosquito bite, he wails.

The kid cries wolf.  A lot.

So when the school nurse called me on Tuesday saying that Braden had been to see her saying his eye was hurting, I assumed it was just overplayed allergies.  I had little sympathy, and after all, this was not the first time I had gotten a call from the nurse.  I told her that if she thought he was okay, that he should go back to class.

When I picked him up after school later that afternoon, he was clutching his left eye.  He immediately got into the car and started crying.  His eye was red and puffy, but he does tend to get puffy eyes in allergy season.  I tried to calm him down saying it was okay, it was just allergies, and that I'd give him some allegra and eye drops when we got home.

But he kept crying.  And for some reason, I decided to go ahead and make an appointment with the ophthalmologist for the next day, thinking all the while that I was wasting my time and the doctor's time, because after all, it's just allergies.

But that mommy gut thing was telling me to do it.

Literally, a Crappy Monday

Yesterday I took all three boys outside to play.

Then a bird shat on my arm.

I took a moment to think about the existential nature of this.  What are the chances that I was standing at the exact right point in my yard at the exact right time that this bird decided to take a crap directly above me?  It got me all philosophical thinking things like:

If I hadn't sat next to that random girl on a flight to Amsterdam back in 2000, then she never would have introduced me to my ex boyfriend, and then I never would have stayed an extra year in London, and then I never would have gone to Penn Law, and then I never would have met my husband, and then I never would have had these three kids and lived in this house and been standing outside at this exact moment for this bird to crap on my arm.  

My thoughts were interrupted by a couple of screaming children, and before I knew it I had forgotten about the profoundness of the bird shitting on my arm and how it all went back to this flight I took to Amsterdam in the year 2000.  In fact, I must admit I didn't even wash my arm until about 20 minutes later (but I did wipe it off immediately with a dried leaf).  

I suppose it really wasn't that profound after all.

Sometimes shit just happens.

Explosive Poops on Planes (and Related Netflix Entertainment)

I feel like I could write a novel about diaper mishaps, but I don't.  Because it's disgusting and boring and who really wants to read that?

And yet, here I am about to write a blog post about an explosive poopy diaper.  But I must. Because my story must be told.

Our family went to the Cayman Islands last week - our fourth visit there.  It was awesome and beautiful and perhaps in the near future I will post pictures.  But the trip down there with three kids was a bit brutal.

In order to save a bit of money, we opted to take connecting flights from DC to the Caymans.  It sounded like a great idea a few months before whilst searching for the best fare, but I was cursing myself when we arrived late to the Miami airport and had to book it across the terminal to make it to our next flight.  We barely had time to do anything, but I told my husband we HAD to change my son Colin's diaper before we boarded the next plane.  Because really, where does one change a diaper on the plane?  In the minuscule, disgusting airplane bathroom?  I'm not quite sure logistically how that would work, and I didn't want to learn.

I took the older boys to grab a quick snack, while my husband changed Colin's diaper, in our reclined stroller.  We reunited in the boarding line, where my husband said to me:  You know in the Crocodile Hunter where the crocodiles would roll all over violently when threatened?  That's what Colin just did while I was changing his diaper.  

I had to laugh.  Better him than me.  At least it was done.

We boarded the plane, and I hunkered in with Colin on my lap, who was flying as a lap child.  Just as the plane was about to take off, I smelled something.  I reached at the back of his pants to look in his diaper, and there it was.  Explosive and yellow and mushy and about to go up his back.  And a bit of it got on my forefinger.

I calmly wiped my finger with a napkin and turned to my husband across the aisle and told him that Colin needed his diaper changed asap.  But of course, we had to wait for the plane to take off and for the fasten seat belt sign to be turned off which took, all in, around 20 minutes, all of which were spent with me delicately holding Colin in awkward positions so the poop would not squeeze out of his diaper and up his shirt.  I used this fact as leverage in convincing my husband to be the one to do the dirty deed.

The plane reached cruising altitude, my husband took Colin to the bathroom, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.  As I did so, I must have wiped my brow with my hand, because I noticed that my finger had left something wet on my head.

Yes, it's what you are thinking.  Poop.  On my forehead.

I scrambled to find another napkin, a bit confused as to how poop got back on my finger, and thus, on my head.  As I did so, I saw it.

Five Netflix Documentaries That Make You Question Humanity

I know lists such as these are usually of the feel good type.  Aka, most romantic movies on Netflix, best movies to watch with your family over the holidays, best shows for kids, etc.  I've read such lists.  I've used such lists.  I've even written such lists.

But lately I've watched some really effed up stuff on Netflix that has made me (a la the title of this post) question humanity.  In the sense that the documentary credits roll, and I think to myself, What is wrong with people?  

The whole thing has me reflective in a weird way as I'm driving to do my preschool pick ups.  I find myself thinking things like:  Is the human race doomed to destroy itself?  Are we all solely driven by greed?  Are we all inherently violent?  What will become of me and my family and all of our offspring until the end of time?  What is time?  What will I make my family for dinner tonight?

I don't know.  I really have been in a good mood lately, so I'm not sure what the fixation is with the doom and gloom.  But if you for some reason, like me, want to watch some documentaries that really make you doubt the future of the human race, here they are:

Nuts

I have a lot on my plate right now.  I'm 39 weeks pregnant, for one thing, and there is all the anticipation and discomfort and anxiety that comes with that.  I'm also in full scale school search mode for my oldest son, which is taking up a crazy amount of time and bringing all sorts of stress (I swore I wouldn't get wrapped up in it all.  I lied).  I also have a couple of work projects to wrap up, two kids to feed, laundry to do, contractions to get through, etc.  Oh, and I am obese.  Pregnant, but obese.  

I'm not trying to complain, and really, I'm doing fine.  But my point is, there just seems to be a lot going on.  

So why not add a FREAKING PEANUT ALLERGY into the mix?  

I could have sworn I had given Casey peanuts before.  After all, he's 3 years old!  But now that I look back, I suppose I didn't.  My husband has a mild allergy to nuts, and Braden doesn't like them, so we don't really ever have them in our house.  Casey's school, along with most schools and camps now, are nut-free zones.  So really, in the absence of me purposefully giving him nuts, he probably never did have them.  And I guess I never did.

The fact that he could have an allergy didn't even occur to me.  It certainly didn't before we opened up a packet of peanut M&M's last week.  

Sugar Fail

I hate failing tests.  Especially when they involve gross sugary drinks and needles and blood draws.

I heard the news this morning.  I FAILED the most annoying test in the course of a pregnancy - the one hour glucose tolerance test.  And what reward do I get for FAILING this test?  Yet another test!  Three hours long!  (Plain english translation - there's a small possibility that I have gestational diabetes - further testing is required).

First, lets go over the joys of test #1 (which I FAILED).  At around 26 weeks, we pregnant ladies get to chug a ridiculously disgusting sugary drink, that sits like a pit in the bottom of our stomachs. Then we get to wait, exactly one hour, in a gross and overcrowded medical lab, and get blood taken.  Then, some of us, I don't know, like myself, reward ourselves afterwards with a cheeseburger and fries.  (I was craving salt).  Approximately 80% of us will pass this test and never look back.

That means 20% of us aren't so lucky.

I have done this test twice before, one with each previous pregnancy, and passed.  I assumed this time would be no different.  In fact, yesterday, as I was chugging down my sugary drink, I took solace in one thing, which I confirmed with my OB:  So assuming this test goes well, is this the last time I have to get blood drawn during this pregnancy?  

Why yes it is!  he told me.

Why, oh why did I ask that question?  I jinxed myself right there.

In Defense of the "Good Wives"

When the news came out this week about Anthony Weiner's recent indiscretions, I honestly barely gave it any thought.  What do I care?  It's another politician, running for office in another state, and it has no bearing on my life at all.  And really, if it weren't for his unfortunate last name, would this have really made headlines in the first place, some 2+ years ago?

Regardless of my interest, I am a victim of the mainstream media, and I couldn't help but notice the articles, and what those articles were focusing on.

His wife.  

One such article on CNN was titled Why Does Huma Abedin Put Up with Weiner?  In its first paragraph, it stated that: 

"Tempted as I am to write about Anthony Weiner's sexual compulsions, I think it is more important to talk about his wife, Huma Abedin.  What the hell was she doing at Weiner's press conference Tuesday, where he once again asked her and the public for forgiveness for a new set of sexual transgressions, instead of being in her attorney's office?"

"More important?"  REALLY?  

Crying Uncle with Antibiotics

It started over Memorial Day weekend with a scratchy throat.  I think I'm getting sick, I remember mentioning to my husband, as we drove back from New York.  I remember saying it out loud, just in case I needed to remember it for dating purposes, or in the rare instance of death (my husband could tell the coroner - She did say she wasn't feeling well.).  

Little did I know....

It morphed from a scratchy throat to a sore throat to a cough.  A bad, bad cough.  The kind of uncontrollable cough that kept my husband up at night and had me keeling over in involuntary fits and had my kids yelling, Stop it!!!  The kind of cough where I didn't cough hard enough to break a rib, but where it didn't seem so outlandish that people do.

After a week of this, I had had enough.  I went to the doctor.  Not the minute clinic, not my OB - my regular doctor.  I forget I have one of those every once in a while.  I usually only go once a year (if that) for my yearly check up.  Otherwise, I tough my illnesses out.  I am busy enough taking my kids to the pediatrician's office to ever take myself.

But this time was different.

Is The World Going to Shit?

Yesterday's tragedy in Boston was just another event in what seems to be a sequence of tragedies that makes me wonder, Is this world going to shit?  

I mean, it's hard not to think that way.  When children are being murdered in schools, when an 8 year old dies while waiting for his dad to cross a marathon finish line, when women in Syria are being systematically raped, when road side bombs in the Middle East are no longer a front page news story, when North Korea is about to unleash its terror, when U.S. Ambassadors are killed in their embassies, when there is still racism and sexism and homophobia and anti-semitism and global warming...

It makes you wonder what the hell is going on.  And if our world really is, indeed, going to shit.

I've thought on this for the past 24 hours.  And I think the answer is no.  I don't think our world is going to shit.  I think it's always been that way.

Can't. Take. Much. More.

Since having children, we have had some notorious, unforgettable, nightmarish weeks where everything just seems to go wrong.  It always involves illness, and usually multiple parties.  Our infamous Thanksgiving comes to mind (where 7 out of 8 house residents were violently vomiting within a 24 hour period).  The Thanksgiving before, Braden got sick, then Casey, who was 5 weeks old at the time, and had to be hospitalized for three days to ensure he didn't have meningitis or some other awful thing infant malady (Casey getting a spinal tap ranks as one of the lower points of my life).  Then there was the hand foot and mouth, followed by strep, followed by the cold, followed by impetigo.  You get the drift.  

I'm in the midst of one of those times right now.

It all was precipitated by Casey's injury nearly two weeks ago.  So much so that I keep replaying that moment in my mind....  If only I hadn't put him in that chair...  If only I'd given him something else for breakfast....  If only SOMETHING HAD BEEN DIFFERENT AND HE HADN'T FALLEN DOWN AND WE'D GONE OUT WITH OUR DAY...

Because it all started with that.  

Casey falls.  Casey needs stitches.  Casey ends up in the ER for five plus hours, where undoubtedly, he picked up some wretched communicable disease.  

A Not-So-Stoic ER Visit

When my oldest son was a baby, I was pretty trigger happy with the ER.  I remember taking him to the ER at six months old for a high fever.  And then once when he fell and busted his lip.  Both maladies have occurred another 100 times or so, and each time I laugh at my once naive first time momness.  I've gotten a much thicker skin now - with two boys, one has to.  Blood, bruises, and the biweekly fever and/or cold are all par for the course.

That being said, we are still ER frequenters.  Three months ago for a skin infection (on a holiday weekend).  Two months ago for a severe tongue laceration (aka, Braden bit through his entire tongue - gross).  One month ago for an x-ray for a sprained ankle.  I no longer approach the ER with anxiety; I do so rather with quiet resolution - Okay, here we go again.  Please let this be as painless as possible.  

But yesterday - yesterday rocked me a little.

We were visiting family in New York, and my husband and I were literally almost out the door (coats on, car packed) to have a night away in Manhattan, just the two of us.  We bid farewell to the kids, and just as we were headed towards the door, I looked back at Casey and watched as he fell backwards, slow motion, out of a barstool.  It was quite a bang and I knew right away it wasn't going to be good.  My husband ran towards him, and immediately we both saw blood.  A lot of it. Coming from a huge gash in his cheek.

Instead of heading to Manhattan, we headed to the local ER.

How

I am sick and heartbroken.

There really are no words.

Five minutes ago I went to the Brady Campaign website and donated.  It was hard to get on the site - it crashed a few times, presumably because so many people have my same idea.

Here's the link if you want to do the same:  http://www.bradycampaign.org/

Things need to change.  NOW.  What's it going to take?

A Beat Down and a Christmas Tree

Yesterday was one of those days where I just felt beat down.  Beat down from ALL sides - from my personal life, from my professional life, from random mean blog commenters...  It was one of those days where you just have to laugh out loud at some point and say,  Really?  Really?  The universe wants to pile on something else? 

I had the urge to assume fetal position and tuck my head down to keep all the spears from hitting me.  Kind of like this:

That's a pangolin, by the way.  Taken from http://wisecreatures.blogspot.com/2010/07/tale-of-tails.html

It was just one of those days where I felt defeated. 

Around 6pm I was sitting with the kids at dinner (for icing on the cake, hubby was working late), and brainstorming what I could do to turn this funk around.  And then, the inspiration came: 

I Lost My Shit Yesterday

Let me first set the stage. 

It's gray out. 

It's chilly.

It's muddy. 

It's not good park weather. 

But it is the second consecutive day that Braden has not had school and the three of us are going a bit crazy in the house. 

"Do you all want to go to a park?"

YES!  YES!  PARK!  PARK!  PARK!

We went to a park. 

It looks like other people had the same idea I did, because the park was packed with obnoxious rambunctious kids everywhere. 

Speaking of obnoxious rambunctious, I quickly noticed a group of 4 or 5 little boys - probably around 7 or 8- who were screaming, jumping, pushing, running, basically channelling a a balloon rapidly deflating - all over the place, unpredictable, loud.   

I made a mental note to steer clear.

The Ocean Ate My Glasses

The title pretty much says it all.  But since I have my own little space here on the internet to bitch about whatever it is I want, allow me to vent.

The ocean ate my fucking glasses.

Two days ago my dad, Braden, Casey and I headed to Carolina beach to take in some waves. The water was warm, the sun was shining, and I had this warm, fuzzy, oh, isn't this a beautiful day kind of feeling.

The waves were crashing close to the shore, so I decided to be daring and carry Braden out a bit deeper so we could glide over the waves like a slide right before they broke.  He loved it, I loved it, and I'm thinking, oh, this is just so invigorating, I am so glad I am alive and young and

BAM.

A Letter to My Anxiety

Dear Anxiety,

It had been a while since I had seen you.  Over 18 months, in fact, since you paid me an unwelcome visit right after Casey was born.  I thought I had bid you good riddance.  But unfortunately, you decided to stop in a few weeks ago.

You came out of nowhere, but that's what you tend to do.  You reared your ugly head on my first day of vacation.  You laughed in my face at the timing.

And oh, you were so familiar.  You started in slow, with some uneasy thoughts.  You got my heart racing.  And then you hit me hard the same way you did last time - you didn't let me go to sleep.

You said some pretty crappy things to me.  Things like, "See what's happening, Shannon?  You're slipping back into a postpartum episode.  This one is going to be worse than last time."  And "You thought you were off your medication?  That you were in the clear?  Ha!"  And "I so am going to ruin your vacation."

Ultimately, you gave me the all familiar mantra - your favorite: "You'll never sleep normally again. In fact, you won't sleep at all.  And the lack of sleep will make you crazy.  And once you are crazy, you will live the rest of your life strapped to a gurney in a mental institution and your children will never know you."

My 33rd Year

I read an article a few weeks ago that said that a study found that 33 is the "happiest" age.

My first reaction?  Well, crap.  I'm 33.  And this year has pretty much sucked.  Am I wasting what is supposed to be the happiest year of my life?

It's just a stupid article.  But it got me thinking.

About myself.  About happiness.  About control.  About letting go.  About life.

(Warning, this is going to be a deep one.)

My Anthem

It's no secret I've been having a rough time lately.

I have had some bad days.

I have had some people in my life not treat me so great.

And not be so nice to me.  

I have had people who read this blog leave some pretty nasty anonymous comments (seriously, if you're going to leave a nasty comment, at least have the balls to leave your name).

And the random stranger who shushes my child for crying at a public park (a park, people!) is getting to me more than normal.

But you know what always seems to lift my spirits?

Ms. Kelly Clarkson.



I'm normally a country girl, but how can you not want to kick some ass after listening to this song?

So take that, world!