Home on the Dirt Pile

I don't want to say that I was anxious about my business trip this week, but when Paul and Ellie got home from work and school on Wednesday evening, they found the front door to the house standing wide open. Oh, the glass door was closed. But the wood door was open. It seems that I rolled my suitcase out the front door, put it into the car, and just left.

In my defense, we've had a landscaping crew out here all week and so there's plenty to distract the eye from teensy weensy little household details like an open door.

It's going to look so cool when it's done. The next outdoor projects are to build Ellie's swing set/play gym thing (as part of the retaining wall project, the landscapers are building a large, level play pit), fence in the back yard, add shutters to the windows, and eventually replace the brick patio with stone. It won't be too long before the outside of our house is looking pretty spiffy!

But for now we're broke. And the inside is our next priority. Coming up for the inside are finishing the basement family room/playroom, creating a "big girl bedroom" for Ellie in the guestroom (sorry, guests!), replacing all interior and exterior doors and frames, replacing the baseboards, and eventually building a new office for me. So I guess we're planning to stay here for a while!

But back to my trip. My meeting went really well yesterday. I'm glad I went and am excited about what might come from the strategy session. The travel itself was bearable, but a touch rough. For some reason, I had to fly on a little toy jet in both directions, and the best world to describe both landings is "yaw." Oh, how I hate yaw.

I stayed at a lovely Loews, which is usually a nice treat, but not this time. My room was literally on the back of the elevator bank and I could hear the elevators going up and down all night. The room wasn't even in the nicely carpeted hallway with the other guest rooms; it opened off the marble elevator lobby before the firedoors, directly across from the service doors, which slammed. A lot. My room's windows opened out directly onto a tar paper roof covered in broken glass, with nearby office windows close enough to read their cubicle posters. The walls were horribly scuffed. Worst of all, the bathroom floor around the toilet was liberally smeared with dried blood. Oh, yes. But I got in late and left early, so I didn't change rooms. By the time I noticed the bathroom floor, I was already unpacked and exhausted.

All in all, it went well and I'm glad I went and I'm glad I'm home. No matter how messy it gets here, I can still use the bathroom barefoot.

Excused Absence

Tonight will be my first night away from Paul and Ellie. I know! She's two! We left her alone with my parents already once! But this is Paul (a wonderful and more than capable daddy) alone with Ellie in our house, so it feels different.

I plan to read. And sleep really hard. And think about other stuff. And work lots. And make believe that my life is like it used to be, just for a little while.

My super cool happy fun almost-perfect part-time job is sending me on an overnight business trip. One night is the perfect length for a business trip, I think. Oh, how far the American Airlines Gold frequent flyer has come in the past few years. It doesn't seem like so long ago that I'd gladly hop on a plane with very little notice to give a presentation somewhere across the country.

In the meantime, there are some absolutely adorable pictures of Ellie here. Jessica, you all simply must come over again very soon so that we can have a rematch of Carcassonne. I promise not to cheat this time!

When I get back, I'll post belated pictures of our homemade Christmas presents. And more of Ellie.

Language is Powerful

This is essay was written by Carol Mills, an assistant professor of Communication Studies at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. One of her three children has Down syndrome.

***

This summer, ESPN promoted the NBA playoff with upbeat and funky promos featuring the song “Let’s Get It Started” sung by the hip hop group, The Black Eyed Peas. The song was actually an adaptation of their earlier release, “Let’s Get Retarded.” When I discovered this, I contacted ESPN and encouraged others to do so, too.

Do you think ESPN would have used the BEPs' song if it was originally “Let’s Act Like _____" (insert racial, religious, cultural, or sexist) epithet of your choice? Absolutely not. Though hip hop may play by different cultural and language rules, the Disney subsidiary ESPN does not. Adapting a blatantly offensive song clearly violates appropriate cultural and business standards. During the same time period, teen actor Lindsay Lohan repeatedly replied “that’s retarded,” when questioned about various rumors. And, Jon Stewart, of The Daily Show, regularly used the phrase “like a bunch of retards.” There was little attention or reprimand for any of them.

However, during the NBA finals weeks, there was intense media scrutiny and criticism for football coach Bill Parcels using the phrase “Jap play” during a press conference and basketball legend Larry Bird’s comments about race affecting the NBA. And, comedian Jimmy Kimmel’s show was taken off the air one night because he made an insensitive comment about people from Detroit.

These events reflect a larger social issue: Though dearly sensitive to slurs against other groups, the general population does not see the derogatory use of “retarded” as offensive. Using the word as a pejorative term is common in entertainment venues, daily conversation and children’s play. Though a child would be reprimanded for making a racist comment in most schools, it is not uncommon for students — even teachers — to use the word as an epithet for something they consider negative or inappropriate.

The implications for taking control of language are profound. If children grow up hearing that when they forget something they are “retarded” or that those who act poorly are “a bunch of retards,” how do you think they will react when meeting someone with a diagnosis of mental retardation? Do you think neighborhood parents will fight inclusion if they hear about “retarded children” more than if they hear about “children with developmental delays?”

Our society’s long-time use of “retarded” as an epithet is decidedly negative. We can work to end this. Speak up and educate people.

The best approach often is a direct one. You might say, “You know, ‘retarded’ actually means ‘to do slowly.’ The way you’ve just used it hurts me and many others. It’s like hearing a racial slur.” I’ve often done this, especially with college students, and they are surprised. Most have no idea they are being offensive. They think it’s just another word until told otherwise.

If being direct is too scary, try a gentle question such as, “What did you mean by saying it is ‘retarded’?” This can create an opportunity to share the term’s negative use. Or, if it’s comfortable, try humor. When someone says, “I’m so retarded...” you might say with a smile and a wink, “Oh, that’s okay, so is my son and I love him anyway.” After breaking the ice, explain why it’s important.

This is not about confrontation — it is about education. After awhile, you’ll find a comfortable approach. Yes, initially, it may feel awkward, especially when talking to a doctor, teacher or media representative. But remember, those people need to hear it most. The more you speak up, the more natural it becomes.

Similarly, you educate others about using “people first” language. If someone refers to your child as a “Down’s child,” simply say,“Actually, he is a child who has Down syndrome.” If the person says, “It’s the same thing,” or gives you “The Look,” you might ask if they’d like to be called by their last name first from now on. The words are the same, only the order is different, why should they care? Or, as many people do, ask if they’d want to be called the “ulcer woman,” or the “cancer dad.” Diagnoses should never define the person.

Finding our voice to educate others and correct language might be difficult, but it is imperative. This is not simply about semantics, political correctness or being overly sensitive. It is about respect. Once you start educating others, you will be surprised by reactions. A few may never get it, but most people will thank you. They will even tell you that they never realized the impact of their words. In that moment, you might say, “That’s why I said something. I knew you’d understand.” Then, breathe a sigh of relief and think of what and how you might respond the next time there’s a need to educate someone. And, we all know, there will be a next time.

Language is Powerful
— By Carol Mills, Ph.D., Tuscaloosa, AL

Beautiful!

First, a little story. There was this guy on my freshman [dorm] floor who once told me that I look exactly like Peter Sellers. Yes, the guy who played Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther movies. Since then, whenever I'm asked which celebrity I most resemble, I always answer, "Peter Sellers!" which makes people laugh and/or look at me funny.


PPB over at The Ice Floe uploaded her face at MyHeritage.com to see what celebrities she most closely resembles. That sounded like fun, Ellie's asleep, the carpets are wet, and our TV is currently otherwise occupied, so I decided to upload my own face.

Guess who I looked like? Yes, I'm a 59% match with Peter Sellers. It turns out that my old friend Tim could see me more clearly than I see myself.


My other matches, several of which are hilarious, flattering, and humbling on their own:
Sania Mirza, 66%
Meryl Streep, 60%
Peter Sellers, 59%
Danny Elfman, 58%
Chava Albertstein, 53% (Paul matched with her too)
Wim Welders, 48%
Benzair Bhutto, 46%
Madonna, 42%
Michael Moore, 41%
Rita Hayworth, 41%

That's me. One part Michael Moore, one part Rita Hayworth. Serve in a martini glass, garnished with a nose.

Who Are You?

OK, I'll bite. My Sitemeter is set to ignore me. That means that about 90 of you stop by here every day (more on weekdays, fewer on weekends). Or, one very compulsive person clicks here a lot!

It's interesting to watch how some blogs get very high visitor:comment ratios and others do not.

If I understood the phenomenon, my ratio would probably be a bit higher.

Anyway, you're here and I'd love to hear from you. Please feel obligated! I hear that it might be National De-Lurking Week! [What nation? Well, apparently this one! And probably a few others.]

Parenting Skills

Oh, give me strength!

My thin and hungry child is crying for more food.

But she has a full plate and bowl in front of her. I already caved and added a little bit of cinnamon and sugar to her plain applesauce. And I made a second kind of sandwich in case she would prefer PB&J to ham and cheese. But I will not cave and give her something else for lunch! I will not!

But it's so hard. She could use the food, surely. But if I just make her something I know she'll eat, she'll learn that all she has to do is cry and she'll get whatever she wants. And down the line I'll really regret it . . .

Seeing it written out makes me feel better. I am making the right decision here. (I hope.) And if she gets hungry enough, she'll eat the sandwich(es) and applesauce. Right? I mean, I don't want a kid like my cousin who went through a period of only eating white rice. I'm the boss. Well, sorta.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Update. When I stepped back into the family room after writing this, Ellie and Lizzi were standing together, thick as thieves, and the food was all gone. Ellie's face is all messy so she must have had at least some of it herself! So I guess it worked. And I just had to leave the room so that she wasn't backing down in front of me. Meet my mini-teenager.

Nap Dreaming

Thank goodness Gilmore Girls is back tonight. It's clear that I've been watching too much of the wrong sort of television. I fell asleep briefly this afternoon, and had a vivid and disturbing dream.

My dad and I were at the forensic lab, picking up evidence, when suddenly he pressed a hand against his chest.

"I need to lie down flat on my back. I have an aneurysm. If I let up this pressure on it, I'm dead in minutes."

I grabbed a gurney and helped him onto it. Fortunately, the forensic lab was right next door to the hospital. I wheeled him across the parking lot to the big, red emergency entrance.

Inside the hospital, I realized that we weren't in the emergency department. In fact, I couldn't find the emergency department. We were all over the hospital, up and down in elevators, by the helipad on the roof, everywhere. Sometimes my mom and youngest sister were with us, sometimes not. But I couldn't find the ER anywhere, and I couldn't leave my dad to run around and look on my own.

At one point, I was sure that I'd found it, but it turned out the be the cafeteria, which was deserted except for the employees. They were cleaning amongst the tables and chairs. The first woman I saw didn't look very friendly.

"Excuse me, could you please direct me to the Emergency Department?"

She gave a hard look and I realized that her eyes were solid black, like The Source's. I turned to the next woman, who looked much more friendly.

"Sugar, what can I get for you?"

"Could you please tell me where I could find the ER?"

Her expression was suddenly quite hard, and her eyes bled black. In fact, as I looked around, all the cleaners' eyes were shiny, solid black.

I pushed dad back out into the well-lit hospital corridors, but had no luck soliciting help or directions. It seemed that I couldn't really communicate with anyone effectively. Perhaps I was speaking gibberish.

All in all, not a restful nap. But at least I finished Son of a Witch.

Ellie is so Cute!

Right now, it's all about the imaginative play. And laughing. Lots of laughing.

For Christmas, Ellie got a doctor kit. She opened up it, very seriously, and took out the thermometer. It's the type you'd put under your tongue, but she's never seen a thermometer used that way, of course, so she stuck it right into her ear. How she knew that it was a thermometer - her ear thermometer looks nothing like that - is a bit of a mystery. She has seen regular thermometers before, of course, but only for under-arm usage. Anyway, now she loves to come up to us - very seriously - grab our ears, and shove the thermometer in. Then grin mischievously. Unbelievably adorable.

She also got a Little People House, and she is really into that. Paul was watching her play with it last night.

"Hey! Where's the daddy?" he said and came over to watch more closely.

Mom and baby were in the big bed together, and dad was out on the tractor busily plowing the carpet. Heh. Just like our real lives, all day every day! Mom and Ellie napping, while dad's out working on the farm. Database farm, I guess . . .

The house comes with some other furniture, including a kitchen table and chairs. Apparently, Ellie thinks that the chairs look like potty chairs. She's not far off. They're rounded, low, simple, white plastic chairs with a depressed seat (to fit the Little People, of course). Now whenever she's playing and wants to go potty, she grabs one of the chairs, says, "Potty!" and walks over to knock on the bathroom door.

Can it get any better than this?

Life in the PICU - part 5

2 years ago today, Ellie had heart surgery. It's amazing. When I look at my healthy, strong, chattery toddler, I can hardly remember the sick and helpless little baby I handed to the anesthesiology fellow 730 days ago. I wrote this last year, but for some reason saved it as a draft rather than publishing it with the rest of my series of posts about our stay in the PICU.

***

The schedule and set-up of the Children's Hospital PICU are interesting. The ward is shaped like a large U, with the Cath Lab nestled in the middle. You enter one end of the U from the family lounge, past the wall of pictures of former patients. After signing in at the front desk - and this is a pretty involved procedure involving a customized sheet for each patient - you walk around the U until you find your child's room. First come the medical patients, and they take up a little less than half of the ward. I'm not sure what all these kids had, but a lot of it was infectious and I felt resentful having to walk through this area everytime I went into and out of the PICU. Ellie was very vulnerable to infection. Some of these kids were a little older and they had things like viral meningitis or were immuno-suppressed. Others were quite young and had RSV.

The second half of the U, leading around to 7 West (where all the heart kids go before surgery and after recovery in the PICU) houses the surgical patients. Ellie was in the first bed on the surgical side. I don't know what I expected, but on the last glorious day, when we wheeled Ellie through the U and out through the doors onto 7 West, we walked past every single room and I saw every single surgical patient. They were all little babies with bandages down their chests, just like my little girl. Tiny, tiny babies, all in worse shape than Ellie. It was heart-breaking. Quite literally.

Nurses on the PICU work 12 hour shifts. For the first couple of days, Ellie had her own nurse. Once she was more stable, she sometimes shared a nurse with the girl next door, whose room was separated from Ellie's by a completely window-walled nurses' station. These stations were every-other room and one or two nurses would be in there at all times, monitoring their patients when they weren't in the patients' rooms. Every time Ellie's nurse went into the other little girl's room, the medical little girl's room, she put on a hair covering, gown, and gloves. Why? I was nearly panicked before I finally asked what horrible germs my Ellie might be exposed to from this child. It turns out that, of course, it's the other little girl who was at risk, not Ellie. I still don't know what she had, but she'd been in the PICU for months. She was about 7 and spent most of her time watching TV; there was little else for her to do.

Every morning the doctors came through for rounds. I always wanted to be there for this, just in case. But we weren't really allowed to "be there." You're allowed to stay in your child's room during rounds, but you could not step foot into the hallway until they're over. And the doctors do not actually come into the rooms to see the patients during rounds. My hope was that the surgeon, cardiologist, or resident would pop into Ellie's room before or after rounds and share some little tidbit about how she was doing. Most commonly, a nervous resident, clearly concerned with impressing the boss, would stop by beforehand and talk to the nurse about how Ellie was doing. I'd ask questions, and she (the resident) would promise to find out during rounds. I rarely saw the same resident again all day. I did see the cardiology attending and our surgeon nearly every day, though, so I'm not complaining too loudly.

Every morning, I'd wake up very early or, more commonly, stand up from Ellie's bedside very early. I'd go to the family lounge bathroom and take a quick shower, cram a granola bar down my throat, snag a bottle of water, and head back to Ellie's side. The PICU closed at 6:00 am and didn't open until after rounds. This could be 45 minutes or a couple of hours. And if there was an emergency at any time, the floor closed. You could stay with your child, as long as your child wasn't the one having the emergency, and as long as you stayed out of the hallway. There are no bathrooms for visitors' use in the PICU. This could be acutely uncomfortable.

On one hand, I really understand how this situation is best for the doctors and, probably, the patients. It's important for the halls to be cleared for the emergency transportation of large equipment, and for doctors to be able to complete rounds without being continuously interrupted by panicky parents. But on the other hand, it could be a little tough on the parents.

Expiration Date?

I was brushing my teeth without my shirt on the other night, and I noticed a little discoloration on my nipples. I scratched at it gently with a fingernail and it came off easily. Dried milk. It's odd, I thought, that it didn't wash off on the shower sometime over the past 6 weeks.

Then, behind the dried milk came the answer: fresh milk. From both breasts. I'm still lactating.

Perhaps I will make milk forever. Perhaps I am now Mother. It feels . . . rather powerful.

Romantic Escape in the Heart of the City

Paul and I have gone out on our own only about a half dozen times since Ellie was born. Since we're well into our third year of parenting, this is pretty significant. She's walking, she's talking, she's weaned, she's over stranger anxiety; it's high time for a little mommy and daddy alone time.

My mom agreed to keep Ellie, so I started shopping for cheap deals to Mexico. My mom suggested that someplace closer would be smarter, for our first overnight away from Ellie. Just in case. Ah, reason.

I found an incredible deal for a romantic getaway package in Chicago. It was at the white-glove hotel where Paul and I stayed the weekend before he proposed 6 years ago. And in the unlikely event of a water landing, we could meet my parents halfway and be with Ellie in well under 30 minutes.

On Sunday morning, after all the New Year's Eve drunks had veered out of the city, we headed in. Paul dropped me off at Kohl's House and found a Starbucks while I had a quick visit with Frankie and Moreena. Frankie is as cute as her pictures suggest, and I was very sympathetic to her repeated refrain, "I wanna go my house!" I bet her mama and daddy feel the same way.

I met up with Paul, who was jubilant about having found free parking. We forsook that wonderful spot and drove south to Prudential Plaza, where we had lunch at Giordano's - and found more free on-street parking! After gorging ourselves, we checked into our hotel and the luxury part began in earnest. We let the valet take the car. Later we noticed that the hotel failed to charge us for this service - more free parking! Now I wish we'd tipped the guy more.

We relaxed in the room for a bit, then headed over to Marshall Field's. Unfortunately, the black shroud of mourning was gone (hi, Macy's) but we did get to see the Cinderella windows. Our first item of business, however, was to find me a coat. Paul and I forgot ours at my parents' house, but he had on a fleece vest and claims that his Wyoming heritage keeps him immune to Midwestern winters. I finally found something that fit at Old Navy, and we moved on across the street to Borders, where we drank and read and chatted for a couple of hours.

Eventually, we took a lovely walk up to The Weber for steak. We finished in time for a brisk walk over to Loews to watch The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. We saw someone we knew in the theater (an old college "buddy") but were short on time so we hid from him.

After the movie we strolled 2 blocks back to our hotel in the rain and collapsed.

Oh, that hotel room. We were on the 33rd floor and the view was incomparable. To the left I could see Michigan Avenue less than a block away. Straight ahead I could see many of Chicago's landmark buildings and the Chicago River, also less than a block away. To the near right I could see Navy Pier and the lake. On Monday morning, I would have been happy to sit and watch the ebb and flow of the Chicago mist for hours. I love that city.

We slept heavily and late. When we awoke, the hotel treated us to a wonderful breakfast in bed. Then we went downstairs to the Lakeshore Athletic Club for massages. Ahhhhhh. Then we, er, returned to the room to rest. After showers and packing up, we checked out around 3:30. It was raining pretty hard, so we got the car and drove up Michigan Avenue. We found a garage that let us pay a lot for parking, and went inside Water Tower Place to have lunch and window shop a bit.

We got home in time for dinner, and Ellie was happy to see us. She had a wonderful time with her grandparents and aunt and uncle, while Paul and I had a wonderful and guilt-free vacation. I'm still feeling good. Have I mentioned how much I love Chicago?

Christmas in the John

I have two rants in the queue, but I won't let myself post them until I've posted about our holiday travels, so I'd better get busy!

Friday, December 23rd. Paul and I have each gotten a total of about one night's sleep all week long. We're so exhausted. I pick-up Ellie from school after lunch, take her home, and put her to bed for her afternoon nap, then start packing. It's slow going and I look forward to Paul coming home for motivation, inspiration, and help.

Paul comes home and he's no help. He claims that he feels "sick" and goes to lie down for a while. I am unsympathetic. Eventually he goes downstairs to get the suitcases. He's down there for a long time, and I call down after him, not patiently. He has been purging. From both ends.

I no longer think he's being a lazy jerk, but I am frustrated that he's been so inconsiderate with the timing of his illness. Eventually, much later than planned, we hit the road. I am exhausted but have to drive all the way to my parents' house. During the 6 hour drive, we stopped once so that Paul could lean out the door and dry heave on the side of the interstate, once for gas, and several times for coffee and bathroom breaks for me.

Saturday, December 24th. We got to my folks' in time to sleep for 2-1/2 hours. We got up before 3:00 am to head into the city for our flight to Wyoming. It was imperative to drive 6 hours in order to fly several more so that we could leave piles of presents and other junk at my parents house. And Lizzi. Lizzi stayed with my parents. Also, the flight was a bit cheaper from Chicago. Since we buy 3 tickets now, that really mattered.

My dad drove us to the airport while my mom wiped down everything we might have touched in her house with Lysol wipes. We arrived in Wyoming mid-morning, and greeted Paul's parents, sister, and brother-in-law with hugs.

Visiting, dinner, church, and present-opening ensued. Paul was feeling much better.

Sunday, December 25th. More present-opening, followed by Christmas dinner. Immediately after eating, I succumb to the god-awful purging flu. I call my parents. My father feels near to death, but blames it on some "bad" seafood. I am skeptical.

Monday, December 26th. In the middle of the night, Paul's sister is stuck down violently. On Monday night, her husband (who is only 27 but has kidney disease thanks to a nasty bout of strep a few years ago) is hospitalized for rehydration. Paul's mom comes home from the hospital and goes to bed; she's got it too.

Tuesday, December 27th. Paul's dad finally succumbs, after trying to pretend that he's just had "indigestion." Paul and I, feeling much better, take his sister and brother-in-law to the airport since both parents are sick. Poor brother-in-law (Hi!) runs to the bathroom twice while we wait for security. Later, I relapse briefly.

Wednesday, December 28th. Paul, Ellie, and I trek back through 3 airports to my dad's waiting car, and home to my parents' house. Ellie and my mom felt a bit "off" for a couple of days, but were spared the worst of the purging. We greet my youngest sister and her fiance with hugs.

Thursday, December 29th. My other sister and her husband arrive; we greet them with more hugs.

Friday, December 30th. More present opening! My youngest sister is struck down overnight.

Saturday, December 31st. PARTY! We stay up late doing Sudoku and playing board games. No one calls the police on us.

Sunday, January 1st. Paul and I embark on one of the best 36 hour periods of our lives (next post!) while my other sister becomes violently ill and thinks she might die. She doesn't. My 97-1/2 year-old grandfather begins to complain of stomach cramps.

Here's what we know about this flu:
- it lasts about 24 painful hours
- it's incredibly contagious
- you might have vomiting, and/or diarrhea, and/or painful cramps. Just as you're feeling better, you'll have a low-grade fever. And we've powerfully taken it from Missouri to Indiana, Illinois, Colorado, Wyoming, Kentucky, and Michigan, along with anywhere else people on our planes might have been going.

Please let me know if I should be bringing you chicken noodle soup!

And a Happy New Year!

First thing: housecleaning!

1) Thank you to PPB, Ciara, BelovedLife, Hybrid, Jessica, and Redhead Editor! I hope that you all had wonderful holidays, and that your new year has started off with much rest and relaxation.

2) While I was away, we passed the 25,000 visitor mark with Sitemeter. Yay! And thank you!

3) Jessica, with the travel and an awful flu, well, I missed it. Again. But come June I'm all over your "birthday!" I am so sorry.

4) The last 36 hours have been amazing. Paul and I have had so much fun. I'll write it up later this week.

5) In the meantime, here's a Christmas picture of Ellie on her Grandpa's rocking horse.


6) Narnia.

Paul and I saw The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe last night. I thought it was wonderful. They were quite faithful to the spirit of the story (as I remember it; it's been a long time).

Some of the changes from the original were very welcome, like dropping the "when women fight" part from the rather heavy "war is terrible" message. And, oh, did they make that point well. Every battle, every death, though none was shown explicitly on screen, was a little tragedy. As it should be whenever anyone dies. Good or evil, about to kill you or not, a life is a life, and it's a tragedy when it ends.

One interesting feminist note about Aslan on the stone table. Of course I've always gotten the bit about shaving Aslan to make him appear more vulnerable, weaker, less. Figuratively, shaving him emasculated him. In the movie, they didn't shave the lion bald. They merely cut off his mane, and a male lion without a mane looks like . . . a female lion. So they literally emasculated him as well. That's a rather disturbing read on the story, but I don't think that Lewis the Apologist would have minded it too much.

Happy Holidays!

In case I don't get here for a couple of days throughout the Christmas/travel/family madness, Happy Holidays to you all!

Innerbelt/Outerbelt

The women in my book club are amazing. They are smart and interesting and beautiful. I've read so many good books in the last year and a half that I would never have picked up otherwise, and I am a better person for it. But I haven't been quite comfortable in my book club since we discussed A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

While we were discussing the difficulties of feeding a family of 4 on under $5/week, one of the women commented that it's a good thing that we don't have people that poor anymore. Sure, there are poor people. But nobody's hungry.

Two of the other women are elementary school teachers, and they tried to explain a little of what they see every day.

Yeah, said the first woman. But I used to work across from the projects and I'd see those kids. If they're hungry, they've chosen to buy expensive shoes or televisions instead of food. It's not like it used to be.

***

I like our neighborhood. Most of the houses - excepting the monstrously huge new ones they've put in the back - are very similar. There are elderly folks and young families. There are a fair number of working trucks parked in driveways (tree service, driveway sealing). It's quiet and off the beaten path, but conveniently located near the outerbelt, which I use to get just about everywhere.

I used to live a little further in, where the population is far more diverse, but you get a lot less house and land for your money. When I lived further in, I took the innerbelt just about everywhere.

The speed limit on both interstates is 60 mph, and Paul and I often laugh about the fact that it's common for the far left lane on the innerbelt to be moving about 60, while the far right lane on the outerbelt usually moves faster than that.

Recently I noticed another difference in the traffic between the two roads. The cars. I'd gradually forgotten that so many people drive cars with rusted bodies and duct-taped windows.

Click.

Genre Readers

I was going to write in generalities about Science Fiction & Fantasy readers versus Romance readers, but I'll try to stick to the specifics.

When I finished the most recent Robert Jordan book, I suffered a bit of withdrawal. I looked around online to see who was out there and had answers to some of my questions. I found several websites and discussion boards devoted to The Wheel of Time. I found an incredibly comprehensive encyclopedia that covers all 8000+ pages published thus far. I found detailed chapter summaries. I found interesting theories and amazing quantities of background research.

Every time someone asked a "dumb" question or made an error, there was an immediate correction by another reader. These people were geeks, of course. I found pictures of conventions and weddings designed around the world Jordan created. But these people are also really smart. I was duly impressed.

About a month later, I finished the most recent Diana Gabaldon book. Diana Gabaldon herself is very smart and a little intimidating. I anxiously looked for Outlander online communities to read discussions about this latest installment in the lives of Claire, Jamie, Brianna, and Roger.

I didn't find much. Well, I did find a robust online community. But far from being a place where every inconsistency is closely examined and critiqued by fans, as on the Jordan sites, the level of discourse on the Gabaldon fan page ran more toward comments like, "Well, everyone makes mistakes. There's a lot to remember here."

Not examining "inconsistencies" purposefully included by the author is a good way to miss important developments in the story. But more importantly, not asking for accuracy in the writing is an insult to the author. It's suggesting that the work of fiction is so inconsequential that it doesn't even seem real in the author's own mind.

Instead of detailed theories, complete with footnotes, readers asked very basic questions. One reader talked about buying her Christmas tree. It was from North Carolina and was a Fraser Fir. She couldn't believe the coincidence! Suddenly "Fraser" is everywhere! I mean, it's not possible that the author did such incredible research that she might have discovered that there are Fraser Firs grown in North Carolina, where she set Fraser's Ridge in the books? Impossible! It must be an incredible coincidence.

That's about when I closed my browser window and went on my merry way.

So, yeah. Jordan fans and Gabaldon fans seem equally passionate. Both groups spend incredible amounts of time online discussing the books. But online Jordan fans seem more intellectually invested in the world created by their favorite author.

Interesting trend watch. Laurell K. Hamilton, Robert Jordan, and Diana Gabaldon are all series authors I read. And they have all become much more interactive with their readership. All have some sort of blog for communicating directly with us outside of their books. It's interesting. I wonder how this growing transparency will affect the writing and the author/reader relationship.

Normal

Paul and I were sitting around Saturday night, wrapping presents and watching the best television show ever, which we own on DVD and have been parceling out slowly, terribly saddened that the joy must end eventually (we only have two episodes left from the original series).

We started talking about life and all, you know, the sorts of thrilling conversations that people have once they've covered the weather, local politics, let's-get-married, and baby poop.

I said, "You know, lately I've been feeling like life's getting back to normal."

Paul concurred. It really is, you know. I mean, it will never be the same again, of course. But I'm starting to feel like I have a bit of myself back. My daughter is becoming - just a little - independent and self-sufficient. I can reasonably expect to sleep most nights, to have a little time and space to read stuff, make stuff, think stuff.

How divine. It must be time to have another one.

I Hate Siding with CWA

Dear [Washington Post] Editor:

I am writing in response to "One Woman's Choice" by Maria Eftimiades from your November 15th issue.

I am a liberal, pro-choice feminist, so my angry response is probably quite unlike many angry responses you've gotten.

But I believe that publishing this piece without qualification - explanation about some of the "facts" in the piece - was irresponsible.

For example, Eftimiades writes about having a child with a "severe disability" and "raising a mentally handicapped child" as if both are forgone conclusions that come with a diagnosis of Down syndrome. They're not. Before a child is born - and even for some time thereafter - it's impossible to tell how he or she will be effected by Down syndrome.

It's possible to have Down syndrome and not be "severely disabled." In fact, it's likely! It's possible to have Down syndrome and not be "mentally handicapped." It's also possible - and likely! - that a child with Down syndrome would look like and be like his or her parents, as the author seems to suggest would not happen with her potential child, once her fetus was diagnosed with Down syndrome.

I agree with Eftimiades that this is a personal decision, and that no one else's morality should be the deciding factor. But I think it's harmful to all of us, and especially to those with Down syndrome, to imply that all children born with Down syndrome are severely developmentally delayed.

Eftimiades is confident that she made the best choice - not just for herself, but also for her "baby that will never be." If she has done the research, she must know that it's possible that her child could have been pretty close to typical, could have grown up to go to college and have a career and normal life. Just as it's entirely possible that a child without Trisomy 21 could have many serious and even severe disabilities.

I know how scary it is to be in Eftimiades's position, and I do not judge her for her choice. But I do judge her for spreading fear of the unknown and misinformation with this piece. She had to make and live with a difficult decision. But making herself feel better with platitudes and false certainties about what her child's life would have been like (not worth living) serves no good while doing much harm.

Sincerely,

Sarahlynn

Christmas Shopping

I started Christmas shopping before September, and was mostly finished before December. I have a closet (inconveniently located in the guest room) where I keep presents to be given in the future.

I did most of my shopping via catalogs and the Internet this year. I think there's something to be said for making decisions about what gift to buy for each person on your list while sitting comfortably in the quiet of your home, rather than in a store where merchandise always looks most appealing and you begin to feel like maybe your little sister really would like that thing in the corner, and maybe it's got character rather than being simply ugly as you first thought. And if you buy it you can leave now and be all done. So, hopefully, the gifts we got for people are stuff they'll really use or appreciate rather than just gifts for the sake of spending money and giving something.

There's also something to be said for not popping into and out of stores with an infant or toddler in tow.

In my defense, I also ought gifts at 3 independent, locally owned, little downtown shops in our town. But I'm still planning to go to the mall later today, even though I don't strictly need anything from there. It just seems wrong to me, somehow, to not set foot in the mall even once during the holiday shopping rush. And of course that's wrong all by itself.

It's Time for a Picture

Here we are, in front of the Christmas tree, in our matching sweaters. Isn't it nauseating?

I thought that we were long overdue for a dose of cute; the diatribe:diapers ratio here was getting skewed.

In related news, I'd be sending out our Christmas letters, creatively designed on the computer and ready to be printed on pretty paper, except for technical difficulties.

I tried to print a test copy, and learned that we were out of black ink. Paul purchased and installed a new cartridge, and the printer stopped working. He removed the printer to take it apart and fix it, and now the (temperamental cordless) keyboard's a bit screwy. And the printer still isn't printing right. So, the Christmas cards will have to wait until the curse lifts.

Giving up for the night, I tripped over a shoe in the dark and spilled a glass of water all over my side of the bed.

Prevention First

Last week I got to see something really cool.

Pro-choice and anti-abortion groups are so firmly entrenched in their positions and are so afraid of losing ground that they often don't look for areas of common ground.

And yet most of us agree on one major point: we would like to see fewer unplanned pregnancies and abortions.

Planned Parenthood of the St. Louis Region and several other groups are endorsing the Prevention First Act, and they organized an interesting way of drumming up support and sponsors for the legislation. They invited several local pro-choice, anti-abortion, and mixed-choice state legislators to a meeting at a synagogue and sat them up in front of the crowd.

The crowd was huge. The synagogue was packed, with people standing against all the walls and in each doorway. Behind us, an enormous petition lined the walls with signatures of supporters who couldn't make the meeting.

There are five main parts to the Prevention First Act:

1. Birth Control Protection: The language in this section prohibits all government interference in a woman's access to FDA approved contraceptive drugs and devices in Missouri.
   
2. Comprehensive Sex Education: Ensures that each school district is held accountable to the current comprehensive sex education law (170.015 RSMo) to provide age-appropriate, medically accurate sex education that includes information about contraception.
   
3. C.A.R.E: Compassionate Assistance for Rape Emergencies ensures that victims of sexual assault who present at an emergency room are provided with information about, and access to (should they choose) emergency morning after birth control called EC (Emergency Contraception). EC is approved by the Federal Food and Drug Administration (FDA) as a contraceptive; if the pregnancy is already established, the medication does not harm the embryo. In fact, the hormones in Plan B can help ensure a healthy pregnancy.
   
4. Pharmacists Duty to Dispense Birth Control: This requires pharmacies in Missouri to make sure all legal prescriptions for birth control and emergency birth control are filled in a timely manner and without undue hardship to the patient.
   
5. Family Planning Program: Restores the highly successful, general revenue funded, Family Planning program that served 30,000 low income women annually with well woman services such as cancer screenings as well as birth control counseling and methods. Every $1 spent on prevention programs saves the state $3 in pregnancy related medical costs.

More background.

The MC, from Planned Parenthood, introduced each initiative then introduced two speakers who addressed each provision. The speakers were incredibly powerful, and took the discussion far beyond political rhetoric. After the speakers, the MC asked each representative if she or he supported the initiative. A volunteer kept track of responses on a large grid. After hearing the speakers, it was impossible not to say, "Yes."

At the end of the evening, after all 5 initiatives had been discussed, the legislators were asked if they'd co-sponsor the bill. All said yes. I haven't described this experience adequately. This Act may never become law in Missouri. But this has to be a step in the right direction. And the experience brought tears to my eyes.

Who is Waging this war on Christmas?

Probably every lefty blogger out there is addressing this one, but I'm royally annoyed today. I'm about to sound really judgmental and offensive. Consider yourselves forewarned!

OK, so conservative Christians are claiming that there's a "war on Christmas" because we all say "Happy Holidays." Of course, I remember saying Happy Holidays way back before I knew much about Hanukkah or Kwanzaa; it was a more succinct way to say, "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!" And now that "The Holidays" start with Thanksgiving, the shorthand makes even more sense for retailers. Increasingly, "Happy Holidays" has a Labor Day flair.

But I digress. These same conservative Christians often belong to "mega-churches" with thousands of members. And several of these mega-churches have decided not to hold services on Sunday morning, December 25th. Christmas!

These are the people who want to tell the rest of us that they have a lock on what it means to be Christian, but they think that there's nothing wrong with canceling church on one of the biggest religious holidays of the year in order to stay home and open presents?

I listened to an irate preacher defend his church's decision on NPR, which did its best to create a "balanced" piece on the issue, offering sympathy to the plight of these poor, poor megachurches. After all, it takes dozens of staff and volunteers to run each service. That excuse almost got me for a moment.

But wait. This is a church. Surely some volunteers are likely to come forward, if the usual cast wants to take this Sunday off. And if not, well, who says that you *have* to have all the flash?

Why not turn off the complicated A/V equipment and leave a stack of bulletins on the back pew? Or, better yet, skip the bulletin and let the minister announce the hymns and readings from the pulpit.

Surely a modified service is better than no service at all.

As the daughter of a minister, I have little sympathy for them.

The closures stand in stark contrast to . . . Mainline Protestant congregations such as the Episcopal, Methodist and Lutheran churches, where Sunday services are rarely if ever canceled.

Well, yeah. As a Presbyterian, the idea of a church taking a Sunday off because not enough people might come is just totally foreign. And wrong. In my opinion, if only "two or three gather," it's worthwhile. Perhaps those who show up on holidays are the ones who need to hear the message the most. And what message are you sending if you close your doors to them?

If there's a real "war on Christmas," I don't think it's being waged by the "liberal PC-police." Quite to the contrary. I think that the real "war on Christmas" is the commercialized, secularized pop culture spectacle that we've created. And there are an awful lot of liberals who detest that too.

That said, I do think that "holiday tree" is ridiculous.

Heart Healthy

Everything went well at the cardiologist's today, though we were there for two hours!

The exam and echo were both great, and the doctor assured us that, while Ellie has some "mitral insufficiency," trace leakage at the tricuspid valve, and a tiny shunt, it's all the same as it was before and there's nothing to worry about.

Unless she has her teeth cleaned or needs to have her adenoids out (for her constant nasal congestion) or something of that nature.

Hint for getting a two-year-old to stay very still for a 10+ minute echocardiogram: bribe her with food, doled out as slowly as possible without incurring great wrath, and interspersed with fun songs, sung quietly. It's a tricky dance, but the result is worth it.

So we're free and clear until next year! God willing.

Heart Kid

If you feel like lobbying your congressional representatives for something this week and you're at a loss for an interesting cause, you might consider writing in for recognition of a National Congenital Heart Disease Awareness Week. Why is this such a pressing issue, you might ask? Well, in addition to the stats in the CHIN letter, it's interesting to note that heart defects are the most common type of structural birth defect, affecting 1 in every 125 newborns. And cardiologists who work with adults mostly focus on adult-onset heart disease, like that caused by high blood pressure, high cholesterol, etc. So, many adults with congenital heart defects continue to see their pediatric cardiologists because they are trained to work with congenital defects, even though their area of expertise is CHD in children.

My situation as the mom of a heart kid is different - better - than most.

I knew about Ellie's heart defect, a complete atrioventricular septal defect, before she was born. I saw it on two different fetal echocardiograms. I researched it and all the complications that could come with it, so after the second fetal echo, when we got the news that there were no additional complications (like hypoplastic left heart or a transposition of the major vessels) I was ecstatic.

Ellie saw a cardiologist and started medication long before I would have noticed symptoms otherwise. Her surgery and recovery, though earlier than we had hoped, went exceedingly well.

She is expected to have no further heart problems. She is on no medication. She can go out for whatever sports she wants to. The only things that still mark her as a heart kid are:

1. Slight mitral insufficiency ("insignificant" heart murmur)
   
2. Periodic visits to her cardiologist
   
3. Prophylactic antibiotics before any "dirty" procedure, like having her teeth cleaned at the dentist
   
4. Her scars
   
5. My scars.

Ellie hasn't had an echocardiogram or chest x-ray since right after her surgery, nearly 2 years ago, and she hasn't seen her cardiologist since early this year. She sees her cardiologist tomorrow. If everything goes well, we won't need to go back for a couple of years (and every couple of years thereafter).

As always before one of these appointments, I am worried. Very worried.

There's always the chance of an infection. Of a problem with one of her patches, or one of her surgically created valves. When you're the parent of a "heart kid," you're always thinking of these things.

And for me, whenever Ellie takes a long nap, seems unusually tired, doesn't eat well, doesn't sleep well, has circles under her eyes, doesn't gain weight rapidly, can't kick a cold, or exhibits any other normal toddler behavior, the thought flickers across my mind: is it her heart?

Is it? Hopefully we'll know tomorrow. And hopefully I won't have to gear up to visit Ellie's cardiologist again for another two years.

Betting on the Studs

First, let me say that I have enough issues with prostitution to write an entire series of posts, and that's without even getting into the legalization/decriminalization issues. But I won't, for now. Setting all that aside for a moment, here is my rant of the day.

I was reading along in Newsweek, and I got to a fascinating piece about Heidi Fleiss's new business venture.

It seems that she's moving to Nevada, where prostitution is legal, and starting a new brothel. This place is a discreet 80 miles from The Strip, and will be designed like a palace. Beyond the marble foyer, the castle will contain a high-end sex toy shop and a luxurious spa, in addition to secluded bungalows for hire.

What makes this so unique is that the prostitutes will be men, and the clientele will be women.

Two things are making me see red here:

1. Apparently, this isn't currently legal. The statutes would need to be rewritten, because prostitutes are universally referred to as "she" in the current codes.


2. Everyone, from conservative Christians to the Nevada Brothel Association, is ready to go to the mat to fight this venture.

Why? Because it's so offensive that women might choose to pay for sex, that it could bring down the whole legalized prostitution industry. The inference is that people will be so upset by the vision of women paying for sex, that they'll get rid of legalized prostitution rather than allow this to happen.

Fleiss plans to fight this on the grounds that it's discrimination against men who want to be prostitutes. That might work.

But let's be honest here, it's really discrimination against women. Because, God knows, only men want sex enough to pay for it. Women don't actually like sex, except maybe with our husbands once a week. Mostly, we have to be cajoled into it with diamonds and promises of pampering. The idea of women paying for sex upsets the whole virgin/whore applecart. And that just won't do.

Recycling

For some time now, Ellie has been inventing her own signs for things.

In September, I noticed that her sign for Mary, her speech pathologist, is to point at her cheek. Mary is happy with this, because she says that it's really the sign for candy. I don't know what made Ellie come up with this, unless she gets that it's speech therapy and she's sort of indicating her mouth. Or Mary's sneaking her candy when I'm not looking.

In November, Ellie developed a sign for balloon. It looks like she's reaching up, grabbing the ribbon, and pulling a helium balloon down to her while looking up at it. It's the cutest thing.

In October I started showing Ellie lots of pumpkins. Evidently, "pumpkin" is hard to say, and eventually Ellie made up a sign for pumpkin. It's the same as her "nurse" sign, a little fist up near her cheek, rocking forward and back.

I should have known that we were about done nursing.

Lizzi the Pug

Ellie's been working on enunciation lately, with no great prompting from us. All of a sudden, last weekend, "more" became "mo-oh(r)" rather than "muh".

For the past few days, she's been obsessed with the dog's name. As with most words, she's also obsessed with the object when she learns to label it well enough that everyone can understand what she's saying. So she's been all over the dog. Well, she's all over Lizzi when she can catch her. Lizzi is still much faster than Ellie at getting on and off furniture, though she's never far away when Ellie has food. And it seems that my growing little string bean is always having a meal or a snack, which she loves to share with her friend, "Dizzi" or "Dzizzy."

She's congested lately (when isn't she?) and having trouble sleeping. After practicing saying, "Lizzi" hundreds of times from when she first saw the dog at 8:00 yesterday morning until bedtime, Ellie cried out for Lizzi from her crib. Not for mama, not for dada/daddy. Lizzi, I think you have a new job! Go soothe that baby and rock her back to sleep!

Also, hooray for winter!

And, for some reason, the way these pictures get compressed it looks like Ellie has one eye squinted more than the other. Sometimes it's the left eye, sometimes the right. But in the uncompressed and live versions, both eyes look pretty much the same!

The Mom Salon

Hey, cool! I was featured here as "Today's Featured Post." I like their categories, so in the spirit of reciprocity, note the cool new link in my Invisible Friends sidebar.

Judging Mothers

This is a really good post.

A Little Bit More About My Breasts

Speaking in generalities, of course: When you're pregnant, your breasts get fuller. And then when you're nursing, at first they're a lot fuller. Quite literally, with the spraying in the shower and dripping on your toes and whatnot.

I know one mom who quit nursing late one winter, when her son was about 4 months old, because she didn't want to have to buy new spring shirts one size larger than her normal size. No kidding.

Towards the end of breastfeeding, I was not pleased with my breasts. They seemed . . . flabby. Isn't that attractive? Aren't you glad that you read that about me? I tried to resign myself to it. Oh well, I thought, I guess I just never take off my bra again. I guess this is what having kids does to you.

But - now it's two weeks later and they seem to have gone back to normal! Alleluia! What a lovely surprise. Unless they're about to punk me by deflating any moment. I don't know how all this works, having never gone through it before.

Update: Ellie and I went shopping today and bought two new bras for mommy. Bras that don't have peek-a-boo panels for easy access! Wahoo! It turns out that I wasn't imagining things. My cup size went back down one to my pre-pregnancy size, which has apparently made them firmer. And that's just fine with me!

But the Fire is so Delightful

Hey, my blog is back! It was an uncomfortable day or so, trying to see my blog and encountering an ominous black screen instead.

The weather here is finally and delightfully winter-appropriate, with highs in the twenties. We're about half done with all of the Christmas decorating, and nearly done with all of the Christmas shopping. That just leaves the cards, crafts, and baking. It's all fun!

So we're having another week of comfort foods here, with chicken pot pie on Sunday, chili on Monday, chicken and stuffing today, and Swiss steak in the crock pot tomorrow. Friday a few friends are coming over for junk food and a Linda Carter as Wonder Woman marathon while Paul goes out with a buddy.

This weekend we'll get the tree and Paul will put the rest of the outdoor lights and wreathes up. Last weekend we went to the hanging of the greens at our church . . . in matching sweaters.

I'm feeling festive! Happy St. Nicholas Day!

Wicked Good

The first act left my jaw on the floor. If you'd asked me about the show during intermission, I would have sounded like an uncultured Midwesterner. "I don't - I've never seen - wow!" My mother, who always made a point to insure that we were regularly exposed to music, theater, dance, and art, would be embarrassed.

But the costumes! The lighting! The set! The acting! The music! The singing! It was all amazing. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it.

I was a little less impressed with Act II. Some of the punny lines followed too closely on the heels of tragedy. There were a couple of very small lighting gaffes. Some of the deviations from the book were frustrating . . . spoiler coming . . . like the happy ending, for example.

Still, it was a great show. One of my favorite things about the story is the discussion of the perception of evil: how a woman who doesn't look or act "pretty" but speaks her mind with unpopular opinions is considered Wicked. Some of my favorite things about the musical were the duets between the real main couple in the show, Elfaba and Glinda. There were a couple of harmonizing parts where I had goose bumps all over. Stephanie Block can really bring down the house.

But - how did everyone keep from getting all green when they touched her?

Eggnog and Boycott

. . . but don't boycott Eggnog!

Last night I put Eggnog in Ellie's cup at dinner. I nattered along as I placed her cup and napkin in front of her, as I do, saying, "I put something different in your cup tonight; it's not milk; it will probably freak you out a bit."

She was otherwise occupied with her pizza and corn, and I don't think that she heard a word I was saying. But eating pizza and corn is thirsty work, so she immediately grabbed the cup and started chugging down the eggnog. I thought that the taste and texture would register and she'd immediately sputter and spit it all out.

She didn't. She drank that cup dry!

I was recording "The Little Drummer Boy" on ABC Family tonight, and it got me thinking about how annoyed I was to be watching ABC Family. This is the station that shows Pat Robertson's The 700 Club. Folks, these are not family values.

Please consider writing to ABC and Disney, letting them know that your family will not be watching their stations/movies, or buying any of their products until they stop irresponsibly airing this hate-filled and not family-friendly program.

Thanks!

Racism

Apparently, I missed Blog Against Racism Day. Thanks to PK for the wonderful post about it, and to Charlie in her post's comments, demonstrating how far we have to go.

My thoughts branched out from there, thinking about the stereotype that southerners are more racist than northerners.

I don't think that's exactly true.

Sure, the Klan was and is more active in the South, and some of the most loquacious and unapologetic racists hail from down yonder. But one big reason for that is that there are a whole lot more African Americans down south than there are in the Midwest, or most anywhere else in the country (excepting large cities).

Yeah, there are a lot of racists in the South, and many of them are at best unashamed of and at worst proud of themselves and their racist heritage.

But you know what's up with racists in the North? We just hide it a little better.

We talk a better game, but we don't worship with, play with, or have children with very many people of color, by and large. Most of our spouses and best friends look a lot like us. And that's just as racist, in its own way.

I've seen southern racists interact quite comfortably with African Americans.

And I've seen (liberal) northern (hidden) racists acting really really uncomfortable if the subject of race comes up when there's a person of color in the room. I've seen my friends, coworkers, self try to avoid talking about race and race issues at all.

Contemporary Worship

Ah, what a hot topic, eh? That's me, unafraid to poke at the really big controversies in the world today.

I've been noticing a huge increase in the popularity of "contemporary worship services" in traditional reformed Christian churches over the past several years. Contemporary worship is the style of worship that I most associate with conservative evangelical Christian worship services.

There are two issues to unpack: my discomfort with the service itself, and my uncomfortable associations with the style. First, the prettier part, my concerns about the service itself.

This is a bit complex. I'm not a complete stick-in-the-mud traditionalist. I *love* Avery & Marsh. I prefer the UCC's use of inclusive language in hymns, especially the Doxology (side-by-side with the traditional version).

But I hate the "praise music" heard at most contemporary services. Why? At first I thought it was because it all sounded the same, and none of it is set to the glorious strains of real music (Bach, et al). Then I realized that there's more to it. The lyrics are all about, "Praise Jesus! We love Jesus!"

That's fine, of course. But shouldn't there be a bit more? Shouldn't a hymn sound notably different from a Top 40 hit (where you could substitute "girl" for "Jesus" and have the song make just as much sense)?

Shouldn't we talk more about God, more about why Jesus is so great, rather than just blathering on about the love-for-Him part? And we shouldn't just talk about what Jesus did, either. I believe that what we do, how we live our lives, is more important than the specifics of what we believe.

Right, so the music is a big issue. Most of the rest of the service is OK. At our church, we have the same clergy officiating, the same sermon, the same scriptures read aloud in both the traditional and contemporary services. So there's no problem with the message or the messenger. I'm also not rejecting the stupid projection screen out of hand. I hate the look of modern technology in church (the comfort of the familiar in worship and the exclusion of the distractions of everyday life are important to me). But as (my) Paul allows, there is something to be said for getting everyone's heads up out of their hymnals.

The other thing that really bothers me about the style of the service is the praise team standing up front with their microphones. This is the segue into the uncomfortable associations bit, but first I want to note that I don't like looking at the praise team. To me, they look like performers. I don't like clapping for soloists on the chancel steps who look like they're singing on stage, and I don't like everyone staring at the praise team like they're rock stars on tour. To me this reeks of idolatry or something - I'm still working on it - and I prefer to contemplate the cross, the stained glass, the arched ceiling, the ministers bent over their hymnals, anything other than these smiling performers.

I don't quite know what to say about the style and my prejudices. I see the praise teams' arms go up and eyes go closed, and I'm tuned out. I'm expecting slick ministers who've never been to seminary but have the glorious gift of gab, telling me that I'll burn in hell for voting pro-choice. I'm still working on this, but it's a long, uphill slog.

Can't we be contemporary, evolve with the times, engage our youth, and still do it right? Still be Presbyterian?

My Breasts

Yesterday, I was killing some time at Borders while Dobbs was putting new tires on my Passat, and I decided - on a whim - to order an iced gingerbread latte. For me! No worries about caffeine intake and how it might effect Ellie's bedtime. Later, I had a diet soda - with caffeine! Just for fun! Just because I could! It was wonderful!

OK, here's how it went down.

Wednesday morning, Paul decided to let me sleep in. This was wonderfully thoughtful, because I hate mornings on principle and had been up very late the night before preparing for the holiday weekend travel and festivities. But it wasn't so cool, because I had to shower and be at work on time for a meeting. There was no time to nurse Ellie. No biggie, there's still nap- and bedtime, right?

While I was packing on Wednesday afternoon, Paul put Ellie down for her nap. No stress, we usually don't nurse at naptime anyway and I was in a hurry to get out the door. When we arrived at my parents' house on Wednesday night, Paul insisted on putting Ellie down to bed himself while I was unpacking and greeting. "Hey!" I nagged. "Are you trying to tell me that it's time I weaned Ellie? It's been over 24 hours now since I've nursed her."

The idea didn't sound as awful to me as I thought it would. I've been resenting the nursing for a while, but when she's shown decreased interest in the past, I've freaked out and not wanted to stop.

In the morning, she didn't ask to nurse and I went back to sleep. We kept up that pattern all weekend, and she didn't ask me to nurse once. I thought that things might change when we arrived back home on Sunday evening.

Paul read Ellie her bedtime story, as usual, then started trying to rock her down to sleep. I came in with a cup of water, at which point normally she would start chanting, "Mama! Mama! Mama" and reaching for me with some urgency.

Not that time. Now it's been nearly a week, and I'm thinking: never again.

And I'm not sad, much to my surprise. I intend to nurse again someday. I was feeling tied down by and resentful of the nursing, after 25 months. I can't explain that logically; it's not like twice a day was a really big time sink. It's an emotional response that has developed in the last couple of months.

In the last several days, I have felt like being touched again (Paul really likes this part). I feel like I have more to give Ellie: more patience, more touches, more snuggles.

I was once afraid that I would feel like we'd lost a connection, that special mother-child thing, once we stopped the one thing that only the two of us could do together. That has not been the case at all.

I loved nursing Ellie. I'm looking forward to nursing another baby (or 2! or 3!) someday. But I'm glad to be through for now. Who knows. Maybe I'll go wild and take an antihistamine - without guilt - next time I'm around a friend's cat! Many things are possible.

The Drive

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend at my parents' house. Both of my sisters were there, with their dogs and significant others. I got to see my youngest sister choose her wedding dress, which is stunning. One fall wedding, one winter wedding, and one summer wedding. That's the three of us, in a nutshell.

The drive up last Wednesday went very well. Anticipating the holiday weekend traffic, we took the "longer" route, cutting across southern Illinois on I 70 then heading north up eastern Illinois on I 57. Despite all experience and conventional wisdom to the contrary, the trip took under 6 hours, with one brief stop for Subway.

"Ellie, do you need to go potty? We're going to stop for a potty break and to eat sandwiches."

As we pulled off the interstate, "No! No no no no no!"

And after about 5 minutes in Subway, before any of us had finished our sandwiches, "All done!" When we didn't get the hint fast enough, she screamed until we hustled out to the car and got back on the road. Ah, 2. I love it.

On the way home on Sunday afternoon, we decided to brave the Chicago holiday weekend traffic and skirt past it on I 80, cutting diagonally across Illinois on I 55. In theory, this is the "short" route and should take about 5 hours, plus stops.

First there was construction traffic. Hours of it. But the electronic signs kept promising a swift end to the problems, so we kept plugging along. It grew dusky and colder. It was windy and the sky started spitting at us. I was seeing yellow and considering one of the construction workers' Johnny-on-the-Spots. Ellie was chanting, "Potty! potty! potty!" from the backseat. We only made it to Tinley Park before our first stop, surely a new record.

Eventually we left the congestion of 80 for the relatively rural wilderness of 55. Wait, no. More traffic. Eventually, we discovered a demolished double tractor-trailer off the road on our side, causing some incredible gawker traffic congestion.

Things improved for a while. All of a sudden - BAM! Bumpety bumpety bumpety bump.

The car - which I'd just had fully serviced two days before the trip - was now on the shoulder with a blown front right tire. Normal wear and tear. That the mechanic didn't feel was important enough to share with me. So Paul was out in the deafening wind changing a tire on the side of the interstate while I tried to load everything (and I do mean *everything* - we do not travel lightly) back into the trunk on top of my "worn" tire. I'd like to take this opportunity to send a big Thanksgiving THANK YOU to the state trooper who sat behind us with his lights on, deflecting traffic, and to all the drivers who didn't hit us.

20 minutes later, Ellie and I needed another potty stop.

Then Paul was falling asleep and we pulled over for - guess what? - a potty stop and driver change.

Then it started pouring so hard that I couldn't see the lines on the road.

Nearly 8 hours after leaving my parents' house, we arrived safely home. The weekend was great. And surely our next trip, in December with the added interest of snow and ice, will provide us with at least equal entertainment.

P.S. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire was awesome. Absolutely incredible. I love the Quidditch World Cup, the arrival of the two visiting delegations to Hogwarts, and, as always, Rupert Grint stealing every scene in which he appeared.


P.P.S. Done. We're done. At 25 months, Ellie's weaned! I'm not as ambivalent as I thought I'd be. Neither is she. In more than 5 days, she hasn't asked me to nurse once. She mentioned it to my mom once, but I think that she just wanted to see me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Have a wonderful, safe, and warm (in all the important ways) Thanksgiving this year!

My New Friend

Ellie has made me a new friend. I have met other moms I like through play groups and Gymboree, it's true. But this is the first time that Ellie has formed an attachment to another little girl, starting a chain of events that leads to me getting to know the girl's mother and liking her very much. Ellie changes and enriches my life in so many ways just by being. The newer ways in which she influences me, by taking actions all on her own, take my breath away. Thank you, Ellie.

On an unrelated note, Ellie really loves chapstick. She purses up her lips for it, which is adorable, then kisses me on my cheeks with her sticky, chapsticky lips. That part is a little gross, but it's a major triumph because we're moving away from full-on use of the tongue in kissing, which is nice. Fortunately, she only tongue kisses Paul and me. When others ask for a kiss, they get a precious blown kiss from an appropriate distance. Paul and I have been wondering when Ellie would learn to kiss without licking our cheeks. It looks like pursing her lips for my beloved chapstick has done the trick.

The Efficacy of Torture

On television, especially on CIA shows like 24 and Alias, torture is a very effective way of getting timely information from detainees.

Those tortured have rarely been convicted of anything, but they're almost always bad guys. And they always give it up in the end.

Have you ever noticed, however, that torture never works on the good guys?

It seems to me that to believe in the efficacy of torture as a reliable and effective interrogation method, in the face of evidence to the contrary, is to have a childlike belief that those on our side are always much stronger of character and will than our enemies.

Two, Two, and More Two

Physically, Ellie's two. She's wearing mostly 24-month clothes, she's learning to walk, she's getting better at feeding herself with a spoon, and she's interested in learning to use an open cup.

Behaviorally, Ellie is very two. In addition to the straight-up cute stuff, like the tickling games and brief phone conversations:

Hi, Ellie!

Hi! Hi! Hi, Mama!

Did you have a good day at school today?

Blah Blah Blah BLAH BLAH blah-blah.
Mulk! Mulk!
Bye! (slams phone down.)

Bye!

There are also the not-so-nice but still adorable and developmentally appropriate milestones. Like the way Ellie loves to say, "No no no" and "Uh oh!" as she drops or throws everything onto the floor.

Chronologically, Ellie is two. 25 months old already! She had a Dora the Explorer-themed party with guests: two little girls from her school (both with Down syndrome) and her 10-month old buddy (formerly known as the cutest little plague carrier in the world.) Ellie loves Backpack, so that's what I did for her cake. I went, perhaps, a bit overboard. She cried when we cut backpack, and would not eat any. The toddler-friendly pinata (no hitting) was also a bit scary when Dora's bottom opened and the prizes started falling on her head. Otherwise, the party was a success.



But that's just the fluff.

Mentally, Ellie might just be two as well. Granted, Ellie's pediatrician only sees her irregularly and mostly hears her success stories. And at Ellie's lengthy and wonderful two-year-old check-up, Ellie presented her doctor with a picture of herself, "Muh!" she indicated with a hand to her chest, as she passed the picture to Dr. Jan and mugged adorably. That's a pretty cool cognitive leap, to realize that the cute baby in the picture is, in fact, herself. Dr. Jan said that although she's so young and these things are impossible measure, etc., etc., of course Ellie has above average intelligence for someone with Down syndrome. And, in fact, she probably has above average intelligence, period.

Verklempt.

Now, Dr. Jan is an optimistic sort, so I'm very pleased but am not counting Ellie's chickens before she can. But I did mention the doctor's assessment to Ellie's developmental therapist today. This woman is the local gymnastics coach for Special Olympics, has a Masters in Special Education, works with children ages 0-3, and is trained as a school diagnostician (testing and evaluation). She's been working with Ellie for well over a year, and she said:

"Don't lower your expectations."

I won't, Ellie, I won't. But I also won't push you so hard that you're miserable. I want you to accomplish all that you can, and I am thrilled beyond measure that you might have the opportunity to go away to college someday, but I will try to let you choose your own path.

Happy (belated) second birthday, sweetheart.

Unbecoming

I'm feeling a little ugly.

I have a friend and co-worker I'm jealous of. I never used to be. And I still like her just as much as always. But, but.

Recently she was promoted. We were at the same level, promoted in lock-step twice. Now, although we still have the same jobs, she's technically a significant level higher than I. It's a promotion I almost surely would have gotten too if I'd stayed at work full time rather than taking a year off then coming back only part time.

I understand the way I feel. I don't regret that I chose to stay home with Ellie, and that I have chosen to make my former career secondary to my new career for now.

But that doesn't mean that I don't miss the way things used to be, too. I miss being responsible for bringing in millions of dollars of revenue for the company. I miss traveling all over the country making presentations to introduce our textbooks to educators and decision-makers. I miss the pace, I miss the excitement.

I still love the work and am very grateful for this perfect job arrangement I've got. But I'm also still jealous.

No, Not Yet. Soon.

Setting the scene:
Ellie took her first independent steps in August, when she was 22 months old. 2-1/2 months later, at 25 months old, she can walk from Paul to me, or walk from one play area at school to the next. Her range is about 10 feet. Because of her slightly low muscle tone, she can't progress quite as quickly as most kids from those first steps to running all over the house. I estimate that she's at least a couple of months away from being a truly independent walker.

Dear parents of typically developing children,

You ask me if Ellie is walking yet, and I respond that she is still learning. Then you tell me, "Be careful what you wish for," or "Count your blessings!"

Stop it.

You complain that it's so hard, chasing after an active, curious toddler all day. I'm sure it is. But really, you should be counting your blessings too. Every day, I am grateful for mine. Regularly, I comment that if I had to have a child with a disability, we've really hit the jackpot with this one, in so many many ways.

But. Imagine having to carry your 2-year-old every time you leave the house. Imagine every trip to the park, carrying your heavy child from the car to the playground, then from one piece of equipment to another.

It's hard to control an energetic toddler in the store, I know. Why don't you just strap him into a shopping cart or stroller? Oh, he wants to get down and explore so he screams when he's strapped down?

My child feels the same way and responds the same way. But if I take her out of the stroller, she doesn't just run around and get underfoot. She sits down, right on the wet, filthy floor. So it's screaming in the stroller or struggling in my arms, everywhere we go, all the time.

It's not always much fun to go out, as you can imagine. She can't stand next to me while I open the car door, pay the cashier, or fish something out of my purse. She's in my arms or on the floor, because she can climb out of that stroller in no time flat.

Please feel free to tell me the things you find wonderful about my child. Please feel free to tell me how beautiful, how clever, how sweet, how wonderful you find her. But please think before you talk. And please don't act like I somehow have it easier than you do, just because my child is doing some things more slowly.

Thanks,
--Sarahlynn

Sarahlynn needs . . .

On a friend's blog I found this exercise: Do a google search for "[Your first name] needs", and discover what the Internets think you really need.

That sounded interesting.

I only had one hit. It was a comment on my husband's blog from an opinionated friend of ours, suggesting, "Maybe Sarahlynn needs to Get involved in the rocking Ellie back to Sleep."

As if I'm not . . .

How to Stop Rape

As the weather here has plummeted from the 80s to the 40s, so too is this blog taking a sharp veer today.

This is an awesome post addressed to men about rape. Read it, really. It's got really good advice for all men, not just men who rape. Because, as we all should know by now, there's nothing that a woman can do to prevent herself from being raped. Nothing. Men have to stop rape, period.

Another must-read is this charmingly helpful post on How to Prevent Rape, aimed at the correct target audience.

On a lighter note, Ellie, Paul, and I are all feeling much better today. And, as far as I know, none of us was raped today. All good. I did burn my thumb pretty badly with spaghetti sauce, but no day is perfect.

Clash

I'd like to start by pointing out that I live in the Midwest, Heartland of America, etc. It's November. And it was over 80 degrees outside today. I had the air conditioning on. In November! It's unnatural. Moving on to other comments about unholiness:

On the way to church on Sunday, Paul noted that Ellie was wearing a red jumper, which looked atrocious next to his orange shirt. I pointed out that my hot pink pin stripes weren't improving the picture. I think we look much better when we match:
The shirts say, Mummy, Deady, and Little Ghoul.

That's about all I remember before Ellie and I were laid up by a nasty GI bug, thanks to the cutest little plague carrier in the world. The two of us are starting to feel much better, though Paul is starting to complain of the ick. Jessica, I hope that you and yours are well. (They were here the night we were visited by the cutest little plague carrier in the world.)

Other than pregnancy-related illness, which is not to be discounted, I can't remember the last time I had a flu bug. This is my third this year, and last time was only a month ago! Whine! Still, I am perfectly *thrilled* by how well Ellie seems to be bouncing back. She's doing much better than I am. Perhaps it has something to do with the entire liter of Pedialyte she drank yesterday while I dehydrated myself to decrease the frequency of, well, I'll just stop right there.

An Odd Sort of Loneliness

Without ever thinking about it, I always felt like being partnered meant always having someone to do things with. I don't mean date nights and parties, I mean the smaller, less planned things. Seeing a beacon in the night sky and following it. Hanging out for hours at a bookstore. Getting restless late at night and going for a long walk or drive and ending up having small adventures and private memories.

It's different with a child. When Ellie was very small, we could plop her in the sling for a walk, in the car seat for a drive, and postpone Borders for a few years. But now there are set mealtimes and bedtimes. After 7:00 one of us has to be at home. You can't hire a sitter on the off chance that you'll suddenly have the urge to go out exploring. You can't both sit up all night long eating pizza and playing video games; at least one must be ready to get up at 6:00 the next morning.

Perhaps this is what people mean when they talk about relationships changing after you have children. It used to be a partnership. Then it was a partnership with a goal, the care and comfort of an exciting new creature. And now it's a family. All of us have our own wants, needs, and preferences.

I wouldn't give up what we have for the world, but in choosing this path I incurred some losses too. And they're not all as trivial as they might sound.

Tickle Me, Ellie!

Clearly, we're long overdue for some adorable Ellie pictures and anecdotes, so here she is, circa one week ago. I am very tired, so this will have to suffice.

Ellie has learned tickling, and delights in tickling her father (under the arms and on the belly) and her mother (soles of the feet and inner thighs) at every occasion. She thinks it is riotously funny to earn a reaction from us. She has mastered an incredible sly and coy yet sweet look that warns us when an attempt to make us laugh is imminent. It's priceless.

Women's Space - a Rant

What I want to talk about is more subtle than the existence of physical women-only spaces like New Lady Fitness. But we can talk about that too, if you'd like.

What I'd like to talk about right now is frustratingly difficult to explain. I've noticed that if women address other women, or do things that help other women specifically, some men cry foul. They want to always be included, explicitly as well as implicitly.

Sometimes a politically correct push for inclusiveness has humorous effect, as with Parenting Magazine. The inclusive title is belied by its subtitle (What really matters to moms) and advertising ("Parenting, with a guaranteed circulation of 2,150,000 and a readership of nearly 11 million, is the nation’s leading magazine for moms."). In the end, it looks like the magazine is suggesting that "parenting" is equivalent to "mothering". "Fathering" certainly implies something else. And that really should be offensive to men.

More often, a PC push for inclusiveness is frustrating and serves mainly to silence women and distance us from one another.

If a mom writes an essay about mothers, there will always be men complaining that fathers are not specifically addressed in the piece. It's of no import that the author has not done anything to discourage a father from publishing his own work.

Rather than setting out to help create collaborative pieces, or to imitate the success of a mothers publication for fathers, too many men find it easy to attack women for not including them in the first place.

I don't understand why these men feel that it's women's job to make them feel comfortable and welcome everywhere at all times. I guess that second X chromosome makes us perpetual hostesses, offering special attention.

Because we can't ever say, "Hey, sister mamas, I wanna talk to you." We have to say, "Hey, other parents, let's chat." Always.

But what about the Promise Keepers? The Fathers' Rights movement?

Well, maybe those are wrong too.

But it's so much easier to attack the ladies.

It's all about the Power, people. And I tell you, it's not mothers who have all the power in this world. Not even most of it. Seriously, do we need to look at the poverty rates of mothers versus, oh, any other demographic?

Letter

To My Friend who (I think) Drinks Too Much,

I get it now, I think. You know it's not good for you. You know it's bad for your physical and mental health. You know that in some ways it isolates you. But things are tough. It feels good. And sometimes you feel like you deserve a little treat. And then sometimes you just want a little treat. And then, maybe, it's not so much a treat as just something that feels good that you like to do. And, really, why not do something that feels good?

This just came to me out of the blue the other day. I think I understand. Because I Eat.

Winner!

Laura helpfully pointed out that she was visitor number 20,001. So I looked up who came over right before Laura, and . . .

It was an anonymous visitor doing a Spanish-language Google image search for pimp my ride Chevy S10.

So . . . congratulations, Laura! You're the default winner! Stay tuned.