Everyone in Hollywood is doing it: Britney, Posh Spice, Madonna,
Gwyneth Paltrow. They have all made arrangements for unnecessary
scheduled cesarean sections to bring their children into the world.
Are these women so important, so busy? Are their lives and schedules so
strictly regulated and planned out that they were simply unable to let
nature take its course, instead opting to put themselves and their
babies in danger in order to plan and control the moment of their
children's births?
And just because there are women who are rich and powerful enough to do
so, does that make it okay? What about the rest of the women in the US
(44% more in fact than in 2001) who chose elective c-sections as an
option to deliver their children last year?
The fact is, aside from the issues of convenience and a woman?s right
to control her body, which as far as I?m concerned should not even be
considered in this discussion, the risks to both the mother and the
baby, of scheduled c-sections far outweigh the benefits.
C-section is major abdominal surgery. As safe as it has become in this
day and age, there are still many risk factors. Any time we undergo
anesthesia, there can be complications. Additionally there is the
possibility of hemorrhage or even death in some cases. Women who have
c-sections have longer recovery times and an increased risk of post
partum depression.**
There is no disputing that Cesarean today is much safer than it was 50
years ago, however, the mortality rate for babies born by Cesarean is
higher as well, even in cases where the surgery is not medically
necessary due to infant distress. In addition, natural childbirth and
labor produces hormones that strengthen the babies lungs and babies
born vaginally are able to breastfeed sooner.**
The bottom line is that if the procedure is not medically necessary, it
should not be performed. We all need to take a step back from this
subject as an issue of women?s rights and focus on what is best for
ourselves and our children.
In an effort to avoid pain and control a process that should not be
controllable, women are missing out on the miracle of childbirth as it
was intended. Because we live in a society of instant gratification, it
has become acceptable to manipulate and control a process that should
occur on its own time. Women who choose this option will never know
what they are capable of and that is the real tragedy.
Nature has been bringing babies into the world without the assistance
of surgery for thousands of years. We need to trust that. Yes, there is
pain and inconvenience involved. There will be pain of one kind or
another and inconvenience in every aspect of parenting from the moment
your child is born for the rest of your life.
Just because surgeons are willing to perform these operations, which
they do by the way for their own convenience and monetary gain, doesn?t
mean that we should comply. And just because there are spoiled, lazy,
selfish celebrities setting the trend, do we need to follow? As a
society, we need to take a step back and look at our motivations.
What are we becoming with regard to the way we bring our children into
the world? And why?
**All medical information taken from medical abstracts found online at
the following urls.
http://tinyurl.com/lnera (from midwife.org)
http://www.medscape.com/viewarticle/441201
http://64.233.187.104/search?q=cache:9fprSmTv0ggJ:ethicsjournal.umc.edu/ojs/include/getdoc.php%3Fid%3D119%26article%3D7%26mode%3Dpdf+Elective+Cesarean+Section&hl=en&gl=us&ct=clnk&cd=9
***************
Tammie writes online at http://soulgardening.typepad.com. She is
pregnant with her first child and hopes to be able to have a water
birth using the Bradley method and hypnobirthing techniques sometime
next April. Be sure to visit there to see Karen's take on this issue.
For this month's blog exchange, we're doing a series of debates on issues that matter. Click here for the other op ed pieces (and their opposing sides) today. And if you'd like to participate next month, send an email to kmei26 at yahoo.com.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
Dirty Little Secret #29
I sewed through my finger last Christmas.
Every year that I have operated my own business, I have doubled in size. We're still talking small peanuts here, people, but I do find that my work load increases exponentially. Last December was the first time I felt like maybe I couldn't do it all on my own: sewing shirts, blankies and burps for all those babies I'll never meet, I stood in my own personal sweat shop every night until 1 or 2.
One night, around 11:30, I was supervising my embroidery machine, which is hooked up to my computer. Idly playing Solitaire to wile away the hours, I reached over to re-adjust the shirt in the hoop to make sure that it wouldn't catch under the needle.
And I passed my hand right through the sewing field.
The needle went through the nail, and out the other side. I calmly pulled it out, and called for my husband.
"Oh, goodness," he said, and led me over to the recliner. Have I mentioned that my husband is a physician? He checked me out, and discovered that the microtex sharp needle I was using had passed very cleanly through my nail and flesh, leaving a tiny hole that bled fairly little. He left me in the chair, and went to fetch a band-aid. Like the incident the other day, I had my head in my hands, murmuring.
"I sewed through my finger!"
When he came back, I was slumped forward moaning, "I sewed through my finger!" Have I mentioned that he's a doctor? Thank goodness, as he looked me, shook his head, and pulled the lever to throw me back in the La-Z-Boy, with my feet above my head. I went to bed without finishing the stack of orders bursting out of my inbox.
Tonight I am tired, and being very careful of my fingers. Even though snow has yet to fly and the stores still have Halloween decorations up, I have an email inbox bursting at the seams. I couldn't for the life of me figure out why, until I googled my key search terms and discovered something surprising.
I'm page one on Google for the term "personalized security blankets." And page two for "personalized baby clothing." And page three for "personalized burp cloths."
You're thrilled, I know.
But really, that's a lot of groceries. That's three years of being a one-woman show - HTML, marketing, photography, and production. That's buying a month's worth of groceries AND paying the student loan bill and the car lease. That's the help of one very kind friend, without whom SEO would still be a mystery.
But it's also a lot of security blankets. And baby clothing. And burp cloths. And I am still a one-woman show.
I'll have to be careful of my fingers.
Every year that I have operated my own business, I have doubled in size. We're still talking small peanuts here, people, but I do find that my work load increases exponentially. Last December was the first time I felt like maybe I couldn't do it all on my own: sewing shirts, blankies and burps for all those babies I'll never meet, I stood in my own personal sweat shop every night until 1 or 2.
One night, around 11:30, I was supervising my embroidery machine, which is hooked up to my computer. Idly playing Solitaire to wile away the hours, I reached over to re-adjust the shirt in the hoop to make sure that it wouldn't catch under the needle.
And I passed my hand right through the sewing field.
The needle went through the nail, and out the other side. I calmly pulled it out, and called for my husband.
"Oh, goodness," he said, and led me over to the recliner. Have I mentioned that my husband is a physician? He checked me out, and discovered that the microtex sharp needle I was using had passed very cleanly through my nail and flesh, leaving a tiny hole that bled fairly little. He left me in the chair, and went to fetch a band-aid. Like the incident the other day, I had my head in my hands, murmuring.
"I sewed through my finger!"
When he came back, I was slumped forward moaning, "I sewed through my finger!" Have I mentioned that he's a doctor? Thank goodness, as he looked me, shook his head, and pulled the lever to throw me back in the La-Z-Boy, with my feet above my head. I went to bed without finishing the stack of orders bursting out of my inbox.
Tonight I am tired, and being very careful of my fingers. Even though snow has yet to fly and the stores still have Halloween decorations up, I have an email inbox bursting at the seams. I couldn't for the life of me figure out why, until I googled my key search terms and discovered something surprising.
I'm page one on Google for the term "personalized security blankets." And page two for "personalized baby clothing." And page three for "personalized burp cloths."
You're thrilled, I know.
But really, that's a lot of groceries. That's three years of being a one-woman show - HTML, marketing, photography, and production. That's buying a month's worth of groceries AND paying the student loan bill and the car lease. That's the help of one very kind friend, without whom SEO would still be a mystery.
But it's also a lot of security blankets. And baby clothing. And burp cloths. And I am still a one-woman show.
I'll have to be careful of my fingers.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Poop and a Cup of Joe
Like many others before it, the theme of my day was poop mixed with coffee. The major difference was that today that seemingly innocuous combination caused me to dial 911 for the first time ever.
My new home is actually quite old. Built sometime between 1899 and 1910, we are only the third owners of this undecided residence. It has the floor plan of a classic American Foursquare with decidedly Craftsman details. Its facade is where the head-scratching comes in: neither Foursquare, Craftsman, nor Victorian, the tax records list the style of the building as "Oldstyle."
The original owners lived here until their deaths, and one of their children continued to raise his own family here. Through decades of change, the original family of owners grew tired of its upkeep and began to replace the details of their original construction with cheap versions of modern upgrades. It became the kind of older home with piles of newspaper in the corners and peeling layers of paint on the once gleaming gumwood trim. The ornate scrollwork of the original radiators lies buried under brown, jade, turquoise, and now white paint.
It was finally sold to an older, professional couple with one child. It was their forever house, and they began to restore it - ripping the kitchen down to the studs, refinishing the floors, taking down the two giant spruce that had grown over 100 years to shield the house that now found itself painted lilac.
Yes. Lilac. The previous owners decided that “Oldstyle” would not do, and began to restore themselves a Victorian. They had lovely ideas, and most certainly made this once grand home livable again. But we knew we were in trouble when the gentleman leaned over conspiratorially to my husband and announced that he was a master carpenter and had done much of the work himself.
So now we have a Craftsman era home decorated with hugely floral motifs and toile wallpaper. And we have fabulous granite countertops kept level with shims jutting out between the cabinets. And we not only have old wiring, but we have faulty outlets and switches jury-rigged by a man who was not an electrician but who thought he was.
So today, when I walked into my toile kitchen and smelled the bitter scent of something burnt, I got a little nervous. When I walked down the steps into my terrifying cellar (straight out of Silence of the Lambs) to get to my laundry room, and became overwhelmed by the acrid smoke of something undeniably burnt, I was terrified.
I stood in my moldering laundry room and panicked.
I found myself on the lawn, in my socks, calling 911 on my cell phone. Lizzy was crying, with bare feet in flip-flops on a chilly day. I managed to grab shoes and socks – one brown and one blue – for Teddy. When the emergency operator asked me if everyone was out of the house, I responded no. “My cat and desert tortoise are still inside!”
After I hung up, I wondered if the fact that my cell still has a Minnesota phone number was going to affect the situation. Apparently not, as I soon heard fire trucks roaring down my quiet and leafy street. Three fire trucks, to be exact. And two SUVs. And a police car.
They were suited. They had axes and oxygen tanks. They had handheld monitors and walkie-talkies. The dog went nuts. Lizzy quietly snuffled, asking where she could stand. Teddy was yelling at the top of his lungs, “Mommy! Siwen twuck! Siwen twuck!”
The troop of firefighters marched in, and soon marched out. Surrounded by large yellow-coated men, I was told that while they smelled something a “little bit funky,” there seemed to no smoldering, smoking objects in my home. Then one of them said, “You know, I think that it might be coming from the toilet down there.”
“The toilet? The toilet down there? But we DON’T HAVE a toilet down there!” I took a deep breath, and there it was again. “Wait, I smell it now! The smell is here too!” I began to hop up and down in my socks.
One of the large men sniffed, and smiled. “That? That’s just coffee.”
I stopped hopping and stared at him. “Coffee?”
As it turns out, there is an old toilet in my basement. Or there was an old toilet in my basement, in a closet at the foot of the stairs. It is now just a hole in the ground emitting sewer gas – the master carpenter who removed it failed to seal it. The firefighters had to take me inside and physically show it to me before I would believe them. And there is a coffee bean roasting facility less than a mile from my house. When they roast, it can be smelled for miles.
Sewer gas combined with roasting coffee beans led me to believe that my house was on fire.
I was mortified. I still am. The one saving grace about the whole event was that my neighbor – the only one with children close in age to my own – came out to rescue Liz and Ted. She scooped them up, spirited them away, and was making them lunch when I arrived twenty minutes later. She made me coffee, told me that she would have done the same thing, and let me sit at her kitchen table with my head in my hands while murmuring, “coffee beans.”
My new home is actually quite old. Built sometime between 1899 and 1910, we are only the third owners of this undecided residence. It has the floor plan of a classic American Foursquare with decidedly Craftsman details. Its facade is where the head-scratching comes in: neither Foursquare, Craftsman, nor Victorian, the tax records list the style of the building as "Oldstyle."
The original owners lived here until their deaths, and one of their children continued to raise his own family here. Through decades of change, the original family of owners grew tired of its upkeep and began to replace the details of their original construction with cheap versions of modern upgrades. It became the kind of older home with piles of newspaper in the corners and peeling layers of paint on the once gleaming gumwood trim. The ornate scrollwork of the original radiators lies buried under brown, jade, turquoise, and now white paint.
It was finally sold to an older, professional couple with one child. It was their forever house, and they began to restore it - ripping the kitchen down to the studs, refinishing the floors, taking down the two giant spruce that had grown over 100 years to shield the house that now found itself painted lilac.
Yes. Lilac. The previous owners decided that “Oldstyle” would not do, and began to restore themselves a Victorian. They had lovely ideas, and most certainly made this once grand home livable again. But we knew we were in trouble when the gentleman leaned over conspiratorially to my husband and announced that he was a master carpenter and had done much of the work himself.
So now we have a Craftsman era home decorated with hugely floral motifs and toile wallpaper. And we have fabulous granite countertops kept level with shims jutting out between the cabinets. And we not only have old wiring, but we have faulty outlets and switches jury-rigged by a man who was not an electrician but who thought he was.
So today, when I walked into my toile kitchen and smelled the bitter scent of something burnt, I got a little nervous. When I walked down the steps into my terrifying cellar (straight out of Silence of the Lambs) to get to my laundry room, and became overwhelmed by the acrid smoke of something undeniably burnt, I was terrified.
I stood in my moldering laundry room and panicked.
I found myself on the lawn, in my socks, calling 911 on my cell phone. Lizzy was crying, with bare feet in flip-flops on a chilly day. I managed to grab shoes and socks – one brown and one blue – for Teddy. When the emergency operator asked me if everyone was out of the house, I responded no. “My cat and desert tortoise are still inside!”
After I hung up, I wondered if the fact that my cell still has a Minnesota phone number was going to affect the situation. Apparently not, as I soon heard fire trucks roaring down my quiet and leafy street. Three fire trucks, to be exact. And two SUVs. And a police car.
They were suited. They had axes and oxygen tanks. They had handheld monitors and walkie-talkies. The dog went nuts. Lizzy quietly snuffled, asking where she could stand. Teddy was yelling at the top of his lungs, “Mommy! Siwen twuck! Siwen twuck!”
The troop of firefighters marched in, and soon marched out. Surrounded by large yellow-coated men, I was told that while they smelled something a “little bit funky,” there seemed to no smoldering, smoking objects in my home. Then one of them said, “You know, I think that it might be coming from the toilet down there.”
“The toilet? The toilet down there? But we DON’T HAVE a toilet down there!” I took a deep breath, and there it was again. “Wait, I smell it now! The smell is here too!” I began to hop up and down in my socks.
One of the large men sniffed, and smiled. “That? That’s just coffee.”
I stopped hopping and stared at him. “Coffee?”
As it turns out, there is an old toilet in my basement. Or there was an old toilet in my basement, in a closet at the foot of the stairs. It is now just a hole in the ground emitting sewer gas – the master carpenter who removed it failed to seal it. The firefighters had to take me inside and physically show it to me before I would believe them. And there is a coffee bean roasting facility less than a mile from my house. When they roast, it can be smelled for miles.
Sewer gas combined with roasting coffee beans led me to believe that my house was on fire.
I was mortified. I still am. The one saving grace about the whole event was that my neighbor – the only one with children close in age to my own – came out to rescue Liz and Ted. She scooped them up, spirited them away, and was making them lunch when I arrived twenty minutes later. She made me coffee, told me that she would have done the same thing, and let me sit at her kitchen table with my head in my hands while murmuring, “coffee beans.”
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Dirty Little Secret # 28
The bag I carry says a lot about me.
In my time I have carried backpacks, beach bags, a very big bag and a very tiny purse. They have ranged from the fanciest of leather to the coarsest of straw. I often too lazy to transfer my necessary items from one receptacle to another, and as a result end up at varying functions with a very inappropriate handbag. I have carried beach bags in February and stuffed baby bottles, pacifiers, and rattles into itty-bitty Kate Spades. And I don't care.
Since becoming a parent I have tried on for size expensive diaper bags, run-of-the-mill knapsacks, and a variety of non-descript large shoulder bags. None have triumphed over the others as "the bag." As such, my strategy is to buy a cheap one, use it until it develops some sort of tear, hole, or other defect, and move on. I have mourned the early loss of too many an expensive bag - as they tear, rip, and develop defects as quickly as those one quarter their price - to invest my love in another one anytime soon.
The bag-du-jour is a Walmart model. That says something in itself, as I never saw myself as the person who shopped at Walmart; circumstances in the form of my husband's extended medical training in the middle of nowhere dictated otherwise. While my politics and perceived station in life balked, I learned, much like Dutch, that it was just full of people trying to do their best for their families - just like me. Anyway, one day while grocery shopping, I took the kids into the accessories aisle and told Lizzy to pick out a new bag for Mommy.
That's right. I had my four year old pick out my bag. My bag. The one item I bring everywhere, regardless of who or what or how I'm dressed was chosen by a four year old with a rather bohemian fashion sensibility.
She chose a messenger style model, made of ripstop, with a beige background and colorful flowers in the coral and brown families. It is hideous and I love it. And indeed, I carry it everywhere. I was doubtful of its extended usefulness, as it looked rather small. But it is divided into three roomy sections, with a small zippered pouch and a makeup case. There are two pockets on the front that I do not use. Through grocery stores, in airports, and on the beach, I have found it to be the most useful bag I have had thus far.
In it are the following items, listed in the order in which I discovered them:
Band-Aids
My notebook full of phone numbers, grocery lists, and plane reservations
A Joann's flyer
Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons
My inhaler
My new pin number
A "Hatch for Governor" bumper sticker
A Pottery Barn coupon
2 old children's menus to be colored
Brochures for Lizzy's dance class
A pair of Lizzy's Hello Kitty underwear
The Northwest Airlines tickets stubs from our recent trip to Illinois
A dried out (hopefully clean) diaper wipe
A small blank notebook
A Dora the Explorer board book
The confirmation receipt for our trip to Illinois
A pink hairbow
My checkbook
Lizzy's wallet
Two pens
A ziploc bag full of crayons
A bottle of Advil
Mardi Gras beads
A pair of sunglasses not belonging to me
Lizzy's sunglasses
A pink Minnie Mouse toy cell phone
A pacifier
A Disney princess comb and brush set
A Magic Marker
An uncharged cell phone
A stainless steel business card holder
Three credit cards, a check card, my license, library card, etc.
Four dollar bills
A pot of barely used Stila lip gloss
A clip-on watch
An unknown key - what does this unlock, anyway?
$1.63 in change
One Canadian penny
A receipt from Wegmans
A wrapper from a Triaminic Thin Strips for Cough
But wait! As if the above were not enough, don't forget the contents of my handy-dandy matching makeup bag:
An empty inhaler
Sudafed
Lip balm
More Triaminic Thin Strips
An extra contact lens
Benadryl
Two tampons
A hair clip
Please note that there are no diapers or wipes listed in the unending list presented above, even though there should be. There are no photos of my children. Who needs photos when THEY'RE ALWAYS WITH ME. Maybe I should put a little note in one of the aforementioned little notebooks that I need to find a babysitter.
I perceive and pride myself on being practical, but I'm a pack rat and a little bit unprepared, even though I have all the sudafed you'll ever need. I used to care a great deal about my appearance and it's effect on other people; it's safe to say that I cared a great deal about what other people thought about my clothes and my hair and my accessories. And now I don't.
I've read recently about mom uniforms and the importance of not letting oneself go, and thought twice about it. My hair is no longer blown dry, my uniform is indeed jeans and a dirty tee, and my loud, obnoxiously-colored, overfull bag is from Walmart. But I don't care. It's stuffed with anything you might need to ward off an allergy attack. It's got enough inside to fix a toddler hair emergency or potty accident - although poor Ted would have to sit in a poopy diaper. It's full of enough cash for a refreshing beverage. It really can't be mistaken for anyone else's bag. It's unmistakably mine.
This long and drawn out description of the contents of my bag can be blamed on Sandy. And now I tag Karin, Blair, and Kara to reveal the contents of their own unmistakable bags.
In my time I have carried backpacks, beach bags, a very big bag and a very tiny purse. They have ranged from the fanciest of leather to the coarsest of straw. I often too lazy to transfer my necessary items from one receptacle to another, and as a result end up at varying functions with a very inappropriate handbag. I have carried beach bags in February and stuffed baby bottles, pacifiers, and rattles into itty-bitty Kate Spades. And I don't care.
Since becoming a parent I have tried on for size expensive diaper bags, run-of-the-mill knapsacks, and a variety of non-descript large shoulder bags. None have triumphed over the others as "the bag." As such, my strategy is to buy a cheap one, use it until it develops some sort of tear, hole, or other defect, and move on. I have mourned the early loss of too many an expensive bag - as they tear, rip, and develop defects as quickly as those one quarter their price - to invest my love in another one anytime soon.
The bag-du-jour is a Walmart model. That says something in itself, as I never saw myself as the person who shopped at Walmart; circumstances in the form of my husband's extended medical training in the middle of nowhere dictated otherwise. While my politics and perceived station in life balked, I learned, much like Dutch, that it was just full of people trying to do their best for their families - just like me. Anyway, one day while grocery shopping, I took the kids into the accessories aisle and told Lizzy to pick out a new bag for Mommy.
That's right. I had my four year old pick out my bag. My bag. The one item I bring everywhere, regardless of who or what or how I'm dressed was chosen by a four year old with a rather bohemian fashion sensibility.
She chose a messenger style model, made of ripstop, with a beige background and colorful flowers in the coral and brown families. It is hideous and I love it. And indeed, I carry it everywhere. I was doubtful of its extended usefulness, as it looked rather small. But it is divided into three roomy sections, with a small zippered pouch and a makeup case. There are two pockets on the front that I do not use. Through grocery stores, in airports, and on the beach, I have found it to be the most useful bag I have had thus far.
In it are the following items, listed in the order in which I discovered them:
Band-Aids
My notebook full of phone numbers, grocery lists, and plane reservations
A Joann's flyer
Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons
My inhaler
My new pin number
A "Hatch for Governor" bumper sticker
A Pottery Barn coupon
2 old children's menus to be colored
Brochures for Lizzy's dance class
A pair of Lizzy's Hello Kitty underwear
The Northwest Airlines tickets stubs from our recent trip to Illinois
A dried out (hopefully clean) diaper wipe
A small blank notebook
A Dora the Explorer board book
The confirmation receipt for our trip to Illinois
A pink hairbow
My checkbook
Lizzy's wallet
Two pens
A ziploc bag full of crayons
A bottle of Advil
Mardi Gras beads
A pair of sunglasses not belonging to me
Lizzy's sunglasses
A pink Minnie Mouse toy cell phone
A pacifier
A Disney princess comb and brush set
A Magic Marker
An uncharged cell phone
A stainless steel business card holder
Three credit cards, a check card, my license, library card, etc.
Four dollar bills
A pot of barely used Stila lip gloss
A clip-on watch
An unknown key - what does this unlock, anyway?
$1.63 in change
One Canadian penny
A receipt from Wegmans
A wrapper from a Triaminic Thin Strips for Cough
But wait! As if the above were not enough, don't forget the contents of my handy-dandy matching makeup bag:
An empty inhaler
Sudafed
Lip balm
More Triaminic Thin Strips
An extra contact lens
Benadryl
Two tampons
A hair clip
Please note that there are no diapers or wipes listed in the unending list presented above, even though there should be. There are no photos of my children. Who needs photos when THEY'RE ALWAYS WITH ME. Maybe I should put a little note in one of the aforementioned little notebooks that I need to find a babysitter.
I perceive and pride myself on being practical, but I'm a pack rat and a little bit unprepared, even though I have all the sudafed you'll ever need. I used to care a great deal about my appearance and it's effect on other people; it's safe to say that I cared a great deal about what other people thought about my clothes and my hair and my accessories. And now I don't.
I've read recently about mom uniforms and the importance of not letting oneself go, and thought twice about it. My hair is no longer blown dry, my uniform is indeed jeans and a dirty tee, and my loud, obnoxiously-colored, overfull bag is from Walmart. But I don't care. It's stuffed with anything you might need to ward off an allergy attack. It's got enough inside to fix a toddler hair emergency or potty accident - although poor Ted would have to sit in a poopy diaper. It's full of enough cash for a refreshing beverage. It really can't be mistaken for anyone else's bag. It's unmistakably mine.
This long and drawn out description of the contents of my bag can be blamed on Sandy. And now I tag Karin, Blair, and Kara to reveal the contents of their own unmistakable bags.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Remember
Tomorrow, I will hang our flag out on my new front porch. It is six feet long and four feet tall. We bought it on September 11, 2001, around 4 pm. We bought it online, taking advantage of a rare open phone line to dial into AOL, and paid for next day shipping. It was the last one in stock - besides the twenty by ten foot model for which my husband lobbied. I warned him that it would cover our neighbor's window when we flew it out of our own.
Little did we realize was that, in Manhattan, we wouldn't be receiving any packages for quite some time. When it finally arrived, maybe two weeks later, we hung it from the top of our six-story apartment building on First Avenue.
As time goes by, it is more difficult for me to watch. I used to need to see the footage and photographs, to convince myself that this was true. I used to have panic attacks and nightmares. But now? I can't watch. It is more painful now, in my head, to hear the panic in my father's voice tell me over the phone line that I needed to leave the city right away, than it was then.
I've told my story here before. I was pregnant with my first child, like Julie. I didn't know her then, but I wish I could have spent the evening celebrating a birthday with Liz. I agree with Nancy, that Oshee offers a fitting reminder in her own story of loss of how to conduct ourselves with our loved ones. I've told Binky that I watch the skies, still. I've told Kurt that I don't agree that we could have done this to ourselves. I can't wrap my mind around the possibility. It is true. As I told T'pon, there is nothing so real, or true, as loss.
Little did we realize was that, in Manhattan, we wouldn't be receiving any packages for quite some time. When it finally arrived, maybe two weeks later, we hung it from the top of our six-story apartment building on First Avenue.
As time goes by, it is more difficult for me to watch. I used to need to see the footage and photographs, to convince myself that this was true. I used to have panic attacks and nightmares. But now? I can't watch. It is more painful now, in my head, to hear the panic in my father's voice tell me over the phone line that I needed to leave the city right away, than it was then.
I've told my story here before. I was pregnant with my first child, like Julie. I didn't know her then, but I wish I could have spent the evening celebrating a birthday with Liz. I agree with Nancy, that Oshee offers a fitting reminder in her own story of loss of how to conduct ourselves with our loved ones. I've told Binky that I watch the skies, still. I've told Kurt that I don't agree that we could have done this to ourselves. I can't wrap my mind around the possibility. It is true. As I told T'pon, there is nothing so real, or true, as loss.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Dirty Little Secrets #19 - #27
19) I am incredibly frumpy. While my jeans are low-waisted and boot-cut, I am woefully in need of Stacy and Clinton. If only for their $5,000. And instructions on how to buy grown-up, non-frumpy good-looking jeans to fit short legs and double zip-coded rear-end.
20) In the mall today I passed a woman in a Cabela's sweatshirt. Few people around me likely knew what it was, but it made me smile.
21) While I am learning to be more comfortable in my confused lilac 1908 American Foursquare, I am envious of my sister's brand new home. It has only her dirt in it.
22) I miss my sister.
23) This week, I had a peritonsillar abscess removed from my throat; an otolaryngologist stuck a needle in my throat to remove a butt-load a pus that had accumlated behind my tonsil due to a percolating strep infection. Then I took a load of vicodin, barfed, and slept for two days straight. My husband stayed home for three days to take care of Liz and Ted. It was not only the sickest I have been in fifteen years, it was also one of the strangest things I have experienced. I don't remember most of two days.
25) I bought new underwear today. The salesclerk at Victoria's Secret tried her best to convince me to open a charge account. I told her it wouldn't be worth my while, as I only buy new underwear every two years. Six new pairs, every other year.
26) Lizzy started dance class on Friday. It's a combination tap, dance, and creative movement class at a fairly low-key gym facility for children. There are no dress codes, few rules, and no body image issues that I can detect lurking in the curriculum. While I think I could be a friend of Gloria Steinem and never took dance classes myself, my heart skipped a little beat when I saw her in her pink leotard and tights.
27) I grew up here. As the dust from my own move and my sister's settle around us all, I am finding some comfort in the places I once knew best.
20) In the mall today I passed a woman in a Cabela's sweatshirt. Few people around me likely knew what it was, but it made me smile.
21) While I am learning to be more comfortable in my confused lilac 1908 American Foursquare, I am envious of my sister's brand new home. It has only her dirt in it.
22) I miss my sister.
23) This week, I had a peritonsillar abscess removed from my throat; an otolaryngologist stuck a needle in my throat to remove a butt-load a pus that had accumlated behind my tonsil due to a percolating strep infection. Then I took a load of vicodin, barfed, and slept for two days straight. My husband stayed home for three days to take care of Liz and Ted. It was not only the sickest I have been in fifteen years, it was also one of the strangest things I have experienced. I don't remember most of two days.25) I bought new underwear today. The salesclerk at Victoria's Secret tried her best to convince me to open a charge account. I told her it wouldn't be worth my while, as I only buy new underwear every two years. Six new pairs, every other year.
26) Lizzy started dance class on Friday. It's a combination tap, dance, and creative movement class at a fairly low-key gym facility for children. There are no dress codes, few rules, and no body image issues that I can detect lurking in the curriculum. While I think I could be a friend of Gloria Steinem and never took dance classes myself, my heart skipped a little beat when I saw her in her pink leotard and tights.
27) I grew up here. As the dust from my own move and my sister's settle around us all, I am finding some comfort in the places I once knew best.
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