Tick...Tock...Tick...

From the moment one becomes pregnant, there are hills to climb. Some of these hills, like finding pants that fit, are pretty easy. Some are straight-up in the air and appear endless, like weeks of prodromal labor that turn into real labor that also lasts forever. Then, ahh. The baby is born, and life continues...

...to be hilly. When the baby arrives, all kinds of hills pop up, and some are full of raging creeks of breastfeeding issues and bracket-y thorn-patches of vaccination decisions, and the occasional student nurse that tries to rip out your Foley catheter without completely deflating the balloon.

It's a sleepless life. For mama and baby. Especially during those times when the baby is going through some sort of developmental leap. Gianna is on the very brink of crawling, and her brain is working so hard, her sleep has taken a giant step backwards. So has mine. I try to think of things in terms of primal necessity- how did this benefit Cave Clara, and Cave Gianna? Perhaps a more awake baby and more awake mama meant that Cave Gianna couldn't all of a sudden put the pieces together and learn to crawl right out of the cave in the middle of the night and hop a mountain lion and disappear into the night.

Outside of cave life, it makes for some interesting days and nights. I swear I saw Yoko Ono drive past me in a Jeep Rubicon today. It's hard to say, though, because I have mentally devolved to somewhere around a mollusk, and have myself a ripping case of aphasia. I tried to have a phone conversation today with my sister about Turbo Tax, and described it as "starry" instead of "easy." At the butcher today, I also accidentally ordered a salmon fillet in the voice I use when talking to Gianna. Which isn't baby-talk, by the way, just higher pitched and super-enunciated. I'm sure I sounded super starry.

I need to just keep putting my feet in front of me. I'm sure sixteen years from now, she will be giving me a whole new level of sleepless nights, so I better savor this while I can. Now to go figure out where the heck I am... this house is kinda nice...

CT Lite

Okay, I've been pushing my agenda quite a bit in recent posts. Time for some fun!

I have some valuable advice that I hope each and every reader takes to heart. Ready?

Never, ever, EVER feed the dog leftover pureed peas. Pureed pees are excellent for the baby, but cause the dog to release toxic, pepper-spray style fumes. Repeatedly. And audibly.

In baby news, Gianna has learned to clap her hands and say, "Ayayayaye!" I don't believe in praising children for every single move they make, but it's too adorable not to join in when she flops herself back to a seated position after some push-ups and claps and grins and says, "Ayayayayaye!" In the march towards mobility, she's been training herself with the determination of a Navy Seal. Her favorite exercise is to use her hands to creep the upper part of her body forward over her legs, and try to flip her feet and legs behind her. I tried it myself, and it's pretty killer. She does this for long stretches of time, and sometimes is successful in scooting a leg or two out from underneath her. This, startling her, causes the whole operation to come to a halt, and Mom has to save the day.

The Brilliant Dogasus has some kind of weird masochism going on. She knows that the baby is working on her pincer grasp, and loves to carefully and precisely pinch small objects between her fingers and yank on them with shocking strength. Yet, she sits very close to the baby, and places her whiskers tantalizingly on the baby's leg, and then rolls her eyes back towards me, and looks pathetic.

"If you don't like it, move," I tell Dogasus. I plant myself beside them, ready to intervene.

"But, I want to smell her," replies the dog. *Snifffff* "She's pulling my whiskers! Tell her 'No!' and put her in a crate." I move Gianna's hand.

Gianna, hand poised for another attack, stares in wide-eyed fascination at the dog, who is missing her chance to move her dang bod. I put my hand over Gianna's, and nudge the dog. "MOVE!"

Sigh. Finally, the dog very slowly inches away from the painful pleasure of the baby pulling out her whiskers and fur, and settles at a safe distance. Only to repeat the same process in about an hour.

Today is a mind-blowing 40 degrees Fahrenheit, so the plan is to go to the fabric store for the makings of Gianna's Spring/Summer wardrobe. I ordered (and quickly received) a cute Finnish sewing magazine with some great patterns, and now I can only pray that I can get enough time to actually do the projects. I think that if I take advantage of naps and Mr. Clarateaches, this may happen!

KnowledgeEducationIntelligenceWorth

Disclaimer #1- I writes what I thinks. I am formally trained as a teacher, a labor doula, and whatever you want to call someone who on a daily basis springs out of bed, attaches a cape, and spends the next 18 wakeful hours lactating/ cleaning/ changing diapers/ tormenting the dog/ fielding the press/ budgeting/ cooking/ summoning Captain Planet/ singing invented songs to the baby and dog/ and trying to boss other people around. Mainly my siblings. Who now ignore me. Where was I going with this? Oh yeah- do not quote me for any sort of term papers or medical journals- I do not have a $30,000 piece of paper that says I can officially philosophize. I do, however, have a $30,000 piece of paper that says I can give standardized tests to children, but will be sued to within an inch of my life if I give them a hug.

Disclaimer #2- While I no longer have the energy driven by the radio discussion from the previous morning, I do have the energy produced by the contempt I feel after watching A&E last night on mute with closed captioning- primarily to have a little light to see what I was doing to feed Bambina. A&E was airing some sort of show that follows around meter maids. Are they called meter maids? Meter officers? At any rate, this show and this show alone makes me weep and wail and gnash my teeth and cover my body with ashes. I live in utter fear now, knowing these yahoos are driving about.

Disclaimer #3- I may ramble. Bambina-lina is asleep, but I still need to rush, as she may wake up at any moment.

Where, oh where, oh where can I continue this line of thought? I'm not going to touch the industry issues surrounding production and importation and the arrogance in presuming that the USA can actually (snort) be the leader (Oh lordy, can I even say it) of the (chuckle) "knowledge industry." When the Math Regents passing grade in NY State is 55%... nope. Not going to go there. None of us have the time.

Farming? Nah. Another day, I will rant about genetic engineering (and as a Biology minor who actually did take classes involving this, I am slightly more prepared) and we can all talk about the issues involving the many many MANY problems with the quality of our food, the quantity of fake food that is killing so many, and the pharm industry and kookalooka crapazoid surrounding the hilariousness that is ethanol.

I think I will take this in a slightly more personal direction, and loop off of the "Almanzo" dilemma. What do we do with him? Even more importantly- it is significant that Almanzo is a "him." Males are having an outstandingly difficult time in this current era of college education. This is not just me spouting off- this is something that all corners of the educational world are finally admitting to. While we've greatly enhanced the learning opportunities for girls, we've gone right ahead and committed the crime of "robbing Peter to pay Paul" in the sense that we've had a deleterious effect on boys instead of merely enhancing the girls. As such, we have a nation chock-full of very confused young men. Now, not all young men are confused- some are successful, and feel that they've found their place and are fitting quite well. The amount of young men who finish high school and suddenly feel as though they've fallen through a trap-door into some kind of limbo where they have no place is staggering. Where my grandfather and his peers could easily leave high school and find employment in line work that would feed and clothe and house their families, their grandchildren are finding themselves at a stand-still.

Let's look at some high school graduates. Let's sort these high school grads into four categories:
Cat A- Are "college material," desire a college education, and understand their strengths and interests;
Cat B- Are "college material," do not necessarily desire a college education, and understand their strengths;
Cat C- Are not "college material," do, however, desire a college education, understand their interests and strengths;
Cat D- Are not "college material," do not desire a college education, and still understand their strengths and interests.

Cat. A is all set. They fit the criteria for entering college, and make it happen. Go them.

Cat. C is also all set. While they do not fit the criteria for entering college, they can still use their money or find the federal or state or private funding to get them there. At college, they will find something that interests them enough to limp along until graduation. After which, it will not matter- they have the degree, and can join the rest of the mooing crowd into the workforce.

Almanzo, from my sixth grade class, is Cat. B. He can certainly get into college with his grades. He will almost certainly be heavily encouraged by his school to apply for grants and loans and college applications, as college is the Thing To Do, whether he likes it or not.

As for Cat. D- we'll call this individual "Boog," after someone who was in my graduating class. This unfortunately-monikered boy was somehow still enrolled in high school when I was hired, two years into my bachelor's degree, to substitute teach at my old high school. Talk about awkward. At the time of my subbing, he was about to be aged out of the high school program anyway. He just did not have the grades, nor the desire for the grades or any other post-secondary education.

Almanzo and Boog. Boog and Almanzo. What do we do with you two? How can you enter adulthood successfully and perhaps enjoy a family as well? Importantly- who defines what "success" looks like?

Probably, if they both work hard, they can manage. It will be without the accoutrements, for sure- Buffalo Bills tickets will not be just a credit card swipe away, unless they want to spend the rest of their lives buried in debt (which a great proportion will end up doing, if you believe the money reports). Their spouses will probably have to work, whether they want to or not. Where do they fit along this "knowledge industry," though? How will the rest of the world view them- and how will they be trained to view themselves?

When we, as teachers, support the mindset that college is THE means to an end, rather than one way we can achieve our goals, where does that send the non-college crowd? When we make college abundantly accessible- what does this do for the people who do desire an ongoing education? What happens when lecture halls are filled with a mix of people who want to be there, and people who don't feel they have a choice? As our country increasingly mixes and mingles with the rest of the globe, what does this sort of graduating class do for us?

Scio

"...cogito, ergo sum" Descartes

This morning, I listened to a local talk radio show. The host was describing a new incentive for Michiganders to do something with themselves. A grant is available to attract talent and something "greater" to the area. During his discussion with his guest, they both referenced something called the "knowledge industry," and how the state and the nation will need to start boning up on "knowledge," as that is where we will be headed. No more will we be involved with production technology, and forget any kind of hands-on trade.

My mind traveled back through time to another lifetime ago, to when I was a wide-awake student teacher. I had a 6th grade assignment at a rural, Western NY wine country middle school as a math and science teacher. It was one heck of a jam-packed ten weeks with those kids.

We'll call the protagonist of my memory "Almanzo." Almanzo was a typical farmer's boy. He woke up in the morning, helped his parents and siblings on their farm, and then after a solid three or more hours of hard work, boarded the bus and headed to school. He worked and played with his friends, was polite to his teachers, and then headed home for more chores, homework, and whatever else 12 year old boys like to do. This was a fairly intelligent kid, although his grades were less than wonderful. He sort of blended into the background of the other 80 or so students who were temporarily in my charge.

Until the day we looked at triangulation. My lessons were NOT boring, but hands-on, minds-on innovations. In fact, I had the extreme pleasure of assisting two other sixth grade science teachers in the district in revising the quarterly science exam. I did messy, loud, and dramatic labs- we shook various gradations of rocks in a tall glass vase and watched the sediment fall, we built bridges and put them to a torture test, we fingerprinted one another to find out who "kidnapped" their regular teacher. I was inspiring them left and right, boom-boom-boom. My class was going to result in a wave of rural kids entering college in six years, and they all would rock.

An ongoing theme in my lessons was always "Ask why." I would tell them that textbooks were written and edited by grad students, and sometimes, information was stuck in just to make a book. Find out why, question, and verify sources. One day, they did just that. As I talked about triangulation, a student asked, " What is this good for? Why do we need to know this?" My answer, lost to the dredges of forgettable answers, included college. Almanzo raised his hand. "I don't want to go to college. I just want to stay here and farm. I like farming, and I'm good at it."

He stared at me, and I instantly thought of all he would miss- standing in line with a bunch of other people for warm beer pumped from a keg, eating his body weight in Top Ramen, hook-ups, break-ups, and all of the other things that the rank and file do in the name of extending adolescence. I told him to do what he loved, and that no matter what, we lived in a country where you could do what you wanted with your life. I did not tell him about government farm subsidies, the importation of foreign grains and products, and the lock-step all farmers needed to fall into with Monsanto in order to avoid being turned inside-out. I wanted him to do what he loved.

But can one do this? In the past, not everyone graduated high school. College was something that people did if they had the brains and the means. Now, college is practically mandatory if anyone has a prayer of a chance at getting a job that covers a living wage. In a sense, college has morphed into a giant Vocational-Technical institute. I didn't go to college because of a love of learning, or a hope of increasing knowledge. I went so that I could fill out all the appropriate paperwork, and gainfully employ myself out of my own small rural town. Should this be? Should universities be places where teachers, business people, social workers and the like are career-trained? What of Almanzo- do we invent a major, call it "rural studies," fill his days with classes to justify the tuition bill, and send him right back to his farm?

Ask the universities- they will say that everyone MUST HAVE a college education. Ask any Human Resources rep for any of the major companies. They are looking for college-educated individuals (to then hire, and give "Job Readiness" seminars, so that they understand that coming to work on time is not an option but a requirement, and that the prohibition of pajamas in the office is indeed NOT fascism, and so forth). Why? Oh, everyone will start off on the same foot, they will say. It will equalize. Are we not already equal? Will college ascertain this equality? Does that mean we all need to know the same things, and are thus equally certified? My Lockean stars, no. It will open people's minds, broaden their horizons and give different perspectives, they will say. I doubt anyone who has sat through classes and ingested material, which was then regurgitated onto a Scan-Tron sheet feels like they've gained any other perspective beyond that of a sponge. Those who have worked in a variety of venues, or have traveled, on the other hand, have fairly been able to see beyond their own vantage point.

The way must lie somewhere in the "via media" in a way that most recognizes and allows for personal choices and liberties. To educate without knowledge will perpetuate the current "overfed and undernourished" syndrome that pervades the country. Universities will discharge even more young men and women who suffer from a sort of Peter Pan syndrome that tells them that because they are educated, they deserve toys and giant HD TV's and Manolo Blahniks and daily fluffy lattes, and none of the responsibilities. When real life doesn't go according to their plans, and bosses get pissy when they call in sick over a hangover, or when credit card companies must have their payments for all of the fun, matching furniture in their pimped-out crib, they feel fully entitled to whine and cry and pop some fully-insured Valium to deal with the fact that everyone is out to get them.

To be continued...

Bacillus Aroundus

Ah, germs. Back when I was teaching, I did several lessons on handwashing, germs, sickness, and anything else that could possibly induce compulsive handwashing in small children. You would too, if approximately 70% of your audience at any given time had their fingers in their noses. I heart kindergartners. I need to open my own academy.

Fast forward to the present. It's about zero degrees, and I despise the delicate balance of feeding, changing, bundling, and re-changing the baby just to get out and go somewhere, so the only time we actually escape is to retrieve food, and observe Michiganders in their natural habitat. Mr. Clarateaches is really the only one bringing foreign germs into the home.

Now, Mr. Clarateaches is an engineer, so it's not like he even interacts with a lot of people to begin with. As I've explained before, the brain fog rolls in and my eyes glaze over if he ever tries to explain what exactly he does, but the magical world of make-believe fills in the blanks. I imagine a large, cubicle-filled building with shiny corridors. And people in lab coats, standing and joking around a water cooler, telling the one about "101111001, 1010111, 10001101!" And all the rest of the engineers laughing adenoidally. Perhaps some taped-together glasses are involved. Oh, and whiteboards are everywhere, with lots of equations on them. And once in a while, one of the engineers will put dots in the middle of a couple of zeros to be hilarious, and the adenoidal laughter continues. They are a jokey bunch, these engineers. Nothing's more hilarious than a pair of boobs. Or, what they imagine boobs to look like.

So, someone with a child must have had a social interaction with my husband, because he came home with some sort of illness. It wasn't a very nice one, and during the evening, I decided to go to the store for some meds. Mr. Clarateaches is more apt to reach for the meds, instead of traveling my route of what he perceives as burning sage and chanting. After digging out my car, and packing up the perturbed baby, we headed into the night. I must not have purchased medicine in a while, because I had no idea that you get carded for Nyquil now. I can see suspicion involved if someone tries to buy a case at a time, but I am dying to know how I can MacGyver some meth out of a single bottle of Nyquil, some oranges, and the chocolate that was going to be the manna to get me through the night. I'm pretty sure I looked suspicious, too- wild hair, wearing a hands-y baby that was trying to give me a hickey, and a pair of jeans that had seen many infant excretions that day. Which had been lovingly licked by Lola, the Tom Green of dogs.

Fortunately, I was in the Express, Self-Service line that was manned by a truly pissed off teenage girl. When the screen flashed "Show Associate ID," she was able to simultaneously approve the transaction, signal to me that it was okay to proceed (by flashing me the middle finger), and continue to dream about how she was SO leaving this place, as soon as she could save enough money.

Wash your hands. Every germy, slimy one of ya. Stay AWAY from that so-called "Anti-bacterial" hand gel, hot soapy water is so much better than rubbing "hand sanitizer" on.

Land of Confusion

Well, that title's just downright poetic.

I received my answer from the Nebraska Judicial Qualifications Board. According to them, after reviewing my complaint filed against Judge Elizabeth Crnkovich, they have decided that all is totally fine, and nothing will be done in response to my letter. Now, as for how things are going for the whole Anaya family and their due process, I can only hope that her lawyer and possibly the ACLU stick with this and justice is done.

In case you are unfamiliar, read http://clarateaches.blogspot.com/2007/11/this-is-what-nightmares-are-made-of.html and consider yourself informed.

I can take a small amount of solace in the knowledge that I added my voice to those protesting the baby steps towards the government completely controlling our children.

Now, who wants to be cynical with me and imagine what really happened when my letter and others like it came pouring in? A form letter was typed, my name and address were programmed into one of the copies, and my letter was simply filed in the cylindrical, under-the-desk, used tissue holder.

At any rate, there we are, and here we are. This is the world we live in, and the hands we're given. So instead of laughing over the irony of the fact that Judge Crnkovich's name quite readily rhymes with a name that is fun to call mean people, I'm going to go sniff my sleeping baby's head. I'm going to switch the laundry around, make some pizza dough, clean the bathroom, and otherwise enjoy the rise and gradual fall of a daily victory. I'm going to strap on my Mom-bat boots and prepare myself for the inevitable battle that will come from any of the parenting choices I make that run contrary to things that arbitrarily (and monetarily) benefit the government. If you are a person who happens to enjoy the fact that you can choose if and how long you breastfeed your child, if and when you will vaccinate, what location you birth in and how many, if any meds you will have, I suggest you do the same. Your choices and mine could be entirely different- but that we have this choice is CRUCIAL.

One last pitch- if you're in the Lansing area, head over to the MSU campus from 7-9 PM on Sat the 23 and Sun the 24th at 3-6 PM for a screening of The Business of Being Born. If you're not in the Lansing area, take a look at your community events calendar to see if this is coming to your area any time soon.

Also, I have hidden two patches of lyrics in this entry, from two entirely different songs. One is easy, one is maniacally hard. If you can see the easy one, give yourself a pat on the back. If you can locate the maniacally hard one, and tell me where it's from and who sings it, you are a superhuman, and you totally rock.

Wild Child

Dear World (in particular, Michigan),

I know my child is the very cutest baby on the planet. I created her myself. However, babies that are not yours do NOT want you to touch them. I cannot stress this enough. Especially on their hands, which spend about 80% of the day in their mouth. One of these days, I will install Wolverine's claws, or maybe Edward's scissorhands onto my own, and then you will be sorry. But in the meantime, AND ESPECIALLY when I'm wearing her in the Moby, and touching her requires you getting within micrometers of my chest, paws off.

Ever so lovingly,

Clara

Unless I was related to them, or caring for them in some capacity, I never really had the urge to touch someone else's child. Admire them, yes. Grab their little paws, no. Somebody dare me to give the next old coot a noogie on his bald pate the next time he grabs my child by the hand and shakes it vigorously. Or grab a handful of middle-aged lady butt and squish it like Play Doh the next time she wanders over and sticks both hands in the Moby (AKA, direct vicinity of my chest) in order to manhandle the baby. C'mon, dare me. I need that little whisper that says, "Go ahead, Mr. Clarateaches will never know how crazy you are acting in public."

I mean, I guess I do care what Mr. Clarateaches thinks of me. Especially since he's the only other person on the planet that I know of besides myself who, way back in the 80's, watched an obscure cartoon called Cops: For Kids.

(Pause while I retrieve the baby, who was just woken up by the diabolical dog. Don't worry, I retaliated by singing "Sunny Days" in an off-key fashion into her Lab ears.)

New in the land of babies: My little girl is sitting up! This opens up a whole new perspective in her world. She has an ongoing list of things she must explore when all the gears finally kick into place and mobility occurs. This includes, but is not limited to:

1) Taste test Dogasus' food
2) Obliterate contents of shelves under TV
3) Conquer the stairs
4) Organize the craft table

So, add "baby-proof the house" to my haus frau list. This might actually be quite a challenge, as Gianna seems to already be showing signs of "The Knack." Mr. Clarateaches has "The Knack," which is why he is an engineer and doesn't flinch when it comes to things like tearing my old car completely apart. Or Linux. Indeed, while the babies of some of my peers are busy playing with actual toys, Gianna wants (and tries) to pry off the lid to the water purifier. She chirps and kicks her feet when she sees the water heater and well tank, which means she wants a closer look. She spent a huge amount of time on a trip to NY eschewing toys to stare at the warning label of her car seat, which contained diagrams. Untying and un-threading laces to booties, attempting to remove the covers to batteries, and operating handles and levers at every opportunity complete the list of fun and games. Time to focus the donations to RIT with legacy in mind.

Gianna Bright and her Mighty Dogasus

Day 1- "Lola, meet the baby." Lola, the doggess, looks mightily interested, baby sleeps. Lola tries to eat the stupid, dinky hat that the Hospital from Hell magnanimously gives away.

Month 1- Baby tries to track Lola, who moves too fast. Lola attacks a stuffed bunny.

Month 2- Lola discovers that Baby is a magical source of regurgitated breastmilk. Lola instantly grows wings and is a Dogasus, an intelligent, winged, breastfed dog. The Neighborhood Dog Choir is instantly smitten by her blindingly shiny fur. Baby still gives nary a crap.

Month 6- Here we go...

Gianna has discovered the dog, and is now full of love for this licky, furry critter. She jabbers to the dog in a high-pitched screech, and Lola walks around on high auditory alert now- ears pulled all the way back. It makes her cheekbones look awesome, and that combined with her super shine is just too much. Dang dog. She shows her love for the baby by licking her feet, while the baby buries her hands in Lola's bouncin' and behavin' fur. This is truly the beginning of a force to be reckoned with.

The Things We Do For Love

Five months, two days out. And some days, the Cesarean section is still firmly on my mind.

I think there are a few different types of people out there. To some, having a C-section is sort of like getting a cavity filled. No huge deal, it's done every day, blah blah blah. To others, of course a vaginal birth is ideal, but good old technology is always there to lend a helpful hand, so get over it. As always, there remains that ever-present refrain:

"At least you have a healthy baby."

Of course I do. I grew her myself. I prepped my body for one whole year pre-conception. I ate organic produce and milk, took prenatals, ran and did Pilate's. I read, did research, and listened to my instincts. During pregnancy, I ate organically, took prenatals, did Pre-natal Yoga, did research, and listened to my body. The big difference is- we did not choose a hospital birth. Not for us, and sure as hell not for our baby. Not at first. A huge difference in our eventual C-section was that it wasn't programmed out by doctors, our labor wasn't on the clock, and together, in the dark bathroom of the green room at the birth center, Mr. Clarateaches and I both made the gut-wrenching decision to choose something we absolutely did not want, in order to make sure that tiny, wrinkly little girl was okay.

One persistently asynclintic head later, one ambulance ride later, one hoarse command-fest to the entire OR staff later... my abdominal skin, muscles, peritoneal cavity, and uterus were sliced open and my little girl was pulled out of me. My incredible surgeon, God forever bless her, took a lot of time stitching everything separately so that a VBAC is a huge probability in the future. I think she realized, as I was shouting (in my laryngitis voice) at the surgeons, anesthesiologist, nurses and techs all of my "Do Not Consents," that even though I was a first time mom, I had clearly done some research. She saw my heartache, and she was what she is supposed to be- a doctor. Not a medical business practitioner, she was a true, good old fashioned service provider. She did no harm.

Laying on the OR table, with my arms stretched out to my sides (and blissfully, not tied down), in my darkest moments, I tried to imagine what Mr. Clarateaches was going to do by himself with a baby. Surely I was dying- this had to be the way dying feels. It feels like your world is upside down and everything you worked so hard for was shaken and blended and poured onto the ground and stomped on. As the doctors worked, I mentally wrote my will.

Then, she was there.

With my nose. And my forehead. And my cleft chin. What an odd thing for a girl to have. There was the bump on the side of her head where she originally crowned, so many hours ago, when I left the birth center. Death vanished. I had a job to do. Even though I had made this choice for her, I still remained firm and unmoving about everything else we had decided: no over the top meds for me, we were breastfeeding and she was not leaving our room without one of us, and no one was injecting her with a single, solitary substance. Each and every shift of nurses made sure to mention to me that they don't give out medals to C-section recovering moms who only take Tylenol 3 and breastfeed their baby over the layers of incisions. They had obviously never failed their child on her first birth-day before.

The next several weeks were not pretty. Baby Blues is a song about eye color, not the name of what I went through- not even close. They need to rename it- maybe call it Dark Time. Nothing Time.

Five months out, though, I can safely say I'm fine. I'm good. In fact, some days I feel great. The new me actually believes in her body again. Most importantly, I look at the way Mr. Clarateaches and I are forming our family, and feel blessed. I'll always mourn my C-section. That has nothing to do with my little Gianna, though. The best part is that the C-section gets further and further behind me every day, while my girl grows and thrives.

These Dreams Go on When I Close My Eyes

4:06 Am. Darkness. And then, from somewhere to my left...

"Tsssst. Thhhhhht. Tsssth." Rustle, rustle. "Ah Da? Ah dadadadat." Then, in Batman fashion, KABAM! White fireworks as a little fist punches the air, seeking an audience, and landing precisely on my eyeball.

Sigh. All it took was one early morning of thunder, lightening, snow plows, and snow to totally convince the Little Nipper that we all wake up at 4 now. There was little more to do than lay quietly, and hope she'd soon go to sleep. I was also able to ruminate on the fun of sleeplessness. I don't know how mothers who work outside of the home do it, other than they must trade off with their spouse and probably not breastfeed all night. (Ha- you thought I'd get through a post without breasts. In a Chris Griffin voice I say to you, "Boobies!") For those single, working, nursing moms, I totally bow down and kiss your feet.

This isn't college anymore- sleepless nights don't mean I get to down a Red Bull the next day and wander about, all wide-awake and with a cute belly showing anymore. Or, that one memorable Biology exam that I stayed awake all night studying for, drinking an entire six-pack of one liter Mountain Dews, to have the professor come up to me mid-exam very concerned that I hadn't blinked in the previous 45 minutes. Sigh. Nope, these are the days where I have to plan my caffeine carefully, as it zips like lightening to the child, who is more than willing to then spend the day all wide-awake, and with a cute belly showing.

Sleepless, but the day must go on. Go on, it does, and usually consists of more than one occasion of staring at the calendar, wondering which day it is. Or, standing in the kitchen for ten minutes, searching high and low for the lid to a raisin canister, to find it in the other hand when I reach the point of despair and try to fashion a new one from plastic wrap. Very often, the day ends with the baby finally going to sleep as I sit in my dark bedroom, Mr. Clarateaches sleeping blissfully unaware that the most hilarious local news at 11 is happening on the muted, closed-captioned TV. Hilarious laughter is very hard to do without waking up a baby.

Fortune smiled on me- by 5:20, my little babbling bambina fell back to sleep and I was able to catch 25 more minutes of sleep before Mr. Clarateaches' alarm clock went off. Time for a new day... where the heck am I?

Chomp, Chomp

Let's go backwards in time to the four month well baby visit on Nov 16th:

Me: "I think she's teething. She drools, chews on her hands, and is irritable sometimes."

Physician's Assistant: "Nah... She's too young."

Fast forward to the week after Thanksgiving. What's that, there on the bottom gums? A tooth? No.

Two teeth! There on the lower jaw are two of the sharpest things on the planet. What's better is that she's decided that Christmastime seems like the perfect time to start anew with some more teeth.

We all have our methods for dealing. I like the Hyland's route- it's easy and natural and Gianna likes it a lot better than the teething gel, which burns like a mo-fo (I tried it on my own gums- yeeeowch!) When the times get tough, good old Infant Tylenol does the trick, albeit in a less crunchy (but much more direct) way.

Mr. Clarateaches likes the Jim Beam method. He fills up his shot glass, generously douses the sprout (who LOVES whiskey and happily licks it off her gums- good grief, who knew?) and then shoots the rest down and heads happily to sleep, while I spend the night feeding a slightly buzzed baby.

Gianna has decided that she needs to chew fabric, and will also only suck her thumb after carefully maneuvering her sleeve or a blanket over it. It's like a moth attack, but whatever works.

Alas, this also means she can do some serious damage to me now. She bit me in her sleep a few days ago, and I almost passed out trying not to scream (I didn't want to wake her up, and I'm so sleep deprived, a wildebeest could have torn off a limb and I wouldn't have woken her up). Last night though, she was crabby and potentially sprouting a new tooth (or God help me, new teeth) and she bit me HARD. I screamed like I'd been shot, and the look of anguish on her face broke my heart. We both cried, and then when we pulled ourselves together, we went ahead and put an earring into the little hole she made.

She clearly has no idea that Mommy has feelings of her very own, and won't know this for a while, so I feel bad. We're going with the "stop nursing when it happens, and eventually she'll equate biting=stop nursing immediately" and that'll be the end of it. I've heard some random goofballery about poking or thumping or flicking babies when they bite, but it sounds like a quest for more ways to need to comfort a hurting baby. Or ignore a hurting baby, which is more sad.

Yup, still on this

I just wanted to post some further information. I belong to a message board for Christian mothers who parent naturally and gently, and Mary Anaya has recently joined. She asked that those who are blogging about this post addresses (including a new one which I will post below, as well as her quote along with it) and most importantly, her request that people PRAY for her and her family, and those who are fighting this situation right now.

Please remember, this has nothing to do with whether you believe the genetic test should be done or not- this has everything to do with armed men coming into an American citizen's home and kidnapping her newborn, over a test that indicates diseases that all together, have a 0.16% chance of happening. That's sixteen hundredths of one percent.

When I was still teaching outside of Chicago, I had one of the roughest, most high-needs classroom in the school. I distinctly recall having to contact DCFS on so many sad situations in my class. Two in particular stand out- both because nothing was done about it. One was when Limited English made allegations against a family member that they "hit (him) with one of those things you hang shirts on," (his words to me) and later Little Cutie Boy, whose 22 year old brother hit him on the face on the way to school, and he came into my classroom with blood from his forehead to his chin. DCFS told me that as neither was life-threatening, they had no time to do anything about it. Yet somehow, a Nebraska Court spent how many tax dollars prosecuting (persecuting?) a family for not allowing their son's heel to be cut and his blood spread on dots on an index card.

Here's the DCA's address:
Nicole Goaley
Deputy County Attorney
Juvenile Division
ngoaley@co.douglas.ne.us
(I imagine she can be reached at the same Supreme Court address as posted in the last post).

From Mary- "She is the one who made the decision to seize custody and refused to dismiss the case until the test results came back. None of the previous county attorneys prosecuted us and she had the power to dismiss the case from the beginning. She had indicated initially to our lawyer that she was powerless to dismiss the case until after the hearing before the judge. However, we later learned that was not true. Even though our lawyer asked her to move the case out of juvenile to district court like it stated in the statute, she refused. That meant our lawyer could not present legal arguments and Joel was held as a hostage. "

Please write. Please write, and if not a NE citizen, at least write and explain that the nation is watching, and this is unacceptable. If for whatever reason you cannot write (and if I can type a letter one handed while nursing and burping my baby, who is scratching me and gnawing on my shoulder, well...) please pray.

Regarding previous blog

For everyone who wants to get off their rears and take some action (with letters; let's not get dramatic), here are important addresses:

Judge Elizabeth Crnkovich
Suite 600
Hall of Justice1701
Farnam Street
Omaha NE 68183

And here are her superiors. Hathor, the lovely "cowgoddess" (bear with me here) has suggested writing to them, and copying the letter to the dishonorable Judge Crnkovich as well.

Nebraska Judicial Council
Administrative Office of the Courts
1445 K Street1213 State Capitol
P. O. Box 98910
Lincoln, NE 68509-8910
Phone: 402-471-3730
Fax: 402-471-2197

Commission on Judicial Qualifications
ATTN: Secretary
Nebraska Supreme Court
PO Box 98910
Lincoln, Nebraska 68509
Please mail in an envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL

If you have any kinds of feelings of outrage about this, particularly that the judge ordered the baby out of the courthouse, when it was crying to be fed by his mother, and demanded that the distraught mother continue her testimony, write a letter. It takes very little time, a stamp, and will hopefully, en masse, have an effect. Let's get this sorry excuse for a judge disbarred!

This is what nightmares are made of...

Seriously, chilling to my core. Brief synopsis: a couple birthed their ninth child in the state of Nebraska, which has a rigid rule regarding blood testing of newborns for rare genetic diseases. This couple declined the test, and their five week old was forcibly removed from his nursing mother to foster care for 5 and a half days. The social workers were ordered to give the baby formula.

Get this: if for some reason this small baby did have one of the diseases (PKU) that the test was looking for, formula would have killed him.

The social workers and foster mother, fortunately, took pity on mom and baby (hey how about that, the system actually worked in that respect) and called the mother every few hours to come and feed her son on the sly, as the visits were technically unauthorized.

Here is a link to the blog of this family's attorney, and the segment that appeared on Rush Limbaugh.

http://www.nebraskainjurylawreport.com/category/constitutional-rights/

Here are a few links to the people who can make the change that NEEDS to be made, for the sake of babies and families in this state (directly taken from a message board that the mother posted to:)

"For 2 legislative sessions, State Senator Synowiecki has proposed exemption legislation. The 2nd time we had high hopes. We had more people testifying in favor of the bill than against, signed testimonies of the trauma the screening had caused other parents, and a petition signed by over 100 people. There were only a couple of testimonies from the state against the bill. However, it was killed in the health and human services committee and never made it to the floor for a vote. Here are e-mails for the committee:"

perdman@leg.ne.gov;
jjohnson@leg.ne.gov;
astuthman@leg.ne.gov;
tgay@leg.ne.gov;
dpankonin@leg.ne.gov;
ghoward@leg.ne.gov;
thansen@leg.ne.gov;

Think of the choices you make every day, not even necessarily parenting choices. What if, one day, one of those choices turns into this type of nightmare for your family?

When we had G in a hospital in Lansing, we were harassed every day of our five day stay over our decision to forgo the antibacterial eye drops, the Vitamin K injection, and the Hepatitis B vaccination. We had nurses, residents, and finally the doctors themselves coming into our room scratching their heads and wondering about our reasoning. We have our reasons- mainly, that there is so little risk of G needing any of the above, that the risks involved with injecting or dripping her with any of it outweigh the benefits. Above all, I AM THE MOTHER, AND I SAID SO. The blood test that is described in Nebraska law is also demanded by MI law, and we did allow this. However, had we decided to decline consent, our rights as parents should be respected.

Please write to these government officials.

One Year Later

One year ago today, I POAS (To those of you not up on your conception lingo, that means "peed on a stick." Ewww.) and received the happiest sight ever (unless you happen to be the head cheerleader)- a bright pink line! I screamed and yelled and danced with the dog, who to this day wonders why we never do things like that anymore. I tell her that when she quits digging under the compost, we'll talk.

Clever me- I wrote little poems and stuck them all over the house, and had Mr. Clarateaches go on a hunt for clues. He happened to have worked from midnight until 8 AM that morning, deep in the engineering lair, doing something fun with engines, so he was exhausted. But, hunt he did, and when he at last came upon the positive pregnancy test, he turned to me and said in his most romantic voice....

"Does this still have pee on it?"

Babies are fun. Apparently, everyone thinks my baby is public property, which is why I want to carry a firearm. I settle for carrying her in a sling, usually her Moby wrap. This, according to my fellow crunchies, will stop people from using their gross, never-washed-after-the-bathroom, always-in-their-noses, petting-strange-dogs-hands. What it really does is turn us into an elaborate spectacle, as people don't usually see anyone wearing a baby 'round these parts. The name of the game for some people is to be as hands-off with their sprouts as possible, but by God, I wanted this bambina for so long, she gets to be my baby kangaroo.

This will be the post of many run-ons.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the masses of the great unwashed who wish to touch my child. Or, who wish to offer me crackhead parenting advice.

On one occasion, in my favorite little gourmet and produce store, a woman who probably could have been a linebacker beelined right over to me. She did the usual, "Oh, what a cute baby," but then sealed her fate by touching my arm sympathetically and asking me in a hushed tone usually reserved for fatal diseases, "Um, isn't she a little small for her age?" I stared at this lady Leviathan and said, "No, she's pretty normal."

On another, I was in a mega-grocery with La Bambina in her wrap, who had fallen asleep sometime in the coffee aisle. I was at the cashier, trying to watch the teenager scanning my groceries so that she didn't do something silly like chuck four pounds of apples on top of squishy things, or put the five pound bag of potatoes and gallon of cider in the same bag so that it hilariously smashes to the parking lot later (ahem- I'm looking at right at you, cashier of today). A woman was behind me with her teenage daughter who was a "Spoiled Brat" if you believe the glitter on her rear. "Spoiled Brat" blathered into her cell phone to someone about the gala time that they all were going to have tonight when mom and dad drove them to the R rated movie. The mother stared at me and my peacefully sleeping girl (Not a "Spoiled Brat") and said, "That looks uncomfortable."
Ever ready to convert others to babywearing, I started to describe all of the reasons why the Moby was very comfortable, how it distributed the baby's weight to my entire body and held her in the middle. She interrupted me. "No, I mean, the baby's not comfortable in that."

Beg your effing pardon? I looked down at my angel, peacefully sleeping and sucking on her lower lip. She couldn't have been more comfortable. "Hmmm," was my response, and I turned my back to her completely to focus on the credit card reader. In NY, that would be a signal for the woman to mind her own beeswax if she knew what was good for her, but in MI it seems to mean "keep right on talking."

"I always put them right there, right in the cart. Got 'em used to it," she said wistfully, hearkening back to the days of "Spoiled Brat's" youth. "Where's her shoes?"

I looked at G's little socked feet. "No shoes yet," I said. "Her feet are growing too fast to keep up, and besides, she's not walking."

The woman shook her head. "Tsk, tsk. I always put shoes on their feet, got 'em used to it."

Why was I talking to this person? I turned my back again, and waited for the cashier to finish. The woman behind me gave me the once over. "Looks like you got your shape back real quick, huh?" OH MY LORD.

I turned and loudly said, "Yup, she sucked all the pregnancy weight right off me." I almost squirted her in the eye with some breastmilk, but I think that's what Mr. Clarateaches was talking about when he said that sometimes my interactions with strangers go "too far." The woman stared at me, mouth agape for a few beats. The cashier smirked and handed me a receipt. The woman regained herself long enough to say to the cashier (whispering when she talked about the actual breast), "Oh breastfeeding. I breastfed my girls too, you know. Not too long though, got to get 'em used to..." I walked away at that point. No use wasting a good strangle on this hopeless woman.

My little girl- one year ago today, you were the size of a lentil, and making me sick all day long and only able to eat Ramen and lemonade. Today you are busting out of the 3-6 month clothing and making sure I don't accidentally get more than 5 hours of sleep in any 24 hour period. My sweet girl!

Feeding Frenzy

Growth spurt time! Gianna is eating like, well, Animal. In both quantity, and demeanor- and she has one heck of a nursing blister to show for it! Her favorite method is to roll her eyes back in her head, give a battle cry, latch on like a shark, and flail her arms wildly for the first five minutes or so, grunting like a little pig. Then, as milk-intoxication hits, she relaxes into her food coma and, eyes-closed, uses her little nails to happily scratch me for the remainder of the feeding. It's nothing like the misty, extra goopy photos of mothers calmly nursing their little tame nurselings. These are the Baby X Games. Thank God- I'd otherwise be bored to tears!

More later- let the games begin!

Clara Plans, Dog Laughs

Quite recently, I found myself home alone for a week and a half while Mr. Clarateaches went on an all-expenses paid trip to Engineer Land to do God-knows-what. He tried to tell me, but the brain fog rolled in.

For the most part we functioned pretty well. Until the day the newly super-charged Lab/Border Collie became a Real Dog. Perhaps it was her new high-protein dog food. At any rate, Lola managed to catch one of the chipmunks that have been darting around. It must have been asleep at the wheel, because Lola can't even catch a squirrel, and the chipmunks are faster than the squirrels. So, she tossed it about, and shook its little lifeless body and pranced back and forth in front of the rest of the Neighborhood Dog Choir. They, of course, seethed with jealousy.

Amused, I promptly forgot all about it until the next evening, when Lola decided that the scent of decomposing chipmunk was too alluring to deny herself any longer. She rolled around happily in it when I sent her outside for what I thought was her last potty break of the night. Seems she didn't think I had quite enough to do. One whiff of her, and I sent her back outside while I worked on Gianna's bedtime routine. This typically looks like: Bath, Massage, Nurse and rock to music, Sleep for 30 minutes, Wake up to nurse again, and out by 11. I originally planned on scouring the dog during the half-hour rest.

Not this night. Gianna laughed and pinwheeled her arms and was very much awake. Lola mournfully barked at the door. However, as I learned when teaching, there is always a Plan B. So I plunked my little ten-week old party animal in her Neglect-O-Matic and went to fetch the dog. Lola happily trotted up the stairs until it dawned on her that a bath was in her future. She went into Passive Resistance Mode, ignoring my commands to get into the bath, pretending to be invisible by crouching flat on the floor and looking away from me, and finally laying on her bed while panting happily at me, saying, "Get in the bed? Okay!" I finally dragged her and her bed into the bathroom, while she quietly hummed, "We Shall Overcome." It took another few minutes to hoist her front paws into the tub. I shoved against the rest of her 70 pound body while telling her how FREAKING SERIOUS I was.

Gianna contemplated this new, odd addition to her bedtime routine while practicing her newest trick of cramming both hands into her mouth. She was becoming more awake as the clock ticked on. I scrubbed the stink-hound until she smelled more like an organic oatmeal and aloe covered rotten chipmunk. One hour later (and one scrub of the hair-covered tub later), the dog was completely taken care of. Gianna needed another hour after that to calm down from the insanity. After about a mile worth of pacing the floor in the light of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air on mute, she was finally out.

Too bad I was now wide awake. I think I have a new idea for a reality show.

Babies Eatin' Good in the Neighborhood, TOO!

Gianna had her first Nurse-Out today! More than 96 sites nationwide participated, and if the turnout was anything like the one in the Metro Detroit area, that means thousands of nursing mommies!

She, of course, chose to represent by sleeping in the Hotsling the whole time. I had the fun of holding a sign (I chose "Human Milk for Human Babies") and chanting. The Madison Heights Applebees was really accomodating, and handed out ice water. No idea what was on the paper they handed to the news guy with their "official statement" from Corporate Headquarters, but I'm sure it had something along the lines of, "We respect state laws that protect a mother's rights, blah blah blah..." Well, that's fantastic. Now make it a Corporate-wide law, make sure staff are all appropriately trained, and for Pete's sake, please do not humiliate a mother who is nursing her 7 month old to the point of tears. No, babies probably do NOT want to eat with something over their head- do you? Nope, babies also do NOT want to eat in the restroom, while someone in the next stall is depositing their "Ultimate Trio" to make room for dessert. Would you?

And as I always told my kindergartners, "You are the boss of your own bodies. No one else's." In other words, if you don't like to see a woman feeding her baby the very best way possible, simply turn your head and look at something else. Like, turn your head and look at some things that people don't seem to bitch much about, which means they must be so much more pleasant- the guy chewing with his mouth open. Or the slightly Rubenesque teenage girls with their low-rise jeans and halters squishing their bellies into a nice little fat belt. Or the lady loudly lambasting her children. Or any of the things I do not like to see while eating or shopping or plain old anywhere.

New Mama Land

Well, SHE is here! Gianna Maria was born on July 18, 2007 at 1:30 AM.

My peaceful, natural birth center birth turned into an ambulance ride to a hospital in the state's capital after 18 hours of labor and more than five hours of pushing. The C-section that followed was something that we chose after all options were used up. Lesson one in motherhood, I suppose- plans often just do not pan out.

Am I sad that, instead of photos of Gianna being peacefully birthed in the birthing tubs, we have a few photos of me immediately post-op? Even sadder that the hands that guided her into our world weren't mine or her fathers, but of two eager surgical residents? Definitely. I have a five inch long angry purple grimace slashed across my lower abdomen that will fade to white in time, but never go away. I still hear the sounds of the retractors cranking my body open, and smell the surgical smells, and feel my body being thumped about while they crammed my organs back in after Gianna was born. I still feel guilty that the "What if" thoughts keep going through my mind- even if my little girl decided to tilt her head to the side at the last minute, preventing her from exiting the way we had hoped. Guiltier that we have a healthy, beautiful, clever little girl who grows by leaps and bounds, and I still have this sadness. I should be grateful, right?

Another C-section mama very aptly told me that an unplanned C-section and a healthy baby are sort of like finding out you've won the lottery while watching your house burn to the ground. Well put. I love my girl, and am happy she's safe and here, but frankly, people were touching my guts. While I look forward to a glorious VBAC with my next child someday, I still feel invaded and bruised. We made the choice we had to make- the tough one. Motherhood lesson- the tough, crappy decision that sucks sometimes is the best one to make. It's still okay to be sad about the crap part of it. It doesn't take away any of the joy or beauty or thankfulness for the new life.

A provincial turn of events- two weeks after Gianna was born, her dad found this, which helped me tremendously. I have never really been big into the saints, but this was a comfort. A bit scary, as in "How the heck does life have these sorts of coincidences?" but still a comfort.

Gianna is now six weeks old- she's about ten lbs, 23 inches long, and has such cute chubby cheeks! Breastmilk is pure magic. She smiles and is starting to make noises when she sees us. Pooping requires lots of grunting and drama, which never fails to bring her dad to hysterical laughter.

We're completely in love.

Aftermath

We're done!

Graduation went well. The Pastor's Wife couldn't get my cd to work (that we've used all year long without a hitch) for the program, but my kids are awesome about being flexible, and they sang without music. H2O (who hates any kind of attention whatsoever) wanted to bail before we hit the stage, so I promised him two icy cold packets of Capri Sun if he could just go up on the stage and pretend. He managed to get halfway through the program, and then couldn't take it anymore- he methodically removed the cap, then the silk sash, and then lost the gown. All three items were thoroughly stepped on and smushed into the stage. I have to say, after the whole "graduation costume" idiocy, I was pretty triumphant.

The Idiocy: On an ordinary day, in an ordinary school, Kindergarten teachers generally help students create paper caps that the students can decorate. It's child-produced, and means something special to the student. All my kids loved theirs last year, and their parents were completely tickled over them. This year, in the land of the cult, the Admin decided to order some expensive silk caps and gowns and have silk sashes made with 2007 sewed onto them. And offer the sashes for $5 apiece! The sashes did not cost $30 in materials, I can tell ya that much (one of the kindergarten moms offered to sew them). I was asked my opinion, and as usual, when it didn't match theirs, was totally disregarded. Throughout the program (which I kept down to a brisk 15 minutes), the sashes and caps fell off repeatedly. None of the kids wanted to put on the gowns, particularly the boys, until I started calling them "graduation capes."

Hilarious moment- I was presented by the staff with what my husband and I can only call "Sad Little Whore Flowers:" for $3.99 apparently one can buy daisies and chrysanthemums that are painted bright blue and purple, and sparkled with glitter. When the presenting staff member ceremoniously handed them over to me, for one long horrible second I was frozen solid at the sight of such a thing. I sorted myself out pretty quickly, and instantly became covered in glitter when I took them.

Lessons Learned-

1)Never ever EVER again take a job with a cult. As satisfying as it may be to cross out "Work for a cult" on life's list of things to do before I die, it pretty much almost made me completely lose my faith, and my mind.

2) A little dash of "the crazy eye" can save your life. I recommend that everyone become proficient in silently staring at someone in such a way that your eyes contract to pinpoints. Especially when people start to try to convince you that "It'll be okay to talk to these prospective parents about kindergarten, but they don't know you won't be here, soooo... don't tell them, m'kay?" Let me tell ya- a few seconds into "the crazy eye," and they become edgy and uncomfortable and back away slowly, saying, "Well, maybe I'll just talk to them. That's okay, never mind."

3) Create a gathering of the parents long before the end of the school year. It took me until 13 days before school was over to discover that no two families were paying the same amount of tuition. And not a single parent could tell me what exactly they were paying for.



The last two years of working with the kindergarten crowd has been quite an experience. I look forward to returning to it again- just not now. At this point in time, I know that I can be my child's best teacher. In about 4 weeks, we will be putting this to the test. Little Baby Teaches will be arriving sometime between the end of June and mid-July. I haven't decided yet if I will continue this blog, or start another one... in the meantime, peace and blessings to all of you who have read this insanity for the past two-ish years.