People Are Very Mad At Me (Except for Tina Fey)

I wasn't going to post about my latest shenanigans here, because I believed doing so would contaminate the innocence of this blog. But. Here I go. (LOOK AWAY, semipseudo, LOOK AWAY!)

Here at this blog, I'm nice. You're nice. Everyone's nice. And with the exception of the 'Farmer's Market' posting, I've pretty much stayed away from controversy.
Which is not without effort. I have a lot of opinions in my little brain, and they tend to manifest themselves in a very vent-y, hysterical, arm-waving way. That's why I mostly just lecture the world IN MY HEAD. And not IN PUBLIC. However, there was a little bitty line, and I sort-of-kind-of-a-tad-bit crossed it. By entering a blog contest, about pregnancy, on babycenter.com via a post on the topic of 'natural' childbirth.

Apparently, people do not respond well to aggressive honesty masked by humor. I would have added a bunch of disclaimers like "I support every woman's right to make her own independent choice when it comes to child birth" but they only gave me 350 words so I thought I should spend the majority of my word budget on, you know, inflammatory and somewhat interesting statements instead. Silly me. I have, from time to time, promised to write a post on Semipseudo about my aversion to 'natural' childbirth, but I knew it would be so involved and long winded that my lazy self just couldn't get around to it. So instead, a sub-par & abbreviated version of my argument is now on the world wide web, provoking an army of angry women who were not very impressed by what I had to say on the subject.

Let's take a peek at what some of them had to say:

"Your opening paragraph was perhaps meant to be snarky and funny but it was really annoying and offensive to me."

"If you aren’t interested in natural childbirth or feel it is not for you, then that is what it is. Good for you. But to assign words like “martyrdom” to an experience you don’t understand or share is simply ignorant."

"Is this article supposed to be funny? Or well-written? Huh."

"Can you imagine if someone turned it around and characterized medicated/c-section births as “Those too posh to push, lazy, druggy mums?” A Slice-n-Dice Delivery? No I guess we’re all too busy listening to Enya in our birthing pools to put words together. How about we all sit around and critisize each other’s births to make ourselves feel better about our own choices. Yeah, that’s a great idea."

"uh I really hope this person is not picked as the new blogger she sounds like a bit@h. I really dont get why people feel the need to be so snotty and self righteous about their choices who asked you?"

"And I’m terribly disappointed in BabyCenter for picking this as a good blog. It’s insulting, patronizing, one-sided, NOT amusing, condescending, and not particularly well-written. This is what is supposedly reflects blogging moms?"

"Do you honestly think this is witty, insightful or clever? Do you think this even makes any sense?"

"I did not find this blog funny or well written at all. Referring to women who make a different choice than you as martyrs is insulting and ignorant, no matter how much you try to sugar coat it or cove it up in a failed attempt at humor."

"Ignorant."

"There is a lot more to this than just Virgin Mary Martyrdom or whatever nonsense this author wants to call it. The medicalisation of birth is having a HUGE impact on the health and wellbeing of women, the rise and rise of PND and PTSD and the difficulty so many parents in first world countries are experiencing with bonding and conciously parenting their children. Ask yourself why we hear stories, in this day and age, of people leaving babies and toddlers unattended at home because they are worried about their careers or twisted stories of physical and sexual abuse and so on. So much rests on good beginnings, which will never be taken seriously while we have this rubbish focus on whether labour pains are warranted or not. Grow up Rebekkah Whittaker."

***

Wow. Well, first off: my name is spelled with one 'k' not two. So if you really want to slam me then why distract from your zinger with spelling errors? That just has novice written all over it.

There were also a lot of supportive, hilarious, love you forever(!) type comments. (No one actually said "I love you forever" but that was the spirit of their comments, in my opinion.) I won't quote all those women because I think the other side brought up a lot of good points. So I am giving them a forum here, on my blog, as my way of saying: "You are right. You have convinced me. Well said, people."

Actually, the reason I am quoting them here is because of a little advice my mom gave me. And moms always give the best advice right? MY MOM, who happens to be the smartest mom, told me that Tina Fey also has critics. Now, you should know that Tina Fey and I have A LOT in common. She's probably trying to call me right now. That's how almost close we are to being friends. Anyway, my incredibly brilliant mother said "Rebekah, Tina Fey does not respond to her critics. She prints their comments in her books. And then makes fun of them." (Or something like that, right mom?). I don't have a book deal yet. So I just have to print their comments in my blog that 14 of my closest friends and family read. Cause I'm poor like that.

The evening we had this discussion, it was late, but after I dropped my mother off and put my son to bed, I couldn't stop thinking about what she said.  I logged onto my computer and googled the words "Tina Fey makes fun of natural childbirth" ON A WHIM. And you know what came up? YOU KNOW WHAT CAME UP, PEOPLE? This:

SNL Skit: "Birthing Class"
I kid you not, Portland is mentioned in this clip. (Click above to see the video)

I don't know if Tina, in real life, had an epi or not. But, Tina, if you are listening, I want you to vote for me so I can win this friggin' contest because now I'm all: bring it. Bring. It. On.

Click here to vote for me or to leave an educational comment. I love you all forever.

Fall Fashion Week - Wednesday

Okay, rockin' a totally boring outfit today.  Sorry. But, it's super comfy & I do have a bit of flare on my back jean pockets. (Also, same issue as yesterday in that I have no husband around to take full length shots since he is working out of town)  Here's what I got::

Top(s) -- My good friend gave these to me!
Jeans -- Ross (per usual)
Shoes -- Ross (as always)

Fall Fashion Week - Monday!

We like stripes...

Cardigan: Ross
Tank: gifted

Purse: Target
Shoes: Ross
Jeans: Ross (I basically buy everything at Ross!)

Top: gifted from a sis!
Jeans: gifted from a friend!

Fall Fashion Week

Blouse: Target
Jeans: Old Navy

Native American Hair Clip: Eastern Oregon Antique Store

Earrings: Target ($2.49!)

Boots: Kmart

Child: My Womb

A Bridge To Somewhere

To where? Outside, I guess. As a first step, anyway. I joke about my aversion to anything that involves opening my front door, and stepping out. My clumsy, non-rhyming motto goes something like this: No walking, no hiking, no white water rafting (despite the never ending invites from my well meaning co-workers and friends), no outdoor-sy type stuff at all.

But there is one exception to my indoors-activities-only mantra. A certain thing that is the very definition of outdoors: camping.

Growing up, our Dad took us on wonderful trips - to the Coast, to Sisters, to Olympic National Rain Forest, trips across the Country and to Canada, to name a few. Our mode of transportation was usually a big van with a tent tucked in back. The snapshot memories in my head are distant and blurry but I remember them as:

Circling the site round and round, finding the perfect spot to set up camp.

Stories by the fire, one after the other, as we watched the flames flicker towards the darkening sky, taking our words and giggles with them as they disappeared, into the stars that looked so different out there, a thousand sparks of white dotting the endless black universe. A thousand questions provoked as you stared up, up, up.

Sisters side by side, the flashlight our dim lamp, as we flicked our hand, card by card, onto the picnic table. Winning and losing War, Gin Rummy, I Doubt It.

Burnt marshmallows & rocks that dug into our elbows at night as we tried to sleep on camping mats until the wee hours of the morning.

Mosquitoes, wet clothes, and cold chicken noodle soup out of a can that tasted delicious.

* * *

I’m always waiting for those moments when I can stand on the other side, as a parent, and take in the view as Jackson introduces himself to the world as it offers itself to him. At points in his life, years from today, he will have a bank of memories, some of which will come on him like a tidal wave when he least expects it. But today, I do not know if he even holds a single memory inside him that will last til his fourth birthday or beyond. So I wonder: Which will be the memory that sticks? The one that he’ll look back to, and think, "that’s when my life began…". Of course, so much more had come before. But he won’t know it. He is almost three, and I wistfully tell myself that any day now will be the one that contains a ‘pause’ button. Will he tell me later, that he remembered trick or treating on Halloween?  Or the 4^th of July Fireworks display he gleefully danced to? Or the first time he sat in a big kid swing, flying toward the sky as he learned to pump his legs and pull the chains as he held on tight? Or the time he zipped the tent flap-door open and closed, over and over, on his first camping trip?

The timing of his first real memory is beyond my control But the stuff that memory is made of, I might have a hand in.

* * *

We decided on July 2^nd that it might be fun to go camping for the holiday weekend. Procrastinators yet optimists that we are, we figured no reservation and no camping gear would not be major impediments. It's also been years since we last camped, but Brent and I pulled it together after completing a few pre-trip tasks such as: googling 'Oregon Coast Campgrounds' and comparing several side by side shots of fir trees to find the exact right location, securing the last space available for the 4th of July weekend, frantically fitting in two trips to the local sporting goods store for supplies.

We almost got sidetracked by a few arguments over brands, sizes, and prices on all the necessary equipment: We have to buy a Coleman tent. They are most superior! But this one is $15 less! The sleeping bag has to be warm enough for 30 degree weather. No, it just needs to be tsunami proof! That cooler is NOT large enough and is definitely the wrong shade of green, it needs to blend gently into the background of foliage so as not to shout it's presence to the forest! 

I was going to give you the minute by minute play back of the entire trip, but then I figured: why invite more people to delete this website from their bookmark menus? Didn't the Farmer's Market post do enough damage? Instead, I will give a brief recap of our mini-camp-cation. So! Highlights! Here we go:

The Short Version for those of you who find reading about people’s vacations worse than clicking through 78 uploaded Facebook photos while simultaneously asking yourself “Why am I voluntarily viewing this entire album while sitting on my couch alone, muting the television so I can give the waterfall shots my full attention?”:

WE COOKED POTATOES FOR 2 HOURS OVER THE FIRE BUT THEY WERE NEVER DONE, WE SLEPT ON THE GROUND, THEN FACED A (POTENTIAL) BEAR ATTACK THAT ALMOST HAPPENED, THEN WE DROVE HOME!

Longer Version (minus the potato situation, because that was what it was):
I’ll say this: I am not one for sleeping on the ground. Therefore we brought an air mattress. Which apparently requires batteries. So that was an extra trip to the local grocery store 14 miles down the road, right before dark. But you can't really trick Nature. It's like, "Heck No! You may have cheated labor pains through excessive, recurring epidurals but you are going to feel every moment of sleeping outdoors!"  On a positive note, I may have stumbled upon a new exercise fad; because after 8 hours of trying to balance three people on a 'shifting air' mattress every muscle in my body was d.o.n.e.

Asleep

Awake

Really Awake!

But, being as ambitious as Brent is we are, hiking was still in order first thing in the morning. My nostalgia had sort of worn off by then and it took every ounce of willpower to hold back the words, "Can we go find donuts?" as we started down the trail. I will admit, after a few minutes of inner sighing, I did find it quite beautiful.

Until I saw a sign much like this one:

And then it was on. Truce over. Nature wants to maim, claw, injure, and kill my child. Just like the tsunami. Not cool. Not cool, nature. "Let's turn back, it's not safe! The Mother Bear is going to eat Jackson!" I tried to warn Brent, but he was way ahead of me on the trail, pretending he had never met me before and/or didn't hear me. I spent the remainder of the walk to the beach clapping my hands over my head while shouting "Here we are, we are here, no surprises, we are not surprising you Mother Bear, no need to protect your cubs, no danger here, we are kind Oregonian humans who do not carry weapons!" Fortunately my technique worked because we made it to the beach fine.

However, Jackson promptly fell into a massive hole in the sand filled with three feet of water and after a few to-be-expected hysterics on my part, we were ready to go. I finally got a pastry and our trip was complete.

Not quite the same experiences as the camping trips I remember growing up, but close enough. What always catches me off guard as a new parent is the continuing realization that our old (young) selves come visiting time and time again as we hover at the edge of our kids’ childhood. It’s not ours. But we get to witness it. A childhood that is fresh and new, and all its own, but stitched together with the thread of a life already lived. We get to take the best of what we had, and offer it to our children. One generation to the next, we build a bridge between our lives. Raising a child makes me want to step outside my front door, outside my comfort zone, dive head first back into the mystery and joy and mistakes of childhood. Take a picture of every moment, so he'll have his own snapshots.

***

P.S.

Through no proactive searching of my own, what did I come home to when I opened up my Yahoo browser? A news article titled: Grizzly Bear Kills Yellowstone Hiker

When you’re right, you’re right. (That's my other mantra)

1987

Where's Dad? He's Working. Let's Go Visit Him...

Conversations With a Two Year Old & How I Really Feel About Bill Cosby

Jacksy-Wacksy (whoa there bad nick name HOLD ON) is starting to sound like he's auditioning for "Kids Say the Darndest Things".  Somebody get me Bill Cosby's phone number. (After a long introduction, my voice mail for Cosby would go something like this: "I make that face while hatin' on Trump too! I do it all the time at work! We have so much in common! Call me! Oh yeah, and my kid should be on that show you hosted thirty years ago if time machines become real. I love you").

Pics of my cute kid & his mother. They're like, pretty outdated, thanks to my sister Teresa who reserved all the rights to her photos on FLICKR and I had to hack into her account to download them, jeez.

I want to write down EVERY SINGLE THING Jack has been saying lately. I'm in THAT place. Sick, twisted mommy love. Drooling adoration. Like, "OH MY GOD, you would not believe what my two year old said the other day let me impersonate him RIGHT NOW for you." Yeah, none of my co-workers will say hi to me in the halls anymore. That's cool. That's why I have this blog. I'd like to see my blog tell me to shut it. Not gonna happen. I told myself: "Put it in writing and print the evidence. Store safely in a small potpourri box. Never lose it. Read quotes aloud to myself AND roommate sixty years from now should a moment arise when I need to stab my heart with some small amount of joy after Jack's put me in a home."  

Because, c'mon. After giving birth and stuff  I pretty much own the right to be entertained by my son. He owes me that. A video would better capture the hilarity of his comments but he clams up whenever I film him. He pretends he doesn't KNOW HOW TO SING THE ENTIRE ALPHABET IN A MONSTER VOICE just like mommy taught him to.

Without the audio visual support, you'll have to read these quotes aloud in a toddler voice and kind of flip your hands around for full effect.

***

Me: (attempting to make small talk while driving Jack to Daycare because the car radio broke so no NPR) "Hey Jack. Mommy MADE YOU in her tummy. That's why you are in the world now."

Jack: "No, I made you in my tummy. I made you in my tummy. I made you in my car seat."

Me: "That's incorrect."

***

Jack: "I'm a girl and you're a girl and Daddy's a boy and Holme's a GIRL." (Holme is his Un-Grandma)


***

Jack: "Mommy, I WILL take care of you. Because the Dinosaur is coming."

***

Standing at the top of the stairs, next to all the family photos on the wall, refusing to come down:

Jack: "I can't come downstairs because the pictures are scaring me."

Me: "How are the pictures scaring you?"

Jack: "They're biting me."

Me: "It doesn't look like they are."

Jack: "They are."

***

Cuddling in bed on a Sunday morning

Jack: "What's that?" pointing to the freckles on my arms (these are no ordinary freckles, my arms are covered in pretty aggressive freakin' freckles and there's like a village of them).

Me: "Beauty marks."

Jack: "No. Those are owies. Those are owie brown coco dots!"

Me: "You mean polka dots?"

Jack: "Yeah. Coco dots."

Jack: "I'll kiss them and make it all better."

***

So here my kid is only two years old and according to what he's told me he is already:

1) The first male capable of giving birth (to his own mother, no less).
2) A gender specialist.
3) A dinosaur slayer.
4) Afraid of wall pictures.
5) A doctor who specializes in freckle reduction.

These are all super useful skills and personality traits. Obviously, I'm concerned about his irrational fear of family photos but given the context, it's not surprising. We are biters.

On second thought, I should probably print more than one copy of this post. I think his daycare teachers really need to read this. As his mother, it's my responsibility to make sure his talents are nurtured.

And I'll need another copy for Cosby.