I recognize - when I write posts like yesterday's - that I'm a big fat whiny complainer.
I realize that some women would give anything to be nauseous and gagging and puking their guts out if it meant they were pregnant. There are women who would love to trade positions with me.
Before my brother came into their lives, my parents tried desperately to have a baby. (There's more about my brother in this post.) During this period, my mother attended numerous baby showers for others, all the while wishing she had good news of her own to share. My mother once told me that during a party for my newborn cousin, the other women cajoled her into holding the new baby. She wanted a baby of her own so badly that she could barely look at her sister-in-law's infant. She didn't describe the feeling as jealousy, but heartache. She couldn't bring herself to cuddle the baby, and didn't want to touch him. She laid my cousin in her lap for a polite amount of time, then handed him back to his beaming mother.
She said that for the entire time she held him, she wanted to push the baby off her lap.
My mother remembered that urge with horror and disbelief. She loves children, especially babies, and always has. She'll snuggle and coo at anyone's offspring, and will spend hours chasing and rolling around on the floor with a toddler to whom she's just been introduced. But she was filled with such longing for a baby of her own that she couldn't enjoy being with her new nephew.
I think of my friend in L.A., who has been eager to have a family since she got married in 2002. After one miscarriage, she and her husband have not conceived again.
I almost dread sharing our news with them. I know - because they are warm, wonderful, unselfish people with big hearts - that they will be happy for us. But I can't help but fear our joyful news will hurt them, her especially. Each month, her body betrays her and she is left feeling defective in some way. "Two!" I imagine her inside-the-head voice yelling, "Two babies! Lumpyhead's Mom will have two babies and I don't have one. It's so unfair."
And it is unfair. Because my L.A. friends will be great parents, whether they adopt, conceive, or simply continue to lavish attention and love on nieces and nephews and friends and pets. It is unfair because she would gracefully handle the trials of pregnancy and not bellyache about feeling tired or throwing up or being denied a martini.
Or maybe she'd be just as pissy as I am, but she would be giddy with happiness about being pissy.
So yes, as I write complainy posts, I know I should be grateful. I know I shouldn't be such a huge grumbling shithead.
I know.
Whatever. Bring me a damn popsicle.
Nobody half-asses it like me.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Crankypants Strikes Again
In case you're wondering, I'm still really cranky. I've managed to avoid the full-on puking [knocks wood furiously], but the dry heaves and nausea are still hanging around.
I've tried to explain morning sickness thusly: it's like a constant, low-grade hangover.
Let's imagine, shall we? Say you have an early meeting tomorrow morning, but a good friend is in town for only one night so you agree to meet up for some beers. After about four hours, some good conversation, and before-you-know-it holy-cow-that-many? beers, you bow out. You've got a respectable buzz, but nothing too goofy. Your judgment is intact enough that you decide not to drive home. You're leaving the action at the crucial tipping point in the evening. If you stuck around, you'd be doing Jagermeister shots with your buddies; instead, you're going home and going to bed, because you have to be at the office early.
But when you wake up in the morning, you're a little foggy. You had planned to hit the gym before going into the office, but abandon that idea quickly. Your goal of getting to work 30 minutes ahead of time slips and you roll in five minutes before your meeting starts. You can function just fine, but your tummy is a little tender. The smell of your colleague's egg sandwich might be the most disgusting thing to ever touch your nostrils. You eat lunch an hour later than usual, because nothing sounds even slightly appealing.
For the most part, that is what being pregnant is like.
But this low-grade hangover is punctuated by intermittent bouts of severe, gut-rotting, I'm-never-drinking-again hangover. You know what I mean: it's 11:30 on Saturday morning. You can remember snippets of the previous night up to a certain point, and what you can recall is pretty funny. You woke up at 8:00 a.m. to pee, felt like shit, so drank some water and took some aspirin. Now, your head isn't pounding any more, but you feel like absolute crap and one sip of orange juice makes you gag. An attempt to eat some fruit salad fails miserably, you puke it up in less than 10 minutes.
So, if you have this terrible hangover, what can you do?
1) Blame yourself, because you drank that much.
2) Vow never, ever to do it again.
3) Have a light beer around 3:30 p.m. and start the party over again.
Guess which one I always picked? Go on, guess.
If you're feeling this way because you're pregnant, however, what are your options?
1) Blame your husband, because it's his fault you're knocked up. Demand popsicles.
2) Vow that next time around, he's carrying the fetus, so help you god. He'll condescendingly agree, because he knows it will shut you the hell up. He may also bring you a popsicle.
3) Complain about not being able to drink. Demand another popsicle. Object loudly to the fact that the popsicle is not made of rum. Settle for strawberry.
Guess what happens in our house?
I've tried to explain morning sickness thusly: it's like a constant, low-grade hangover.
Let's imagine, shall we? Say you have an early meeting tomorrow morning, but a good friend is in town for only one night so you agree to meet up for some beers. After about four hours, some good conversation, and before-you-know-it holy-cow-that-many? beers, you bow out. You've got a respectable buzz, but nothing too goofy. Your judgment is intact enough that you decide not to drive home. You're leaving the action at the crucial tipping point in the evening. If you stuck around, you'd be doing Jagermeister shots with your buddies; instead, you're going home and going to bed, because you have to be at the office early.
But when you wake up in the morning, you're a little foggy. You had planned to hit the gym before going into the office, but abandon that idea quickly. Your goal of getting to work 30 minutes ahead of time slips and you roll in five minutes before your meeting starts. You can function just fine, but your tummy is a little tender. The smell of your colleague's egg sandwich might be the most disgusting thing to ever touch your nostrils. You eat lunch an hour later than usual, because nothing sounds even slightly appealing.
For the most part, that is what being pregnant is like.
But this low-grade hangover is punctuated by intermittent bouts of severe, gut-rotting, I'm-never-drinking-again hangover. You know what I mean: it's 11:30 on Saturday morning. You can remember snippets of the previous night up to a certain point, and what you can recall is pretty funny. You woke up at 8:00 a.m. to pee, felt like shit, so drank some water and took some aspirin. Now, your head isn't pounding any more, but you feel like absolute crap and one sip of orange juice makes you gag. An attempt to eat some fruit salad fails miserably, you puke it up in less than 10 minutes.
So, if you have this terrible hangover, what can you do?
1) Blame yourself, because you drank that much.
2) Vow never, ever to do it again.
3) Have a light beer around 3:30 p.m. and start the party over again.
Guess which one I always picked? Go on, guess.
If you're feeling this way because you're pregnant, however, what are your options?
1) Blame your husband, because it's his fault you're knocked up. Demand popsicles.
2) Vow that next time around, he's carrying the fetus, so help you god. He'll condescendingly agree, because he knows it will shut you the hell up. He may also bring you a popsicle.
3) Complain about not being able to drink. Demand another popsicle. Object loudly to the fact that the popsicle is not made of rum. Settle for strawberry.
Guess what happens in our house?
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
The APA Parenting Meme
Coming from Daddy in a Strange Land, I felt like this was more of an interview than a meme. It's pretty clever, actually - think of a bunch of questions you would like to ask another blogger and call it a meme. (You sneaky bastard, you.) I feel like a lot of my answers aren't APA-specific, because while being Asian is a big part of my appearance, it's not a large part of my culture.
So here goes.
1. I am:
A Korean adoptee. My parents are Dutch, and I was raised in a very Dutch community.
2. My kids are is:
Half Korean, half White Western European Mutt (mostly Polish and English, I think). Also Half White Trash. Ironically, the Half White Trash part is from the same parental source as the Half Korean.
Although I'm 100% certain the second one will have the same genetic makeup, s/he just isn't out yet. I don't want to jinx anything.
3. I first realized I was APA when:
I looked in the mirror. (I didn't exactly blend with the other blond, blue-eyed kids in town.)
Instead of stories about the day I was born, I heard stories about the day my parents came to get me at the airport. I came to them in a big bird (a 747 widebody). The stork myth held a lot of significance to me.
4. People think my name is:
Jennifer. I have no idea why, but if someone calls me by the wrong name, it's invariably Jennifer.
5. The family tradition I most want to pass on is:
Farts are funny.
6. The family tradition I least want to pass on is:
The Dutch Reformed Church. [shudder]
7. My child's first word in English was:
"clock"
Then "cake" and "carrot." Also "book."
8. My child's first non-English word was:
All the other ones. I don't know what language he's speaking, but it doesn't seem to be English, and it often cracks him up.
9. The non-English word/phrase most used in my home is:
"hopi maka" - which is a bastardization of the Dutch "to make a pile."
10. One thing I love about being an APA parent is:
How cute my kid is.
It's a very odd thing to have someone else on the planet look so much like you. I never really experienced that before - other than in the moronic "all Asians look alike" way. Lumpyhead looks very much like a combination of his father and me.
11. One thing I hate about being an APA parent is:
The question - asked in a disparaging tone - from other Asians, "Is his father White?"
12. The best thing about being part of an APA family is:
I don't have to put my son in a race box. He can check "other" like the rest of America.
13. The worst thing about being part of an APA family is:
I worry that he won't "belong" to any group, that he won't be "Asian enough" to be instantly accepted by Asians and won't be "White enough" to be considered White.
14. To me, being Asian Pacific American means:
Being beautiful.
I was going to tag CityMama, which I thought was sort of like tagging Dooce, but she's already been tagged. Can I get half-credit for it, though?
I'm tagging Daddy L from the Jasper Chronicles. He's Canadian, so he'll have to replace the corresponding "A"s with "C"s, but I'm sure he'll figure it out. I'm really interested to see how or if his answers are different from those coming from the south of the border.
I'm also tagging Bump - Yes, you'll have to read the answers to the same questions, again, on the same blog. Deal. I'm not sure if that's kosher or not in the grand scheme of meme-ing - I guess I'll take the blame if the world comes crashing down on itself or disappears into a vortex because I broke the meme rules. I'm tagging him because I'm pretty sure his answer to most/all of these questions is, "I never really thought about it." I could, I suppose, just ask him this at dinner, but this way he's more likely to give it more careful consideration.
So here goes.
1. I am:
A Korean adoptee. My parents are Dutch, and I was raised in a very Dutch community.
2. My kidHalf Korean, half White Western European Mutt (mostly Polish and English, I think). Also Half White Trash. Ironically, the Half White Trash part is from the same parental source as the Half Korean.
Although I'm 100% certain the second one will have the same genetic makeup, s/he just isn't out yet. I don't want to jinx anything.
3. I first realized I was APA when:
I looked in the mirror. (I didn't exactly blend with the other blond, blue-eyed kids in town.)
Instead of stories about the day I was born, I heard stories about the day my parents came to get me at the airport. I came to them in a big bird (a 747 widebody). The stork myth held a lot of significance to me.
4. People think my name is:
Jennifer. I have no idea why, but if someone calls me by the wrong name, it's invariably Jennifer.
5. The family tradition I most want to pass on is:
Farts are funny.
6. The family tradition I least want to pass on is:
The Dutch Reformed Church. [shudder]
7. My child's first word in English was:
"clock"
Then "cake" and "carrot." Also "book."
8. My child's first non-English word was:
All the other ones. I don't know what language he's speaking, but it doesn't seem to be English, and it often cracks him up.
9. The non-English word/phrase most used in my home is:
"hopi maka" - which is a bastardization of the Dutch "to make a pile."
10. One thing I love about being an APA parent is:
How cute my kid is.
It's a very odd thing to have someone else on the planet look so much like you. I never really experienced that before - other than in the moronic "all Asians look alike" way. Lumpyhead looks very much like a combination of his father and me.
11. One thing I hate about being an APA parent is:
The question - asked in a disparaging tone - from other Asians, "Is his father White?"
12. The best thing about being part of an APA family is:
I don't have to put my son in a race box. He can check "other" like the rest of America.
13. The worst thing about being part of an APA family is:
I worry that he won't "belong" to any group, that he won't be "Asian enough" to be instantly accepted by Asians and won't be "White enough" to be considered White.
14. To me, being Asian Pacific American means:
Being beautiful.
I was going to tag CityMama, which I thought was sort of like tagging Dooce, but she's already been tagged. Can I get half-credit for it, though?
I'm tagging Daddy L from the Jasper Chronicles. He's Canadian, so he'll have to replace the corresponding "A"s with "C"s, but I'm sure he'll figure it out. I'm really interested to see how or if his answers are different from those coming from the south of the border.
I'm also tagging Bump - Yes, you'll have to read the answers to the same questions, again, on the same blog. Deal. I'm not sure if that's kosher or not in the grand scheme of meme-ing - I guess I'll take the blame if the world comes crashing down on itself or disappears into a vortex because I broke the meme rules. I'm tagging him because I'm pretty sure his answer to most/all of these questions is, "I never really thought about it." I could, I suppose, just ask him this at dinner, but this way he's more likely to give it more careful consideration.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Until Later Today, When All I'll Want To Do With Cookies Is Toss Them
I felt so nauseous after dinner that I decided to just go to bed, so at 2:00 am I was wide awake. I’m having odd cravings lately, but if I don’t satisfy them immediately, they’re often replaced by mild-to-severe aversion a few hours later.
It was under these circumstances that I came across Bridgette’s entry about baking and food and a photo of possibly the most delicious-looking chocolate chip cookies ever.
I was so pissed.
Pissed that she didn’t live closer, so I couldn’t just go over to her house and demand that she hand over the cookies now and no one gets hurt. Never mind that I’ve never actually met Bridgette and it was nearly 3 in the morning, but if she lived within 20 minutes of my house, I would have gone knocking, all greasy-haired and twitchy with cookie-jonesing.
The only cookies in the house are some Chips Ahoy Bump had stashed, but Bridgette’s looked all soft and chewy and warm, so I knew those crusty crunchy Elf cookies wouldn’t do.
I don’t have any room temperature butter, so I couldn’t just make my own damn cookies. Plus, it was 3 in the morning, and I wasn’t sure how Bump would respond to my clanging around the kitchen making cookies. (Who am I kidding? If Bump woke at 3:30 to the smell of chocolate chip cookies, he would come tearing out of the bedroom, squealing like a middle-school girl over Orlando Bloom. He would then proclaim me the Most Fabulous Woman Ever. Or, he would blearily ask me what the hell I was doing, clanging around at 3 am, I’m gonna wake up the baby already.)
Moot point anyway, I wasn’t making cookies.
But! A few days ago I sent Bump to get the makings for rice krispie treats, because I needed some immediately. Predictably, I lost all interest in the thought of rice krispie treats some time later and have had marshmallows and cereal sitting on the counter ever since.
The Le Crueset dutch oven was still out from dinner, so it seemed like a good idea to use it. (White Trash meets Foodie! It’s like Lumpyhead, only less of a metaphor!)
I felt really smart when the marshmallows and butter melted beautifully. "Ha!" I thought, "Why doesn’t everyone use enameled cast iron to make rice krispie treats? This is great!"
Once I added the cereal and had to transfer the sticky, warm goo to a pan, I realized why the craze for making rice krispie treats in Le Creuset hasn’t swept the nation. Holding enameled cast iron in one hand while trying to pour a hot, clingy substance into another vessel is rather tricky. Difficult, even. That would be why all the recipes recommend a saucepan. (A saucepan, dumbass.)
But I completed the task and you know what? Picking warm marshmallow-coated rice krispie bits off the pan? At 3 in morning? Awesome.
And the dutch oven cleaned up really easily. If you can just find someone to help you hold the pan, I highly recommend using Le Creuset for your next rice krispie treat adventure.
So, now that the rice krispie treats are cooled and ready to be cut? I don’t really want one. I want one of Bridgette’s damn cookies.
It was under these circumstances that I came across Bridgette’s entry about baking and food and a photo of possibly the most delicious-looking chocolate chip cookies ever.
I was so pissed.
Pissed that she didn’t live closer, so I couldn’t just go over to her house and demand that she hand over the cookies now and no one gets hurt. Never mind that I’ve never actually met Bridgette and it was nearly 3 in the morning, but if she lived within 20 minutes of my house, I would have gone knocking, all greasy-haired and twitchy with cookie-jonesing.
The only cookies in the house are some Chips Ahoy Bump had stashed, but Bridgette’s looked all soft and chewy and warm, so I knew those crusty crunchy Elf cookies wouldn’t do.
I don’t have any room temperature butter, so I couldn’t just make my own damn cookies. Plus, it was 3 in the morning, and I wasn’t sure how Bump would respond to my clanging around the kitchen making cookies. (Who am I kidding? If Bump woke at 3:30 to the smell of chocolate chip cookies, he would come tearing out of the bedroom, squealing like a middle-school girl over Orlando Bloom. He would then proclaim me the Most Fabulous Woman Ever. Or, he would blearily ask me what the hell I was doing, clanging around at 3 am, I’m gonna wake up the baby already.)
Moot point anyway, I wasn’t making cookies.
But! A few days ago I sent Bump to get the makings for rice krispie treats, because I needed some immediately. Predictably, I lost all interest in the thought of rice krispie treats some time later and have had marshmallows and cereal sitting on the counter ever since.
The Le Crueset dutch oven was still out from dinner, so it seemed like a good idea to use it. (White Trash meets Foodie! It’s like Lumpyhead, only less of a metaphor!)
I felt really smart when the marshmallows and butter melted beautifully. "Ha!" I thought, "Why doesn’t everyone use enameled cast iron to make rice krispie treats? This is great!"
Once I added the cereal and had to transfer the sticky, warm goo to a pan, I realized why the craze for making rice krispie treats in Le Creuset hasn’t swept the nation. Holding enameled cast iron in one hand while trying to pour a hot, clingy substance into another vessel is rather tricky. Difficult, even. That would be why all the recipes recommend a saucepan. (A saucepan, dumbass.)
But I completed the task and you know what? Picking warm marshmallow-coated rice krispie bits off the pan? At 3 in morning? Awesome.
And the dutch oven cleaned up really easily. If you can just find someone to help you hold the pan, I highly recommend using Le Creuset for your next rice krispie treat adventure.
So, now that the rice krispie treats are cooled and ready to be cut? I don’t really want one. I want one of Bridgette’s damn cookies.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Grandma Sophie
In a week and a half, Bump, Lumpyhead and I will head to Minnesota to visit my family. It's our first trip there since Lumpyhead was born; it will also be the first time my grandmother will see Lumpyhead.
I fear it will be the last.
My grandmother's health has declined over the past few years. I remember her as vibrant and active; I struggled to keep pace with her when I was in high school. If she wasn't canning the beans from her garden, she was baking bread or cleaning her house or painting the garage. If my mother invited Grandma to dinner, she would rarely come. If instead my mother asked Grandma to come help her __________ [insert "clean," "cook," "bake," "paint," "mow". . . whatever] and then stay for dinner, however, Grandma always said yes. If she couldn't be helpful, she preferred to stay home.
A series of small strokes has left Grandma confused, tired, and angry. Her conversations are stilted as she searches for the words that have disappeared from her mind. She is frustrated when her memory fails her. Her personality has changed.
She is short with my mother, and sometimes is downright mean. She's depressed. She doesn't sleep well.
She had a near accident in her car, so at her request, my uncle sold it. She relies on my dad to take her to the grocery store once a week. It drives her crazy that her children won't let her mow her own damn lawn. They take care of her yard for her, but in her opinion, they always come a day or two later than it needs to be done.
Every once in awhile someone from town will see her on her front walk with the weedeater, and instantly tattle on her to my parents or uncle. At the next Sunday dinner my mom or uncle will chide her for doing yardwork again, which she'll deny. After being busted because so-and-so saw her on Tuesday with the weedeater, she'll claim she was only out there for five minutes because the walk needed trimming and "you kids weren't coming to mow until Thursday." There will be much eyerolling and sighing on everyone's part, and Grandma will begrudgingly promise to call my mother or my aunts next time. Which, well, you know.
She's old and feeble and sick. And it makes me so sad.
I want Lumpyhead to know the woman she used to be. The hard-working, strong, funny lady who made me popcorn when we watched The Love Boat and Fantasy Island together. Instead, if he remembers her at all, he will know the disoriented, gloomy old person who talks slowly and took my grandmother away.
I fear it will be the last.
My grandmother's health has declined over the past few years. I remember her as vibrant and active; I struggled to keep pace with her when I was in high school. If she wasn't canning the beans from her garden, she was baking bread or cleaning her house or painting the garage. If my mother invited Grandma to dinner, she would rarely come. If instead my mother asked Grandma to come help her __________ [insert "clean," "cook," "bake," "paint," "mow". . . whatever] and then stay for dinner, however, Grandma always said yes. If she couldn't be helpful, she preferred to stay home.
A series of small strokes has left Grandma confused, tired, and angry. Her conversations are stilted as she searches for the words that have disappeared from her mind. She is frustrated when her memory fails her. Her personality has changed.
She is short with my mother, and sometimes is downright mean. She's depressed. She doesn't sleep well.
She had a near accident in her car, so at her request, my uncle sold it. She relies on my dad to take her to the grocery store once a week. It drives her crazy that her children won't let her mow her own damn lawn. They take care of her yard for her, but in her opinion, they always come a day or two later than it needs to be done.
Every once in awhile someone from town will see her on her front walk with the weedeater, and instantly tattle on her to my parents or uncle. At the next Sunday dinner my mom or uncle will chide her for doing yardwork again, which she'll deny. After being busted because so-and-so saw her on Tuesday with the weedeater, she'll claim she was only out there for five minutes because the walk needed trimming and "you kids weren't coming to mow until Thursday." There will be much eyerolling and sighing on everyone's part, and Grandma will begrudgingly promise to call my mother or my aunts next time. Which, well, you know.
She's old and feeble and sick. And it makes me so sad.
I want Lumpyhead to know the woman she used to be. The hard-working, strong, funny lady who made me popcorn when we watched The Love Boat and Fantasy Island together. Instead, if he remembers her at all, he will know the disoriented, gloomy old person who talks slowly and took my grandmother away.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
BlogHer
I'm not going to BlogHer.
Waah.
It sounds really fun, but I can't swing it, work-wise (meaning I wouldn't be able to get the time off). Also, I would ruin this carefully crafted anonymity I have going.
(Snort. I'm an Asian woman from a town of 200 people. Call anyone in that town, ask about the Asian chick who lives in DC now, and they'll give you my name. Probably also my family history along with a story about how my Grandpa Ray used to put firecrackers up cats' butts when he was little.)
(Also, I've posted pictures of my damn face. How anonymous is that? Not very, is the answer.)
But! But! You don't know where I live so you can't mail me threats or pipe bombs.
(Also, you can't mail me cookies. Which, waah.)
You also can't stalk me or rob my house when I go on vacation.
(Why would you stalk me? I'm not even that nice. And are my mismatched Ikea bookshelves fetching so much money on the street that people are looking to steal my stuff? Because honestly, the mismatched Ikea bookshelves are probably the most expensive things in our house. I have nothing valuable yet portable for thieves to burgle.)
(I'm so boring, I can't even get my babysitters to rifle through the underwear drawers. Believe me, I've offered, but they all seem to just carefully tend to the baby and then watch tv once he's gone to sleep. Them and their <airquote>responsible< /airquote> <airquote> behavior.< /airquote>)
(Does the period go on the inside or the outside of the airquote? Oh never mind.)
So, my precious anonymity . . . Yeah, whatever.
But I'm still not going to San Jose.
Did I mention, "Waah"?
Waah.
It sounds really fun, but I can't swing it, work-wise (meaning I wouldn't be able to get the time off). Also, I would ruin this carefully crafted anonymity I have going.
(Snort. I'm an Asian woman from a town of 200 people. Call anyone in that town, ask about the Asian chick who lives in DC now, and they'll give you my name. Probably also my family history along with a story about how my Grandpa Ray used to put firecrackers up cats' butts when he was little.)
(Also, I've posted pictures of my damn face. How anonymous is that? Not very, is the answer.)
But! But! You don't know where I live so you can't mail me threats or pipe bombs.
(Also, you can't mail me cookies. Which, waah.)
You also can't stalk me or rob my house when I go on vacation.
(Why would you stalk me? I'm not even that nice. And are my mismatched Ikea bookshelves fetching so much money on the street that people are looking to steal my stuff? Because honestly, the mismatched Ikea bookshelves are probably the most expensive things in our house. I have nothing valuable yet portable for thieves to burgle.)
(I'm so boring, I can't even get my babysitters to rifle through the underwear drawers. Believe me, I've offered, but they all seem to just carefully tend to the baby and then watch tv once he's gone to sleep. Them and their <airquote>
(Does the period go on the inside or the outside of the airquote? Oh never mind.)
So, my precious anonymity . . . Yeah, whatever.
But I'm still not going to San Jose.
Did I mention, "Waah"?
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
And Verily, I Wanted to Throw Up
I've been reading a lot of "lo" and "behold" and "ye" in blogger conversation lately, so I wanted to join in the Biblical interjection fun.
On Sunday evening Aunt Bob asked me how I was feeling, and I cheerfully announced that I was feeling pretty good. Much better, certainly, than I did the first time around. Well, the Nausea Gods heard me and their vengence was swift and mighty. Yea, did I feel their wrath.
We ordered pizza, I smelled it, and verily, I wanted to throw up.
I ate some of the cheesy bread that I ordered because it sounded so yummy, it was very garlicky, and verily, I wanted to throw up.
I took the metro to the dentist over lunch yesterday, read my blackberry whilst on the train, and verily, I wanted to throw up. (Yes, one would think I would have remembered that reading the blackberry on the train is stupid, but lo, I am not very bright.)
I read the Linda Hirshman discussion on the Washington Post, and verily, I wanted to throw up.
She reports that a lot of women seem to have that reaction to her.
I've been keeping my distance on the whole Mommy Wars thing, but it's time I got my damn head out of the sand. Honestly, I did not find her as offensive as I thought I would.
Maybe it's because she's telling women to do what I'm doing. (Ha, ha, she's yelling at you but not me. I'm the crazy lady's pet.) She's doing it in a less than diplomatic way, but if she didn't cause controversy, she wouldn't sell books. I also think she firmly believes what she is saying, that educated women staying home with their babies are selling feminism short and letting us all down.
Ms. Hirshman seems to think that if you're not furthering the cause of economic equality, you're part of the problem. It's your fault there's still a wage gap and not enough female CEOs and no women in math and science.
Stay-home parenting isn't the only field that is dominated by women and undervalued by society, but it's probably the only one so rewarding that highly educated women chose it over the careers for which they've spent years training. There aren't many college-educated women leaving their corporate jobs to became cashiers.
Ms. Hirshman thinks jobs like child-rearing should be left to those who haven't studied at elite universities, and trading the boardroom for a board book and a sippy cup is counter-productive to gender equality. Choices that make the world a better place but don't maximize your earning potential aren’t helping feminism along.
They're just making the world a better place.
So shame on you. Shame on you for raising bright, well-adjusted children. Shame on you for not being a pioneer every damn day. Because unless you're out in the workforce, busting through glass ceilings and using your fancypants education to build networks, Hirshman's feminism has no place for you. Forget that you're raising the next generation of men and women - raising them to value important things and honor others and disagree respectfully - because you might as well have been born in 1930. We should probably take away your right to vote. Also your blog. (What's with the dissing of the mommybloggers? Ms. Hirshman slams her critics as pregnant Bible-thumping dunderheads. That's probably not the best way to foster civilized debate.)
So here's my problem. In the first words of her article, she says it's "[f]unny that most men rarely make the same 'choice.'" Ahem. Over here? The mommyblogger writing about nausea? (ooh, nausea! How original and creative!) I disagree.
I think in Ms. Hirshman's eyes, I'm doing the right thing for feminism. Yet she insults my husband and his chosen field.
"Prepare yourself to qualify for good work, treat work seriously, and don’t put yourself in a position of unequal resources when you marry," she says. Good advice, indeed. But when she goes on to suggest that if you want to stay in the workforce you should find yourself a liberal or an artist, but certainly "marry down," I start to get a little twitchy.
She tells women that if you don't have a full-time partner in child-rearing, you're getting a bad deal. She says "When men can count on stay at home wives, they have a huge advantage at the office." Yes, and yes again. But does feminism demand that all educated mothers work full-time, even if they hate it?
What bothers me the most is that she's not offering a solution. She offers no better way to ensure that the next generation of Americans is well-adjusted, happy and healthy. Are we to turn the raising of our children to nannies and daycare centers? If you have a degree, is that the choice you must make? If you want to be a mom, are you supposed to just wait by the side of the road after graduating from high school so some nice man can come rescue you?
I hope Bump, Peter, Daddy in a Strange Land, Mom-101's Nate, and all the other stay-home dads out there are helping to stand Hirshman's criticisms on their head.
Stay home with your children if you want to stay home with them. Your degrees, your alma mater, and your fellow women can support you or kiss your ass.
If you're working full-time and hating it, wanting to spend your days with your children, stay home. If you're staying home and feeling isolated, unrewarded and bored, but going back to work would make you a terrible mother, bite me. No, it's not always an easy choice. But make the one that's right for you. If the one you picked isn't working for you, make a change. If your husband would never consider staying home himself because that's "beneath him," he's an asshole.
And if Linda Hirshman says something that makes you angry, ignore her. It's not like she's your dinner guest.
On Sunday evening Aunt Bob asked me how I was feeling, and I cheerfully announced that I was feeling pretty good. Much better, certainly, than I did the first time around. Well, the Nausea Gods heard me and their vengence was swift and mighty. Yea, did I feel their wrath.
We ordered pizza, I smelled it, and verily, I wanted to throw up.
I ate some of the cheesy bread that I ordered because it sounded so yummy, it was very garlicky, and verily, I wanted to throw up.
I took the metro to the dentist over lunch yesterday, read my blackberry whilst on the train, and verily, I wanted to throw up. (Yes, one would think I would have remembered that reading the blackberry on the train is stupid, but lo, I am not very bright.)
I read the Linda Hirshman discussion on the Washington Post, and verily, I wanted to throw up.
She reports that a lot of women seem to have that reaction to her.
I've been keeping my distance on the whole Mommy Wars thing, but it's time I got my damn head out of the sand. Honestly, I did not find her as offensive as I thought I would.
Maybe it's because she's telling women to do what I'm doing. (Ha, ha, she's yelling at you but not me. I'm the crazy lady's pet.) She's doing it in a less than diplomatic way, but if she didn't cause controversy, she wouldn't sell books. I also think she firmly believes what she is saying, that educated women staying home with their babies are selling feminism short and letting us all down.
Ms. Hirshman seems to think that if you're not furthering the cause of economic equality, you're part of the problem. It's your fault there's still a wage gap and not enough female CEOs and no women in math and science.
Stay-home parenting isn't the only field that is dominated by women and undervalued by society, but it's probably the only one so rewarding that highly educated women chose it over the careers for which they've spent years training. There aren't many college-educated women leaving their corporate jobs to became cashiers.
Ms. Hirshman thinks jobs like child-rearing should be left to those who haven't studied at elite universities, and trading the boardroom for a board book and a sippy cup is counter-productive to gender equality. Choices that make the world a better place but don't maximize your earning potential aren’t helping feminism along.
They're just making the world a better place.
So shame on you. Shame on you for raising bright, well-adjusted children. Shame on you for not being a pioneer every damn day. Because unless you're out in the workforce, busting through glass ceilings and using your fancypants education to build networks, Hirshman's feminism has no place for you. Forget that you're raising the next generation of men and women - raising them to value important things and honor others and disagree respectfully - because you might as well have been born in 1930. We should probably take away your right to vote. Also your blog. (What's with the dissing of the mommybloggers? Ms. Hirshman slams her critics as pregnant Bible-thumping dunderheads. That's probably not the best way to foster civilized debate.)
So here's my problem. In the first words of her article, she says it's "[f]unny that most men rarely make the same 'choice.'" Ahem. Over here? The mommyblogger writing about nausea? (ooh, nausea! How original and creative!) I disagree.
I think in Ms. Hirshman's eyes, I'm doing the right thing for feminism. Yet she insults my husband and his chosen field.
"Prepare yourself to qualify for good work, treat work seriously, and don’t put yourself in a position of unequal resources when you marry," she says. Good advice, indeed. But when she goes on to suggest that if you want to stay in the workforce you should find yourself a liberal or an artist, but certainly "marry down," I start to get a little twitchy.
She tells women that if you don't have a full-time partner in child-rearing, you're getting a bad deal. She says "When men can count on stay at home wives, they have a huge advantage at the office." Yes, and yes again. But does feminism demand that all educated mothers work full-time, even if they hate it?
What bothers me the most is that she's not offering a solution. She offers no better way to ensure that the next generation of Americans is well-adjusted, happy and healthy. Are we to turn the raising of our children to nannies and daycare centers? If you have a degree, is that the choice you must make? If you want to be a mom, are you supposed to just wait by the side of the road after graduating from high school so some nice man can come rescue you?
I hope Bump, Peter, Daddy in a Strange Land, Mom-101's Nate, and all the other stay-home dads out there are helping to stand Hirshman's criticisms on their head.
Stay home with your children if you want to stay home with them. Your degrees, your alma mater, and your fellow women can support you or kiss your ass.
If you're working full-time and hating it, wanting to spend your days with your children, stay home. If you're staying home and feeling isolated, unrewarded and bored, but going back to work would make you a terrible mother, bite me. No, it's not always an easy choice. But make the one that's right for you. If the one you picked isn't working for you, make a change. If your husband would never consider staying home himself because that's "beneath him," he's an asshole.
And if Linda Hirshman says something that makes you angry, ignore her. It's not like she's your dinner guest.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Things I'm Re-Learning
If you have a minor problem with motion-sickness anyway, and you read your blackberry on the metro while newly pregnant, plan to become really, really sweaty from the nausea.
If you forget to take your prenatal vitamin at night, so take it in the morning, be prepared to gag intermittently for several hours.
Duet chewable prenatal vitamins are the nastiest-ass shit you've ever tasted. The aftertaste is a combination of three-day old trash that's been left in the sun, funky fridge, and spoiled meat (with a hint of oak and new-mown grass); and there's nothing you can do to get rid of it. If you swallow them whole instead of chewing them, they get stuck about half way down and you can feel the mass for at least an hour.
WTF? Is that some kind of joke? Create a disgusting product specifically for an audience that's already feeling a little queasy?
Fuckers.
That is all. For now.
Crankily yours,
Lumpyhead'sMom Sibling-Pod
If you forget to take your prenatal vitamin at night, so take it in the morning, be prepared to gag intermittently for several hours.
Duet chewable prenatal vitamins are the nastiest-ass shit you've ever tasted. The aftertaste is a combination of three-day old trash that's been left in the sun, funky fridge, and spoiled meat (with a hint of oak and new-mown grass); and there's nothing you can do to get rid of it. If you swallow them whole instead of chewing them, they get stuck about half way down and you can feel the mass for at least an hour.
WTF? Is that some kind of joke? Create a disgusting product specifically for an audience that's already feeling a little queasy?
Fuckers.
That is all. For now.
Crankily yours,
Lumpyhead's
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Somebody needs to go on a diet
By Bump
Our exam room had a scale. It had been a while since I’d been on one, so I decided to weigh myself. I’d lost a few pounds after Lumpyhead was born—not a lot, but enough so that people commented on it and my pants kept sliding down my butt. This was partly because LHM was burning so many calories with breastfeeding that she was eating my leftovers for once, not vice versa; and partly because being a stay-at-home dad afforded me little opportunity to snack. Or eat lunch, for that matter.
298? Two-hundred and ninety-freakin-eight pounds?!?!?!? I was stunned. I mean, I know I’ve been indulging my sweet tooth a bit too regularly lately, but this is ridiculous. I need to go on a diet ASAP. Exercise. The whole nine yards. Holy crap.
Anyway, the rest of the appointment was fine. After a 45 minute wait, we saw the doctor for less than 5 minutes, and we were on our way. It wasn’t until we were in the car that I realized that I’d been holding Lumpyhead when I was on the scale.
[sigh]
What an idiot.
School's Out For Summor
I got this from Electricyoak yesterday, with the subject line: Class Valedictorian.The email was from a friend of his colleague, who said, "This car was in front of me at a stoplight in Eden Prairie today. The more I think about this, the funnier it gets."
I was going to fuzz out the license plate, but decided not to.
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