Finally, something is called what it really is

Alternate title, "The most uninspired name for a toy train town ever."

I've decided to have my baby in an igloo with three fish as midwives. Oh, and a leprechaun as an anesthesiologist. Are you happy now?

I can’t remember if I blogged about my labor and delivery with Junior. Oh right, I did. I shared how, after 6,000 hours of Pitocin, 547 epidurals and indescribable pain, Chuck told me to picture my happy place and I dreamed about being flattened by a Mulletville transit bus.

That’s how my labor went.

Now here we are again. Another pregnancy; this time, the vexing question: How will this child enter the world? Had my first labor not ended with an emergency C-section—which saved my life and Junior’s—I wouldn’t be sitting here trying to decide what the hell to do. I’m one of the few whose doctors will support a VBAC (vaginal birth after Cesarean), but—but—she also scheduled a C-section just in case.

Cue Jeopardy music. Pan in on Mrs. Mullet biting her lips, nails and Chuck trying to decide which option is best.

I realize in writing this post and approaching it in an I’m-not-sure-what-to-do manner I’m putting myself out there for possible judgment and criticism, but I want to go there because the topic fascinates me. Women have strong (sometimes frighteningly so) opinions about how babies should be labored. There are some, like Blossom star Mayim Bialik , who heartily judge women who’ve experienced medically-aided, non homebirths.

Others have such a low opinion of how delivery is handled by hospitals they’ve coined terms like “birth rape.” According to an article on Salon.com, “The term is being used to describe cases where a woman feels that her rights are violated by doctors, nurses or midwives.” Writer and activist Amity Reed feels that "Fingers, hands, suction cups, forceps, needles and scissors ... are the tools of birth rape and they are wielded with as much force and as little consent as if a stranger grabbed a passer-by off the street and tied her up before having his way with her.”

Wow, birth rape.

The prejudice is even appearing in cutesy parenting magazines. A woman I'll call "Sphincter" recently responded to an article about a homebirth with "How sad that micromanaged hospital births are now the norm."

Sniffle, sniffle.

Get the feeling that unless you deliver your kid at home while the neighbors rub nectar on your cooch and everyone hums Kumbaya, you’re pond scum? Kind of feels like that. Hospital births seem to have become the enemy. I concede that the medical system is imperfect (C-section rates in the United States are at an all-time high), but what system is perfect? And is the answer to a few horrific deliveries by overzealous, unsympathetic doctors really a showdown between mothers?

I continue to hope not. The idea of a natural delivery is so built up and so acutely affixed to our idea of womanhood and motherhood it cuts at the soul when the delivery experience fails miserably; no one needs judgy shit from other moms on top of that.

But there it is: the "how sad" bullshit. The pity and shame.

Which brings me back to my dilemma. After I had Junior, I heard myself tell people I’d had a C-section “because I had to/we would have died.” The urgency absolved me; I found comfort in that. Even worse, I added, “And I have a beautiful baby boy!” as if Junior were a consolation prize. As if the labor journey mattered more than the end result.

I promised myself I wouldn’t care this time, but every time I ask Chuck what we should do, I hear a nagging voice. This time, if I choose a C-section, I’ll have a dirty little secret. My surgery will have been by choice. I will have chosen to fail at labor. Even though a VBAC might mean laboring again for 24+ hours and never dilating. Or possibly losing kid #2 because of the stress of a 24+ labor that doesn’t go anywhere. Or taking a month to heal from another emergency C-section because of all the trauma my body endured leading up to it.

Even though.

Is being able to fly the “My kid was 100% naturally vagged!” banner really worth it? A big part of me thinks not. Just like being able to fly the “My kid was 100% breastfed!” banner was overrated. At some point the banners come down and your kid is either healthy and happy or you’ve royally fucked up—regardless of which body cavity he came from and how you fed him.

Regardless.

Gah!

Kicked to the curb for the very last time

Are you sick yet of Halloween? No? Great. ’Cause Mulletween 2010 was super dandy and I'd like to tell you all about it.

This is the first year we’ve trick or treated in our neighborhood; I must say, I was pleasantly surprised. There wasn’t a mullet to be seen—just lots of parents dropping off their kids while they waited in their 4x4s and smoked.

How thoughtful!

As for our neighbors, one nice man dumped his entire bucket of candy into Junior’s bag after admitting he forgot it was Halloween (he’d been too engrossed in the Patriot’s game to answer the door). His lovely woman friend waited until we were almost out of earshot to call him an asshole.

"Mommy? What's an asshole?"

Another neighbor let Junior pet her New England chickens. When the blind one tried to peck Junior’s costumed feet, the woman kicked it.

Gently.

And hello, hearty aerobics. The neighborhood is an outdoor gym, I tell you. It’s house after house of this:



Yes, poor Junior’s “trick or treats” sounded more like “triiiiiii...ck [gasp, gasp] ohhhhhhhhhhr [gasp, gasp] treeeeeeeeee......at” but he scored a lot of extra candy—no one likes to see a miniature dragon in pain. And because Chuck carried Junior for most of the night, Chuck got some exercise, too.

(Velcro would have been helpful. Polyester dragon costume + leather coat = “Chuck! Junior’s sliding down your back again! Grab his tail!”)



As for me, Mulletween helped me answer a pesky existential question that's been plaguing me for the longest time. I now know what I want to be in my next life: a stray dog in this neighborhood. Thanks to the dark sanctity of the neighborhood shrubs, me and my pregnant bladder were able to mark at least five miles of Mulletville in complete modesty. You couldn't ask for a better set-up than dark hills lined with shrubs.

We had such a quaint night, it was enough to make me misty about moving. Could I have misjudged this blighted community? Could we have been BBQing alongside our neighbors for the last four years instead of cowering from their swearing, smoking, chicken-kicking ways?

Could have been so beautiful...could have been so right...

No. When I left for work this morning I found our pumpkins smashed to pieces on our front walkway.



Mulletville, you are officially and irrevocably dumped. Forever.

Maybe it is time

For a menaissance...




Happy Halloween!

(Parents magazine, October 2010)

Can I admit something?

When I first got pregnant with Junior, I was really excited. I was excited for all the obvious reasons...

...and then there was the excitement surrounding my belly button. It's an inny, and everyone knows that at some point in your pregnancy, your belly button pops like a turkey timer and becomes an outy.

Zing!

I imagined that magical day, perhaps a little too vividly, for I had grandiose ideas of what that transformation from inny to outy would entail. See [blushing], I kind of naively thought that 30 years' worth of accumulated stuff would come rocketing out and that Chuck and I would be able to rifle through it and exclaim, "So that's where that extra key went!" or "I thought Tiger ran off years ago."



But you know what? It doesn't work like that. Some innies, like mine, just widen in span, morphing and growing into Grand Canyons of belly buttons. With pregnancy #2 it's even more expansive.

Hello-ello-ello-elloo-ooo.

Hello-ello-ello-elloo-ooo.

I feel kind of jipped. I'll never know if something incredibly valuable could have fallen in there without my knowing. Like an original Declaration of Independence! Gold! Pictures of Lost Continent of Atlantis!

Or, lint. Ok, fine, it's just lint.

Grumble, grumble. Don't look at me like that. It's not like I just admitted I wear nipple tassels.

Heh. Heh.

Anyway, thanks for, um, listening. We now return to our regularly scheduled broadcast: Mrs. Mullet Should Probably Get Out More.

(Pssst. Yah, you. I know you have something weird you want to admit now too. Go on, do it!)

You'll be GWHTLC someday, IYKWIM

Listen, you little recent college graduate buttwads. I’ve been working with some of you since May, when you were lucky enough to land a job in this piss poor economy, and I’ve come to a realization: Aside from a select few, you’re lazy, coddled whiners.

As a seasoned professional, I’d like to offer you some free workplace advice. Unless you’re happy with your inauspicious beginnings, which I suspect some of you are, it would behoove you to heed my advice. I’ll try to make it as easy as possible for you to understand with some text-speak, since I know your robotic brains can synthesize little else. Ready?

1. You need to CTS (Cut the shit)
It’s not okay for your boyfriend/significant other to stop by the office every day during business hours and to talk for hours. You can see him during your allotted break, which is called your lunch hour. It’s bad enough your boyfriend can’t pull up his pants and we have to look at his bunched-up boxers. Do you really think we find your giggling and blushing marathons endearing?

2. IBYNTP (I’m begging you not to procreate)
Do not tell me you stopped taking the pill because of, like, wicked cramps. First, that falls under something called TMI, or too much information. Second, you’re asking me to add my .02, which is that you should keep taking the pill because, with his pants down around his ankles, your boyfriend seems primed to inseminate something. Please, for the sake of humanity, don’t take a chance on that being you.

3. IWKY (I will kill you)
Just because your brain cannot function without technology does not entitle you to simultaneously watch Youtube, update your status on Facebook, send emails, instant message and talk on the phone while you’re working.

You’re sitting in a lifeless gray cubicle because you have a job to do, and—news flash—that job doesn’t entail being entertained. And I swear, if one of you little assholes gives me another irritated look when I remind you to disconnect yourself until your work is done, I’m going to strangle you with one of those old-fashioned phone cords.

4. URNMC (You are not Miley Cyrus)
This is a place of work, not a strip club or rock concert. We don’t want to see your bra straps, underwear, pajamas, miniskirts, concert t-shirts or sweatpants. And thigh-high boots? Really?

5. GAFC (Get a fucking clue)
If you see your supervisor sitting at his/her desk around 12:30 and they are chewing something, chances are that person is in the throes of what is known as a working lunch.

I’d like to suggest that you GAFC and leave that person alone for the next 15 minutes. Do not, I repeat do not, pull up a chair and start asking questions like, “When are raises done?” or “I know I only started two days ago but can I have Friday off so my friends and I can go to Vegas?”

6. GTFU (Grow the fuck up)
Business hours are called such for a reason. Don’t show up an hour late and expect the office to be sympathetic because you’re “not a morning person.” Many of us barely slept because of crying or sick kids or because we were trying to squeeze in a quickie with our partner after remembering it had been several months.

And for the love of all that’s holy, don’t raise your hand during a staff meeting and suggest we change the meeting time to later in the day because you have trouble concentrating before 10 a.m.

7. N1W2CURDSF (No one wants to see your damn smiley faces)
Professional emails do not include emoticons. I cannot stress this enough.

8. GOVAY (Get over yourself)
If your work is mediocre, I’m helping you by telling you that.

I know you grew up during a time when the whole team got medals and when your parents sung the praises of every piece of macaroni artwork you brought home, even though you ate the glue instead of actually using it, but this is the real world. We don’t do a dance when you poo. We don’t care about your fragile ego; it’s not our fault you were overparented.

Ironically enough, I’d like to conclude by saying TYVM. Working with you has given me a glimpse into the tragedy that belies parents who live with their heads up their kids’ butts. I hope Junior fails miserably at something, so he understands the value of humility. I hope he has to work for the things he wants, so he understands pride. I hope he’s told by someone he admires that he needs to try harder, so he understands the value of fortitude.

And finally, I hope there are better role models in 2020 so he understands the value of a good belt.

Tampax has a nice ring to it. No?

According to ivilliage, I've graduated from growing corn to cabbage. Soon I will be able to make a salad.

Every time I try to think of more appealing things they could have chosen for comparison I'm stumped.

Size of your baby: Manolo Blahnik pump, size 7?

Size of your baby: Big ass sunflower head?

See? It's hard.

It's also hard trying to nail down a name for kid #2 because every time I imagine a baby boy I picture Junior, and then I find myself choosing Junior's name all over again. Though I am still partial to Diddlydoo. Just for shits and giggles I Googled it. According to Urban Dictionary, it's "a nice word to describe feminine hygiene products."

Knowing this, I can't in good conscience name my cabbage after a tampon. And ew, does "feminine hygiene products" encompass stuff like Vagisil? It just doesn't seem right. So I've decided I am going to wait until I see him to make up my mind. It's kind of refreshing, the idea of waiting. Thanks to modern technology, we know so much before babies are born (gender, what color to paint the nursery) I rather like the idea of a surprise.

And, as an added bonus, it drives family members crazy when you won't list off possible names.

I'm going to bed now. I failed my damn glucose test and have to take the 3-hour version at 7 a.m. tomorrow. Ordinarily I'd feel crappy about that but thanks to women like Trista Sutter from ABC’s The Bachelorette, I now know that skinny, pretty people can get gestational diabetes too.

I mean, yay. Thank gawd she came out and shared her story (like, OMG, how "it’s difficult to see cellulite on your arms when you didn’t have any before!").

So difficult!

But hey, maybe I shouldn't knock her. I considered naming my son after a maxi pad.