Nursing a Nurse-In

Last month, a woman on a Delta Airlines flight was nursing her 22-month old child. A stewardess asked her to cover herself with a blanket and handed her one to use, and the nursing mother refused, saying she was within her legal rights to breastfeed her child. She was then asked to leave the plane. The nursing mother did so quietly because, she said, she did not want to create a scene.

Now she's suing TWO airlines because of the brouhaha, and everyone from FOX News to Arianna Huffington have tsk tsk'ed at Delta Airlines for their role in the matter. Petititions are flying all over the Internet to encourage Congress to pass some kind of breastfeeding protection law, "nurse-ins" were held at airports around the country a few weeks ago to demonstrate support, and every mommy blog in the country has weighed in using what in critical thinking circles are often referred to as "illogical", "cyclical" and "just plain stupid" arguments to defend the nursing mother.

For instance, did you realize that nursing your child at the Las Vegas airport and exposing your breasts while doing so is o.k. because there are a lot of strippers and showgirls who work in Vegas?

Or, did you realize that because other women choose to wear low-cut and exceedingly tight shirts to expose their saline and silicone-filled boobies that it is o.k. to nurse your child and expose your breasts?

And this one is my personal favorite -- did you realize that asking a woman to cover her bare nursing breast up in public is the EXACT same thing as requiring her to wear a burqa?

Let's set a few things straight, ladies. There are a few places in the world where it might be o.k. to expose your breasts, say, during a pajama party at the Playboy Mansion. But as a general rule, it is NOT o.k. to expose your breasts to the general public -- whether you've got a kid latched onto them or you're trying to score an incredible set of Mardi Gras beads. Why is this? It's simple -- our culture fetishizes breasts as sexual objects, and likes to forget their rather utilitarian purpose of sustaining life. This might not be fair or right. But that is the way it is. A few hundred women nursing their children at airports across the nation on an assigned day isn't going to change that. In fact, an act of Congress will not change it either.

I think the important thing to remember is that the stewardess didn't tell this woman not to nurse her child; she was merely asking the nursing woman to be a bit more discreet about doing so. In my opinion, this isn't a political issue; instead, it is a rather simple issue of good manners.

Good manners? Remember those?

I have spent a lifetime being refereed by my father, also known as Mr. Manners, on everything from how to hold my silverware the right way to how to construct a decent thank you note. And while much of being polite and minding your manners revolves around arbitrary and subjective cultural norms (i.e. not showing your breasts in public), the absolute final rule of minding your p's and q's is making sure that other people around you are comfortable. It's that simple.

And while God knows I'm all for breasts and breastfeeding, here's the deal: unless you are swinging around on a pole surrounded by drunk men waving dollar bills in their hands or if you are standing on Bourbon Street and a crowd above is chanting "Show Me Your Tits", in this country, exposed breasts generally make people uncomfortable. So, nursing mommys everywhere, don't file a lawsuit -- just accept the blanket and cover yourselves up in public. Think, for just a minute, about the other people around you, who have absolutely no interest in seeing your exposed breast -- no matter what it is doing. I assure you these people do not look at breastfeeding as a political issue; they are looking at your breast and wondering why they must do so.

Dr. No

It seems that a lot of what I say to Mike goes something like this:

"No."

"Don't do that."

"Get off of that table."

"Get that out of your mouth."

"I said no."

"What did mommy just say? I said no. And when I say no, it means you need to stop."

"Stop!"

"Didn't I tell you to get off of that table?"

"You have two choices. You can either get off of that table OR you can get off of that table and take a time-out. But either way, you're getting off of that table."

"No."

"No."

"Stop. I said STOP!"

And so on and so forth. There are definitely days that I am convinced that I have given birth to the devil's spawn, but most days, I just think that Mike is one of those kids who is always going to test limits -- every limit. There's part of me that really appreciates this about him; as a tried-and-true limit tester myself, I admire this personality trait of his. But now that I am on the receiving end of the sideways glance over the shoulder that, already at two-and-a-half, is a brazen "Yeah lady? And what are you going to do to stop me?" look before he forges ahead and does exactly the opposite of what I have just told him to do, I have to admit that all of this "No-ing" that I am forced to do all day every day is completely exhausting. There are many days that I just feel like crying "Uncle!" and letting him run with scissors, hop down the stairs backwards, open the oven, and play with sharp knives.

While at the doctor the other day, I was reading a parenting magazine (never in short supply at an OB's office). And, sandwiched in between the same old articles on evaluating the safety of your home and installing nanny cams to make sure your nanny doesn't give your kid Oreos to eat all day long, there was a very interesting article written by a woman who is a mother of a limit-tester herself. She started the article by saying that of her two children, one is a docile, happy-go-lucky child that takes things as they come and is rarely, if ever, disciplined. The second child, however, is a completely different story and her conversations with this child resemble the conversations I detailed above that I enjoy with Mike. In short, "No. No. No. No. No. No."

This woman happens to be friends with a leading child psychologist, and after said child psychologist stayed with them for the weekend, she said to the mother of this difficult child, "Have you ever thought about saying YES to everything she wanted?"

The author's first response (as was mine) was something along the lines of "SACRILEGE! Who DAREST to tempt fate like that?" Because if it's one thing that mommys know, it is that giving into a toddler will surely result in catastrophic psychological damage, and you will be left with a spoiled brat who will demand a $200 week allowance for setting the table in kindergarten and nothing short of an Aston Martin for his 16th birthday.

But the author decided to live on the edge and try it for a week. Her kid wanted to stay home from pre-school? O.K. then, but mom wasn't going to make any special room for her; she'd have to entertain herself while mom worked from home, and the kid wanted to go back to preschool after two days. She wanted to watch unlimited television? All righty then. She could sit and watch TV until her eyes fell out of her head, but she ended up getting bored pretty quickly. She wanted to make her own PB&J -- with a KNIFE? Well, as long as mom was supervising closely, she did just that -- and she ended up eating the whole thing.

The author made it sound so easy that I decided to try this with Mike. At the library, when he wanted to check out EVERY SINGLE TRUCK BOOK ON THE SHELF instead of the limit of 3 that I normally set, I just said, "Fine." And we ended up walking out of the library without a giant fit and then at home, he sat and looked at all nine of his truck books by himself -- for an hour. When Mike wanted to have a cookie for a snack instead of our customary fruit and cheese, I said, "All right." He ended up eating three cookies, but wanted fruit for dessert at dinner. When we went to the grocery store and he wanted to help push the cart, I told him "O.K. then." He pushed the cart for a few aisles and then asked to be put up in the seat. When Mike wanted to watch a construction truck video instead of reading a book one afternoon, I decided not to push the book on him, which would have resulted in me getting frustrated with him jumping all over the place not listening to the story. The result? I enjoyed 15 minutes of him sitting still and being quiet, totally entranced by bulldozers and excavators in action.

The week went on like that with fewer fits and whining episodes and with me generally feeling less tired and cranky and a little bit further than normal from the "end of my rope." I did discover that there's a certain amount of "No-ing" that has to be done when you're dealing with a 2 year old. For instance, not once was Mike allowed to run with scissors, hop down the stairs backwards, open the oven, or play with really sharp knives. But deciding to limit my no's only to those no's that kept him safe from his own curious mind and what could happen with a range of sharp objects made the week much more enjoyable -- for both of us.

It left me wondering just how much of my constant "no-ing" is necessary, and how much of it is habit, and how much of it is setting arbitrary limits that don't do anyone any good. And, I also discovered that Mike's limit testing has less to do with pushing the envelope and driving me over the edge than wanting to assert his independence in ways that only a two-year old can.

So with luck and determination, saying yes will become a new habit for me, and the result will not be a spoiled monster who makes his way in the world by doing exactly what he wants, regardless of what other people feel or think. Instead, what I hope we'll end up with is a less-frazzled mommy and a happier home, a place where Mike can become a fiercely independent child who learns to make good decisions for himself and who always evaluates how his decisions will affect others.

Spy Game

In my former life as a free-wheeling single gal with seemingly nothing on my hands but oodles of time with which I could do what I pleased, I loved to go to the movies. It should be stated here that I will sit and be entertained by everything from high-art "films" to "Friday" starring Ice Cube. Give me a giant bucket o'buttered popcorn, a sugary drink, some Rasinettes, and let the movie, any movie, roll.

One of my favorite genres of movies is the classic spy thriller. Whether it's James Bond, Ethan Hunt, or Maxwell Smart, I could watch these guys talk into their shoes, narrowly escape all kinds of explosions, and get laid by gorgeous women 20 hours a day. I used to have the Mission Impossible theme on tape, and often played it before a night out on the town, and like any normal Midwestern girl, I used to dream of growing up to be Pussy Galore.

I mean, come on -- PUSSY GALORE -- does it get ANY better than that?

So imagine my complete and utter delight when, shortly after finishing my master's degree in poetry, I was perusing the newspaper for jobs when I saw an ad for the Central Intelligence Agency. Working for the CIA as a poet sounded infinitely more interesting than moving back home to live with my parents as an unemployed poet, and so I sent in my resume. A few weeks later, I stepped out of the shower to a ringing phone and when I answered, I heard: "Sara? This is Peter Norman of the Central Intelligence Agency."

To which I replied: "SHUT UP!"

Then, Mr. Norman, in what I remember as an English accent, said: "We'd like to spend some time with you to see if you're a good fit for clandestine operations."

To which I replied: "GET OUT!"

But it was true. The CIA wanted me. And so my life as a secret interviewee began.

Actually, it wasn't so secret because I think I told everyone, from my parents to the checkers at Winn Dixie, that I was interviewing with the CIA to be a spy. A spy! Like James Bond! How can you possibly keep a secret like that? I mean, I was on the cusp of intrigue and villians who wanted to take over the world and pencils that could kill people, or at least maim them until I could get them back to headquarters for interrogation. And I wasn't supposed to tell anyone that? I was a writer, for chrissakes! It was my goal in life to make a lot of money by telling people stories!

This probably should have been my first clue that I was not exactly cut out for clandestine operations.

My second clue should have been that whenever I get even slightly nervous about something, I am overcome by an immediate desire to poop. And, I don't think there's a lot of potty time during clandestine operations.

Nonetheless, I managed to overlook these two rather significant warning signs, and convinced myself that actually, I was MADE to be a spy. I had travelled the world. I was fluent in a couple of languages. I had my MFA in poetry. If I wasn't spy material, then really, who was?

And so, off I went, on a series of interviews with CIA operatives, who turned out not to be James Bondish at all. There were no dashing Englishmen in tuxes. There were no martinis involved. Nobody talked into their lapels or carried briefcases full of explosives. In fact, it was about the least glamorous job interview I had ever endured -- days of sitting in non-descript conference and hotel rooms with a revolving series of big guys in tweed jackets with bad haircuts, any of whom could have been a history teacher at the local public high school.

They drilled me on world leaders and obscure governments, U.S. foreign policy, and the policies of countries that I knew only because I love all types of ethnic food. They also presented me with a series of situations in which I had to describe the actions that I would take, like what if one of my sources met me in the woods and had a heart attack? Would I take him to the hospital and risk blowing my and his cover? Leave him in the woods to die? When my answer of driving about 150 mph to the hospital and dumping his body on the steps of the ER and then speeding off through the streets was met with visibly raised eyebrows, I knew I had not chosen correctly.

I also spent the day with a psychologist, and I took an afternoon-long personality test, both of which probably set off very loud warning bells that I was not clandestine material. For me, it became evident that I would need to choose another line of work when I was asked, "Would you do whatever it takes to get the job done?"

In normal job interviews, "whatever it takes" might mean pulling a very occasional 80-hour week, working some all-nighters or even a weekend or a holiday. But "whatever it takes" when you're talking about the CIA could mean "whatever" from learning a new language to living in the desert somewhere to killing those aforementioned villians, many of whom probably still reside in underwater caves where they develop their plans for world domination and produce nerve gas in massive quantities.

It is probably a good thing the CIA's screening process weeded me out as not being fit for clandestine operations. Because clandestine I am not. I'm not even up for "whatever it takes to get a job done" at a normal job anymore, let alone at the CIA, because if someone asked me to work all weekend, I'd definitely ask "I get overtime for that, right?"

So, for now and forevermore, I will have to content myself with a new James Bond movie every few years, and even though I know otherwise now, I'll dream of what could have been my life -- Aston Martins, big budget explosions, incredible chase scenes while wearing sophisticated eveningwear -- all the while driving my sensible 4-door sedan through the streets of Helena, with the Mission Impossible theme song playing softly in the background.

Va-va-voom!

For the past two weeks, I have been experiencing what can only be described as completely agonizing back pain. With every step of my enormous, Sequoia-sized left leg, a pain that is akin to someone sticking a machete into my spine and then turning it really hard shoots all the way down to my toenails. I have been comforting myself with memories of the last few weeks of my first pregnancy, during which I was in so much back pain that I had to crawl on my hands and knees, and left with nothing to do except crawl and sit on my fat pregnant ass, I read every single book by John Steinbeck. So at least this time I can walk, and I also thank the good lord that we have cable now because instead of reading American literary classics, I can watch illuminating episodes of Dr. 90210 over and over again.

I call Dr. 90210 illuminating because it never ceases to amaze me how many women per hour-long episode feel the need to inflate their breasts to cartoon-like proportions. It makes me want to dress up as Edward Scissorhands and wander around southern California, accidentally deflating oodles of saline-filled boobies.

Because as a woman with two of the largest, weightiest, naturally occurring breasts in the universe, I am here to attest that enormous boobs may get you lots of free booze in your twenties, but once you've reached a certain age, you can afford your own booze and if guys are buying you drinks just because they're hoping to cop a feel well, then, Houston, we have a problem.

Actually, gargantuon breasts create all kinds of problems, and sleazy hangers-on who only talk to your boobs are the least of it. I assure you that you will never really look thin if you have big boobs. It's virtually impossible to find a button-down shirt that doesn't come in a tent-like proportion on the rest of your body. And dresses? You're left with two choices -- mumus OR that Frederick's of Hollywood look with boobs hanging every which way, and neither look will ever be acceptable in most normal social circles. Large breasts also get in the way of everything from sleeping on your stomach to a golf swing. And don't even get me started on what I started this post with -- chronic back problems. Because I promise you, no amount of free booze will ever make up for the lower back pain one endures because of the two giant weights that hang constantly around your neck.

The sad thing is that I was "well-endowed" prior to this pregnancy, and then during the first five months, my breasts seemed to develop their own future porn-star-with-stretch-marks agenda. I think it is entirely possible that I have gained approximately 27 pounds PER BREAST over the last nine months, and it was with great sadness that I tucked away my seemingly miniature DDD (yes, that's THREE D's) bras and ordered the big guns on the Internet. I stress that I had to order these bras on the Internet because they do not sell this new bra size of mine in ANY STORES. No, I had to type "breasts, enormous, bras" into Google and after wading through porn sites for women with names like BB Gunns and Ricki RaXXX, I found a depressing little site called "Big Girl Bras" where my search for orthopedic undergarments was fulfilled.

I now wear my orthopedic bras and tent-like shirts, and am thankful for my 56-inch "waist," which, according to my tactful husband, makes my breasts look "miniscule." Ha. But what happens next? While the majority of women who have babies and breastfeed end up with deflated looking boobs that are significantly smaller than their original size, my breasts just got bigger the first time around. I went from a D to a DDD. Will I end up wearing an M? Do they even make an M? What about an MMM, which is all starting to sound a little too close to the porn circuit for my taste.

I imagine, as it is with most of pregnancy and childbirth, the future size and shape of my breasts will remain in question for way too long. But it certainly isn't lost on me that Dr. 90210 features many women in their late 30s who are getting their implants removed in favor of smaller, more compact models. When you're in your 20s, big boobs can do just about anything from securing dates with upwardly mobile young men to getting you free drinks at a bar to talking your way out of speeding tickets. But, at some point, big boobs are just big boobs -- and nobody wants to spend the rest of their lives dealing with one big boob on a daily basis, let alone two.

Here's Why

I was watching George Stephanopolous and Fareed Zakaria this morning on "This Week", and I found myself thinking that there are few things hotter than two smart guys in suits who are in tune with the world and are very opinionated, debating national politics.

And then I thought that this is probably how I ended up being married to the Illinois State Chess Champion.

It Starts Early

One of the things that you think a lot about when you are about to have a child is actually having the child. I would go so far as to say that, while most women can't wait to have their baby in their arms, they dread what they have to go through to get to that point. Which is pretty understandable, because let's face it -- labor and delivery are what one might call the ultimate endurance test.

In today's world of birthing babies, women are encouraged to "visualize" the birth they want and to "practice" various techniques of pain management prior to the real deal. Women are even encouraged to develop something called a "birth plan" that has specific instructions on how they want to manage everything from the lighting in the room to whether or not their doctors will "assist" with labor if, for instance, their water has broken but their labor is not progressing.

I will admit here that I am a Type A Control FREAK. The idea of planning something like a birth is, in many ways, very appealing to me. But let's face facts: you don't really have a lot of say in how the birth of your new baby is going to go.

When I had Mike, I went in for what I thought was a weekly check-up. My doctor, however, had other ideas when she saw what my blood pressure was. She put me in a wheelchair and had her nurse wheel me over to the hospital to have a baby -- in spite of my protests that I was not prepared to have a baby AND I had a lunch date. Then, I was hooked up to all kinds of monitors, given only clear liquids to consume, and told to pee in something the nurses called "the hat" every hour for the next eight hours. After enduring that, my doctor came in, inserted some kind of balloon into my vagina, which got labor started, and sent me home for the night with strict instructions not to do ANYTHING. I was supposed to go to the hospital at 7 a.m. the next morning.

Just to show her, I showed up at the hospital two hours late. I was given a very hideous hospital gown to wear, and told to get into bed and lay on my left side. Then I was hooked up to a blood pressure monitor, an external fetal monitor, and an IV with an artificial hormone to get the contractions going. I was not allowed to walk around, to eat, or to do anything except lay on my left side as the contractions increased.

I assure you that this was not the birth that I had so meticulously "planned." I had envisioned roaming the halls, soaking in the giant jetted tub, using yoga positions to manage pain, and a birthing ball to help things along. While it was certainly not the "feel-good" labor and delivery I had imagined, the end result was Mike: a nearly 7 pound, bright red, screaming-at-the-top-of-his-lungs beautiful and perfect baby.

I'm telling you all of this because I remember, shortly after giving birth to Mike, listening to other women tell their birth stories, and, some of them, like me, did not have the experience they anticipated. As they talked about their labor and delivery, many of them sobbed openly. Women who had to have C-sections talked about feeling as if they had not really "birthed" a baby. I couldn't believe it. It seemed that everywhere I turned, women berated themselves for needing something to manage the pain during a long and overwhelming labor. Others who had undergone emergency C-sections felt as if they weren't the real deal. How could this be?

They had already gotten caught in the mommy trap, this miserable place where many mothers exist because they believe, after hearing it for months or years or maybe even once, that they didn't try hard enough, that they should have worked harder, and if they had, things probably would have gone exactly as they had imagined. Because out there in the world, there is an entire chorus of women, a very loud and insistent chorus, many of whom had the labor and delivery of their dreams, that says things like, "I'd never want to be induced and go through that." Or, "Did you do everything you could to avoid a C-section?" Or, "Don't you think if you made it through a few more contractions, you wouldn't have needed that epidural?"

I will go on record as saying that I find it absolutely shocking when women critique other women for how they manage their labor, or, even worse, for how they end up giving birth. In fact, I recently was involved in a conversation where one woman said about another, "She had to have the baby in the hospital instead of at home, and then she wanted an epidural!"

And so it starts early -- before the baby even enters the birth canal -- this constant critique of how other women mother their children. Did she actually have the nerve to have an epidural during a long and overwhelming labor? Did she actually send her baby to the nursery so she could get a night's sleep? Did she choose to circumcise her little boy?

I wished that it stopped there, but this is only the beginning. Because I've heard mothers who choose not to breastfeed referred to as "selfish"; I've heard other women criticize a mother who actually dares to drink real coffee while breastfeeding as "poisoning her baby." Women who work and put their babies in daycare are often dismissed as "just wanting to get ahead" or "just wanting to make more money" and "allowing complete strangers to raise their children." Women who stay home are often referred to as women "who gave it all up" or as "dependent" on their husbands, or as women on "Easy Street." But there's more: pacifiers, cloth vs. Pampers, clothing, shoe choices, children's activities, playgroups, nannies, organic vs. non-organic. And don't even get me started on the whole sugar/juice debate.

So here we are. At a time when you need other women and their emotional, and often physical, support more than at any other time, we are so busy looking down our noses at how other people do things that we fence ourselves off from building a valuable community. The facts are that we are probably all doing the very best that we can. And, just like in high school or college, our levels of "best" vary widely. I barely passed out of Math 099 even after paying big bucks for a tutor to help me with percentages and fractions. But if you wanted to hear my interpretation of "A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man", well, pull up a chair. I never felt like I was "less" or not trying because I can't add and subtract; I just wasn't good at it. But I have felt like I'm a horrible mother who doesn't care enough or love enough because I need, emotionally and financially, to walk out the door to work every morning.

Just like with math vs. English, there are aspects of mothering that we excel at and others where we could all use a little help. And, just like with the birth experience we all want, but for one reason or another might not have, things come up in life that dictate tough choices about how we mother our children. We would all do well by ourselves to remember that every woman is different. Every child is different. Every home is different. Every financial situation is different. And every person and situation calls for a different solution.

Mothering is, thank goodness, NOT a one-size-fits-all proposition where you can take a cookie-cutter approach to do what is best for your children and your family. New challenges arise every day that require quick thinking and problem-solving, and there are some days that you're going to be better at that than others. The one thing that we can all do for our children is to demonstrate as much understanding as we can for how other people live their lives -- regardless of whether or not they make the choices we would make for our families -- and maybe most importantly, not to pass judgment on the different ways they've designed to get through life. Mothering is a hard job, and it can be lonely and thankless. The last thing we should be doing is making it harder for one another by requiring everyone else to live up to the impossibly high standards we all set for ourselves.

Freedom Is Just Another Word

I recently read an old commencement address that David Foster Wallace gave at Kenyon College last year. I don't know that it would have resonated with me as a 22 year-old, hell-bent on world domination. But as a 34 year-old mother of one, soon-to-be-two, children, it hit home.

The long and short of it is that Wallace believes you choose who you want to be through small, unsexy choices every single day. For example, you can choose to lay on the horn the second the light turns green because the car in front of you is lingering. Or, you can choose to tap your foot impatiently as the old lady in the express lane at Safeway counts out her change and makes small talk with the cashier. Or you can choose to half-listen to your friend on the phone while you check your email and cruise the Internet.

But in the address, Wallace essentially asks you to stop and see the other person's point of view for just a second. Maybe the car in front of you isn't going through the stop light because a toddler is choking in the back seat. Maybe that cashier at Safeway is the only human being the old lady will talk to all week long. Maybe your friend is overwhelmed and lonely and trying to reach out to someone, but you don't get it because you're too involved in your own life.

My grandma died yesterday. She was 98. For the past ten years of her life, every time that I've seen her, I've thought to myself, "That's the last time I will see her alive." Not only was she nearly one-hundred years old, but she also had breast cancer, cancer in other parts of her body and congestive heart failure. I watched as, over the years, she went from being a big, strong independent woman who lived on her own, to living in a nursing home and depending on a wheelchair to get around. I've often wondered about her quality of life. I've often wondered what kept her going. What would it be that kept me going when I couldn't get out of bed by myself? Would I want to keep on keeping on?

My grandma believed there were lots of reasons to get out of bed every day. Some of them were small joys, like reading our small-town daily newspaper with a cup of coffee each morning. Others were goals towards which she steadily marked progress. I'm not talking about the kind of goals that you and I may set (i.e. "I'm going to lose 30 pounds by Christmas" or "I'm going to travel to a new foreign country this year.") Her goals were much more simple as in "I'm going to live long enough to see Sara graduate from high school." That was actually her first goal over 16 years ago. Then she wanted to live long enough to see my brother graduate from high school. Then me from college. Then Matt from college. Then me finishing graduate school. Then Matt getting married. Then there must have been a real lull in there, but finally I got married. Then me having my first baby. And now, with about a month until baby #2 arrives, she passed away.

I have to tell you that as ill as my grandmother was, I was still shocked that she didn't live long enough to see this new baby born. Because, as you may have guessed by now, what kept my grandma going all of these years, through catastrophic illness and dramatic change, was her family. My mom, with whom my grandma spoke every day and who made incredible room in her life to care for my grandmother and to advocate for her and to always be there for her, was an especially vital lifeline. But she also needed the rest of us -- my dad, whom my grandma loved like her own child, and my brother and his wife and me and my husband and my son.

My grandmother lived a very simple life. She was a wife. She was a mother. She was a grandmother. She was a sister. She was a homemaker. Long before any of those words had any cache or real meaning or political relevance, these words were my grandmother's identity. She was all of those things and, as any wife and mother will tell you, she was a lot more. She was an expert cookie-baker. She liked to sit with my grandpa in their two matching rocking chairs in the backyard and enjoy a glass of instant iced tea in the summer. She came to every birthday party. She babysat whenever my folks asked. She made meatloaf without onions on one end for my onion-phobic brother. She liked to watch Lawrence Welk and listen to records. She fed hobos who came to her backdoor during the Depression. She was a devotee to Larry King Live. She cut out every article that ever mentioned my brother and me and saved them in a shoebox. She kept every homemade card. She asked my mother and I to attend "Mother/Daughter Banquets" at her lodge every year, and literally glowed with pride when we were introduced. She played the tambourine in a band. She learned how to drive in her mid-80s. She read every column I ever wrote. She remembered a poem I wrote about living on turkey sandwiches in college and thought it was quite possibly comparable to something by Walt Whitman. When I was a kid, she always let me use my favorite glass, which was glass, even though there was a very high probability I could have broken it. Her closet was full of incredibly intricate old hats that she let me use for dress-up. She grew violets that bloomed all winter. She knew us better than we knew ourselves.

Most of all, my grandma believed in us. You would think that it would be hard for an old woman who was pretty set in her ways to take enormous leaps of faith, but she never hesitated to extend her belief that you were doing the right thing, and that you would become a better person because of it, and that the entire world would likely benefit too. For some people her age, it would have been hard to swallow that a certain granddaughter wanted to be a writer, and so packed all of her belongings into a Honda Civic and drove off into the sunset to live in New Orleans. But for my grandma, that turkey poem pretty much cemented, in her mind at least, that if anyone was going to write the great American novel, it would be me and so attending graduate school 2,000 miles from home made perfect sense. Besides, she liked to point out, it was important for a woman to have a good education. When I received a fellowship to live in Prague and study poetry with world-famous writers and then decided to travel around Europe on both ends of school for months by myself, my grandma believed that it was a perfect and incredible opportunity. Besides, she said to me, you're only young once and you need to do all you can when you've got the chance.

And so, that was my grandmother's life. It wasn't a knock-your-socks-right-off kind of life, full of travel, desire, intrigue, and accolades. Instead, it was a quiet life, a happy life, a life full of everything my grandmother needed and wanted to get by.

It might be easy to look back on my grandma's life and think how quaint, how simple, and envy her for that. But think for a minute of how you want your life to be remembered or, even better, of the things that you count on as most important. When I think back on my own life, the awards I've won or the degrees I've received figure very small into the scheme of things, and don't factor in at all as my favorite memories, the thoughts I rely on to get me through dark times. Instead, I remember having Sunday dinner with my entire family. I think about picking raspberries with my grandpa and baking cookies with my grandma. I remember helping to decorate my grandparents' small Christmas tree and the different ornaments, which all had special meaning. I remember Saturday mornings spent with my dad, or winter afternoons building blanket forts with my mom. I remember playing elaborate make-believe games with my brother, or later in life, sitting on the front porch of our shared house in the middle of the night and having long conversations with my best friend, Shannon. I remember eating chips and salsa among the banana trees with my friend Diane at her small house in New Orleans. I remember long car rides with my husband as we shuttled toward a new phase in our life together. I remember holding my son for the first time, and the first time that he told me he loved me.

And so, as we move forward in our lives, seemingly always in pursuit of more -- more things, more money, more power -- I think my grandma's life is a good one to remember. Because she didn't want anymore. In her family and friends, she had enough. In fact, it was more than enough to sustain her. Wallace writes in his commencement address that the "really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day." If that's what freedom really is, then my grandmother was soaring high above everyone, completely unfettered, always extending her long, loving arms to those who needed them.

Children's Books

If I ever write a children's book, the title of it may be "Mommy Doesn't Like You When You Cry."

Brent likes to accuse me of having no empathy. This from the social worker who gets a good laugh about the guy who beats his kid with his titanium leg.

I think I have empathy that runneth over -- unless it's approximately three minutes into one of Mike's crying jags where he is whining incessantly about being scared because I am about to leave the house/take a shower/go upstairs or otherwise remain out of his sight for longer than 30 seconds.

Then, I will admit, I morph into one of those mommys you might recognize from a midnight run to Wal-mart -- you know the kind -- they turn to their overly tired, whining and crying child and say in a demon voice as their eyes narrow and turn yellow, "SHUT UP!"

But instead of telling my kid to shut up, I usually end up yelling, "GET IN YOUR TIME-OUT CHAIR!"

Because punishing a kid who is suffering from severe separation anxiety is probably the right thing to do. Right?

Right?

Sometimes a Pet Is Just a Pet

While in the mail room at work the other day, a co-worker asked me if I was going to have twins or triplets. This question is now something that is posed to me on a nearly daily basis, but I still must forcefully resist the urge to say "Why no, but my doctor tells me I'm going to pass something that weighs approximately 11 pounds OUT OF MY VAGINA in a few weeks." Do not mess with the giant waddling pregnant woman or I will talk about the glories of giving birth and use the word vagina a lot. I know how huge I am. I am the one who hasn't seen my toes in months and for whom putting on socks is the equivalent of an Olympic event.

Then this woman asked me if I had any other kids, which, of course, I do.

"Yes," I said. "I've got a very active two year-old."

But here's my favorite part. She replied by saying, "Boy, you're going to be busy! And I should know because I have two kittens! And I had to feed one of them with a bottle!"

So let me follow her logic for you in case you didn't get it: adopting two kittens from the pound equals being pregnant for a total of 18 months of your life, shooting two enormous living creatures out of your VAGINA (there's that word again), then having these two enormous creatures attached to your BREASTS for a total of TWO YEARS. This, of course, is just the most basic of childbirth and care, because then there's all of that other stuff, like teaching them how to do everything from using silverware to actually being a decent human being to how to make farting noises underneath their armpit. You know, all that vital stuff with which they would never make it through life without knowing.

Incredibly, this is not the first time someone has felt compelled to share their belief that having a pet is comparable to child-rearing. But as I live and breathe, I am here to bear witness to the fact that being a pet-owner is NOTHING compared to being a parent. NOTHING people. Because even if you're a bad parent, you will likely still do more for your kid if you're going out of town for the weekend than throw down some extra food and leave the toilet seat up. At least I would hope so. If not, you're probably on a first-name basis with child protective services.

As someone who does double-duty as a pet owner AND a mother, I can provide expert testimony that having an animal who is content to clean its own ass with its tongue is quite a lot different than having to teach someone to use the potty. I can assure you that throwing some food and water in a bowl and leaving it on the floor is quite a lot different than trying to convince a two-year old to actually consume a few bites of the delicious and nutritious meal you have prepared when there are trucks calling his name. I can tell you that mindlessly throwing a ball around or moving a piece of string with your foot is quite a lot different than reading, baking, singing, building with blocks, surveying various construction sites for good trucks, making different colored poop with Play-Doh, coloring a little bit on each of the 500 pages in a Curious George coloring book, or enduring time at the park again with no naked George Clooney or at least free alcohol as an incentive. I promise you that having a creature whose favorite activity is sleeping is quite a lot different than managing a routine that includes bubble baths, reading books until you feel as if your tongue is going to dry up and fall out of your head, and then rocking and singing songs until you are ready to pass out, but your little one could keep going for another 7 hours. And I am here to tell you that having an animal you can punish for misdeeds by locking it into a crate or rubbing its nose in its own feces is quite a lot different than trying to help a two-year old grow up to be a decent, kind, compassionate and all-around good human being, which according to parenting experts, means that crating and fecal-rubbing are automatically excluded as acceptable punishments.

Trap Door

When my brother and I were kids, we didn't like to drink milk. My dad solved this problem by asking us, as we sat down at the table for a meal, "How would you kids like a milkshake?" This was asked with what I would now recognize as completely fake enthusiasm and a giant smile pasted on his face.

Milk? Barf. But a milkshake? If I could have figured out how to do a milkshake stand, let's just say I would have.

"Milkshakes! Yeah milkshakes!" my brother and I would yell, and my dad would make us milkshakes, pour the delicious frosty concoctions into giant glasses for us, and glug, glug, glug, we'd greedily lap up every drop.

Now before you say, "Sweet jumpin' johosefat! No wonder your butt has a 3-second stop like an old waterbed from 1984. Your dad fed you milkshakes?", you need to allow me to explain.

Because as my brother and I cheered the possibility of not having to drink milk by holding out for that sinfully sweet deliciously frothy milkshake, my dad would concoct the milkshakes before our very eyes -- by taking the gallon of 2% milk out of the refrigerator and shaking it as if he were playing the castnanets in Ricky Ricardo's dance band. Then he would pour us a big glass of shaken milk that was nothing more than good ol' frothy 2% -- mmmmm, delicious 2%. Even though the old man hoodwinked us right before our very eyes, my brother and I didn't wise up to his tricks until we were in our late 20's.

My point is, no matter how smart your kids are, every once in a great while, you're a little bit smarter.

Now, if you live within 2,500 miles of Helena, Montana, you may have noticed a shrieking sound that rattles all of the glass in your house. That shrieking sound is emitted twice daily, once after lunch and once after dinner, when Brent and I dare to sit our son down on the potty to try to poop. Now Mike could happily be sitting on the potty congratulating himself on what a good job he is doing taking a pee in the potty, but if Brent or I say, "You're doing a really great job being a big boy on the potty! Now try to take a poop!", the yelling commences. Apparently the mere thought of depositing poop somewhere other than right up against your butt in a diaper is akin to having your temperature taken anally at the doctor while simultaneously getting a shot AND having your finger and toenails clipped by Mark, the barber who uses the buzzers and a vacuum to clean up hair. Yes, that is how completely hideous the mere suggestion of pooping on the potty seems to be.

We have remedied this situation by allowing our son to poop in a diaper or pull-up while sitting on the potty. If you do not have children, I am sure you are rolling your eyes and thinking that I am on my way to raising a guy who everybody describes as real quiet and nice and they just will never be able to understand what went wrong after he walks into a store and mows everyone down with a submachine gun. If you do have children and you are in the midst of potty-training, you are probably thinking, "What a great idea!"

But wait -- it gets better.

My husband, definitely more of the trickster of the two of us, said the other day, "We should just cut a hole in the back of his diaper and put it on him and then when he takes a poop, it will just fall right out in the toilet."

And I said, "I think you're onto something there!"

So, Brent took a pull-up and with a snip-snip here and there, he created something that we should probably trademark and make a million dollars off of: the trap door!

We put the trap door on Mike last night and after a few minutes of sitting on the potty, Mike announced, "My poop just went in the potty!" with some degree of confusion.

Brent took him off the toilet and all three of us stood around and admired the floating pooper. "Well, what do you know!? Your poop DID go in the potty! Wow -- who took a poop on the potty? Who's a big boy and took a poop on the potty?" Brent asked.

"Mikey did," Mike said, looking very confused but quite pleased with himself. "Now, I would like that very cool firetruck," he said, pointing to what seems to be a life-size firetruck we bought for just such a special occasion.

And so it goes. We hope that we'll be able to move beyond the trap door soon, and that our son will just take the initiative to deposit poop somewhere other than mushed up against his own butt. But for now, we'll continue to use our trap door method and celebrate his success. Milkshakes all around!