Grammar Police

I do not pretend to have perfect grammar or even an unusually superior command of the English language. (After all, I am the History Goddess, not the English/Language Arts Goddess). I am guilty of grammatical misdeeds myself, to be certain. Two big ones that came up while I was writing my graduate thesis: I like to start sentences with "But" and "And" and I have a serious comma fetish. (Come on, what sentence couldn't use a few more commas?) Also, I've been know to end a sentence or a thousand with a preposition (pure laziness, I admit). So what follows may be a little hypocritical, but it's my Rant of the Week nonetheless.

I've seen this dozens of places in the past year and I just can't take it any longer. This has entered my top five grammatical pets peeves, rounding out the list that includes what I like to call the "errant apostrophe" (the various misuses of its/it's and your/you're), superfluous quotation marks*, people who use the noun bath as a verb**, and saying "all intensive purposes" instead of "all intents and purposes."

My newest hatin'? "Phased." As in, "I wasn't phased when my mother told me she was really an alien sent to Earth to learn human customs." It's fazed, people. You weren't not phased (carried out systematically), you were not fazed ("disturbed or disconcerted").***

F.A.Z.E.D.

Thank you.

Free Tip of the Day: People who write should, first and foremost, read. It's the single best way to improve your grammar and vocabulary. Read. A lot. Read anything, but, please, not just blogs. Read books and published things that have been edited.



*Quotation marks do not signify emphasis, people. Underline, bold and italics serve those purposes. There are a variety of correct uses, but none apply to being used on the word "sale" on an advertisement for your store. (However, they are correct when used on the word "sale" in this sentence and the previous one, as I am referring to the word itself. )
**The verb form is bathe.
***Disclaimer: The grammar in this sentence? Not sure.

History Class: It's not just for 8th graders anymore

Maybe because I spend all day discussing American History, I've been a little sensitive about the recent "Tea Party" protests in a slightly different way than the rest of Liberal America.* From what I can gather, the protests were organized in response to conservative disapproval of the current administration's attempts to help the sucktastic economy. Their main complaints were focused on the stimulus bill and "out of control government spending." I may not agree with their sentiments, but hey, everyone is entitled to their own opinion. And to paraphrase someone who paraphrased Voltaire, I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend your right to say it. Where my main beef lies is with the protest co-opting the "Tea Party" title, due to the original event's connection with patriots, liberty and righteous protest, but with complete disregard for the veraciousness (or not) of the association.

"History Lesson! History Lesson!"

It's hard to believe the city started as a trading post... Oh, wait, that's a Jimmy Buffett song that has nothing to do with this.

But back to my point, I fail to see the connection between the current "Tea Party" protests and the historic Boston Tea Party from which the current movement inaccurately derives its name.

The Boston Tea Party of 1773 was a response to the Tea Act, a law passed by Parliament earlier that year. Granted, the Tea Act was a sort of colonial era bailout, meant to give support to the British East India Tea Company which was suffering financial problems. Some of these financial problems had surfaced when the colonies began boycotting British tea after Parliament passed Townshend Acts beginning in 1767. That series of Acts placed duties on a variety of goods imported into the colonies, tea among them. The Townshend Acts were met with protests and boycotts because Parliament was beginning to establish a pattern of levying taxes on the colonies strictly for the purpose of generating revenue and not merely for regulating trade. And all of these Acts and taxes were being passed without actual representation of the colonists in Parliament. (Parliament was operating under the theory that the colonies, if they did not have "actual representation," had "virtual representation" by virtue of being British subjects.)

Although most of the Townshend duties were eventually repealed in response to colonial protests, the tax on tea remained. However, the amount of the tax on tea was so insignificant that it was hardly worth mentioning. It was the fact that a tax existed at all that was the sticking point. British citizens could not be taxed without the consent of their representatives. Where was the colonies' representation? Furthermore, the Tea Act gave the British East India Tea Company a monopoly on the tea trade in colonies (bailout), but made British tea cheaper than smuggled alternatives that the colonists had previously relied on during their boycotts of British tea. However, many colonists refused to be manipulated and continued to boycott British tea**

The issue came to a head with the famous Boston Tea Party, when the city of Boston refused to allow three ships from the British East India Tea Company to unload their cargo of tea. The city tried to force the ships to return to Britain without paying the tea tax; the royal governor of Massachusetts refused to allow the ships to leave (it's believed he wanted to force the issue). On December 16, 1773 (on the eve of the deadline for the first ship to pay its tax), a group of vigilantes boarded the ships and dumped 342 chests of tea into Boston Harbor. The act sent a message to Americans and British alike about how colonists felt about being told what to do by the British government without being given a voice of their own and the steps to which they were willing to go to resist.

Britain -- King, Parliament and citizens -- were not happy. And contrary to current beliefs, most of America was not supportive.

So let's recap. The colonists' main complaint: What do you think we are, stupid? We know there's still a tax on tea. Stop paying lip service to our protests and stop telling us what to do. It was the growing pains of a teenaged colonies.

But the arching overall theme of the colonial protests of the 1770's was that all of the Parliamentary Acts pressed on the colonies were created by a representative government that was not representative of the colonies. No colony had actual representation in Parliament. This was, as the saying goes, "taxation without representation."

The Yahoo News Article "Anti-Obama 'tea party' protests mark US tax day," reported:

One of the bigger demonstrations took place in Washington near the White House, where about 1,000 people waved placards including "Stop Big Government" and "Taxation is Piracy."

"My money is disappearing," said one protester, Marilyn Henretty 70, a retiree. "We are tired of being taxed without representation."

Excuse me... what?! Last time I checked, every U.S. citizen 18 and older who is not a convicted felon and has lived in the state they intend to vote in for at least 30 days has the Constitutionally protected right to vote.

Oh, wait. Do you mean that you don't feel you have representation because your guy lost? Sorry, but it doesn't work that way.

So for someone to say, "The $787 billion economic stimulus bill President Obama signed in February "was basically shoved down the throat of the American people," like protester T. J. Welsh said on Wednesday ("Nationwide Tea Party Protests Blast Spending," CNN.com), is not just their opinion, it's not factually true. We have this cool system that involves separation of powers as well as checks and balances (Don't worry, I'm not going to give an American Government lecture, too). What does all this mean? Short version: the majority of our elected representatives have to agree on something for it to happen.

Holy shit, people. Get your facts straight. And stop trying to gain respectability and legitimacy by piggybacking on an emotionally charged bit of American legend.

Thus endeth the lesson.


*For the record, I'm irritated by the protests in the same way the rest of Liberal America is, too.

**Hmmm. I wonder if the current "Tea Party" conservatives would continue their protest at financial expense to themselves. Principles over personal gain? Somehow, I hardly think so.

Incommunicado

I've been darn near wholly-absent from the virtual world the last couple of weeks. Let's recap:

• Goose had a fever of 103.9 at 4:00 a.m. one morning. Anyone who knows body temperatures, like a recovering infertile knows body temperatures, knows that a person's body temperature should be at its lowest point in the early morning.
• The Hubster and I played Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock to see who was staying home from work to take him to the doctor.
• Guess who lost won?
• Not ten minutes before we left the house for the doctor's office, our water went out.
• Right after I dealt with a diaper explosion.
  
• Our "neighborhood," and I use that term loosely because we live somewhat off-the-grid, regularly has water main breaks.
• Usually four to six times a year.
  
• Yes, we're somewhat off-the-grid, but we still manage to have public utilities, like city water instead of a well.
• That's why we bought the house. It's the best of both worlds.
  
• The doctor's verdict? Double ear infection. Which is kind of like Mardi Gras and Christmas rolled into one. Except not.
  
• The doctor also did a swab for RSV. Do you know how they do a swab for RSV? They take the world's longest q-tip and snake it up the baby's nose into his brain sinus cavity.
• Babies love it.
  
• We never had RSV at our house before, as Monk had Synagis shots.
  
• Luckily, we still haven't had RSV at our house. Negative!
• While I was rocking/nursing Goose to sleep one evening, the Hubster was supervising Monkeyboy. To use a Bossy-style-ism: where supervising means letting him click "Mark All Read" on the open Bloglines window on my laptop. Goodbye, 89,752* unread posts! I hardly knew ye.
• Monk also decided that his "Sit 'n Spin" was really more of a "Stand 'n Spin." Which became a "Spin 'n Throw-you-face-down-on-the-ceramic-tile." Result: bloody lip and bitten tongue, but no lasting or serious damage. Minor hysteria at no extra charge.
  
• When I have emailed any company's customer service department in the last month, their response has been "Our solution to your problem is to treat you like you're stupid. Not only that, but we also suggest several possible solutions that you mentioned in your email you tried already and they didn't work. However, we clearly did not read your email and are merely trying to give you the brush off, so... your problem? Good luck with that."
• Our ancient dog has been limping which the vet says is either a) a soft tissue injury or b) something deadly. We're waiting to find out.
• Although I fought the good fight, I finally had to start supplementing Goose's daycare bottles with a little formula. My huge freezer stash took a fatal hit during Ski Weekend. I haven't been able to build it back up partly because Goose sleeps all night, which has k-o'd my supply and partly because, like last time, I have come to hate pumping with a white-hot intensity.
  
• In fact, I should be pumping right now, but? Not.
• I am unreasonably disappointed by having to supplement.
• Unreasonable because a) It's less than four ounces a day, b) Uh, I could be pumping right now if it was that big a deal, and c) I should get over myself and my self-absorbed desire for hippie mama bragging rights that at least one of my kids never had a drop of formula (that ship has sailed).
• One of our cats has something going on with the toes on her front driver-side foot. It may be cancer, it may not. Again with the waiting to find out.
• One of our late dogs had to have a toe amputated about five years ago because of toe cancer.
• Is that as freaky to everyone else as it is to me?
• Seriously? Two pets with toe cancer? If that turns out to be true... I just don't know what.
  
• I think I am getting sick now. I have that scratchy throat feeling.
  
• There are now 50 days of school left. The Hubster will be out of town for 20 of them.
• Are you any good at math? Because to me that seems like half.
• No, it doesn't. I'm not that bad at math. I just like hyperbole.
• Except, really? It kind of almost is. Half I mean. Not really so much with the hyperbole.
  
• So, what's new with you? Because I lost like 2,766,543*** unread posts in my feed reader and I feel so out of touch.
  

*An estimate.
**Ironical. I'm a girl who battled oversupply and overactive letdown for the first six months and then dwindling supply and eventual supplementation the last six months with each baby.
***Revised estimate.

Go ahead... ask me about my giant baby (takes 3 and 4)

The Hubster had to cancel the business trip he was supposed to take at the beginning of this week, because on Friday he threw out his back lifting Goose out of his crib.

* * * * * * * * * *

Goose had been waking up at night because he was soaking through his diapers and wetting his clothes, which in boys is a signal they need a larger size. As of this weekend, we moved him up to size 5 diapers.* At nine months. The Monkeyboy, at age 3 1/2, wears size 6, but can wear a 5 in a pinch. They really are going to be sharing clothes soon.


*For the record, this did the trick. Since we switched, he's been dry.

Mother Nature, you old bitch... you got me again.

I'm so over winter.

This morning our school did not delay, although the weather was iffy. I don't work in the district in which live and the districts that surround my house all had two-hour delays. There were a couple of inches of snow at our house, so as he must on snowy days, the Hubster spent a pre-dawn hour clearing our driveway -- actually a long, unpaved, private road that is sort of a cross between San Francisco's Lombard Street and Khyber Pass.

By the time we left for work/school it had stopped snowing. The Hubster took the kids to daycare (he usually does since it's closer to where he works). As I turned from our driveway onto the main road, although it was a little snowy, it didn't seem bad.

This is where the ominous music should kick in.

Not half a mile down the road from our house, I almost completely lost control of my car, a Ford Escape. Was it frozen slush? The legendary black ice? Whatever it was, it was bad luck. Thankfully, I wasn't going very fast. Also, I have the skills of a NASCAR driver, if I say so myself. If it wasn't for the oncoming car, I think I would've been able to keep mine on the road. As it was, I did a series of vigorous loops and whirls -- sort of like a two-ton ballerina -- and in an effort to keep from slamming directly into the other car, aimed mine for the berm* the best I could. My neighborhood is semi-rural in nature, with enormous front yards and houses set far back from the road so this was the safest bet. I bumped over the edge and down an embankment, still spinning, and decorated the lawn of a neighbor's house with one of those pieces of performance art they like to do at Daytona.

When I rocked to a stop -- and do you know the oncoming car, having seen this all happen, barely slowed down and absolutely did not stop to see if I was okay -- I put it in four wheel drive, climbed back up the drop-off I had just skidded down and, as Charlie Daniels once put it, "limped on down the shoulder on the rim." Or rims, as it were. The two driver's side tires were f. l. a. t.

Unbelievably enough, three hours later I was safely at work. The Hubster had been my pit crew and it turned out the tires had merely popped their beads and didn't need to be replaced. By every facet of the experience, I was amazingly lucky.

But please please please can this winter be over now?


*It just occurred to me that the way I use this term might be a colloquialism. Apparently, it is. Wikipedia informs me that "In Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana and West Virginia, the word "berm" refers to the shoulder of a highway." Okay, then. Shoulder.

Why I hate NaBloPoMo

I know, I know… from the point of view of so many people it’s fun, it’s a challenge, it will change the way you blog, but I have come to hate NaBloPoMo.

From where I sit, it’s not that much fun. I have a just large enough list of favorite blogs that NaBloPoMo wears me out from a reading standpoint. Every time I open my reader, it seems that dozens more blogs have updated. It’s just too much to read every day. I try to keep up, but if I don’t read blogs for one day, I’ll fall behind. Far behind. It sort of makes me feel like blog reading is homework. I don’t want to feel that way.

Of course, the real truth about why I hate NaBloPoMo is that makes me face my own shortcomings. Last year’s NaBloPoMo? A bust by day ten. I discovered that it is virtually impossible for me to post on the weekends. (I’ve since come to accept that.) Also, November contains the Monkey’s birthday, Veteran’s Day, Parent-Teacher Conferences and Thanksgiving (which extends the normal weekend to six days!). NaBloPoMo? For me, it would be more like NaBloPomostweekdays butcertainlynotallofthem althoughItry thankyouverymuch. So I didn’t make even the pretense of trying this year. But the reality is that I do need to set some sort of blogging goal, because it seems that since the baby was born, I’ve lost my way. I’d really like to do a little housekeeping around here, upgrade my design, personalize my header or get a new template, maybe move to my own domain. Lots of things I need to learn a little more about.

(Wow. A post about blogging. What could be more boring?)

Yes, we can!

I spent today showing Obama's victory speech to my classes, analyzing both the text and historical significance of it, and discussing the history that was made this week. It was inspiring watching Obama's speech again and again. I fell asleep Tuesday night during election coverage and missed the speech live, although I managed to force myself to stay awake at least until I saw McCain concede with my own eyes. I was so afraid that somehow there'd be a replay of the 2000 election.

As happy as I am that the election went the way it has, I still feel the need to acknowledge that the glass ceiling still exists in the executive branch. Three times now women have been candidates of one of the two major parties*, within reach of the presidency or vice presidency, but it's never been attained.

I'm also disappointed in some of the referendums that were held in various states. Although it seems like reproductive rights did not take the hit that they could have, gay rights were dealt a blow. Mark my words: this is the civil rights issue of the twenty-first century. I see Supreme Court cases coming soon.

So, although I'm mostly happy/relieved/insert-positive-synonym here about this election, I'm remaining cautiously optimistic that not only does our new found progressiveness stick, but that it continues to advance.

*If we include third parties, then I lose count.

Political Linkage

Due to my recent bout with bad attitude and an even worse ability to focus, most political thoughts I have in draft will stay in draft. (I mean, who wants to read, at this late date, my thoughts about Joe Leiberman's defection, the politics of school "choice," and Sarah Palin's ironically hypocritical stance on abstinence-only sex ed?).

Recently Cecily wrote about the assertion that, deep-down, everyone is ultimately a one-issue voter. In a way, I believe this to be true. For me, the issue I focus on is reproductive choice. It's not that it is the only issue I care about -- far from it -- but it's the issue I use as a barometer to help predict other parts of a candidate's platform. I find that a person's attitude toward reproductive rights is reflective of their general attitude toward other issues I care about: education, health care, gay marriage, women's issues in general, first amendment rights, the [non]Patriot Act, civil rights, the list goes on.

McCain's recent comments about reproductive choice during the final presidential debate speak volumes about his general attitude toward women. (This was just after his comment that "Sarah Palin is a role model to all women." In what world?! I ask.)

Anything I could compose at this point regarding his politics on this issue wouldn't be as articulate as what has already been written. Not to mention that the following women have personal experience to draw from, which gives their arguments more clout than mine would have. So to enlighten yourself, go forth and read:

Why No One With a Uterus Should Vote for John McCain by Julie at A Little Pregnant

Dear John McCain by Cecily at Uppercase Woman

More Wounded Than Eloquent, I'm Afraid by Alexa at Flotsam

And this, on the lighter side, from Pundit Kitchen:

In closing, I think that future candidates should take note: the use of air quotes in a political debate is destined to turn out poorly for the user.

Togetherness

For the life of me, I cannot get my shit together these days. Or keep it together for very long, on the rare occasions where I do feel like I’m on top of things.

Over the summer, I never really felt I got a handle on the situation: the new two-child family situation. By the time school started in August and I returned to work, we still didn’t have a schedule and were only functioning with a bare bones routine. Since then, we’ve hammered out a routine, the child portion of which starts around 4:30 in the morning (sometimes earlier) and doesn’t end until 9 p.m. This leaves very little grown-up time. On days when the Hubster works late or is out of town, I usually don’t eat dinner until after nine.

Luckily, the baby still sleeps through the night nine out of ten days. (He will be thankful he did this when he reaches the teen years and I exact my revenge on his brother for not doing the same by waking him every four hours repeatedly over a two-year-span.) Though I am short on personal time, I should feel reasonably well rested and mentally acute enough to greet the day. Inexplicably, this is not the case. For some reason, I am exhausted. Exhausted like I was last year, but with no handy pregnancy excuse. The new-baby-excuse works well when talking to other people (hey, as far as they know I could be up two, three, seventeen times a night), but I know that it’s bullshit. Still, I’m dragging myself out of bed like I spent most of the night cramming for a Poli Sci exam. And, some days, nearly falling asleep on my drive to work. (Because of this, I really am thinking about taking up coffee drinking.)

Mentally, I’m also struggling. While pregnant with the Monkey, I commented to a friend that I felt I’d dropped ten I.Q. points. She agreed and said that for her, the feeling lasted until her youngest child turned five. Five? Sweet Holy Moses. I don’t have five more years of this in me. But my physical exhaustion is translating to mental exhaustion. I can’t concentrate. My memory sucks (in fact, I thought of a much wittier title for this post, but by the time I got my draft open again, I’d forgotten it). And often I’m barely able to form coherent thoughts or hold a lucid conversation. Sometimes I lose focus in the middle of a topic and start a new thought with no rational segue. This has made teaching my history classes all the more an adventure. Every day, it’s a gamble as to what will come out of my mouth. Either my students think I’m a fun, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of teacher or they think I’ve completely lost my mind.

There are other physical symptoms, common to the post-partum hormone plunge, that are dragging my spirit down. My hair, so long and luxurious during pregnancy that I only had it cut once in all that time and it nearly reached my waist (it’s never been that long before and never will again), has been falling out. In clumps.

I haven’t lost any weight since my post-partum checkup at eight weeks. Which was two months ago. In fact, I think I might actually be putting weight back on. Not long after school started I had to bite the bullet and buy new work clothes, because I still didn’t – and still don’t – fit into my “fat” clothes.

Because of all of this, my attitude stinks. I’m feeling understandably blue. My self-image is suffering. I feel fatigued, chubby, unattractive, slow and generally overwhelmed. Wasn’t it Ozzie who said, “I’m sick and tired of bein’ sick and tired?” I could triple the length of this rant listing all the things I’m tired of, but I’m too fucking tired to do it. And in truth, if there’s anything at all I learned from reading Prozac Nation, it’s that the only thing more depressing than being depressed yourself is reading about someone else’s depression.

Last weekend, I mentioned all of this to Dr. Friend (actually, I have three doctor/friends, so I suppose I should come up with a better pseudonym for her, however she is the only one who is my actual doctor in addition to being a friend) and she said it wouldn’t hurt to check my TSH. (Actually, I mentioned it and she agreed with me, since you know I’m all about diagnosing myself for these things, what with my degree from Google School of Medicine and all). Rather than have me make an office visit just to get the test order, she mailed it to my house (a little friend-courtesy; it helps to know people). I noticed that she ordered not only a TSH test, but a complete CBC and further tests for anemia.

This morning on my drive to work she called me about my results. Everything is normal, except that my iron is a little low, but not enough to classify me as anemic. While I’m glad that there isn’t anything medically wrong with me (well, nothing new, that is), this still leaves me with absolutely no fucking reason for being fat and tired. Or more accurately, no excuse.

I think I keep hoping that somehow these issues will work themselves out. That isn’t happening. Apparently, I’m going to have to be more proactive. I must stop looking for excuses and figure out how to carve an actual life out of my days, one with a workable schedule of job, family-time, meals, laundry, and the ever-popular etc. (It’s the etcetera that’s killing me). Hopefully then I can whittle out some me-time. Maybe start running again. Get it together.

But first, self-medication. Does anyone have advice for a non-coffee drinker on starting to drink coffee?

DVR Blues

You've got to be kidding me. My DVR tried to fuck me on Swingtown again. (Okay, that sounds kinkier than it's meant to). On Friday evening, I noticed mid-way through the time when it should have changed channels to record Swingtown that it hadn't, so I only got half an episode. This is after I checked earlier in the day to make sure it was set to record. I have no idea what the problem is. Might be time to give old Dir.ecTV a phone call.

Woman Buried Alive Under Unread Blogs

Last spring I finally opened a Bloglines account. I heart Bloglines. I used to waste spend a lot of time clicking through bookmarks of my favorite blogs only to find that they hadn't been updated. Then I finally figured out what a feed reader did, signed up for a Bloglines account, and learned to sit back and wait for the updates to come to me. Like the queen I am.

Since the Duck was born, I've been falling behind in my blog reading. Way behind. Maybe if I wasn't subscribed to nearly two hundred blogs, many that update almost daily (or even more often -- WTF is that all about?!), it wouldn't be as much of a problem.* I've been slowly, day by day, stolen minute by late-night stolen minute, working my way through my Bloglines updates. And feeling guilty that I'm not writing something myself.

Part of the reason for my bloggy-inactivity is that I have so little time to myself to write (as in mentally compose what I'd like to say); part of it is that I have so little time to myself to post (as in physically place my hands on a keyboard). My days are still spent holding a baby who must be held if he's awake and my nights are spent, well... sleeping (we're still clocking eight hours a night minimum, so I can't complain about the busy days).

Two days ago I caught up on Chicky Chicky Baby. Tania wrote last Thursday:

This is the first time in my blogging career (and I use that term VERY loosely) that I've been at a total loss for words. Maybe it's because I missed Blogher this year. Or it might have something to do with that new baby of mine. Or maybe it's all the energy that is required of me to keep watch over my two children.

Amen, sister. I hear you. The Chicky readers gave her some very good ideas in the comments (which I might steal, but I'll give credit if I do). That got me really thinking that I need to get back to the old laptop, but still feeling that it's easier said than done.

Yesterday I decided to tackle Miss Zoot. The last time I read Zoot was May 27, the day before my due date/induction. Since then, she's posted fifty-six times. Fifty. Six. And she has a toddler and newborn of her own. She's doing a great job of leading by example.

Then Akeeyu of herveryown, who's been on a posting hiatus of sorts (or at least, a slowdown) in the six months since the birth of her twin girls (and hasn't posted a single thing since, coincidentally, the Duck's birthday), posted this today.

The universe is sending me a message. I can't rationalize my inactivity any more. I've got to get my mojo back and start writing again.

*As of this exact moment, I have 2695 unread posts in 185 blogs.

Irony, thy name is Baby

I just keep thinking, "Are you kidding me?"

Today is my due date. A great deal of time and energy has been spent over the past nine months to keep this baby inside when he had no intention of going anywhere. I've had enough doctor's appointments to use up nearly fifteen sick days (and most of those were taken as half days), six ultrasounds, extra cultures and bloodwork run (and related conditions treated), weekly cervical checks for the last two months, two fFN tests; all of this to be sure this baby stayed put long enough to be full term and here we are... the fullest of full term. With no progress to show for it. It seems that this baby is digging in his heels and staying put.

One way or another, this baby will be here sometime in the next two weeks. Just how he gets from the inside to the outside is still to be determined. Ironic, is it not? The moderate level of work and planning involved in getting a baby to grow inside me in the first place which lead to a more serious level of work and planning involved in keeping that baby inside me for the duration which now leads to an as yet unknown amount of work and planning involved in figuring out how to get the the baby out of me. The first two seem in direct opposition to the third. They shouldn't all be that difficult.

Consolation Prize

When we were trying to conceive the first time (2003-2005), it seemed like everyone I knew got pregnant. Everyone except me. I finally started keeping track of all the pregnant women I knew. Somewhere on my computer is a Word file that lists, in chronological order, the (almost 20) women that I knew who got pregnant before me during that time period. Two women on that list managed to get pregnant twice during that time. Adding further insult is that another two of these "women" were (1) one of my eighth grade students and (2) my mother-in-law's dog. When I reached the point that I couldn't take just one more instance of someone else getting pregnant, I told the Hubster that I needed something to help me look forward to the pregnancy announcements of friends, acquaintances and coworkers.

This was the inspiration for the "Consolation Prize." I told the Hubster that, from that point forward, whenever another woman who we knew announced she was pregnant, he needed to buy me a present. That way, I'd look forward to the pregnancy of others, because it would bring me something, too.

Don't you know, before I was able to collect a single consolation prize, I got a positive pregnancy test. When I woke the Hubster up that Monday morning in April 2005 to show him the test, his exact words were, "Wow... Now you owe me a present."

As of today, I'm 39 weeks 4 days pregnant. Although this isn't anything that would in an average pregnancy cause concern, when I throw my uncooperative cervix and (possibly) giant baby into the mix, the looming of my due date is causing me considerable stress. And there's been nothing going on to indicate that, well, anything is going on.

But, as my due date is just three days away, I'm forming a new consolation prize plan... to commence in four days.

Single Digit Countdown

As of today, there are only nine days left until my due date. Last night I had several hours of real contractions, but they were randomly spaced and, although they did actually hurt, there were no real show stoppers among them. A persistent backache is my constant companion. I still refuse to believe that any of it means anything productive.

I start my days in discomfort and end them in actual pain. Most of the pain comes from the baby himself -- he'd got his feet wedged under my ribs on my right side (and he seems to be out of room everywhere else, too). By afternoon I can't get any relief, even while stretching. Other times I wonder where he got the grapefruit spoon* he's using on my cervix to try to tunnel his way out. Backache, hip pain, cramps, round ligament pain, contractions... none of it so far has produced even the slightest evidence of progress. What I wouldn't give to see my mucus plug. I cling to the baby's 0 station as my only hope. We'll call it my "Obi-Wan Kenobi." Not that it's done much for me in the past few weeks, but it's all I've got.

The phone calls have started; people assuming that I must have had the baby and just forgot to tell them. So far I've been good natured about it; when people call, I laugh along with them. My history of a previous pre-term birth has faked us all out. I wonder how long it will be until my good humor runs out.

*Can you believe there's a Wikipedia entry for grapefruit spoon? I was beyond surprised.

Patience, Grasshopper

The baby is at 0 station now. And that's it for progress.

Otherwise, I'm still long, close, firm and posterior. I'm at 157 pounds, so that's just under a pound gained from last week (32 pounds overall). The baby's heartrate was 144. ("Best beat I've heard all day," the doc said. I was tempted to ask if he thought he could dance to it.)

When Dr. Maestro walked into the exam room, his opening line yesterday was, "I thought you were supposed to have gone into pre-term labor by now." Funny guy. He should see about joining Lewis Black (I love Lewis Black) on tour. We talked about induction, but obviously I'm not inducible. He said he'd only give me a Bishop's Score of 2 (a -1 station and a 0 station have the same score!) and he won't try to induce unless it's at least 6.* He won't even give me one measly point for having a previous vaginal birth. Before I left, he did say if he had any excuse to induce, he would. So, as usual, I am to call him if I have spotting or a leakage of fluid or anything. Otherwise? I got a cheery "See you next week!"

I'm trying to be very Zen about the whole thing (or, I guess if we're using Kung Fu references, I might want to specify Shaolin Buddhist, but Shaolin is a Ch'an, or Zen, Temple, so to my Western mind, same difference.). I'm trying to practice patience. This is the same lesson I had to learn while trying to conceive; when it comes to babies, there is no planning. I have to stop trying to control every aspect of this experience.

I'm trying to come up with some affirmations to repeat to myself when I start trying to control or plan this birth. This baby will come when it's ready to come. I've done this before and I can do it again. I'm only 37 weeks; why rush things? I need a good mantra. I know mantras are really more of a Hindu thing, but, hey... if I'm stealing from Eastern religions, I might as well take as much as I can get.

But I did make a couple of concessions to my new plan-of-no-planning. The first was to start drinking some red raspberry leaf tea, which won't necessarily make me inducible, but might help me push out a giant baby. I know, I know... I'm grasping at straws. You'll see: Bigger straws are to come.

The second concession was to ask for help from my faith-leaning friends, asking for prayers. This is a big step for an non-theist, although I do believe in the power of positive thinking and visualization. Last week I mentioned the need to be inducible to my sort of generic Christian friends (especially the one who prayed for me to get pregnant and then -- hey! -- that month I did! and then she prayed for the baby to be healthy at the amnio and -- hey! -- he was!) and asked for their "help." Yesterday I upped the ante, recalling the friends from last week and bringing in the big guns. I called my stepmother and asked her to put in a word with her mother. Two important characteristics about my step grandmother: 1) She's a devout Italian catholic, so she's the closest I can get to a direct line to the Pope and 2) she died two years ago (at 93 years old), so she might actually know the Catholic god now. Like personally. I also called my oldest friend in the whole wide world (oldest in the sense that we've known each other since we were about two years old). Her religious creds: daughter of a rabbi who is the son of a famous rabbi (wish I could tell you who, but since I keep this blog is anonymous, I don't want anything pointing back to me. Suffice it to say, there are streets and the like named after him and the family in Israel) and she's studying to be a rabbi herself. My thought was -- before I went all Grasshopper -- hey, my doctor is Jewish, maybe I need Jewish prayers in order for them to work. Oh, yeah. Rational thoughts from the non-believer. Everyone was very supportive of my new-found insanity and offered their help.

My biggest concern is really that my fears will impede the success of this birth (the power of negative thinking, in this case). I'm incredibly worried that I won't be able to push a large baby through my pelvis or that if I do somehow manage, I'll end up with a fourth degree tear. I know that thinking like this is counterproductive.

So, I need to be patient and I need to be positive. Easier said than done. But I'm working on it. I keep hearing the master's voice saying, "Snatch the pebble from my hand."


*Since many docs won't induce until a score of 8 or 9, I've at least got this going in my favor.

Or at least one of those cool Sky-Pad apartments like the Jetsons

This morning as he climbed into the shower before work, the Hubster said to me, "I can accept not having flying cars and vacations on the moon and all the other predictions from fifty years ago, but you'd think by now we'd have robots to do our jobs for us so we could sleep in."

No credit for time served

Julie over at A Little Pregnant came up with this concept, refuting the idea that if you've suffered with infertility, your subsequent pregnancy and birth should be smooth sailing. And although my first pregnancy wasn't as tough as some women's, and eventually had a good outcome, it wasn't exactly a dream cruise, either.

This time around, I've been expecting all along to be hit by not only my old battery of symptoms and side effects, but a whole new barrage of uncomfortable experiences. And at 34 weeks 4 days, I'm still waiting.

Sure, I've had a mild recurrence of restless leg syndrome, but it's been very sporadic and hardly worth mentioning. And some days my hands seem a little puffy and stiff, but I've avoided the carpal tunnel and ulnar neuropathy that made my upper extremities numb, useless stumps last time. The only real condition of concern is my anemia. At this point, my hemoglobin is up to 10.6, so it has been creeping upward, just incredibly slowly. And the most recent bloodwork I had done was not reassuring to the PA, who at this weeks appointment asked me to up my iron to twice a day, although she noted, "sometimes all that does is double the side effects without really increasing the absorption," so I'll be having bloodwork done again this coming week. She rattled off the entire results of my most recent bloodwork, but most of it meant nothing to me. The one alarming thing she mentioned and -- sort of -- explained was that my "stores" were at 6, when they should be over 100. I've subsequently been trying to figure out exactly what that means, but I can't. (Could she be referring to the mean cell volume? I have no idea...) She did say that if things don't look up, she might refer me to a hematologist.

I feel like I'm bragging when I check off my list of fears in the negative. Baby is still vertex LOA and at about a -2 or -3 station ("still ballotable" according to the PA); at this point my weight gain is a respectable 27 pounds (holding steady since 33 weeks); I'm BV-free and yeast-free; the fFN test they did Wednesday at exactly 34 weeks came back negative. For Pete's sake, I'm even still wearing my normal-sized shoes. Other than the extreme fatigue that accompanies the anemia, this has been a picture perfect pregnancy. I feel pretty good most of the time. I don't just feel like I can reasonably hope for a term baby, I'm fully expecting one.

So why does this lack of worrisome symptoms have me worried? I didn't expect, and frankly don't feel I deserve, such an easy time of it. So I keep expecting some bogeyman to jump out and surprise me. I have a nagging feeling that there's something terrible lurking that I just don't know about yet. I'm well aware that with potentially six more weeks of pregnancy ahead of me (okay, possibly even eight weeks, but please don't wish going past due on me -- it would certainly push me over the edge), there's still a lot that can go wrong. With my blood-related concerns being the only real complication so far, I'm starting to really worry about the birth. I was expecting that if I reached this point and felt as good as I do, I'd be relaxed and enjoy it, but instead I'm feeling more anxious. I'm beginning to wish that this was over soon, that May could just get here, damn it, just so I could put my anxiety to rest.

I touch the future. I... yadda yadda yadda*

I teach. I don't write much about work here, mainly because I don't want to get dooced. Yes, I admit that the real reason for avoiding discussions of my work is not because of some high moral imperative about not making fun of students and coworkers. Believe me, if it weren't for that, I'd have some real gems to share.

It just so happen to work out that my due date is two days before the last day of school this year. Virtually every single person, upon asking my due date, responds, "You planned that perfectly!" Although I've had it said to me dozens of times, I still don't have a response prepared. I usually just say nothing, or change the subject.

When I was pregnant with the Monkeyboy, his due date was mid-December, right before holiday break. A coworker remarked the familiar, "you planned that perfectly," to which I replied, "Well, when we started trying two years ago, we were aiming for May." She didn't say anything after that. I didn't mean to be curt; I just wanted to set the record straight.

I know that in terms of infertility and treatment, I've only experienced what can be considered Entry-Level Infertility Treatment (What Akeeyu calls Clomid and Fucking). We were lucky that Clomid worked for us. It's really the gateway drug of infertility meds, after all. Many people move on to bigger, scarier, more expensive and more powerful treatment. But just because on the spectrum of infertility treatment we were at the "easy" end, that doesn't mean it was easy. Not when judged in the overall fertility arena. (You know that arena, the one with events like "We got pregnant the first month trying" and "Our fourth child was an accident.")

I feel compelled to educate people about fertility and infertility (I've certainly developed a reputation as the go-to girl among friends and at work to women who have questions about getting pregnant). But, why is that? Am I really looking to "help" people and inform them, or am I looking for getting credit for my own struggles? It's probably a little of both.

So today, in my bag, I carried to school to loan to a friend and co-worker, Taking Charge of Your Fertility (book and software) and a few copies of my very own favorite BBT charts, because she is in her thirties, getting married this summer, and "wants to start right away." (Don't worry, she asked for my "help;" I'm not big on giving unsolicited advice, especially of the personal nature.) And I've told her I'll teach her "everything I know."

As a planner of things by nature, infertility has made me painfully aware that some things are out of our control. And I hate it. It's not the actual struggle to get pregnant that I hated and still resent, it's the uncertainty. If I would have been told, "it will take XX years and XX dollars and XX sometimes-painful tests and treatments to get pregnant," but there was a guaranteed baby at the end of it all, then I know that every woman suffering from infertility would say, "Where do I sign up?" But, we all know women who have sacrificed physically, financially and emotionally to treat their infertility and still are left with nothing but empty hands and a head full of unanswered questions. With years of hindsight, I'm able to realize that I'm very lucky to have been able to get pregnant at all. And planning a pregnancy is such a foreign concept to me that I just freeze at the mention of the word, dumbstruck.

So, I guess my response to the comment, "You planned that perfectly!" should be, "No, neither of my kids are planned. But they are very much wanted."

*With my apologies to the memory of Christa McAuliffe.

And another thing...

I forgot to mention... following the tradition of "If it's a weird ailment or side effect, I'll get it," the Monkey was sent home from daycare last week with a fever. A fever that turned out to be Coxsackie Virus, known colloquially as Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease (or what Toddler 411 said should be called "Hand, Foot, Mouth and Butt" Disease).

Luckily, both for him and me, it's a very mild outbreak. But it just goes to show, there's never a dull moment around here.

Sexual Politics

Thoughts of the coming election, mingled with those of parenthood, keep bringing to mind Anne Lamott's memoir of her son's first year and this quote from it:

Then I called a woman who went out with him a few years ago and discovered the two most damaging things I can know about a man: one, he voted for both Bush and Reagan, and two, he was very reluctant to give head. Now maybe on a really bad night I would let one of these things go by, but I tell you, if his head wouldn't go south of my waist and he was up there talking with passion about the thousand points of light, I'd crack. It would be like "Hey, thanks for stopping by, pal, but the thousand points of light are in my pussy." I don't want to negotiate the SALT talks just to get a little oral sex. The right guy will love nothing more.

-- Anne Lamott, Operating Instructions