pro/con

Things that make homeschooling attractive

• I want Khubz and Thumper to have a natural rhythm to their days. If she is reading (and she is) I don't want her to stop just to pull out a different subject when a bell rings.
• Meals together. Kids have 20 minutes for lunch in school. 20 minutes. That feels like a child-stuffing factory, not a place where kids refresh, recharge, eat and share.
• Appropriate choice. Khubz will be 5 when she starts kindergarten. A five year old should not be making choices about white milk or chocolate milk. Nutrition is my responsibility. Not hers.
• Public schools will put my kids in the wider world. Bratz dolls, "faggot" and "bitch", and romantic mythologies about the pilgrims are all things I'd like to avoid.
• Learning about the world in context seems practical, interesting and manageable.
• Public schools have been put in a position of constant crisis, where the survival of their system is at risk if they cannot produce test scores. I believe a system will always protect itself before pursuing loftier goals like "educating" my children.

Things that make public schools attractive

• I believe in public schools, public parks, public libraries, public ventures. I believe in them and their messy compromises. We will never have truly inclusive public ventures if critics and/or those on the margins stop showing up.
• My children get to know themselves in a different way when they have some space away from me. I don't like saying that. But I think its true.
• Public schools will put my kids in the wider world. They will meet people I don't know (maybe new friends), see many ways of living in the world (different kinds of families, a diversity of abilities/disabilities, economics)
• I have no idea how I would actually do it. Especially with Thumper.

I heard a rumor my school district offers an opt-in half day kindergarten. Inshallah. I think that would be my best answer.

Isokay, mommy. 'sokay.

One of the problems with depression (in my case, pregnancy detox) is that you become unreasonable, irrational and unpredictable. It makes your memory faulty. You feel done with it but can't seem to will it away. Everyone around you feels done with it. You begin to worry that relationships can't sustain the ridiculous levels of sadness when actually you have every reason you've ever had to feel joyous. It is hard to call friends because you don't want to subject them to your misery since you can't stand being around yourself either. At the same time, staying in your house and not talking to friends and family only makes you feel more miserable. And yet you cannot logic yourself out of it.

When you do get a bit of good sleep it is just enough to make you feel like you can access your skills at biting sarcasm (and your skills are considerable. )

The justified complaints get tangled up in the ridiculous ones. Or they get tied up in defensiveness from other things. It is difficult and complicated.

And sometimes, you just really need a reminder that you are actually having a good time in this world that you've spent so many years wishing for.

I don't do so good with the "positive messaging" for myself. My mother busted out the word "castigate" when describing how I am talking to myself.

But I do know I'm not going to remember very much of this (just cause I'm not sleeping much) and I'll be sad that the memory I do have is (shudder) "that sucked!" Because it isn't all unreasonable sad feelings.

There are occasional 2 am moments when I look at Stinky and feel real camaraderie with him like, okay. Its two am and we're going to have to get through this night together. Just us and the herb detectives.

And Khubz, for all the boundary testing, is very fun. It's not all purple sharpie marker on Gramma and Grampa's bedroom carpet (and tv remote and laundry basket and box springs and telephone and exercise bike.) For real--we are having fun together too. And look, I have proof!

Good job, Mommy, Good Job: Sticky Square

Take a length of contact paper & tape it sticky side up to the carpet. Let the frivolity begin.

This kept her busy (on and off) for an hour (!!) And I felt like a good mommy for turning the tv off. And I felt like a really good mommy when she started doing all this imaginary play with the box being a pool, having her animals tromp through there and get stuck in the mud, taking a bath and needing soap etc.

So today's mission is to do something fun: all four of us. Something purely fun. All of us. Together. Fun.

And to try and get a bit more sleep. Here's the inspiration for that one:

good job, mommy. good job.

Hi folks,

It's four a.m. which is indicative of my heartburn tonight. Rather than spin in silence I decided to enlist ye innocent readers. I used to post stories here, you know? Now it seems like random and/or bizarre lists punctuated by anxiety. We'll get back to the narrative flow at some point, I promise.

On that note, I neglected to post anything about our adventures in potty training. Khubz usually stays dry at night, often tells us when she goes potty, likes to come in the bathroom with us when we go. . .It seemed like November might be the right time to try. . . Or. . .not. We, perhaps, got things off on the wrong foot when we set the kitchen timer to go off every 20 minutes. NO. NO POTTY. NO!! NOOOOO POTTY!!!!!!

Okay, wailing was not the association we were trying to create. Frequent calls to my mother got us the advice that we (Scully & I) were clearly not ready, even if Khubz was (and it didn't sound like she was.) We tried for several days. Elmo and Dora panties. Shrieking at daycare as well. Reports from Funk over at Growing a Pair that Khubz was crying on the potty. (Even though Funk did offer to hold her hand--sweet girl!) Khubz does have strong bladder control because she'd simply refuse to potty for the 9 hours she was at daycare.

At home, she'd come in the bathroom with me and I'd sit on the potty. "What do we think of?" "Agua." Khubz would report. And we'd talk about rivers and rain and suddenly we'd hear the sound of Mommy peeing!! And we'd both open our mouths in an excited wow!! And then it would be Khubz's turn on the potty and she'd sit and say "ssssss" to imitate the sound. Toilet paper frivolities. High ratio of hand soap to water for joyous, bubbly hand washing. And then she'd run out the bathroom and piss all over the living room. Immediately.

Our only "success" came when she was butt naked, squatted down to poop and I carried her, pooping all the way, from her room to the bathroom. I just felt like we needed to declare some kind of victory, you know? Success in the form of picking up a trail of poops from one room to the next is actually a pretty hollow victory.

Well, fuck this, we said. Who needs the stress? We've got plenty ourselves. So a temporary goodbye to the Elmo and Dora panties. Welcome back diapers! The lasting impact that potty training has had on Khubz? When I potty Khubz will come up to me afterwards, pat my shoulder and say, "good job, mommy. good job."

I'll take it.

Okay, that story actually helped.
And you all do know that I've already polished the kitchen cabinets, right?

In other news, we got in to the townhouse in iowa today and it is all going to be okay. I think the space will work better than I had imagined, we should be able to get most of our stuff into storage in the basement there. Khubz had a great time running absolutely wild around the empty house with her cousins. Most fabulously, we dropped off cleaning supplies and my family are taking shifts over the next week or so to get the place ready for us. (i love them. i love love them.)

Scully has just arrived back in Kansas and Khubz & I head there tomorrow. That means I should really take a couple tums to knock out the rest of the heartburn and sort out my head/list/anxiety tomorrow when there are trained professionals (aka the family) available to help me.

Okay. Good night.

Yet here's a spot

How to quell anxiety at this late hour?


I have already gone to the grocery store to get supplies for the influx of the tribe this weekend. Accomplishing that task only makes me keenly aware of how much else is on my to-do list. None of this is the root of my anxiety, in truth. But this is not the time, nor the place.

I am just going to go upstairs, put on an episode of Foyle's War and cut out "Dig, Ivan, Dig!" pictures until I am overcome by sleep.

(deep breath) Sphere of influence. . . Sphere of control. . . Sphere of influence. . .

Hold it together, man!

Out, Out Damned Anxiety!

First off, apologies to Mrs. Macbeth (as my dad always called her) for taking liberties with the title of the post.

I am feeling pretty anxious tonight. Things in iowa are rough--some in the family are struggling a lot. I worry about everyone's resiliancy especially since some things (like, say, oh a mental health disability or aging or the breakdown of the bicultural mind) aren't going to go away. Ever. I'm feeling a bit far away even though I was there three days ago and even though many in the family will be here in two days.

Things in Texas are also rough. Scully lost an uncle last weekend and her parents are in Mexico now. They made it just in time for the funeral but I cannot imagine how far away they must be feeling as well.

It is too late in the evening to be feeling this anxious or I'll never get to sleep. Khubz went to sleep promptly at 7:30. Scully followed her at 8:30 (she's not feeling well.)

I am left with one device to quell my anxiety. Here you go:

Khubz + chocolate icecream

(at least it's not poop--yet!)

Post-bath Magic!

Wouldn't you want to smell those clean hands?

A year ago this was Khubz & her comrade, MajPaj

They would never put up with that now.
Instead, they are out to investigate the world on their own (well, together, really.)

And one more piece of randomness. Have you seen the two ponies?

All grown up.

She's turning two on Monday. My girlchild will be two years old. Scully and I will celebrate our second anniversary of becoming Mommies. I know I should be over the weepiness and the "she changed everything in my life" and the stunned sanctity of it all by now. I'm not. There are certainly plenty of glad-she-goes-to-daycare moments or "go! go see mama!" moments or "Ouch! Stop pinching me! That hurts Mommy! Khubz! Ya Khubz! We do NOT pinch Mommy! Mommy is a real person with feelings and it hurts when you pinch!" moments. Sure. But this moment, right now, is not one of those moments.

It is instead one of these moments:

Wondering if

Things are still shitty around the fruit basket? Yes. Yes, actually they are.

And that conference call earlier in the week? It lasted TWO HOURS. I shit you not. TWO HOURS.

But it's not all shitty conference calls this week. There's also the report that will not go quietly into that good night. And there was an all day meeting yesterday where a completely different woman got so pissed off at me that she couldn't look me in the eyes. Not only that. She just couldn't look at me. At all. Even when we were talking to each other.

On the way back from that meeting I plowed into a bird. I was going 80 mph and he thought he was flying high enough over the interstate. Splat. Feathers, everything all over my windshield.

But it's all okay. Really. It's all totally okay.

Bean is great. Khubz won't stop talking. Scully asked me not to write about the things I'm praising her for right now. (wink) Also I'm off the progesterone which means I no longer leave oily stains of melted petroleum jelly on the couch. Yea! What's to kvetch about anyway?

There's lots of news that's not mine to tell. Really, except for the life-sucking black hole of current work-related activities, its pretty exciting around here lately.

Um. . . .Actually. . . . (or, blogpost in which I spiral out of control & then try to redeem myself)

So, twins. Yes, twins. Twins. See above diagram. Twins.

Twins will mean many things. (inshallah applies to all of these, please don't make me type it over & over & over)

• Twins means not three. Thank Jesus Christ. I had three "ripe" follicles when we inseminated.


• Twins means no more crazy-womyn-juice for me. Ever. Still want four? Let's see. And if so, there are other ways of adding to the family.

• Twins means we will have two more babies in the family.


• Everything is going to change. Guess what? Everything was going to change anyway. If I'm truthful, I'd have likely had a panic attack no matter what we found out at the sonogram today. It just happens that my panic attack is about twins. Our twins.


• Our back-to-tightwaddery begins now. I am feeling so vulnerable with all these thoughts swirling in my head. Don't tell anyone at work but I can't imagine I could keep my job (we would clear $ 300/month after daycare expenses and I commute and I could never keep any kind of travel schedule and I would be completely fucking useless anyway with what's left of my brain and I may already be!!) I'll have to work somewhere evenings/weekends because I can't get on Scully's insurance & I am someone who must have insurance. I don't know if Scully & I will ever see eachother or if we'll just do the kid-shuffle meet & greet as we pass between each other. And what if I have to be out on bedrest before the babies come and what if we tank through my paid leave and our savings during the pregnancy? Money does not really make us safer in the world and I get that but having something in savings makes me feel a bit more secure. Even if that savings account is rapidly losing value simply because it is in US dollars.


• And women do this all the time with less money, less support, less resources, without respect from their partner, facing violence from immigration officials detaining them or their family, violence from their partner who says "sure you're pregnant & bleeding but there's nothing wrong with your mouth", violence from the welfare state which monitors and controls their mothering, their bodies, their lives. . . Women do this all the time. with less help. with greater risks.

• Khubz was just crying. I went upstairs to get her out of her crib (it's 5 am.) She sat up, said "sheep", grabbed her sheep and moved into my arms. I sat in the chair holding her and she immediately fell back asleep, her body nuzzled into mine, her face nuzzled into sheep. And I thought "I cannot wait to give you more family to love." And I thought "I cannot believe I will have two more babies, inshallah, to hold and love the way i hold & love khubz." And I kissed her head and thought "ya, Khubz, I am so sorry that everything between me & you is going to change." And I thought "I hope we are doing the right thing for you." And I thought "I am a bit fucking scared right now."

• So please don't mishear me, blogosphere/dear reader/universe/goddess. I am grateful, excited, thankful, humbled by this new way in the world. I know that I don't know anything yet. And I do believe that Scully & Khubz and I all bounce really well. I am keenly aware that many women may not even know they are pregnant yet and that means we have a lot of distance to cover. I know many things may yet happen and my energy should exclusively go towards hoping we all get safely into the world & stay. And I do hope that. And I do wish & pray for the well-being of my family.

• And I'm feeling a bit better. And I know we're all adjusting to an idea.

• And I am excited to pick pairs of names and put them on my tongue along with "Khubz" and "Scully" and "Fruitfemme"

• And I know we have lots of family we can move in with. (ahem, are you reading this Kelly?)

• And I know we have phenomenal supportive friends

• And I know Scully woke up at 3 in the morning to help me through my panic attack and I know I will have more & I know Scully is actually quite practiced at helping me recenter

• And along with that I know that I have cavernous emotional-needs and I cannot expect one partner or one blog to absorb all of that

• And so I'm going to leave it there and go check out the double-stroller at a garage sale while the rest of my family is still sound asleep.

love you,

the ff

Breathe. Breathe.

Well the universe conspired against us and we did not make it to iowa. In addition to the already listed hideous ailments up north there is also some sort of fast-moving viral stomach flu that has already hit 4 in the tribe. And then there's snow covered interstate.

It all added up to. . . Okay, I guess we'll stay home. Luckily, we're lining up some dates so I shouldn't feel too sorry for myself this weekend (Scully will be out of town at a conference & that's usually my cue to get out state. Just won't work out this weekend.)

So breathe. Breathe.

Khubz & I are having a ball today. We went to toddler gym. We read Moobaalalala (over & over again.) We played pillow where I scoop her into a pillow case & swing it around my head (an exaggeration--sort of.)

For lunch I'm making pancakes because they were a hit on Tuesday & I didn't want to do anything more complicated. She's puttering around, talking & playing. She goes into the living room & suddenly gets quiet. This usually means she's either pooping or "reading" a book to herself. I decide to take a peek, all the while thinking I should capitalize on the moment & get the pancakes whipped up.

She has opened the door to the basement.
The basement with a steep wooden staircase straight down.
No railing (as if that would matter)
And solid concrete floor at the bottom.

I panicked. Screamed her name and ran to her. Please don't run. Please don't startle. Please don't think Mommy is playing a game. Just don't move!!

She froze.

Hamdillah.
Alhamdillah.
Hamdillah.

I grabbed her & slammed the door shut & then actually locked the baby-proof lock (we didn't think she could reach it so we weren't using it!)

I then proceeded to sob & grip her against my chest.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Khubz is. You should too. Just breathe.

Okay. Okay.

She's napping now. I descended the steep stairs into the basement so I could get this story out of my shoulders & chest (still knotted with fear.) While I am down here, I'll also start measuring for a rubber floor we can lay down. Scully? You didn't have any other plans for our tax return, right?

Whew.

the word from st. louis: Baaaaa

There's quite a bit to catch up on. I am stuck in a hotel in St. Louis with shitty overpriced wireless access. This means I am in the business center with too many white men and I'm on a computer with a mandatory logoff in 25 minutes. Damn.

Today was my last day of nursing Khubz. Ever. Ever. As in. . . Ever. More on that later. Or not.

I hate flying southwest airline.


My niece broke her arm right at the end of thanksgiving weekend.


I ate a crappy, overpriced dinner at the hotel restaurant while having a difficult conversation with a woman whose adult daughter was nearly killed by a batterer. There was shitty response from law enforcement, legal aid, DV advocates, mental health. . .everyone. She is telling me about a particularly shitty response from law enforcement and asks me if I'm shocked. "I think that is absolutely horrific and also not unusual." So we talk about that, how uneducated people are, how unhelpful, how they don't recognize the safety issues for the woman, how they blame her, how they operate with so much bullshit, shame and misogyny that many battered women won't even try to talk to someone about what's going on. Then this woman talks about her frustration with how her daughter has responded to the batterer and more recently, her frustrations that her daughter has started dating someone else. "Oh. . . And what else?! This one's also black--so you know that just ups my anxiety!"

Hmm. "What does that mean to you?" I ask. She immediately tells me that she's not racist, of course. A friend at the table tries to smooth things over, "It just means that she has to worry about her daughter facing racism as well." Ah. Sure. The woman goes on to say that her daughter has such low self esteem she won't even try for a white man. She doesn't even think she's worth that. Ah. Sure.


My one sister and my other sister have some stuff going on. It hurts my heart.


A different sister altogether also has quite a bit going on. Ditto above sentiment.


I cooked like a mad woman yesterday and this morning. When questioned by my loving partner I replied that I wanted this week to go easier for her and for Khubz. ( I get back home late late on Friday.) She reminded me that she was 29 when we got together which meant she had plenty of years of cooking for herself and she promised not to let the wee one starve if only I would sit down with her and watch A Christmas Story. "I know. . .I know. . .It's just going to be such a crazy week for you and I think having dinner ready to go each night will be one less thing for you to worry about." Nice. Altruistic. Caring. Nurturing. Bullshit.

Because reading this required me to reexamine the above statement with a bit more truth. What is up with Two Shews anyway? Even while medicated and recovering from pretty major surgery she is making me reflect more honestly on my own crap.

Okay, let's try again. "Actually, honey, I know you're totally capable of taking care of things. I think I'm cooking like a fucking mad woman because I can't stand the idea that our household can function perfectly without me. Or even worse that things can not function so perfectly, perhaps everything might even go to hell, and there's still nothing that I can do about it. So I have to create some sort of mechanism that will facilitate more denial so I don't go completely fucking nuts while I'm gone."


Every single person who assisted us getting from point A to point B today was Muslim. The shuttle driver, the guy taking bags at the airport, the woman who checked us in to the hotel, the maintenance guy who brought me keys that actually open my hotel door, the cab driver. Salaam. It's weird. I sort of feel like we're family. With all the familiarity and distance that word carries. But, really, salaam.


I called while our good friends were babysitting Khubz. She was having a great time, delighting on her second piece of Rudy's pizza. Scully is going to call me when Khubz finally goes down for the great sleep. We're not sure when that might be, because, you see, Khubz took a four hour nap at daycare today. Great. Thanks. Thanks for that.


Overheard in the business center, "The critical thinking is just not there. . .I mean, people just don't. . . " "I know, I know, I know." "They just don't even think about what they're thinking." "Really, I know, I do. It's amazing to me." "They just don't have any critical thinking, no original thoughts of their own." "Uhhuh. It's shocking." "They're just sheep." "I know, sheep."

I am going to be on the receiving end of their training. If not tomorrow, then the next day. I promise to never, ever again say "they just don't know how to think." because actually (being on the receiving end of such a statement) I have complete clarity that it is a wholly unhelpful thing to say.

Baaaaaa.

A Checkered Evening

We keep a pretty busy pace around here at the Fruit Basket so sometimes we have to take care of chores when we have to take care of them. We cannot always take care of chores when we want to take care of them. Sometimes we have to take care of chores we may never want to take care of. Other times we have to take care of chores we might otherwise actually enjoy except that the timing of it all makes it a bit of an, um, chore.

There is a good example of the last such type occurring right now: baby in the bath. Khubz usually adores bathtime. She gets to play with her patitios (rubber duckies), her dinosaurio (you can figure that one out) and she even gets to pee in the tub with immunity since I'm rarely in the tub with her anymore. But right now she is shrieking as Mama scrubs her clean. Why? Let's consider the evening in light of the opening paragraph.

I pick Khubz up from daycare about 5:30. She's had a great day, they report. Only one thing. . . She didn't take an afternoon nap. Oh. Remember that Khubz has a great need for sleep. She is the child who slept for 15 hours straight as an 11 month old when she was not sick & not medicated & the dr. simply chocked it up to her "growing." So Khubz missing a nap requires some sort of intervention. But no time for that now. We had to take care of a chore: getting some groceries for the week.

It is about 10 minutes across town in which time, Khubz falls asleep. This is really, really bad! A micro-nap for Khubz may as well be what listerine is to an alcoholic. You know you have a really, really bad problem but the listerine isn't going to help one bit. It's not going to give you what you want, it only demonstrates the depth of your problem to everyone you encounter.

So it is that child that unwillingly settles into a cart. With no seat belt. So I trade out carts once we're at the store and she refuses. Arching the back! Arms flailing! Legs kicking! Alert! Alert! Danger Will Robinson! Danger! She is screaming and not one person gives me the "oh, haven't we all been there" smile. Anyone who turns to smile or scowl is greeted with one-working-nostril flared as Khubz screams. The other nostril has been sealed shut with mucus. But, I forgot, I can't use that tag anymore. . .

Okay. You win. (always a good mommy strategy, right?) So I'm carrying her around while bitching in a nicey-nicey tone of voice. "This could take us 15 minutes but since I'm carrying you I guess we'll need to be here all evening." "We could zip right through the store, you know, Khubz?" And we walk in to the produce section where it dawns on me.

I am an idiot.

Khubz looks out upon piles and piles of apples, bananas, cucumbers, grapes and a lot more food she can't even recognize and signs "EAT." "EAT PLEASE." "PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, EAT, EAT, EAT!" Her facial expression is not demanding. It is blatantly desperate.

What did I expect? This is the girlchild who is the first one at the table and the last to leave. The child who likes to have a pre-snack snack. The child who asks to eat before I kick my shoes off once we're home from daycare. I have brought her to the land of milk & honey and I am saying, "sorry, sweetie, we don't have any food."

Because we didn't. Where are the cheerios? The cheerios we never, ever leave without? They're gone. The blame game doesn't even matter now. They're gone. Gone forever. And we're all going to have to move on & pick up the pieces.

The crisis quickly escalates. We'll just get what we need for tonight and tomorrow! It'll be okay!

We grab some cheese, some tostada shells and race to the check-out. Where everyone else in the world is waiting with us. She sees the cheese in the cart and begins to panic. Mommy's cruelty knows no bounds. "PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE" points at the cheese. points, points, points.

I worked at Wal-Mart for 7 years, ya'll. Did you know that? 7 years. We had words to describe the people who didn't even wait to pay before opening up packages of food. And yes, those words were disproportionately used in reference to very fat women with crying children who only had the proper use of one nostril.

I love my daughter. But I will not be that woman.

Once we're in the car, however, it is a different story altogether. She endured the torture of being buckled into her carseat and let loose the ear piercing SHRIEK!!!! once we're in the car. It was quite a site: me driving out of the grocery store parking lot while throwing fistfulls of shredded cheese into the carseat behind me. She'd quiet down for a moment and I'd think, okay. We're okay. I'm not going to throw any more cheese back there. She's okay and I'm the mommy. SHRIEK!!!!! Cheese! Cheese! Cheese! A flurry of cheese thrown blindly behind me as I drive down the street.

Because I'm the mommy. I exude authority and calm. Authority. And calm. And shredded cheese.

Thank god Mama got home sooner than expected. I'm heading back out now.

Wish me luck. I've got a lot of cheese to clean out of the car.

Called By a Higher Power

I have been called to be on a jury pool. I'm supposed to call in the weekend before (it will be in December) to see if I'm needed. The timing isn't great (when would you have two weeks where nothing else needed to get done?) but I am excited about the very possibility of being on a jury. In true fruitfemme fashion, I am exactly who I think should be on a jury!

On that note, let me retell my best "worst juror" story ever. I was with a woman in the courtroom and we were waiting for her hearing (she had been charged with assaulting an officer--she spat on him.) And this woman is in front of the judge (who shall not be named but who I think is heinous) we'll call her judge martin (wink, wink.)

So the woman before judge martin had been on a jury in judge martin's courtroom. The trial was 3 days along when the woman stood up and stomped out of the room, disgusted with the whole thing. Judge martin sent a bailiff after the woman. She took off, got in her car and went home. So they sent a sheriff deputy to her house to bring her back. And she HIT HIM. So now she was in front of this same judge for contempt and assaulting an officer.

At least I know not to try anything like that. I hope they pick me. (I hope I don't regret hoping they pick me.)

On another note: The Spanish Story Hour at the Library mentioned in a previous post.
So Khubz & I get there about 15 minutes early. There's one woman (her name is Berta) with her 5 month old who says something to me in Spanish. I freeze. All my spanish flees from my mind as suddenly, I am 5 years old and trying desperately to talk to my uncle in Arabic. She was saying things like, "My baby is 5 months old." I've said this sentence in Spanish when Khubz was 5 months old. Nothing, nothing, nothing--"uh, que?" So there was this nervous tension anyway, coupled with the strange energy anytime you interact with other adults as parent at these kinds of things.

So we get over that and her English waay outshines my Spanish and we exchange pleasantries about problems sleeping, joys of babbling and talking etc. etc. So at some point we trade names of the kiddos and hearing that my daughter's name is distinctly Mexican she asks, "are you teaching her Spanish?" this was said with some level of fear, surely, as she was currently experiencing my finesse with the language.

But it leads us to that moment. I'm not here with Scully. There's nothing obviously queer about me & Khubz here at the library. I'm clearly not ashamed of my family and yet it is hard, hard, hard to come out to Mexicans and I simply won't come out to Arabs. And it's not that homophobia is more present in one patriarchy than another. It's that I need something different from Arabs than other folks and this seems to have spilled over into Mexicans when it comes to Khubz.

So that's going on. This is also my opportunity to prove to Khubz that there's nothing wrong with her family. And frankly, this is my opportunity to practice so by the time she picks up more on nuance I'll be more smooth.

With that thought, I forged ahead. It was not smooth.

Me: Um, su mama es Mexicana, es de Tejas.
Her (deeply puzzled expression): Su mama?
Me (looking right at Khubz): si. Su mama.
Her: Su mama?
Me: Si. Es mi compañera.
Her: Tu compañera??
Me: Mi novia.
Her: Tu. Novia.
Me: Si.
Her (in Spanish & English): Oh, I thought, you're not her mama?
Me: Oh, si. Si. I'm her mommy.

Pause. (actually, there were lots of pauses all through.)

Me: Tiene dos mamas.

Stunned silence. A long moment later,
Her: She no have a dad?
Me: Nope. No dad. (sing-songy, looking only at Khubz.)

More silence.

Well, this is about over, isn't it? I think. When will the story time actually start? So it can end! Storytime starts with me, Khubz, this woman & her son and random kids who were already at the library. The facilitator does a great job reading the story in spanish and talking the story through in english.

Five minutes into the first story, Berta jumps up. She thrusts her son into my arms while quickly saying something "I've got to go! I've got to go!! You hold my son?!" Sure, I take her son all the while glad that I didn't have incontinence anywhere near that dramatic after giving birth. The facilitator tells us all that she had forgotten her cell phone on the bus on the way here. The bus is back so this is her only opportunity to get her phone. Okay.

So it was all good for about 2 minutes.
After that, her son (5 months old, remember) noticed that he didn't see his mom, he didn't see anyone he recognized, and this person (me) now clearly identified as a stranger was holding him. He begins to wail. WAIL. To the point that every librarian in the children's section comes over at one point or another to check on this clearly overwhelmed mom. Khubz, for her part, was not about to let me hold some newcomer while she was on the ground. We eventually found a compromise where I held the boy and she held my pinky. We walked back & forth, we looked out the window, we rocked--nothing.

5 minutes pass.

5 more minutes pass.

Is she coming back? I begin to wonder. Of course, as soon as that thought occurs to me I follow it out to it's il/logical conclusion. The frantic nonsensical musings included, "there's no WAY I'd turn this little boy over to the state!" and "what do you supposed Scully would say if I came home with a 5 month old?" and finally, "that's one way to get out of more fertility drugs"

This is all funny because, of course, she did come back. To her red faced boy gasping for air between wails. Pobracito. Poor little thing.

So we finished out the story hour and she thanked me again and said she hopes we come next time so it's not just her and her son.

Doing my best I try to tell her "see you later" which would have been 'hasta luego' but it comes out like this: "Hasta manana--ah, well, probably not tomorrow, but, you know, hopefully, next time."

WOW.

So the long & short of this (long) story is sometimes there's just an element of surprise, a need for an awkward moment to understand because the world doesn't teach people to expect an arab lesbian with really pitiful Spanish and her Saudi/Mexican/American daughter at the Spanish Story Hour in KANSAS. And, sometimes, once you get through that moment, that surprise you can carry on with the business of getting to know someone.

Stay tuned. We'll be back at storytime next week.

more news on ear infections

As heard on Morning Edition this morning.
Great.

And, yes, she still has her ear infection. And yes, last night was a difficult night. And yes, we're going to ask her dr. about this at her appointment next week. And yes, it is unlikely that Khubz is the lone target of a New York bug, so yes, the dr. will likely roll her eyes and dismiss Scully as crazy mommy # 143 but yes, we will ask anyway.

New Stubborn Ear Infection Resistant to Drugs

by Richard Knox
October 17, 2007 · Doctors in Rochester, New York, have discovered a new strain of bacteria that's causing ear infections in children.

They report in the Journal of the American Medical Association that it's resistant to every antibiotic approved to treat these common infections.

Baby Genevieve Lawson was one of the first children to get the stubborn new ear infection.
"She basically had an ear infection from January until April," says Alison Lawson, Geneieve's mother. "Iit just never cleared up."

She says doctors tried one antibiotic after another without success. The infection was finally cured by a strong antibiotic approved only for adults.

Genevieve is one of nine children in the Rochester area known to have gotten the so-called superbug. Technically it's called the 19-A strain of Streptococcus pneumoniae — strep pneumo for short.

Dr. Michael Pichichero of the University of Rochester and his colleague Janet Casey discovered it."There are 2,722 previous strains that never had exactly this genetic information whereby the bacteria has acquired resistance not only to amoxicillin — that standard treatment for ear infection — but all 18 antibiotics approved by the U.S. FDA," Pichichero says.

Nine cases isn't a crisis. But the discovery has captured the attention of public health experts who track antibiotic-resistant germs. "What was found in Rochester was worrying for two counts: it was a very, very resistant of strep pneumo. And it was a strain that was not covered by the vaccine," says Dr. Elizabeth Bancroft of the Los Angeles County Health Department.
She's referring to a strep pneumo vaccine introduced seven years ago. It protects against seven different strains. It's greatly reduced the incidence of pneumococcal infections in children. But researchers had predicted that by suppressing the most common strains, the vaccine would open the door to new ones like the 19-A Rochester bug.

Bancroft says once a new bug has evolved, experience teaches that it's likely to spread.
It would not surprise me if we see this in other practices across the country. It's a worrying trend for Rochester. We don't know yet what it means for the rest of the country," Bancroft says.

That's why Pichichero is warning fellow pediatricians to be alert to ear infections that don't go away. The fear is hearing loss —- or worse, that the infection might go to the lung or brain, although that's not happened.

Pichichero suggests children with the symptoms go through an ear tap, which involves sticking a needle through the child's eardrum to withdraw a sample of fluid. It's fast and doctors say it doesn't hurt much, but it's scary for kids, who have to be strapped down. And Pichichero says many doctors don't like to do it.

It might be necessary to get an ear specialist to do the procedure. But for now the chances are very slim that most doctors and most parents will have to confront a case of the new strep pneumo bug. "It may never spread from Rochester — and it may never go to the lungs and the spinal meningitis form. And we hope not. But we just need to be aware of that possibility," Pichichero says.

Meanwhile, the makers of the current pneumococcal vaccine are working on a new version that will protect against the 19-A strain. But it won't be ready until at least 2010.

-----------------

Ah, 2010.

I yearn for you for so many reasons.

It happens, right?

Quick call in to clc to check on Khubz. She is fine, she is happy, she is healthy, she is enjoying herself, she is playing with toys, she had a good time going outside, she is safe and she is well-rested. What more could two mommies want?

"did you know that she loves mustard?"
"no. . ."
"she loves mustard! We had hotdogs today for lunch and. . . "
"Did Khubz eat hotdogs?"
"Yeah"
"Oh, because I packed her lunch today and we don't eat hotdogs."

Lots and lots and lots of apologies from Kara, the lead daycare provider. She's really, really, really sorry and I really, really, really believe that it was just an honest mistake. She's got how many kids and they're hungry and it's chaos. I'm not mad at her but I am perturbed.

Now I'm not crazy. I don't fear that Khubz is going to suffer dire health consequences because she had a hotdog for lunch. I'm not worried that the pork she consumed will now preclude her from going to heaven. I am not terrified that she's had a hotdog and next she'll want to sing the star-spangled banner. So, please, know that I am not being ridiculous.

I am not turning in my notice at work so I can stay home with her. I am not looking for a new daycare. I am not designing a "no pig, please" t-shirt for Khubz to wear to daycare.

And since I am not flying off the handle I do think that means I get to rant about my f e e l i n g s . . .

The problem with all of this is that it represents the rub of my family against the majority. This is not the first conflict (duh) but it is one of the first where the primary point of impact is Khubz as opposed to me or Scully. And she is encountering this conflict in the absence of her mommies, in the absence of anyone who even knows there's any conflict at all. Because we represent the conflict and they are simply being the majority.

I don't want her eating hotdogs. Not because there is anything inherently destructive about one hotdog but because I want us, our family, her mommies, me & Scully to set the norm. They already set the norm with all of the rest of her daily environment: the music, the books, the rules, the language, the toys. And we have her in care there because we feel like their norm is generally compatible with what we want. We like their rules, their toys, their music. . .

But there is something about the way Khubz's world tastes.

It is wonderful to share food with other people & find out what their world tastes like. It's not a big deal that she ate a hotdog. I fully expect to delight her with funnel cake at the county fair and beef ribs at the rhythm & ribs festival. It is her everyday, her norm, her standard, her landscape. . . That's what I insist on keeping in family.

Please know that I am not hoping to keep Khubz in a bubble.
I am not delusional about all the dominant/crap I consume (just wait for the upcoming post on the library book sale.) I liked this whole rant better when it was punctuated by beautiful pictures of spices.

What's Equity?

Khubz was asleep and so it was time for the talk.

You know. That talk.

I am committed to mothering with a woman who is in the PhD program. She's working more-than-full time in a more-than-full-time job with plenty of evening obligations. She has deeply held moral beliefs about maintaining low levels of clutter in the house.

It means that we occasionally have a dialogue like this.

Scully: " I know you've had her all day & have things you need to get done, but I have to go to this program tonight. I'm sorry. I feel really guilty and miss you both. I know it's not fair. . ."

FFemme: "Stop. Stop right there. Say that last sentence again." Deep breath. "It just helps me to hear you say it." Exhale.

Now, I am certainly not a card-carrying member of the "Everything should be fair" club. I think the whole idea of "fair" is crap, actually, because it assumes we all have the same needs. Is it fair that I got a new car and Scully didn't. No. Except that my old car was on its way out & her truck is humming along. Is it fair that I have Fridays off and she works Fridays? No. Except that it supports what we both want for our daughter. Is it fair that Scully has a massive amount of reading to do because she is taking two classes both of them research classes? No. Is it fair that she is locked in a basement on a bright sunny day when Khubz and I are upstairs cavorting with soccer balls, Personal Penguins and the wheels on the bus? Is it fair that I am going to reap many benefits of a PhD without ever having to open the chronicle of higher education (unless I'm using it to paper Khubz's pinata?)

Remember that guy who said "Expecting life to be fair is like a vegetarian expecting the bull not to charge at him."

So there is no fair. I don't expect there to be "fair." I do not define equity as "you put the cherub to bed one night. I put her to bed another night." Equity has to have a new meaning: we both do as much as we possibly can and try to take care of this family we have made. Rules for this new definition

• Stop counting. That pretends that mothering is a series of comparable activities that can be divided up anyway. And it doesn't seem to be.

• Don't pretend. Acknowledge that things aren't "fair" in ways that work in my favor and in ways that piss me off.

• Remember that the magic closet isn't magic. Just because I don't see something, doesn't mean it isn't happening. All I see is that the closet always has clean, neatly folded towels in it. I don't see the towels being gathered up, taken downstairs, sorted, washed, dried, folded and put away. All I see there are always towels when I need one. There are all sorts of ways to contribute to our household. Many of those are invisible (especially once they're done.) This is true for the unseen things I do as well as the things Scully does that I don't see.

• Extend the gratitude. We are grateful to the universe that we have Khubz. We should thank each other more.

• Believe, for real, that the other person is doing as much as they can. Really. Try. Try really, really hard to give them the benefit of the doubt. When you can't maintain this belief resist the urge to violate rule # 1. Also, resist the urge to be too rule-oriented.
• Finally, give each other more grace. For when it all goes to hell.

But when I'm tired and when I have been repeatedly vomitted upon for the last three days a small voice, almost like a 3-year-old, wells up inside me. It's not fair! Luckily for both Scully and me, I didn't kick the couch as I had my fit.

Even as I write this Scully has taken our poor child to the doctor. They agreed that she has a low grade fever, running nose and confirmed that the vomit is likely from swallowing so much mucus. With that, they sent them home. "Can't help you. Feel better!"

It seems I'll have to share that "surprised vegetarian being gored by a bull" story with Khubz sooner than I thought.

Vomit, part ii or iii or iv

More vomit.

Much, much more.

To her credit, Khubz looked much more upset about puking on me than she ever had before. It was sort of a slow-motion, marathon vomit. She was nursing and swallowing lots of mucus (again) and sat up looking at me like I'd said "I'm thinking about transitioning to a man" Calm down, folks, this is not meant to shock you with transphobia. it's meant to shock you because of my great antipathy (some would say loathing) of masculinities.

So she had this surprised, confused look on her face. She sunk her chin down into her neck and up came round one of vomit. I'd been nursing (most of the day) and so I didn't have a shirt on.
Try to be a good mommy, I tell myself, and banish both my sigh and my grimace. "You're okay. Are you okay? You're okay. Are you okay?" Each of these was punctuated by another round of vomit from the child. At that point it was a two mommy job.

Scully was downstairs tackling Mt. Laundry so I had to stomp on the floor to get her attention. Classy, I know. Every woman loves to be interrupted while doing laundry by her partner banging on the floor. And every woman is even more overjoyed when she comes up from the basement to find her partner covered, covered in vomit and her infant child still heaving. That same every woman feels completely fulfilled when (once the child is done & wiped down) she gets to return to the laundry with more dirty clothes--especially since these ones had the aforementioned snotty, milky vomit all over them.

Khubz and I plunked down in the bathtub together. We hadn't done this in a while. It was sort of nice because she loves to splash and play in water. I just had to pretend that I wasn't in the tub to wash off vomit and bathe in water that she was likely peeing in. When did I get so squeamish?

Oh well. She cried for an hour and a half before falling asleep. It was awful. I'd rather be vomited on.

(note to future self, don't forget to link to that statement in future vomit-related posts.)

On another note:
The poet of the day is Sonia Sanchez

I'm listening to the Sweet Honey song where she reads this poem over their singing. Marvelous.

I do so much better with poetry.
It is the opposite of a crying baby, a political campaign, horns honking outside or the musak i'm subjected to while being on hold.

We did it

Khubz will be starting at a new daycare.
It is totally the right decision.
And I am sick about it.

Apples & Oranges

What's your decision making process? Mine is usually something like this:

• Come upon the decision
  
• Contact many good women to talk through emotional aspects, consequences, costs, ethics and any other elements that answer the eternal question "what does it mean?"


• Vacillate


• Recontact those same good women for additional insights they may have had in the 10 minutes we were off the phone


• Relay the conversations I've had with each of the good women to the other good women


• Make a decision. Vacillate. Make a different decision. Change my mind again (maybe twice.)


• Announce my decision but request grace from the listener for subsequent vacillating


• Act on my decision while worrying

So motherhood has changed my decision making process somewhat. It's all really the same steps but the steps can happen in any order and the background is an overwhelming amount of anxiety. I really have to find a better way to cope.

We got a call from a daycare center. There's an opening and we're on their waiting list.

It is a block away from our house. A block. We know several parents that take their kids there and all highly recommend it. Good parents. Parents who parent the way I want to parent.

It is a center so there's no casual t.v. or wacky fundy christian radio on in the background. There's a schedule with activities like art, storytime, sign language, regular nap times. The classrooms are divided by age so Khubz wouldn't be in there with 5 year olds who play a different kind of game than she does.

But it's a center so it's not like she's at someone's house. It's an institution, right? A system. Plus we don't know them. We know Trish. And she loves Khubz. Loves her. And Khubz is all love back. And Trish doesn't mind if we're running 10 minutes late. She does evening daycare if I'm traveling & Scully is in class late. She's totally flexible and wonderful about our crazy schedules.

How do you make a decision like this?

And then there are the things that I know should not factor in to our decision making process but that I know already do creep in to my assessment of plus/minus: The daycare center is only one block away from our house. It is $200/month more than what we're currently paying. I don't want to hurt Trish's feelings.

I almost feel like Scully & I have already made our decision and we're just waiting to solidify it. We're going to go meet the lead teacher tomorrow and take another tour of the center. They call everyone on the waiting list and whoever brings in the deposit check first is the one who gets the slot. So there's one way to resolve my endless vacillating. Stay tuned.