Knock knock knock

Hello, old friend. It's been awhile. So long, in fact, that I didn't even remember the password. Do you remember me? It's probably a bit fuzzy for you. I'm the one who fills your blogoshperic pages with my esoteric ramblings, my literary prose - or, more accurately, my babblings and pictures of my kids.

Right.

Well, I'm back. I hope. I had to take a brief hiatus, all of which will be explained shortly. I just need a little more time to ponder.

Thanks to everyone who emailed/twittered/etc. I am okay. Mostly. And I look forward to posting more regularly. I have so much to tell you all!

Stay tuned...

Danielle's Story

This is an absolutely amazing story that appeared in the St. Petersburg Times. That this can happen in this country in this day and age is profoundly disturbing. But in the end, it is heartwarming to know that people like the ones who adopted this little girl also exist.

The video, slide shows and audio are also an excellent example of multi-media journalism.

Danielle's story

It's All Good

Thank you

A very heartfelt thanks to all of you who reached out through the blogosphere to embrace me yesterday.

I've only met a few of you in person so it's amazing so many of you took time out of your day to share a few words of encouragement and compassion with me.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

It means more than you can know.

One Year

And, suddenly, here it is.

One year.

My father died one year ago today, in a haze of morphine and Frank Sinatra music.

Does this passage of time, then, put the acceptance stamp on it? Does it make it more real, that my father is, truly, gone?

No. Because grief is not measured in an orderly number of days. There are times when it seems he's been away for a long, long time. Then there are those moments when the thought of not seeing him again is astonishingly shocking.

The sadness I feel is not just for me. It is for my mom, who will not grow older with the man she spent over 49 years. It is for my children, too. What joy he would've taken in watching a parents' sweetest revenge: my having to raise a child who is, in essence, a stubborn, opinionated mini-me.

And the anger. Yes, I am angry with him, for not taking care of himself so he could be around for my mother, for my brother, sister and me, and for his four grandchildren.

That has not dissipated. Don't know if it ever will.

But today, I just want to remember the larger-than-life red-head with the raucous laugh. The guy who would come home from work and throw sky-high pop-ups with a tennis ball for me to catch.

The one who smelled of Kent cigarettes and Old Spice.

That is our perogative, the ones left behind. We choose what we want to remember, how we want to remember.

Today, I just think of this tremendous loss.

Miss you, Dad.

Checked Out

I had some time to kill before I went to physical therapy today, so I was lured by the siren song decided to go to Target.

I picked up all those must-have, can't-live-without items like Kashi Honey Sesame crackers and a six-pack of glue sticks and got into the checkout line. There was one woman in front of me and an ancient checker behind the register.

I've seen him before and he's a cute old Asian guy so I don't mind that he's not as speedy as some of the others. Turns out, he was the least of my problems.

The woman, after putting all her stuff in her cart, decides to write a check.

That's right. A CHECK.

Who the heck writes a check anymore? According to WalletPop, the personal check is one of the top 25 things that are fading out in our country, right along with outdoor plumbing and dial-up.

It's pretty obvious why. First she had to scramble around in her ginormous purse to find a pen. Why she wasn't filling out the check while the guy was ringing up her stuff I do not know. Anyway, the pen doesn't really work, but she's gamely making a go at it.

Meanwhile, I'm tapping my fingers, rolling my eyes and snapping my gum like a high schooler waiting for a homeroom pass. Okay, maybe not quite THAT obvious, but that's what my thought bubble was doing

Then she has to fish out her license. Luckily, the cash register now reads the license, unlike back in the day when I worked retail and had to meticulously print out the drivers license number and expiration on the check, AND ask for a phone number if it wasn't already printed on it.

Finally, after I read in TV Guide how Viki is dead AND in Star how Cher is married and signed a $600 million prenup AND sampled some cherry and mango Tic Tacs AND texted the Gettysburg Address to seven friends, it was my turn.

In went the credit card. Out it came. Done.

See, lady? I wanted to say. But I couldn't. She was out in the parking lot, using her door key to unlock her car before manually unrolling the windows.

The Itsy, bitsy...AAAACK!

For the past few weeks, we've had this very cool spider living on the outside frame of our garage door. He built a nice funnel-like web, where he chilled during the day and came out a little at sunset.

We've never seen a spider like him before. He's brown, almost tan. We saw an orange hourglass on the bottom of his abdomen, but since he wasn't black, we knew he isn't a black widow. And he has this really cool tiling on his top.

Every time we pull into the driveway, there he is. The kids like to check on him, especially because Sawyer is way into spiders.

Then last weekend, he was gone. Just like that. I was actually kinda sad. Our own little nature study was gone. And then, two days later, he was back, like a sailor returning from a wild time on shore leave.

So today, I decided to once again search the internet to see if I could identify him.

GAH!

What we have here, folks, is a brown widow spider. The picture above is not our actual spider; it's one I found on the Web. They are reportedly MORE venomous than their cousins, the black widow, but are not aggressive. Their bites are more localized so you don't drop dead. But they do hurt.

So, when the kids and I went to the aquarium this morning, David went out in full battle gear. Actually, he just had a can of Raid.

Poor spider. Or should I say, poor dead spider.

I felt bad, but having a venomous spider in easy reach of my family was, you know, not so cool. And I'd never give a second thought to smushing it with the closest availabe shoe if it was in my house.

But there he was, minding his own business, just being his bad brown widow self. He was simply in the wrong place, wrong time.

Location, location, location!

Trouble with a T

Training wheels are for babies!

Wait. Didn't he just learn to pedal his tricycle five minutes ago?

Another rite of passage for my little guy, another addition to the line that separates Baby from Kid.

Sunday, while Sage napped, David took Sawyer to the park with our neighbor and his twin sons (known as The Boys). David and The Boys' dad apparently got a wild hair to take the training wheels off the bikes.

I did not think this was going to go well. Sawyer, bless his heart, isn't the most coordinated child. In a lot of ways, he's physically timid. He was the last of his friends to climb or go down a slide by himself (although he rules in the pool). He told me he didn't go after the ball in soccer because he was afraid of getting kicked.

So riding a bike without training wheels? The same bike we got him for Christmas that he didn't even ride until about two months ago?

I'm sitting at home, and David calls. He puts Sawyer on the phone, and I hear "MOMMY!I'MRIDINGMYBIKEWITHOUTTRAININGWHEELSALLAROUNDTHEPARK17TIMES!" Rainbows and unicorns and cupcakes burst from his voice.

I have never heard him so excited - and so proud of himself. David said it took him 15 minutes, with the requisite tears and vows never to get on the bike again, before Sawyer just got it.

Who doesn't remember that exact glorious moment when you pedal pedal pedal and you're going and you don't notice that your Dad is no longer running along side you holding your seat.

You are, suddenly, flying. You are all motion and laughter and deliciously, gloriously free.

Then you freak out, and in my case, forget how to use the brakes. I got my tire caught in the sewer grate and did a beautiful front flip over the handlebars and onto the ground.

The best part is, I got back on. And so did Sawyer, even after crashing into the back of a car yesterday in our culdesac.

Riding a bike is a lifelong skill. If you can ride a bike, then you always can. It also gives me a glimpse into the future, of him taking off as he bikes to school or a friend's house.

With me just watching him
pedal
pedal
pedal
away from me.

Middle-aged Mom, my butt!!

Dara Torres is going to her fifth Olympics. Her fifth. No U.S. swimmer has ever done that. Think about it. Since she didn't compete in the last Olympics, it's a span of 24 years - she won the first of her nine medals in 1984.

Now she's 41. Her adorable, curly-haired two year-old daughter, Tessa, watched from the stands the other night, a lollypop twirling in her mouth, as her Mommy won the 100m freestyle.

Making the Olympic team completely blows out of the water the notion that women of a certain age must put aside their dreams because of a number. With killer abs and a long, lean body, Torres seems timeless.

The rumblings of steroid use that swirl around her are laughable. She's already been through that noise in her last Olympics, the 2000 Games in Sydney, when she won two golds and three bronzes - at the ripe old age of 33.

She was more than irritated. She decided to volunteer for extra drug testing, performed with the latest technology.

What pisses me off about the accusations is I think about all the hours she spends training: swimming lap after endless lap, lifting weights in the gym - all that time working out is time lost with her daughter, time she can never get back. Why would she do all that just to cheat?

Torres is already uncomfortable imagining life without Tessa for a month while she's in Beijing. Does this sound like someone who's on drugs?

She already has the glory. To take steroids to get back for one more go-around is ridiculous. She has nothing left to prove.

Torres' story reminds me of another Olympic hopeful. Aeron Arlin Genet runs Running Divas, which sells really cute running-related clothing. She sells her stuff at some of the big marathon events. I saw her at the expo for the San Diego Marathon. You might remember a certain purchase we made there:


Anyway, I asked her about her training. She was in the process of trying to qualify for the Olympic Trials in the 1,500 meters (the mile). We're talking somewhere below 4:30. Yes, that's under 4 minutes, 30 seconds for a mile. Try that at home, people!

She was shy by just a few seconds. She had a slight injury, but hoped she had enough to make it.

Did I mention that she's 40? She told me that she never imagined it'd be possible for her to still be competing at her age - against women half her age. I was in awe.

I checked her new blog recently, and unfortunately, she fell short of the mark and didn't qualify. But I loved how she said that she doesn't feel done. Not at all.

We don't lose our love of the rush. The desire is still there to push ourselves further than we thought possible. Even if we are not Olympic-caliber, we are out there, seeing how far or how fast or how long we can go. And we are stunned when it is farther, faster and longer than we ever thought possible.

Our bodies may be more beat up than they would've been 20 years ago. Maybe, like Torres said, we need bigger numbers on the scoreboard or timer to see them. Our eyes may be weaker, but not our hearts.

We are not our mothers' 40. We are our own. This is our time. And I pray that when Sage is my age, she sees not limitations, but expectations.

Today, Dara Torres set an American record in the 50m freestyle. I know I will be rooting hard for her next month - cheering for her, and for all of us "middle-aged" moms.

Hands off!

So you're driving, and some moron is swerving around in front of you. Slow down. Speed up. Slow down. Then s/he veers into your lane, completely cutting you off. Profanities (yours) fly in the air around you. And since it's before noon you figure s/he is sober, so there's just one other possibility.

That's right. The cellphone. Driving while chatting is especially challenging for those who are holding the phone with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. Yet, those are always the people who are right in front of me.

Yes, yes, I also have been guilty of talking while driving. Sometimes it's the only chance I have to talk to anybody over the age of 4 1/2. Or maybe I'm just calling to check the timing of a playdate or whatever.

There was this one particular time when I was trying to call the editor of a freelance piece I was doing. I was using a Trio, which I'd just gotten, and I had no clue how it worked. I might have sailed through a red light - when the car in the other direction had a green left turn arrow. Luckily, he stopped, and I swerved and somehow missed slamming into a minivan. Scared the bejeebus out of me.

Anyway, this is no longer a problem. Why? Well, yeah, I got rid of the Trio. But California, as of July 1st, has made it illegal to talk on a handheld cell phone while driving.

And they aren't joking. Police are handing out tickets faster than you can say, "But, but, officer!"

No excuses. So when Cindy called me just before 6:30 on Friday morning, as I was on my way to meet her and Torrey for my run, I hit speaker phone and shouted "What, are you trying to get me arrested?"

Thing is, I don't get the whole bluetooth thing. Despite David's best efforts, I can't figure out how to work it. What do I push? How do I do it? I'm more distracted trying to flail at my ear than I ever was holding the stupid phone!

But apparently, this hands-free ordinance is a good one. According to scientists at Carnegie Mellon University, listening to a conversation while driving reduces the amount of brain activity associated with driving by 37 percent (okay, but wait. Are they also including listening to small children while driving? Because I have to say, acknowledging every make of car on the road that Sawyer can point out - "Look, Mommy, a BMW! Did you see it? Did you? Oh! There's a Lexus. Mommy! Did you see it?" - while Sage is singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star at the top of her apparently opera-singer sized lungs from the back seat isn't exactly conducive of concentration. Just sayin'.).

You watch drivers now, and they're all sporting some sort of device hanging out of their ear, like some sort of weird tribal marking. Or maybe a gang tag.

Now I have to figure out what to do with my suddenly liberated hand. Cause, you know, keeping two hands on the steering wheel is so Driver's Ed!

I guess the next time some cellphone-holding, law-flouting crazy cuts me off, it'll be no effort at all to reward him with a hearty, unencumbered one-fingered salute.

Endless summer

It's, what, early July, and I'm already over it?

Yes, people, I'm done with summer. It's not the heat (it's the humidity! badum-bum) that's getting to me. Or even the strange July Gloom that's starting to ruin trips to the beach.

I'm just, well, bored. I've got both kids full-time, which I haven't had in a year. Last summer, Sawyer spent six weeks going twice a week to preschool. This summer, he's not.

The mornings are semi-full of swimming lessons for Sage, trips to the pool, the beach club here in town (it's a pool, but it's walk-in and it's ringed in sand. The problem is they don't clean it nearly enough - twice a day would be perfect, not twice a week - and the ducks like to use it as their own personal litter box), and, fog permitting, the beach.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to fit in all my working out/training into the early morning hours, so after spending the rest of the morning out in the sun, all I want to do is take a nap. Unfortunately, Sawyer wants me to read him 713 books.

I'm a zombie by dinner. I actually fell asleep in Sawyer's bed last night after tucking him in.

I wish I was one of those moms like Melissa, who always seems to be doing fun/crafty things with her kids. I can never think of any projects that don't involve me someone getting frustrated and crying.

One thing I'm considering having them pick tufts of hair out of our shedding dogs and teaching them how to weave them into hats for the winter. Do you see what I'm talking about? Desperation!

I need a summer makeover. My poor kids, stuck with Boring Mommy. I mean, they always are, but I'm more exposed when I have to come up with something every day. EVERY DAY these kids want to, like, do stuff! The nerve.

I would love to hear what fun stuff you all are doing. Get me out of my rut, before I suck my kids into my vortex of ennui!

And for the best idea, I will send you your own dog fur hat!

ETA: Okay, upon further ponderance, I appear to be a self-indulgent, unappreciative simp who should be thanking my lucky stars that I'm able to stay home and have all this time with my kids. So in a small caveat, I must say that I AM extremely thankful.

Like, knock it, like, off!

My son is a talker. He will talk to anyone. About anything. It does not matter if you aren't talking to him. Ask Sage a question and Sawyer will fill you in.

He's always been verbally advanced, speaking in complex sentences before the age of 2. It's his talent.

But lately I've noticed something sneaking into his speech. I'm not clear how this happened. I don't do it. And we don't live THAT close to the Valley.

Here is an example of what he says:

"Mommy? Remember, when, I was, like, 3 1/2, and like, I, like, went, like, on an airplane?"

Ugh. He's already talking teenager at 4 1/2. I told you he was advanced!

What to do? At the moment I am sticking my fingers in my ears and shouting "LALALALA" so I can't hear it. Just kidding. But that's what I feel like doing. Actually, I'm just hoping if I ignore it it'll go away. Hasn't worked yet with the cellulite on my legs, but you never know.

I guess I should be thankful he's not yet inserting "dude" into every sentence, or various permutations of the word "fuck."

I'm sure he's just saving something for later.

In Self Defense

We have a rule in our house, courtesy of local parenting columnist/author Sandy McDaniel: You hit, you sit.

Meaning, if Sawyer or Sage hit me, David, each other or the dogs, the offender has to sit immediately in time out. No warnings.

But now that Sawyer is 4 1/2, and, being a social little creature, is frequently playing with other kids, I am starting to wonder about that rule.

Because it seems to me that there are times he should be able to whack someone. Okay. There. I said it.

If someone hits him, at some point, he's going to have to hit them back or risk getting the bejeezus beat out of him by some idiot bully. Problem is, how do you explain this?

"See, it's okay to hit if the other boy is being an fuckwad and he hits you first, because you have to defend yourself. However, make sure you don't get caught, because usually the teacher/parent/coach only sees the retaliatory shot. Oh, and it's never okay to hit your sister, or a smaller kid, even if they are being a colossal pain in the ass."

Right.

I have told Sawyer that if someone hits him, he needs to walk away and tell me. Today we met a friend of mine and her two kids at the Beach Club. Her son, N, is 3 1/2, and her daughter, O, is 17 months. I think the kids were getting a bit grumpy by the time we left, and Sawyer and N started to squabble. And N kept poking/hitting at Sawyer.

To his credit, Sawyer told him to stop, but N didn't listen. So Sawyer walked away. Completely appropriate behavior. But there was a little part of me that wanted to see him swat the kid. I know, I know. It's just that sometimes I want to see a little fire in my boy.

He used to be so startled, as a young toddler, when a bigger kid would push him or grab his shovel or knock him over the head with a truck. He never fought back and I was worried about his easy-going temperment. At some point, I wondered if he would snap.

He never did. That is not to say that he doesn't engage in some toy-grabbing (especially from his sister) and other "physical" behavior now. He absolutely does.

The other day at the beach my friend's usually mild-mannered guy decided that Sawyer was talking too much and so he kicked him. Hard. Now, I know how that kid feels, because there are times when I desperately need Sawyer to SHUT UP. Still. Sawyer actually was hurt. And my poor friend was mortified.

She apologized again later, hoping none of us would think her child was a brute. We don't. He's a great little kid.

Nobody wants their child to be a bully, or to grow into some chest-thumping he-man who talks with his fists. But it did make me wonder when we might need to bend the rules. For self defense, and defense of Self.

At Last, Sex and the City

Yes, I realize the movie has been out for awhile. My training partners and I were supposed to see it the day before the marathon, but we were, like, busy shopping getting mentally prepared for the big day.

So my mom's group (well, it's not REALLY a mom's group, in that we don't pay dues and we have spontaneous rather than scheduled heavy drinking sessions playdates. We're just six or so women who met when our kids were 7-8 weeks old in a support group for new moms, and we've remained friends) had a night out.

Five of us met at the theater. And because we didn't have our kids with us, we actually got to wear our Big Girl clothes (ie heels, shirts without goldfish crumb handprints on the shoulder, etc). We weren't the only ones. We chose our seats, and a moment later, a group of women in cute outfits filled the entire row in front of us.

The TV series of Sex and the City was, ultimately, about women bonding, and it was reflected in the crowd. I believe there was one manfriend. I'm guessing either 1) he'd been a very bad boy or 2) he was going to be richly rewarded for sitting through it, although there were lots of naked boobies to be gawked at.

I wasn't a huge fan of the show when it was on. I mean, I liked it, but I didn't DIE over it. I don't own the complete DVD set or watch it in reruns on TBS.

But when the movie came out, I was interested in seeing it. And I'm glad I did.

Honestly, it was really funny. Too long, but definitely entertaining.

This will NOT ruin for any of you who have yet to see it, but there is one part where Miranda (Cynthia Nixon's character) is complaining about those annoying moms who stay home all day and don't, you know, work. We all looked at each other and were all, "That would be us. Thanks!"

I'm the only one of our group who has actually lived in the City, for about a year and a half in the early 90s. And of COURSE I wore fabulous designer clothes and $500 Manolos and went to the hottest bars and had lots and lots of wild sex.

Yeah, right. I made, what, $32,000 a year and hung out at dive bars, drinking kamakaze shots with beer chasers. I had a boyfriend who lived in out of state, but when that didn't work out, there might have been just one ill-advised tussle (one great thing about NYC, a condom is just a quick run down the stairs to the corner bodega at 3 a.m.).

Thing is, New York is really the best place on the planet. But it's even better if you actually have money, like the characters in SATC.

In the end, though, it's not about the shoes or the killer apartments or even Carrie's crazy argyle legwarmers (what was she thinking??).

It's about having amazing girlfriends. No matter where you live.

Road To Roubaix

Yes, people, another shameless plug. The husband of my friend JenC, loyal reader and poster of SpecialSauce, has made a documentary film. Which is impressive in itself, because, other than, you know, videos of our kids pouring spaghetti over their heads and singing the alphabet song, what have WE done?

Anyway, Dave did his film on this super-crazy bicycle race in France called the Paris-Roubaix. There are like all kinds of spectacular crashes and stuff. The best part is HOT GUYS!

Okay, maybe not the BEST part, but certainly an added bonus!

Check out a clip and see what it's all about. It's VERY cool.

And Jen, you may now deposit the sum of $100 into my paypal account. (I'm kidding, people! It's $150!)

Retail Therapy

If you love to shop and, like me, you have little kids, your body automatically veers into every childrens store you pass. You spend more time in Gymboree and Janie & Jack and Hanna Andersson than you do at, say, Banana Republic or the Gap (for grownups, that is).

Your daughter has a more varied and fashionable wardrobe than you do.

But once in awhile, like a dieter who's off sugar for too long, you have to splurge. You just do.

And so I did.

Now that Sawyer is really swimming, and Sage no longer has a fear of the water and wants to be in it constantly, I realized I needed a new bathing suit. I might have also realized this last year too, but luckily the summer went by fast enough for me to postpone my Least Favorite Shopping Ever.

Really, is there anything worse than bathing suit shopping? This is why the last nice bathing suit I bought was right before Sawyer turned a year old and we were going to Hawaii. I rewarded myself for finally losing all the baby weight.

If you're doing the math at home, that would be almost four years ago. Because we're not counting the skirtini I bought two years ago. It served it's purpose, but it's tired, the poor thing.

I now wear the skirt with the bikini top from Hawaii - or the one I got for my honeymoon, which was only almost seven years ago. I'm just not interested in wearing the string bikini bottoms at the moment. Too many things hanging out, especially when chasing little kids, and anyway, who has time for a bikini wax?

I should also mention the skirt is two sizes too big. So when it gets wet, it stre-e-e-e-e-tches. Not a good look.

There is nothing worse - and when I say nothing I mean it, readers - than trying on bathing suits. I do not need those flourescent lights to help point out every pocket of cheese that grows on my legs like their own country.

Luckily, the only injury I've incurred in a dressing room was to my pride. I've never had, say, an embellishment pop off and practically blind me, like that woman trying on a thong at Victoria Secret. Have you heard about this? A 52 year-old woman is suing VS because she claims she has permanent corneal damage after a sequin or something flew off the thong and hit her in the eye.

This leads me to two questions: 1) Who the hell tries on a thong? The ick factor is immeasurable and 2) How tight was she trying to stretch this thong so that the decoration was ejected with such force?

But hey. It could happen to anyone. So I decided the internet was clearly much safer. I get the Athleta catalogue and love the way the stuff looks. Then again, I'm looking at it on the most fit models ever. I would sell one of my children to have abs like these women. Okay, maybe not sell them, possibly just exchange them for merchandise.

I called them to ask about sizing, and spoke to a wonderful woman who totally guided me.

And this is what I got:




The woman assured me the top was beautiful in person and that it would look great with the shorts.

So, you know, while I was on the phone, and since she was being so helpful, I kinda accidentally bought two dresses. With the intent of returning one.




I'm running with the girls tomorrow morning, then will start with my new trainer Monday. So hopefully soon I'll be rockin' my new duds - just like those Athleta models.

Hey, a girl can dream!

No Place Like Home

There I was, a day after giving birth to my daughter, wearing the highly fashionable hospital robe with my boobs hanging out. I had just, finally, finally, attached said baby to aforementioned boobs - when in walks a man I did not know, telling me it was time to take blood from Sage's foot.

I did not tell him where he could stick his needle. Instead, I told him it wasn't going to happen and he'd have to come back. On the 12th of Never.

It reinforced to me that hospital births are incredibly invasive. There are people in and out of your room all the time. Sometimes, they come bearing the good stuff like pain meds. Most of the time, they're just a pain.

Which is why I read with interest the backlash against Ricki Lake and her documentary, the Business of Being Born. I have not seen the movie yet (but I've wanted to for a while!). The film shows the water birth of her second son in her Manhattan apartment.

Apparently, the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists is pissed. They released a statement that says the home is not the safest setting for having a baby. And, along with the American Medical Association, resolve to support state legislation "that helps ensure safe deliveries and healthy babies by acknowledging that the safest setting" is a hospital, connected birthing center or other approved facility.

Really? Not safe to have home births?

Some of you may remember that Sage was actually born at home. I was in labor denial and ended up with an unplanned home birth right on my living room couch.

The experience was the most amazing of my life. I'd had a very difficult delivery with Sawyer, including an epidural that entirely cut off feeling from the waist down. I had the Nurse from Hell who thought shouting at me was helpful. I had an episiotomy.

But with Sage... Amazing. Even though she was sunny-side up, the delivery was so, well natural. I have a feeling that, had I been in the hospital and not allowed to labor the way I wanted, they would've tried to give me a C-Section (I did go to the hospital after the birth).

Now, had I been high-risk, or attempting a VBAC, or if I knew something was wrong with the baby, it'd be an entirely different story. But a healthy woman with a normal pregnancy?

Obviously we are not capable of doing the most natural thing on the planet without a bright light illuminating our crotch like the Vegas strip and a nurse telling us to HOLD OUR BREATH to help push out a (gasp) baby - that, in most cases, would happily come out on its own.

Ricki Lake's repsonse was simply that she's about choice, not about shoving her agenda down anyone's throat (or birth canal, as the case may be). She just wants women to have information to make an informed one.

The only good thing about my first delivery was I ended up with my beautiful boy. The rest was so traumatic I didn't speak to my OB/GYN about it (she wasn't there for the delivery) until the following year - when I was pregnant with Sage.

I vowed it would be different with her. I hired a doula who taught HypnoBabies, a deep relaxation technique to give you a pain-free, drug-free birth.

I jumped on the soapbox for the virtue of natural childbirth (although, to me, the only unnatural childbirth is if the baby arrives via your butt). This was a dramatic change for me, since with Sawyer, I wanted the epidural before I arrived at the hospital.

When I was briefly pregnant this past winter, I started looking around for a birth center. The one hospital that allowed midwives to deliver closed. I knew I did not want a hospital birth and was considering either a birth center or a home birth.

I just think that women are programmed in this country as to how childbirth should be. It should occur in a hospital and with an epidural as soon as possible. We are sometimes induced even though the baby is doing just fine, its only crime was it didn't agree with the due date.

Nurses want you quiet. We aren't told that lying down is the worst possible position to give birth, as it closes the part of the pelvis that needs to open to let the baby come on down.

We are told that it is horribly painful, and yes, it can be, but it doesn't have to be. We learn that taking those "hee hee hee" breaths will somehow relax us (they don't).

But it is sometimes easier to do what everyone else is doing, isn't it? It's familiar. Hey, we've all seen Baby Story on TLC.

Don't be afraid to step outside the box. And certainly don't villify a woman like Ricki Lake for showing us that there can be another way. See what she has to say. Then make your own decision.

Us girls? We're pretty smart. We've been having babies since the beginning of time.

Love & Marriage

Two people meet and fall in love. They buy a house in the suburbs. They get a golden retriever.

You know how the story goes. They get married, have kids and are still living out the American Dream.

Only, that's not how THIS story goes. Because the two people happen to be the same gender. And in this country, they have not been allowed to marry. The pursuit of happiness and liberty and justice for all? Only if you're heterosexual. Says so in the Bible, don't you know?

But today, in California, gay couples can legally wed. So at 10 a.m., my two wonderful neighbors went with one of their moms and a niece to the county courthouse. There was definitely trepidation. Neither knew what to expect. Because their pre-wedding jitters involved wondering not about whether the band would show up, but if, when they saw a small crowd right by the building, they would get insults hurled at them like rotten tomatoes. But no - it was a group of supporters, whose applause ushered them in.

A woman performed the civil ceremony. They worried she'd be dismissive. In Bakersfield, the county clerk stopped officiating any marriages rather than preside over same-sex joinings. Happily, this clerk was perfect.

"When she said, 'And now, by the power vested in me by the State of California..' that was the most amazing moment," one of my neighbors said.

Then there was cake.

I honestly don't understand why anyone would begrudge them their happiness. They've been together for 15 years - longer than most marriages. They walk their dog, who they nursed through lymphoma, every morning. They work at the same school. They drive a hybrid.

They always stop to say hi when they see me or the kids. Just like all our neighbors.

It seems to me that there are those who have a very clear cut version of what the world should be. And if you don't conform, not only are you wrong, you are somehow personally injuring them. They quote the Bible and shout blasphemy. Frankly, that doesn't seem very Christian of them, to love only those who are like them.

Even if G-d didn't approve, what do they care? Judge not.

The divorce rate in this country isn't exactly a testament to the sanctity of marriage. Maybe there's room for something different.

Ellen DeGeneres said it so well, when she gently chided Republican Presidential Nominee John McCain on her show: “We are all the same people, all of us. You’re no different than I am. Our love is the same. When someone says, ‘You can have a contract, and you’ll still have insurance, and you’ll get all that,’ it sounds to me like saying, ‘Well, you can sit there, you just can’t sit there.’ "

For the first time, a recent Field Poll showed Californians favor granting gays the right to marry 51 percent to 42 percent.

So maybe we're starting to come around. That's never been an issue on our little street, buried in the foothills of one of the most conservative counties in the country.

The two of them stood on the sidewalk late this afternoon, wearing dark suits and boutonnieres. I hugged them. They were on their way to a celebratory dinner. Their first as a married couple.

They had been pronounced Spouse and Spouse, partners forever.

Not that they needed the ceremony to confirm it. But it's great, just like David and me, that they got the chance.

Baby Got Back

Once someone other than possibly your husband - and even that is questionable - sees your poop, you pretty much have lost the ability to be embarrassed (I accidentally delivered one prior to delivering my daughter. On the pad on my couch. In front of the paramedics.).

Add to that breastfeeding in public, being barfed on, and finding a booger in your hair that your daughter apparently flicked in the night before, and you figure there's nothing left.

But alas. You were wrong.

Today, my physical therapist and the trainer I'm thinking of hiring had a discussion about my ass. Specifically, the complete absence of muscle.

There is nothing like a confirmed case of Flabby Ass.

Now you'd think it would've gotten nice and firm from the amount of time I spend sitting on it.

Or, at the very least, running two marathons in seven months would've encouraged my glutes to, you know, stand up and pay attention.

Nope.

Apparently, distance runners are the worst offenders when it comes to being a lame ass. Every motion is straight ahead, so your butt doesn't get the work it needs. And my lack of any kind of weight lifting has not helped.

My body is, in fact, too bootylicious for me.

The kid who was taking me through my PT exercises today made sure to remind me to squeeze my butt ("You'll be able to crack nuts with it by Christmas," he promised). But you know, after an hour of it, I had to shout "GET OFF MY ASS!"

I mean, I had been feeling pretty pleased with myself that it had shrunk enough to fit nicely into my jeans.

All smoke and mirrors, my friends. My buns of steel are actually buns of, well, buns. As in, bakery. Hot crossed. Hot dog.

I am no longer in denial. And that's the first step to overcoming a problem right?

That, and about 10,000 lunges.