Not Selling Any Alibis

today (as in the day i started writing this and probably not the day i finish writing it) is apparently "no judgment day."  better than a hallmark holiday, it is a 24-hour reprieve for hardass moms, created by redbook magazine, to give yourself a break from the daily nervous breakdown that occurs when, for example, you go to pick your kid up from the babysitter and he throws himself on the floor kicking and screaming because he doesn't want to come home with you.  on a side note: i remember a day before popular magazines had the power to arbitrarily create holidays where none before existed?

makes me wonder -- what does the babysitter do that i don't?  oh yeah, she stays at home with my kids all day.

makes me wonder -- am i doing this parenting thing all wrong?  should i be staying with my kids all day?  are my kids screwed because i gave up breastfeeding to go back to work instead of leading them around by the boob until they left for kindergarten?  am i depleting brain cells by playing curious george 2 for the third time in a row today?  should i have given them a bath with real soap instead of letting them jump around in a puddle in the backyard and spraying them off with the hose?

and ... the purpose of no judgment day become apparent.  because if i spend any more time asking myself these questions, and any more time answering them in the affirmative, i'll have to collapse into a blubbering heap of failure and regret.

but friends, here are my confessions.  i am not ashamed.

#1 -- i take full advantage of the fact that panzer will do anything for a fruit snack.  i buy them hundreds of packs at a time at costco, and have at least 3 packages in my purse at all times.  i will pull them out whenever i need 10 seconds of quiet and still.  i will even tell myself what a favor i am doing to him, making sure he gets all that vitamin C.  and gelatoids, or whatever.

and i'm flexible   when the obsession turned to mints, i bought tic-tacs in bulk and commended P on his excellent breath.

#2 -- i let yo-gabba-gabba babysit my kids.  but only sometimes.  i even let panzer believe that DJ lance's name is "butthead," knowing that he is not stupid can pick the real butthead out of a line-up any day.  when i was a kid, you got your mouth washed out with soap for using that kind of language.  also, i let my kids watch yo-gabba-gabba fully realizing that it is simulating a mixed-drug-induced haze/craze.  for all i know, that's what the world looks like to their brains anyway.

#3 -- i will give the kids whatever they want to eat, whenever they ask for it.  eggs and waffles for dinner?  OK.  a bowl full of nuts for breakfast?  fine.  15 glasses of milk today?  probably never hurt anyone.  you just ate three pieces of pizza and an entire pineapple, and now want to stand next to my soup bowl with your mouth open like a baby bird?  in it goes.  i don't even get mad when they eat who-knows-what crumbs off the floor.  (i do tell them it's gross, like when panzer tried to lick the old chewing gum off the sidewalk at the park, but that only invites giggles and increases the desire to eat off the floor.)

lately, panzer has been demanding to eat mohs' smashed baby food zuchinni.  whatever, i make my own and there's more of something else that can be smashed up where that came from.  i mean, kids can't unlearn how to chew and swallow, right?  and if they do, perhaps they just shouldn't be eating anymore...

anyway, when i was growing up, the floor was clean and you ate what was on the table, or nothing.  which brings me to #4.

#4 -- the kids both sit at the same high chair.  (P just pulls up a stool.)  which is the only surface in the house not covered with laundry, bills, bubble canisters, old coffee cups and other assorted things you hope your kids won't touch.  let's face it, there's no table upon which to put a single choice of food.

#5 -- i strap my baby in his swing and put on a movie so i can go back to sleep.  ironic, as when panzer was born, i swore i would never put him in a swing after hearing many horror stories about kids who develop triangular heads from the sway of a baby swing.  but i'd do it again with mohs if he insisted on getting up at 330 AM and wasn't so easy to snuggle back to sleep on the pillow next to me.

#6 --  i take my kids to safeway to look at holiday decorations.  this is where panzer learned about spiders and pumpkins, turkeys, and santa claus and snowmen.  on this point, i truly have good intentions, but usually by the time i realize a holiday is coming up, it's all up on me and i panic with indecision.  thankfully, there is always something we need at the store.

#7 -- i lock myself in the bathroom with the fan on and cover my ears when my kids are crying.  aaron thinks this is childish, cowardly, and unnecessary.  probably so.  but keeps me from running back in scooping them up and ruining that whole rules/discipline/manners thing we agreed to force upon the children.

#8 -- i get angry at my kids.  this was not something i planned to experience in the first couple years, but damn, those little heathens can cause a lot of trouble in a few short minutes!  (and yo-gabba-gabba was supposed to be watching them!)  the battles of will are not my proudest mommy moments, but i will win, especially once you've ticked me off.  thankfully, it's tough to stay mad at a little dude who runs around yelling "sorry mommy! hug!" and pats you on the back like you're his charge instead of the other way around.

#9 -- i cry for my children.  not in front of them and certainly never in front of any of you bitches.  but i'm not strong for them.  i am sniveling mess of worry and panic and indecision.  i get overwhelmed with sadness when people (kids or adults) are short or uncaring or unappreciative of their awesomeness.  at news stories highlighting what a terrible group the human race is comprised of.  when i think of them being grown up-er someday and stressed and tired and on their own with climate change and civil wars and violent religious yahoos with their own kids to worry and panic about.  like me.

#10 -- i ask for help.  a lot.  from anyone -- family, friends, dudes at starbucks, mall security, TSA officers.  pick an occupation -- that person has held at least one of my kids for five seconds while i searched for my driver's license, carried hot coffee to the car, dumped vomit out of my best leather pumps, etc.

and actually, i am largely open to advice.  i'm pretty sure panzer would be potty-trained right now if i had any idea what i was supposed to do.  and also, i am totally open to ignoring your stupid advice, jerk whose baby slept through the night at 3 weeks old.

so friends, i repeat: i am not ashamed.  my kids have fairly good digestion, grow like weeds, smile frequently, and yell "c'mon mommy" or wave fat little arms at me when i walk in the room.  no self-help book can help me with #s 1 through 10.  sorry old lady at the grocery store who never let her kids leave the house without a hat or socks until they turned 7 and can't believe i let P have a cookie from the bakery at 630 AM ... these are my wild, dirty, crazy kids and they are a product of me; you can suck it.

Know Your Role

every once in a while i feel ashamed in the office for announcing that i don't know how to use the fax machine.  then i went to the oral surgeon to have the last of my wisdom teeth removed.  when i had the first 2 removed, i had only local anesthetic, so was wide awake while the quack pried my gigantic teeth out with a pair of pliers, using my cheek for leverage, which created a nice blood splatter all over my face.  so this time, i opted for the general anesthesia.  as an aside, this was also cheaper, which makes me suspect that things can go really wrong and quickly, resulting in additional medical expenses that cost the insurer more money, if you are not completely blacked out for the procedure.

that turned out to be a lot more involved than i thought.  as soon as i sat down, the doctor started the laughing gas and told me he would numb my arm before putting the IV in.  i've been giving blood since i had capacity to give my own informed consent 12 years ago, so i've been stuck with a lot of needles in my lifetime.  when i was in law school, i used to donate platelets because you could bring a DVD and watch it on your own little TV while they popped you popcorn and generally treated you like royalty, which was the closest thing i ever had to a vacation, so i've been stuck with giant needles that pump your guts out, filter them out, and pump them back in many times.  and then of course there's the whole giving-birth thing, where you're practically begging someone to drill a giant tube into your spine.  since i was already kind of doped up, i felt free to let the doctor know that i thought his numbing spray was a little overkill.

he agreed that i have giant veins with no excuse not to hit it on the first try, but then pointed out that those hundreds of needles were placed by professionals, who are skilled at those types of things.  he's an oral surgeon.  he gets paid to bust your teeth into little pieces and pry them out of your face.  he doesn't get paid to place needles.  wait, what?

i was too high on the laughing gas at the time to register the blood spraying out of my arm before i fell asleep.  and woke up with my first-ever bruise from a needle-poke.  he showed me ... turns out, i do believe people should stick to what they're good at.  i will spend the 20 minutes each it would take to train me on the fax machine, postage meter, typewriter three-hole punch, etc. making money to pay my staff to just do the same thing in 5 seconds or less.

i used to think that i had a high pain tolerance, having suffered my fair share of avoidable and ridiculous injuries.  what i realize now is that i have a high pain threshhold.  it is a slight but crucial difference.  basically, i don't feel pain ... until i do.  and when i do, it gets ugly fast.  back up.  throw the narcotics at me from a safe distance.  preferably accompanied by a tub of chunky monkey and an original futurama episode.  and try not to speak until spoken to.

of course, this plan has limited utility in my household.  ice cream must be shared.  the tv is ruled by little monsters dancing to the beat of a skinny black dude in a furry orange marching band hat.  mohs has figured the exact right place on my jaw to repeatedly bash his little head when he's wrapping his arms around me to grab the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck and gnaw mercilessly on my shoulder.  and panzer never, ever stops talking, usually to report on other people's business.  side note:  i have concluded nosiness is inherent in human nature and those who hold onto it into adulthood cannot be blamed.  P could give 2 shits about the soup sitting on his plate right in front of him (until you take it away away from him and then it is "MINE!"), but will spend the entirety of a meal talking about how daddy's soup is hot and daddy's soup has carrots in it and daddy's soup is yummy.

on the plus side, having two teeth wrenched from my skull and subsequent week of weeping while slurping down yogurt and broth kick-started my holiday diet, obliterating the last five pounds and then some.

in another news, i have been trying to let panzer help me with the cooking.  i always enjoyed baking things as a kid (and remember marathon christmas cookie rolling and cutting and baking and decorating days on the kitchen floor where we could all reach) and have been looking forward to sharing the kitchen with panzer.  it has been a challenge, because 2-year-olds aren't careful and if given a choice, would actually prefer the mess they made to any other options.  stirring things?  maybe if you had a really huge bowl with a tiny bit to be mixed in the bottom.  cracking eggs?  maybe if you like your quiche to be crunchy and frantically cleaning raw egg out of your toddler's fists before he can lick it off.  pouring ingredients from the cup into the bowl?  sometimes ok (again, need big bowl with small amount of ingredients) but a fleeting joy.  placing pre-made balls of cookie dough on a sheet?  ok if you like each cookie to have a perfect little bite missing from it.

we're pretty much down to washing things and peeling things.  P helped wash the potatoes i mashed.  he sat on the floor, dipped his wash cloth into a bowl of water, and wrung it out on top of the potato.  P helped me shuck corn.  he pulled each leaf, one at a time, being careful not to touch the tassles at the top which seriously grossed him out.  P helped me shell walnuts.  he sat next to me, taking a turn with the nutcracker and using them like chopsticks to pick up the shells in the garbage bowl.  and eating every third nut i put in the bowl.  takes 10x longer and creates at least 2 additional messes to sop up, but ... that's his job and he's good at it.  :)   

do you smell what the rock is cooking?

Illusion of Choice

so the year is 2012 and since that is divisible by 4, it means that come november, there will be a presidential election.  i am like a lost puppy this year, having proudly voted for ralph nader in each and every election since i came of voting age.  i guess at age 78, he is allowed to give up the good fight, even if it does leave me stranded.  i got to see him speak in athens when i was in college (right after i got my belly button pierced = multitasking) and the thing that sticks out most for me was how incredibly long his fingers were.  oh yeah, and he was awesome and articulate and consistent and respectful.

i am in fierce opposition to the two-party system, and suppose i have been for a while.  i just don't think it's realistic to divide people in half.  nor do i think that being fiscally conservative must make you socially conservative. and i am getting increasingly frustrated with the illusion of choice that is romnobama.

i thought i might watch the presidential debate and get some perspective on what is going on these days in the wonderful US of A.  i must warn you that if you are looking for some brilliant commentary or response from me on the issue, turn back.  mohs kept daddy company on the couch during the broadcast, but i spent the time debating with panzer about the relative merits of spaghetti (yummy) versus worms (yucky), doing the potty dance, and coaxing him into the bathtub.  i am half-envious/half-disgusted at you people who have time or energy to be political.

i wake up later to find out that a key issue in the debate was big bird.  say what!?  i can't think of a better way to alienate people completely unnecessarily than attacking their kids' friend.  because not all parentss get up before the sun comes up to spend quality non-TV time with their kids, reading books and racing cars and watering plants and explaining, in vain, what a mummy is.  as an aside, panzer gave no sign of understanding what a dead person wrapped in toilet paper means.

cut over to the second debate, and i wake up to find out that the childish bickering has spawned two new english words:  romnesia -- to describe mitt romney's selective memory when it comes to major policy decisions, most of which revolve around women's issues.  and obamarrhea -- physical illness brought on by simply experiencing the current presidential administration.

it amuses me that the supporters of each have a permanent new vocabulary word, while the haters relate it all to being childish meanieheads.  i happen to think they're both very clever.  which might make me a childish meaniehead...

but REALLY, these are my choices?  yeesh.  so, in my infinite free time i take a closer look, to realize that romnobama are both in support of bailouts, sending americans out to deal with senseless violence and drama in other countries, restriction on gun ownerships, and indefinite detention of american citizens with no due process ... and against balancing the budget and controlling spending anytime before i'm a real-life bona fide senior citizen.  yeesh.  are americans really going to divide themselves and choose a president over the epic adam-and-eve vs. adam-and-steve debate?  yeesh again.

as of this moment, i can't even comprehend what i'm to do with this information, other than defect to a third-world country, preferably with a favorable exchange rate to the U.S. dollar, fair weather and a nice beach with a reasonable probability of withstanding impending sea level rise.  i'd be willing to take an array of qualified individuals with me to start our own society.  again.  it'd take at least a couple hundred years to really screw that up.  i may never be able to look my nickels, quarters, and $1 bills in the face again...


so anyway, back to what i do know and understand ... in other news, i am 100% convinced that holidays are the best part about having your own family.  (today anyway -- tomorrow, the best part may again be the excuse to go to bed at 8 p.m.)  i've always been about celebrating holidays in silly ways, but even aaron is inspired -- he was insistent on trick-or-treating last year even though P could barely walk, was not deterred by the late hour in viewing fireworks for the 4th of july, and i suspect we will never have a december without a REAL tree, even if we are totally behind schedule and there are only 6 days left until christmas.  as we head into october, thanks to the aunties for making sure the kids are always stocked up on glow-in-the-dark skele-ruda outfits ;)

anyway, the pumpkin patch was an easy choice today.  P woke up in his pumpkin PJs talking about pumpkins.  when we went on our morning coffee run, we took a long detour through the pumpkin display at safeway.  i sprung the 79 cents for a panzer-sized mini-pumpkin, and listened to him say "i lick it!" all the way home.  P didn't let the pumpkin out of his sight, and to jump to the end of the story, he is sleeping with the pumpkin right now.  (along with a lot of other things -- you can see it between george the monkey and the heebie-jeebie's foot).

we went to freeman farms last year, closer to halloween, and had a good time, but P was really in his element this year.  as an aside, only the attorney mom spends time trying to get her kid to stand next to the release-of-liability sign.  but i couldn't resist the skull and cross bones paired with the big red barn against the brilliant blue sky...  anyway, P would've sat on the choo choo train all day if it weren't for pesky mommy dragging him through everything.  along with pumpkins, P is also obsessed with tractors, cows, trains, scarecrows, and popcorn.  NOT  the merry-go-round ... i got him acquainted with the "chicken" we would be riding, and he did fine as long as i sat on it with him (which i am sure violated some weight limit and/or OSHA regulation ... and certainly constituted an inherently dangerous activity for which i assumed all risk of injury).  but when i hopped up and stood next time him, mid-ride, he freaked.  thankfully, early in the season, it was not crowded and as the only people on the merry-go-round, were able to demand it stop immediately and release us.  we came by the merry-go-round a few more times, but the best i could get from panzer was a "hi, chicken."  he would not get any closer.

mohs of course was happy to come along for the ride in his tractor onesy.  he was into the animals, giving them his signature unblinking stare as he assessed them, their purpose and intentions, and how he could most efficiently bend them to his will.  he is a hair-puller though (always grabbing the little ones at the base of my neck with a steel grip, ouch) and the poor goat was no exception.

aaron and i have carved pumpkins every year that we've been together.  however, never have we paid $19.75 for a single pumpkin plus the joy of picking it yourself and hefting it, plus almost 50 pounds of children and a garbage bag full of kettle corn, back to the stationwagon.

turns out we purchased the biggest pumpkin they've seen so far -- something like 28 pounds.  now that it's home and panzer wants to "ride" it, it makes sense to get one that approximates his weight and size, otherwise i'd be tripping over it and stubbing my toe in the dark while P rolled it around OR even better, it would be smashed into smithereens and smeared all over the house before i figured out he was using it as a new ball.  for you easterners, in arizona, it's hot and dry so pumpkins don't last long after you carve them -- we have a few weeks of just enjoying the monstrous beauty before it becomes a work of art and quickly deteriorates.

Snakes On A Plane Part II

well, the ruda family survived another trip through the airport.  i remember when i was a kid, and had never actually been on an airplane, when i thought air travel was fun and exciting.  ugh.  now, you have to say good-bye to everyone you love before you go through a weird spaceship-timemachine-xrayvision-mobile.  and you have to carefully measure your hand cream and eye drops into 3.4 ounce containers and disrobe before you can even buy a cup of coffee.  and no one will pay to check a bag so there is a fight to get on the plane first to see who can squeeze his 18 cubic foot "carry on" luggage into the overhead compartment and smash everything else he owns under your feet before you get there.  (i acknowledge this is ironic from the woman who just flew with not 1, but 2 lap children.)

of course, traveling with aaron makes things even more interesting.  i have on at least one occasion gone to meet him at a restaurant and told the hostess that "i'm here to meet my husband, have you seen him?  dark guy, hat, sunglasses, big beard, looks like a terrorist?"  he without fail gets chosen for every random search.  it gets even better when he leaves his driver's license in someone else's car during a trip to the drive-thru liquor shack and has to get on a plane using his costco card and grainy YMCA ID.  FYI they'll let you on, but you better be prepared to spread 'em.  at every checkpoint.  add a few kids with all their liquids and a stroller that's too big to fit in the x-ray machine and you understand why they sell booze in the airport.

i've flown a lot, so when we had our layover in houston, i paid little attention to the recorded announcement overhead, which i assumed was to remind me to report abandoned luggage and that i had given up any right to privacy in any manner the minute the automatic doors whooshed open and beckoned me down the escalator.  no, this was a new one -- now the automaton specifically warns you that you can be arrested for making fun of the TSA.

so, aaron asks: what if you are making positive comments about the TSA?  will they still arrest you?  and proceeded to spend the rest of our trip through the airport making loud comments about how the TSA is AWESOME!!  and BEAUTIFUL!!  and EFFICIENT!!  tee hee hee.

karma caught up with us on our return trip.  which began with us being bussed to our layover city because of a massive delay (which if i wasn't so hungry, would've been perfect because P looooves buses and was beside himself to actually ride on one ... for a few minutes before he passed out).  and proceeded with us getting the A-1 special terrorist treatment at charlotte douglas international.  i feel like when my curly blonde two-year-old's bright blue foam crocs with various superhero jibbitz have to go through the x-ray machine multiple times, the system is most certainly broken.  i'm sure the other patrons enjoyed my MANY loud and animated renditions of the itsy bitsy spider (and the hysterical tired giggles of my children) for the full 40 minutes it took to get a female worker to do the feel-up.  i mean pat-down.

i've never had an official pat-down before, and boy is it complicated.  lots of technique and using backs and sides of hands and swoopy motions to avoid sensitive areas and make it seem less molester-ish.  but it's pretty molester-ish -- and it's tough to top the fact that i just squeezed an entire child out of my hoo-ha a couple months ago.  my advice is to decline the invitation to go into the private room, even if you don't have two screaming children to keep an eye on.

throughout all of this, i was very proud of myself for not becoming absolutely furious at aaron, who i assumed brought all of this upon us with a smartass comment about the TSA's efficiency and effectiveness and/or his rakish good-arab looks.  supposedly, our massive double stroller was the culprit -- lucky for my husband.

at any rate, we had a great time in the dirty south visiting my family and enjoying the sights.  P nicknamed my dad "big papa."

and wormed his way into my sister's kitchen.

mohs found a bald buddy in uncle james (who supposedly is "not good with kids" but inspired P to wake up every morning saying "where did james go?" and then letting me know that he'd "be right back").

aaron and i got to pseudo-sleep-in one time.  we all (the boys included) drank too much coffee.

and shared our monkeys with the monkeys at the zoo.

i still hate to fly, but ... sometimes it's worth a little molestation.  <3 p="p">

Hot Tub Time Machine

when i was a kid, i remember my dad telling me about some sci-fi book where a guy goes back in time and steps on a butterfly.  when he goes back to the present, it is completely different; stepping on the butterfly changed everything.  this is somewhat akin to back to the future, where marty mcfly jeopardizes his own future existence by getting in the way of his parents' marriage.  except no one inherently anticipates that the premature demise of one small insect is going to have some profound effect on the world.  to this day, i don't know what book it was, but i learned plenty from dr. ian malcolm in jurassic park, which i have proudly read at least 15 times, about what i now know this is termed "the butterfly effect"  -- a phenomenon whereby a seemingly minor change in circumstance can dramatically change the outcome.

i am reminded of a "choose your own adventure" book.  i was fascinated by those as a kid, although the writing was bad, the plot was bad, and the pictures were bad ... there was something intriguing as a kid of choosing how you would make your way to your death.  because you always died.  but unlike real life, you could also always stick your finger between the pages (which i always always did) and backtrack to your last bad decision ... or the one before that ... and die differently.

i have found myself frequently wishing for a hot tub time machine.  (a regular time machine would do, and although i haven't seen the movie *yet,* a hot tub time machine sounds much more glamourous).  i suppose i am finally of the age where i have sufficient lifetime to look back on and second guess all those major decisions, or at least appreciate circumstances past -- like summer vacation and 68 cent gasoline and being able to devote an entire saturday to sitting on my ass watching college football.  unfortunately, there's nothing a time machine would do to preserve those things for me any longer than i've already lived them.  but i have had occasion recently, through a series of lively and unpleasant discussions, to pinpoint an exact moment where things in my life started going sideways.  a single moment of seemingly minor importance where i meant one thing, and he heard another.

it's no one's fault, but that single 10-second interaction tainted literal years of further conversation and events, magnifying over time, leading to further misunderstandings, resulting in other poor decisions, until the whole thing blew its freakin' top.  the butterfly effect.

i'm lucky that in the case of a misunderstanding, you can sort of go back.  it's not easy, but with the help of 20/20 hindsight and better information (and advanced age and experience?), the taint (tee hee hee) can be removed, and you can see things for how they actually were and are.  you can't change it, but at least you get it.  at least the foundation was still true and real and you can imagine how things might have been different if you weren't living in a parallel universe.

now, i'm not going to go back and undrink that 40 ... just try to find my way back to where life would've led had i not stepped on the butterfly....

<3>

Another Brick In The Wall

in an effort to stay relevant and address all the meaningless comments floating around, i made it my goal this week to read, research, and provide brilliant insight into obamacare and the recent supreme court decision upholding it as a consitituional exercise of congress' taxing authority.  however, i lost interest in the bill, also affectionately known as "the patient protection and affordable care act," when i saw a lemon on my counter and remembered my promise to whip up another batch of lemon blueberry drop scones before P gobbles up the last of the fresh blueberries. 

continued several scones later, and i'm not even the scone type -- my heart belongs to the sugary-and-shortening goodness of the safeway bakery:  sure, i have questions about the bill, the most popular portions of which require americans to maintain health insurance or pay an uninsured tax.  like am i now going to have to show proof of health insurance at a traffic stop?  or are health care professionals, who are also bound by another favorite bill of mine affectionately known as the health information portability and accountability act of 1996, supposed to make those reports?  and what is the psychological effect of a mandatory reporting duty on a health care professional, who has taken an oath to enter only for good and remain free of all intentional injustice and mischief, to add an uninsured tax to necessary (and expensive) services?  better yet, is the government relying on *snort* self-reporting?  and who believes that $700 per year (the maximum tax to an individual without coverage once the law is fully phased in) is sufficient to obtain any health insurance policy worth a damn?  and if the cost of shitty health insurance outweighs the shitty benefits, where is the incentive to actually obtain mandatory health insurance, rather than just pay the stupid fine?  which begs the final question -- if there is no incentive to obtain mandatory health insurance, why shouldn't individuals be able to save their $700 for apple cider vinegar and hydrogen peroxide and cayenne pepper and neti pots, which alone or combined apparently can cure everything from baldness to flatulence?  and is monopoly going to modernize its playing board?  i mean, when was the last time you heard anything about a luxury tax?

then i got to the point of the bill that prohibits the IRS from taking any action to enforce payment of the tax.  the IRS cannot put you in jail, seize or levy your property, or otherwise subject you to criminal properties.  the IRS can charge you double the amount they owe you, but again ... they can't actually take any collection action.  now i am not a tax professional and i'm probably violating some ethical rule by giving out unsolicited and free legal advice to the entire internet, but here it is:  DO NOT PAY THE TAX.  while you're at it, break out the red lipstick and knee-high boots, rebel.

so it appears the bill will have only two apparent effects:  good, honest people who are trying to get by without relying on government benefits will now take advantage of medicaid to avoid the tax, increasing government spending.  and good, honest people will pay an extra $700 per year for nothing and given their decreased disposable income, probably also take advantage of other government programs, like subsidized housing, food stamps, unemployment, etc., increasing government spending.  hrrrm....

i can't lie -- i worry about my children.  it is common knowledge amongst those who dare to discuss politics, religion, and/or sports with me that i believe the united states will be demoted to a third world country (acknowledging that this term is no longer fashionable) both socially and economically -- and i that believe it will happen during my lifetime.  this is just another brick in the wall.  but ... despite the rant i managed to squeeze out after proper nourishment, i'm up to my elbows in alphabet soup and diapers and choo-choo trains and vainly trying to impart life lessons on little dudes who have no capacity for reason or rational thought.  i don't have time to start a revolution.  instead, i can cast my vote for one powerless doofus over another in a presidential election, knowing that between living in a conservative state, the existence of the electoral college, and the persistence of the two-party system, it's a futile gesture.  and celebrate america's revolution by eating processed meat foods and watching miniature explosions in the sky.  is this what thomas jefferson had in mind?  freedom from the british so we could subjugate ourselves?

Got Milk?

i am now the proud parent of a 20-month-old who can say and properly identify a "boob."  unfortunately, i am speaking anatomically, not metaphorically (although i have no doubt with the excellent role models in his life, that panzer will soon be master of the latter as well).

my second son, mohs, came along 7 short weeks ago, and every 2 to 4 hours i force myself to focus on what a beautiful, sweet ray of sunshine he is in order to convince myself that he deserves to eat.  (and look at those chicken legs... he NEEDS to eat...) 

the oral surgeon told me last week that pediatrics is an ever-changing field of what's "in fashion" and should essentially be disgarded at your convenience.  apparently, taking prescription painkillers while you're breastfeeding is no longer fashionable.  side note:  i have seen this phenomenon first hand, even with panzer and mohs being only 18 months apart.  i maintained an appropriately deferential look at mohs' first appointment when the pediatrician informed me that breastfed babies NEED vitamin D supplements or are at risk of developing rickets.  i now know that rickets is a pretty serious bone disorder common in developing countries and resulting from famine or starvation.  however, it's hard to take this concern seriously when P, breastfed less than 2 years earlier, maxes out the height chart and is doing his best to simultaneously conquer and demolish the entire office in our short visit, with not a drop of vitamin D supplement having ever passed his infant lips.

anyway, it is clear that breastfeeding is fashionable.  and rightly so, given the obvious and proven benefits to your child.  but let's be clear "bf moms," milk production is not life's biggest accomplishment.  in fact, it's a completely natural, unsolicited effect of mammalian reproduction, commonly exploited in farm animals. 

and it's weird -- for me and everyone else.  in fact, i've had no less than 4 awkward breastfeeding encounters since easter.  here's what i've learned:

#1 -- the park.  P got invited to an easter egg hunt hosted by his babysitter for her playgroup.  i took off of work to run him over to the park, watch him be completely disinterested in egg-hunting (at least until he discovered they were filled with goodies!) and lead all the other kids to and through the giant puddle of reclamated water, and ... chit chat with other moms.  which chit chat soon took an ugly turn when mom-1 saw mom-2 breastfeeding (under her tent, praise the lord, see #2) and said "i miss breastfeeding so much!"  wait, what?

first, who in their right mind misses having a leech attached to her boob?  and even if, in the moment, it is touching and miraculous that women can not only grow entire human beings in their uteruses and then squeeze them out their hoo-has, but also manufacture sustenance for the child, the miracle wears off when it occurs every two hours.  for those of you rusty in third grade math -- that's 8 to 12 times per day.  every day.  for as long as you can stand it.

second, who needs to know that?  certainly not me.  next time, just go ahead and air some details about your year-long battle with yeast.  breastfeeding is natural and healthy, but the enthusiasm is just too much.

this of course spawned a lengthy and animated discussion amongst moms-1-through-10 about the miracle of life.  i was actually glad to send P on his way and go back to the office.  lesson learned:  i am clearly not equipped to interact safely and appropriately with stay-at-home moms.  consider yourself warned.

#2 -- the library.  the week after i brought mohs home from the hospital, i tried to be a good mom and take panzer to baby playtime at the library.  side note:  again, while the other kids sat quietly in their moms' laps, stared intently at the storyteller, and clapped along with each song, my son ran completely amuk, opening and slamming doors, stealing other kids' toys, and generally slapping around his peers.  while i was chasing P up some stairs, i had to manuever around a mom who looked like she was trying to smuggle a struggling two-year-old under her shirt.  when she released the girl, i got a full frontal.

first, your kid is two. she should be able to sit still while she eats -- in fact, that is the only thing that P sits still for.  and second, your kid is two.  she can wait till she gets home in 30 minutes to have a snack.  and if she can't, send her to the water fountain.  lesson learned:  come prepared.  i have never left the house without a baggie of goldfish crackers again.  also, thank you bf mom in #1 who used the appropriate paraphernalia.  i will follow your example.

#3 --the mommy's lounge.  i admit it sounds good in theory -- a little area to the side of the ladies' restroom with leather couches and unassuming landscape paintings where you can take a break from shopping and feed your child in peace and harmony.  unfortunately, although no one can really see your baby, everyone knows its under there.  so in practice, every old lady who walks by wants to know his age, sex, weight at birth, and favorite lullabye, and then tell you at least one ancient story about their own babies, presumably in the hopes that baby will finish up and they can catch a glimpse of his cute little cheeks.  i admit that i crane my neck to peer into strollers and carriers to look at babies in the grocery store.  but i am confident in saying that the the risk of seeing a stranger's boob while i do so is approaching zero.

even worse, is the risk of breastfeeding en masse.  when you're all lined up (enduring the same awful Q&A and storytime from the heiffer next to you) it really is like the dairy farm i visited in first grade, except i don't get to bring my aunt barbara as a chaperone or eat ice cream until i throw up.  (lame!)  lesson learned:  go solo.  i was more anonymous in the hustle and bustle of the food court.

and finally #4 -- the pool.  all summer, my in-laws have been taking panzer to the city pool for family night on thursdays, and i decided to chime in to watch P have the time of his life.  that kid loves running water.  anyway, as anticipated, mohs' feeding schedule did not cooperate with pool time (since all the time is dinnertime), so i grabbed my tent, sat discreetly in the corner, and watched quietly from afar. 

at least i was quiet until some doofus teenage lifeguard came over to let me know that "there were complaints."  i may have then informed him that arizona revised statutes section 41-1443 specifically gives me the right to breastfeed in a public place where i am otherwise lawfully present.  i may also have let him know that i am exempt from public indecency laws while breastfeeding and can go sit in the middle of the pool topless if i want.  and i may also have threatened to sue him and the entire town of prescott valley if he even dare suggest that i stop feeding my child.  then i asked him to please let me know if there were any more complaints so i could address them directly myself. 

luckily there were no more complaints, because breastfeeding does not exempt you from a lot of other criminal laws, like those for assault and battery.  lesson learned:  don't mess with the bf mom.  whether its the hormones, the sleep-deprivation, the desperation, or the misplaced pride, and whether she deserves any deference or not, a bf mom has one up on you.  she can show you her boob with impunity -- throwing you off your game -- and then accuse of you of trying to take food out of her baby's mouth -- to which there is no legitimate response.

and so, i am left to endure the madness.

Journey to the Deep Dark Caves of Hell

when i was in high school, i made a sign on an 8x11 piece of paper that said "i am a flaming bitch from the deep dark caves of hell." underneath, was a lengthy and detailed list of all the trashy, disgusting, dishonorable and offensive things that my peers had done. i am pretty sure it was a 2-sided list, but i decorated any white space with colorful flames. then i taped the sign to my chest and went to class.

from what i can remember, one of these trashy, disgusting, dishonorable and offensive people had called me a bitch. this was probably a fair statement, but i obviously did not take kindly to it. and so, sarcasm and irony blossomed.

a teacher took my sign and referred me to the principal's office. i have no idea what my explanation was (or could legitimately have been), but i do remember mrs. richardson, who was also my principal in kindergarden, deciding the worst punishment would be to let me tell my parents myself "what had happened." right. i love my parents, but they were, and are, enablers of my self-righteousness. by way of example, on a separate occasion, i was sentenced to write an apology letter to some newspaper douchebag for asking him to hurry up and take my picture so i could get back to whatever super-important high school activity he had interrupted. my mom approved something along the lines of "i'm sorry that you have no respect for other people's time."

i'm not saying that i'm better than you, but i may have ruined my little sister by telling her as a teenager that the fact of the matter is, some people are better than others. it's not based on beauty or education or wealth; it is a sliding scale that starts somewhere saintly i'm completely unfamiliar with, followed closely by persons who volunteer to carry things and leave baked goods on your desk, the maker of the awkward family photos calendar, and kids who will never leave your high-five hanging. then the guy at the circle K who warns you that your gas cap is still open, the garbage man just out getting dirty and doing his job, and dudes willing to provide free entertainment to all passersby simply by maintaining a long, curly mullet. it works its way down to the lowest of the low -- child molesters and indian givers. also somewhere near the bottom is the guy who screams at a pregnant lady with a full-time career and one-year-old for leaving her work at the office and going to sleep at 9 p.m. i am better than that guy. in the grand scheme of things, the flaming bitch might even be kind of near the top. (although still up in the air about my status in relation to the garbage man...)

i bet that sign is still in my permanent file at louisa county high school. but even if the sign is gone, i still get it. ask and ye shall receive.