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.

She Woke Me Up With a Bang-Bang

so today while it was 4 degrees and pouring rain outside and i was dancing around the house with panzer alternately whispering, singing and screeching the very age-inappropriate lyrics of the violent femmes' "blister in the sun" to him, i had the same thought i've had a million times for the millionth and one time: music peaked in the 90s -- it is never going to be this good and clever and wonderfully angsty ever again.

i am confident that the music of the 90s will survive, for all greasy teenagers to enjoy. i see it already. the lead singer of sublime died in 1996, and kids today still go around threatening to smoke 2 joints before they smoke 2 joints. and then i smoke 2 more. (not my favorite, but certainly catchy...) they still talk about what kurt cobain might've been. (had he not suffered an apparently self-inflicted "contact perforating shotgun wound to the head" in 1994, the year i entered the 7th grade.) i still see as many kids in korn t-shirts today as i did in 1998. (even my mom's 60+year-old husband is a fan, luring aaron into the basement for loud replays of korn concerts of yore.) and that is saying nothing of the beastie boys, counting crows, rage against the machine, live, smashing pumpkins, etc. timeless as the dragon-skull-dagger-zodiac tattoo.

i'm sure my parents, among others, are reading this and cringing. and i'm sure they said the same thing about the music of the 60s when they were my age. which to be fair, the music of the 60s was pretty fantastic. and it led to the birth of music as a social and political statement, which i enjoy and respect, but nothing beats angst. especially on cold, rainy days.

now i wake up to my radio-alarm to songs about teenage dreams and tight jeans and my hump-my hump-my humps. the good news is that these songs immediately fill me with a blood-pumping rage and urge to immediately jump out of bed, slam the alarm off, and stalk to the shower muttering expletives about the state of the world if this is what's on the radio.

makes me wonder what kind of worthless crap "music" panzer is going to listen to in 15 years. i make a silent plea to the flying spaghetti monster that it not be ke$ha.

and on that note, i have identified five albums mommy will approve of, any day any time, rainy and angsty or not:

by the way by the red hot chili peppers

good mourning (or better yet, my personal greatest hits mix) by alkaline trio

love by the beatles (already a panzer favorite)

the walking wounded by bayside

bang bang by dispatch

Float On

so, panzer has graced me with his presence for exactly 365 days as of today. i woke up to a text from my mom asking if i was thinking about what i was doing on this day last year. well, now that you mention, i do remember this time -- 6AM on october 28 -- last year sucking pretty bad. i "labored" all night, squeezed a whole baby out of my hoo-ha one hour and five minutes prior, and really wanted a shower. REALLY badly. instead i had a bunch of needles poked into me, a little parasite latched to my boob, and made the difficult decision to dispose of my placenta. IMMEDIATELY. in all honesty, i had a really positive birthing experience, which has made me much too overconfident with this one.... on a side note, stay tuned for a future post on the epic battle of me versus aaron and/or dr. fernandez regarding flying to VA at 37 weeks for kim's wedding. (i am already steeling myself up for victory!)

anyway, it is freakin' fabulous to shop for a one-year-old. there are not many occasions, as you get older and more worn out, to buy little plastic glasses with fake eyes already attached or mini whoopie cushions. and when else can you justify $4 for a bag of colored hole punches labeled "confetti" except to fill a kid's birthday pinata? wal-mart is fun again, if for no other reason than to watch panzer make friends with strangers, first by staring them down, then by grinning ear-to-ear and showing off his loot. he even happily helped me stuff goodies into the little hole on the top of his pinata!

also, i realized today we have not eaten any of the food i made in bulk on october 27, 2010 while waiting for my induction appointment, and stuck in the freezer so we'd have many home-cooked meals to eat in the coming days when we were too exhausted to move. funny how you can be too exhausted to move and still manage to subsist. i am not exactly sure what i ate those first few days or months, but it was not jambalaya, potato soup or the italian pasta special. i did take some soup out of the freezer today to thaw... if it's as good as our wedding cake on our first anniversary, it won't last 5 minutes.

i took P to the park to celebrate his birthday. he loves running up the little hills and down the little hills. and up the little hills and down the little hills. and up the little hills and down the little hills. until he finds the dirt surrounding the playground, and then he's happy sitting on the ground rubbing his hands in it. (no worries, he gets a scrubbin' by daddy every day, even on days he needs two.) until a dog runs by, and then he needs a closer look. but not too close. such a funny little dude, this panzer the birthday monster.

its nice going to bed knowing i made at least one good decision in this lifetime.