"Scotchy Scotch Scotch - I love Scotch."

Thanks for the quote, Ron Burgundy.  

Over the last year I've discovered that I really, really like single malt scotch.  Because inquiring minds want to know, here's my favorite scotches I've tried to date (in order of what I prefer):

1.  Oban.  Liquid gold, just the best, best, best.  Gives me hope for humanity. See the picture above?  I even put on my favorite t-shirt and red lipstick to drink it.
2.  Dalmore, 15.  It has a STAG HEAD on the bottle.  That about sums it up:  Regal, majestic, mysterious - as in how did I drink that much? And my bill is how much?!
3.  Glenmorangie, Tùsail.  Smooth and caramely, warms from the inside out; one of the few I don't prefer over ice.


4.  Balvenie, 12.  Also caramely but sweeter and flowerier (not a word but whatever) than the Glenmorangie.  Beautiful color and a great scotch at the $50-ish price point.
5.  The Glenlivet, 15.  I only sampled this one but it.  was.  awesome.
6.  The Glenlivet 18 - weirdly, I preferred the 15...liked this one but too many butterscotch notes for me or something.  I love caramel but hate butterscotch - go figure. 
7.  The Glenlivet 12 - my standard bottle for around $30, a winner at this price point.  Color is a bit light but nice overall flavor with balance on the finish between a bit of a burn, then followed by smoothness in the mouth feel.
8.  Lagavulin, 18.  A very, very good scotch - pricer than ones I prefer but lots of peat with that smoky Islay flavor.  That said of the Islays I've had (admittedly not many), this one wins.
9.  Glenfiddich, 12.  Very similar to Glenlivet 12 but usually a bit more expensive.  Also something about the finish is less satisfying to me than the Glenlivet.  It's like a great meal followed by a sub-par dessert.  
10.  Johnny Walker Black.  The only blended to make my list.  I assume I'd like Johnny Walker Blue, Platinum, etc., but I can't afford that as of yet.  I enjoy this scotch on the rocks, with soda water, or in a hot toddy.

Are you thirsty yet?  Also if any scotch makers would like to send me samples to review, I can make time for that.  :)  

On Happily Turning Forty

The older I get the more I believe the Doctor when he said:

 "People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but *actually* from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint - it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly... time-y wimey... stuff." - Tenth Doctor, episode "Don't Blink."

Because turning forty feels that way - I grew up, I moved away from home, I married, I graduated college, I had children, and Bam! one day I woke up and was forty.  Middle aged.  

And then, at the same time, I feel every minute as old as I am.  Increasingly at this age I feel as though I know myself and I am ever more content and comfortable with the person I am/have become/am becoming.  For much of my young adulthood I denied important truths about myself and I continually worked on what I'd call "self-improvement" projects:  losing weight, getting in shape, being smart, being knowledgeable, being 'nice,' being whatever I thought others wanted me to be (Jeez, Cooley's Looking Glass Self, much, Tanya?)  These projects were not about being myself or my best self, however.  They were about trying to force my self to fit someone else's notion of a best self.  No wonder it didn't feel good.    

I'm happier now than I've ever been because I finally like myself.  I love who I am right now, at this moment - imperfect, a little crazy, no six pack abs in sight, overly enthusiastic about scifi tv shows and popular culture.  That's not to say the last year has been easy.  It hasn't.  It's been a real kick in the ass.  Below is a photo of me kicking it back.

  
This journey to self love and acceptance (oh God, did I just write that?  Ugh, so cheesy.), means learning to ignore that annoying inner critic (Who me?) and let that shit go.  But when I say the last year kicked my ass, I mean it.  There were incredible things that happened this year:  from presenting at comic con with Oldest Son to winning the costume contest at Supernatural Con to seeing Middle Daughter blossom in middle school to watching friends find personal success after so much hard work.  But there were also the "worst of times."  Let me explain.

As many of you know I suffer from anxiety, depression, and OCD.  I have not spoken in detail about this publicly, but increasingly I feel the need to claim this identity.  Of course having these conditions is incredibly annoying if you are a perfectionist who is really very happy despite all of this.  I have a wonderful husband, three amazing, healthy children, a job I LOVE, supportive and wonderful friends and family, and I don't have to struggle to pay bills. But having these great benefits in your life does not mean you are immune to mental health issues.  

My anxiety, depression, and OCD are generally running at what I call a Baseline Level.  I am able to function, be very happy, enjoy life and maybe one or two days a month I have what I call a "bad day."  I might wash my hands a lot compared to the average person and avoid touching door knobs, but otherwise you would not know from my behavior I have OCD.  

But at different points in my life (this summer was one), that shit ramps up to 1000 and I literally want to die.  I get to a point where I cannot function.  I have panic attacks about getting out of bed because I'm afraid the OCD and anxiety will start.  In other words, I have anxiety about having anxiety.  Yeah.  Good times.  When people asked me what I did this summer my answer is "oh not much," but in all honesty it should be "I did anxiety and OCD and it was terrible.  I spent three hours a day washing my hands and wiping surfaces in my house.  How was your summer?"  

For me, my mental illness is a terrible thief who steals me from myself and my loved ones.  I'm inside there, locked away watching, but I feel possessed by my "demons," and powerless to alter their control of my behavior.  I've also recognized that I've had these issues for much longer than I've been aware of them.  But being older for me means being wiser - I am on the other side and can reflect on what I've learned.  

Here are my new rules:
1. I will be patient with myself and give myself time to rest.  
2.I will have good days and I will have bad days, and I need to accept that.
3. I will have strategies for helping myself and nurturing myself.
4. I will understand and recognize my triggers.
5. I will get help and give up control over things.  
6. I will not give up.

I am so happy I did not give up this summer even though I wanted to many times.  I got the help I needed and I am so incredibly grateful for everyone who has helped me through this difficult time.  I especially have to thank my amazing husband and supportive and patient children and family, my best friend, my mommy friends, my nerd friends, and everyone who listened and gave me the gift of empathy.  What you did mattered, truly. 

So for my birthday (and thanksgiving), do me a solid, will you?  Do something nice for yourself.  Take care of yourself, nurture yourself, love yourself.  Because when you love yourself, it's easy to love others.  

"You've Got Your Mother in a Whirl..."

(title from 'Rebel, Rebel' by David Bowie)

Image Credit:  Tony Toggles

Read more about non-binary gender identities.

Whew!  It's been a heck of a year for our family:  I started my first full-time teaching job post-graduate school.  Dear Husband changed jobs twice (or was it three times?  At any rate - it's good).  Oldest Daughter finished middle school at a new (better) school and will continue there for high school.  Middle Daughter performed in a play and finished her final year of elementary school.  Youngest Son became re-obsessed with all things Pokemon and has branched into Magic:  The Gathering.  We did THREE days at Comic Con and Oldest Daughter and I presented to a crowd of 220 (nerd level up).  We are facing the logistical challenge of routinely having family members at three schools and two work places next fall and I don't even want to think about how we are going to accomplish that without:  1) a TARDIS and 2) Hermione's time-turner.  (Well I guess a TARDIS renders a time-turner redundant; but that's a nerd debate for another post.)

One of the biggest changes for our family over the past year is Oldest Daughter's gender nonconformity in terms of her gender role performance.  As a sociology professor, I regularly teach intro-level students about the differences between assigned sex, gender, gender identity, sexual orientation, and gender roles.  I understand all of these concepts on an analytic level.  I understand how to explain all of these to students who have maybe never considered that these are related but distinct concepts.  But even with this knowledge living this parenting experience is completely different.

Let me be clear:  My child is possibly trans*, but not transgender (click here for clarification on trans vs. trans*).  I do not claim to speak for parents of trans children.  What Oldest Daughter is, in terms of labels (and as a sociologist I'm not always a fan of labeling), is gender nonconforming.  Gender conformity/nonconformity, like other aspects of sex/gender/sexuality, is probably best conceptualized as a spectrum or continuum.  We are all likely gender conforming/nonconforming in some ways.  Some of us just fall further to one side or another on the spectrum. 

The Genderbread Person is a nice infographic explanation of these differences.

Oldest Daughter identifies as a girl.  She identifies as asexual but not aromantic.  (Aside - isn't it cool she knows what those are at age 13?!  I learned those differences like three years ago).  But she looks like a really cute teenaged boy (I'm a little biased).  In other words, her gender nonconformity presents as a complete rejection of gender-coded dress, hairstyle, self-presentation.  For the past six months or so, she's requested a buzz cut from the barber.  She prefers jeans from the army surplus store, plain t-shirts or t-shirts with classic rock band names/fandom references on them, plaid flannel, and black boots to dresses, skirts, etc.  Dressing this way may also have something to do with her obsession with the tv show Supernatural.  If you know the show picture Dean Winchester and you'll get an idea of what Oldest Daughter looks like on a day to day basis.  She is curvy, but the baggy clothing she prefers covers this fact.  That plus the hairstyle means people frequently assume she is a boy.

Being confused for a boy is not upsetting to her.  But it is strange for us as parents.  When Oldest Daughter first started dressing this way and then when she wanted a buzz cut we explained some of the consequences might include negative sanctioning from people and instances of individuals misreading her gender.  Mostly, we have noticed the latter.  Her school is amazingly supportive of gender nonconformity and LGBTQA kids (thank goodness).  Oldest Daughter reports she receives the most negative sanctioning from older ladies at church.  I told her the next time that happens to try exorcising them (Yes, she has memorized an exorcism; see my earlier comment about the TV show Supernatural).  People confusing Oldest Daughter for a boy is simultaneously:  1) a disorienting experience, 2) a general, daily gender role breaching experiment, and 3) an opportunity for reflexivity on my own socialization and the power of internalized gender roles/the pressure of conformity.  

I think my first realization that others assumed Oldest Daughter was a boy happened only recently.  We were out to lunch and a random patron said "Your son is so cute."  I assumed she was talking about Youngest Son, but it soon became clear she was referring to Oldest Daughter.  Dear Husband and I clarified she was a girl and the random person told us the story of her granddaughter who also went through "a phase" of "tomboy" behavior/dress.  Random patron reassured us that soon after this phase her granddaughter embraced socially approved gender norms and is now "very girly" with "very long hair."  It was not an awkward conversation, but it did bother me that the older woman felt that she needed to establish acceptance of Oldest Daughter's gender nonconformity by contextualizing it as temporary.  It may be temporary, but I do not appreciate dismissing her presentation of self in this way.  What is the subtext here?  That gender nonconformity is only acceptable as a limited-term, finding yourself sort of thing?  My child is not broken. 

Although we are aware that there is a difference between how we versus others perceive her, this misidentification was initially disorienting to me and Dear Husband because we do not think of Oldest Daughter as boy.  We think of her as a girl, but more importantly we think of her as "Oldest Daughter (I mean this as a placeholder for her given name not necessarily her birth order/family role)" complete with all aspects of her personality and our shared family history.  Our child is NOT her gender performance.  Her gender performance (the nonconformity included) is a PART of her personality, but it is not the sum total.  We do not love her because she is a girl or a boy or dresses like a girl or a boy, we love her because she is who she is, and she is ours.  

As I hope is clear from what I've written here, I am completely supportive of my daughter, no matter what.  I am not challenged on any kind of personal level by her preference for jeans, boots, short hair and the fact that people mistake her for a boy.  I do not worry about her sexual orientation.  I do not think her gender expression has a damn thing to do with her sexual orientation because I understand these as separate things.  And if she ends up preferring same sex partners?  To quote the Ninth Doctor:  "Fantastic."  As long as she is happy, I am happy.

That said, Oldest Daughter's gender nonconformity forces me to face uncomfortable realizations about myself.  I, like most of us, have internalized the norms of my society including the problematic ones.  When we enter a women's restroom together in public I am aware that some people are assuming I'm brining my teenaged son along.  I brace myself for backlash/sanctioning.  I am NOT worried about others' judgement of my parenting; I am worried about Oldest Daughter dealing with crap from people that she shouldn't have to deal with.  Right or wrong, we are trained to conform.  Nonconformity is liberating and constraining at the same time.  I worry my daughter will be marginalized for her gender role performance.  I think this marginalization is absolutely wrong, but there's that little internalized generalized other voice inside of my head saying: "maybe we should just conform, it's safer."

And then there's a much louder (nerd punk rock) voice shouting "FRACK THAT."  But back to analyzing that internal conflict, I understand my discomfort comes from what sociologists call role strain.  As a mom, I want to foster and support my child's individuality.  But I also want her to be safe.  At this point, knowing how difficult it is to be a teenager and knowing how much stress society places on kids this age, I've decided enabling my child to express herself (as long as she's not harming anyone) in a way that is comfortable and feels authentic to her is FAR more important that anyone's need to rigidly police gender norms.  And thankfully we live in a time and place where her gender nonconformity is not life threatening.  But I wonder how this would be different if she were a gender nonconforming boy who preferred feminine things?  Or if she were not a middle class white child?    

My other concern with Oldest Daughter's gender nonconformity is that it may represent a devaluing of the feminine in some way.  By embracing a more masculine presentation of self, is Oldest Daughter rejecting her feminine side?  Is she accepting our overall societal demeaning and devaluing of all things female/girly?  Is she conforming to the problematic gender hierarchy she purports to reject?  I do not think her actions have this meaning for her.  But after my overall concerns for her safety, this is my chief concern.  I don't want her to reject the feminine in favor of the masculine because of a social power imbalance between the two.  I want her to be herself.  Whatever that means and however that is expressed.  Because ultimately who she is, including her individuality in the face of societal pressure to conform, is nothing short of miraculous.  

The Incident (Rated R)

This post discusses adult topics and comes with an R rating.  Okay.  Don't say I didn't warn you.

To paraphrase the Foreigner song, "It was a Monday - a day like any other day..." when WHAMMY! the INCIDENT happened.  I don't expect to live to see the apocalypse but I am pretty sure that it will begin on a Monday.  For now I will just say 'the incident' involves Middle Daughter finding something of mine that rhymes with "shmaibrator" and that I sometimes call my "Bilbo Baggins (because it's just a little too big to fit in your pocket)."  But more on that in a minute.  

Image courtesy Dreamstime Stock Photo

Before I get to describing the INCIDENT, let me set the scene for you a bit:

On any given week, like most working moms, I am struggling to balance work, keeping the kids alive, and getting them to their various extracurricular activities and/or doctor/allergist/orthodontist/dentist/eye doctor appointments.  I mean, the cat just goes to one place for everything.  People are so complicated.

So it was a Monday during one of those 4:00 - 4:30pm time segments between school pick up and getting Middle Daughter to ballet when IT happened.  I was trying to confirm that Brother-in-law could watch Oldest Daughter and Youngest Son, make everyone a snack, and pack up my work to do while Middle Daughter danced.  Of course Middle Daughter could not find a hair band.  No stranger to improvisation, I said 'hey - maybe you could use a bandana or a scarf to tie your hair back.'  Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the reason why we had no hair bands - we'd had a couple of months of lice just before this.  We'd finally gotten rid of them but I hadn't yet purchased new, lice-free hair bands.

But when I suggested the bandana solution, I wasn't thinking about WHERE she would look for them.  

Middle Daughter figured something out for her hair and I ran back into my room to get something before leaving.  I noticed my top dresser drawer was open and had been rifled through.  Oh-oh, but that's where I keep...a feeling of dread started in the pit of my stomach and spread up to my throat choking me.  'Oh no, I really don't want to deal with this right now,' I thought.  I looked into the drawer.  Sure enough, Middle Daughter had searched here for a way to tie back her hair.  Lying there naked and exposed among the ransacked underwear and handkerchiefs was my vibrator in all its plastic, veiny, fake-penis glory.  (I have no idea why it has veins.  I mean, they don't really need to be there...in fact this particular vibrator creeps me out a bit because it looks a little too much like a dismembered member.)

I am not a prude about sexuality.  I've always thought that along with teaching my kids about where babies come from and how their bodies work I would include some conversation about sex as pleasurable.  I know many people would prefer to ignore the fact that their kids probably know way more about sex and sexuality than they assume.  I wanted my kids to get the information from me, not from reading some dusty old Penthouse magazines at a sleepover, talking to their friends who may be misinformed, watching Porky's, or covertly reading their Mom's stash of Harlequin novels (sources of knowledge for me, sad to say).  

That said, just like no one in their right mind enjoys the dentist, I don't really want to think about other people's sexuality or talk about it with anyone, let alone my kids.  But I also don't want to pathologize sexuality for my kids.  I want them to have a healthy, shame-free, relationship with their bodies in all ways.  

I am careful not to be critical (out loud) about what I perceive as flaws in my appearance or dwell on the appearance of others. I also believe that knowledge is power and in order to help prevent the very real danger of sexual assault we've always sent clear messages about what parts of their body are private and what the boundaries are for physical touch and that they are in charge of deciding where those boundaries lie.  This is why I won't force my kids to hug or kiss friends or family.  We need to show them we respect what happens to their physical being.  And of course there's the whole pregnancy/STD prevention conversation.  But surely that conversation doesn't have to happen on a frickin' Monday when we're going to be late for ballet, does it?!

Like a lot of things in life, Crucial Parenting Moments happen when you least expect them.  I called Middle Daughter back into my room.  "Hey, were you looking in this drawer?"  "Yes."  "Okay, did you find something in there?"  "Yeah, what IS that thing?"  I panicked for 15 seconds and then sighed.  "Let's get in the car and I'll explain it on the way to ballet."

Buying yourself some time when one of these Crucial Moments comes up is a key skill you need to develop in order to keep your shit together.  In the five minutes of freaking out between realizing what had happened and getting in the car, I came up with a strategy.  Now, your strategy in this kind of situation is context-dependent.  In other words, you need to use what works with the kid in question.  Knowing Middle Daughter and knowing how she thinks was important in turning this curveball into a home run.  We'd already had the basic conversation about 'where babies come from' and 'how babies are made' so that helped.  

Middle Daughter, if I haven't mentioned it already, is pretty bright. On the way to the car, I remembered a walk two years earlier when she was 8 and she essentially figured out birth control and abortion without me explaining those things.  That prompted a longer conversation about the basics of pregnancy, sex, and women's reproductive rights.  "Well, the baby is in the woman's body, so I think she should get to decide whether to keep it or not."  Yes, I swear my 8 year-old said this and I had no influence over this opinion.  

I've found that with my kids straightforward facts spoken in an authoritative tone is the best way to convey difficult information.  I may be freaking out on the inside and not really know what they will say next, but they don't know that.  They are looking to me, depending on me to help them understand this at their level.  That leads me to my next piece of advice - give them only the basic information they need and explain the issue at a level they can understand.  You DO NOT need to volunteer information they haven't asked for.  

Thankfully, none of the conversations about sex/sexuality I've had with my kids has prompted questions I've been unable or unwilling to answer.  Answer their question with basic information and a minimum level of explanation.  Also, do not act uncomfortable.  Just like when they were toddlers and if you didn't react to them falling down, they wouldn't cry, if you don't freak out or act scared they won't either and the whole conversation will pass by with a minimum of stress.  

Okay self, I thought, when getting in the car with Middle Daughter that Monday afternoon, you have a decision to make.  You could ignore this issue or you could make the most of it.  Run and hide or turn it into a teachable moment.  I hate that saying but it accurately describes the opportunity you have at one of these points.  So I decided to explain the vibrator by first explaining masturbation.  Here's a basic summary of our conversation:

Tanya:  "So, do you ever touch yourself and it feels good?"
MD: "Yeah, sometimes."
Tanya:  "Well when you touch your own private parts and it feels good that's called 'masturbation' and everyone does it."
MD:  "Oh."
Tanya:  "And that's fine - you might want to do that in your own room and not at school, of course.  Also, no one else should be touching you there, right?"
MD:  "Right."
Tanya:  "Well sometimes people like to use special tools or toys to help them.  That thing you found in my drawer is something that ladies use to help them masturbate.  It's just for grown ups."
MD:  "Oh, okay.  Well I wondered what that was."

And that was it.  The world did not end.  I don't think Middle Daughter is scarred for life.  Thankfully, she didn't ask me to explain anything further.  Hopefully the message she got was:  1) sex is pleasurable 2)  you can take care of your own needs and it's perfectly normal and 3) it's something that is private but not shameful.

Here's the summary of the steps I used to make the most of this accidental discovery:
1.  Buy yourself some time.  Take five minutes to calm down and figure out your next move.
2.  Think about the kid in question.  Review what they already know and what you know about their thought process.
3.  Talk to the kid alone with minimal distractions.  I've found the car works well.  For some reason, not looking at them helps to control my emotional response and the level of discomfort I'm expressing.
4.  When explaining, keep it simple and straightforward.  Do NOT add more than you need to.  Let them ask questions and reassure them that anything they ask is a normal and valid question.  That said, if they say something disturbing, handle it appropriately of course.
5.  Finally, keep the channel of communication open.  Let them know they can bring any questions or concerns to you.  It's also okay to set limits on the information.  I often explain to my children that they should talk to me or their dad about these things and not their peers (or younger siblings) who may or may not be ready for this.

 

Little Boy Blue

I could tell something wasn't quite right with Youngest Son when he came out of school today.  As soon as we were alone he said he didn't want to participate in tonight's special school music show.  I assumed it was stage fright but I got the whole story in the car on the way home.


Youngest Son has been practicing for weeks for tonight's special "Patriotic Performance."  He's been rehearsing at home, singing along to the CD the music teacher provided.  The whole second grade is supposed to sing various songs including:  "The Star Spangled Banner," "America the Beautiful," and a "Military Medley" that includes the official songs of the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines and Coast Guard.

So I asked him why he didn't want to go, assuming he was nervous about performing in front of an auditorium full of parents and friends.
Here's what he said:  "Well I don't want to sing songs about killing.  I mean, I like freedom and I want to show that I respect my country but I'm sad because I don't like war and I don't like killing."  I watched huge tears roll down his cheeks and my heart cracked at this loss of innocence.  This was not a case of stage fright.  My little guy was experiencing nothing less than a struggle to reconcile conflicting cultural values.  Where does love of country come in the hierarchy of values?  How can I be peaceful and still fight for what I believe in?

At their final rehearsal today I guess something clicked for Youngest Son and he realized some of the implications behind the lyrics he'd been belting out for weeks.  He said he cried during practice today and was worried he wouldn't be able to sing it tonight.  I could tell he was anxious that we'd make him perform.  Instead, we're letting him opt out.  We discussed that the realities of war are very ugly but we explained that the values of peace and love of country are not mutually exclusive.  We explained that the music program was not meant to celebrate killing but to honor those who have served to protect us and the values we hold dear.  We told him he was brave to tell us how he felt and that we would respect his feelings.

I've been privileged to witness many of Youngest Son's milestones:  his first smile, his first word, his first step, his first loose tooth, the first book he read that was more words than pictures.  But today came a milestone I didn't expect, at least not yet -- his first protest; his first conscientious objection?  Our little boy who used to eat his food into the shape of a gun until we finally let him have Nerf Dart guns is wrestling with our cultural contradictions and simultaneously constructing his identity.  And while I want all of my children to develop resiliency and perspective I hope he never loses the sense that all life is sacred.

Full Disclosure: This is Why I Spent 8 Years Studying Childbirth

This is what dissertating looks like..

As I was writing a section of my dissertation today something very different than what I intended to write came out.  I don't know if this will make it into my final dissertation draft in any way, so I'll post it here.  It's probably too personal and too 'biased' to be a part of a scientific product but in my case the scientific is personal.  I believe I am capable of and have conducted open-minded research, but I'd be lying if I claimed that I wasn't biased.  Because I am.  I am pro-mothers.  I believe that expecting mothers too often are treated as though they are either incapable of evaluating complicated information or as cultural dopes manipulated by patriarchy.  So here's the backstory to my dissertation project about childbirth, a labor of love I've spent thousands of hours (and dollars) to complete.  This story took me seven years to write.  I can finally say here that while I'm grateful for the quality of care I received during my cesarean and for the lessons it taught me, I wish I'd had another option.  


My Cesarean Story:

I found out four weeks before my third child was due that he was breech. I had to ask about the possibility of cephalic version or attempting to turn the baby into a head-down position prior to birth; my doctor did not offer it. I only knew about this possibility because I had already begun preliminary research for my dissertation project. I was shocked when my doctor told me “External cephalic version usually doesn't work and it hurts! I would just schedule the cesarean if I were you.”

I opted to try the external cephalic version. Two weeks before my estimated due date, the obstetrician and a resident attempted to turn my son into a head-down position while continuously monitoring his heart rate. The version was performed in the hospital and I had to be prepared for an emergency cesarean if something went wrong during the version such as the umbilical cord wrapping around my son's neck. I realized later the resident was encouraged to try because they did so few versions it was an opportunity for her to practice a technique she had only read about. My son's body was gently pushed into a lateral position which, while not as painful as labor contractions, was very uncomfortable for me. From this lateral position instead of completing a turn into a head-down position, however, he would shift back into breech. On the third attempt his heart rate decelerated marginally and the doctor stopped the procedure. After the obstetrician and resident left the room, the nurse begin unhooking the monitors and preparing us for discharge. As she chatted with my husband and me, this nurse expressed that she thought the doctor should not have let the resident attempt the version and that they had not “tried hard enough” to turn my son. She had been a labor and delivery nurse for over 30 years and had experienced the transition from vaginal breech to cesarean breech birth first-hand. In her opinion, cesarean section was overused as a way to deal with more complicated births.

While I wished that things had gone differently with the version, I was out of options. My only “choice” at this point was to attempt a vaginal breech birth at home or schedule a cesarean. Having birthed two large babies without epidurals (8 pounds 13 ounces and 9 pounds 3 ounces) I was confident in my ability to achieve a vaginal breech birth, but I was not comfortable with the risks associated with a breech home birth. The fact that I felt had no choice in the matter was the most frustrating part. We scheduled the cesarean for the following week. As I lay in my hospital bed after the surgery, groggy from the spinal anesthesia wearing off, I knew what I was missing. With my daughters I was able to hold them immediately and put them to the breast. I felt a rush of adrenaline post-birth. By the time my son was given to me, I could barely hold his tiny bundled body. I felt numb not only from the waist down but emotionally. That night, I took my son from the layette and put him in bed next to me. The nurse checking on me commented that she had never seen anyone do that before. As I stared down at him, I felt relief and gratitude for this healthy baby and that we had made it through the surgery. But it would take me years to appreciate that I had experienced this birth and realize that it cemented my decision to study childbirth.  

More to come...but for now...back to the dissertation draft.

The Ritual

Oldest Daughter's first year of middle school is drawing to a close.  It hasn't been the easiest year.  Since the end of February, however, she's been mostly healthy (thank God) and I haven't had any additional interactions with Middle School Nurse.  More good news is that she's found a nice group of friends to help insulate her from the hormone-induced madness that overcomes some of her pubescent peers.  But I'm still sorry she has to go there day in and day out.

Middle school strikes me as simultaneously large enough to be de-individualizing and hyper-vigilant enough to obliterate any semblance of privacy or solitude.  Maybe solitude is not something of concern for the average 11-14 year old, but it seems like it would be a necessity - having a space where you can honor yourself and learn to nurture your uniqueness.

This year, I've struggled to manage the earlier pick up time for Oldest Daughter and the fact that it reduces the length of my workday by an hour.  I don't HAVE to pick her up, of course, there is a bus that would bring her into our neighborhood.  Maybe we'll try it next year, but this being our first child to go through middle school, I just didn't feel good about it.  School buses bring back mixed feelings for me.  They were the setting of some pretty vicious bullying in elementary school and I had daily stomachaches thinking about the bus ride home.  In high school, they were the site of very loud, very exuberant team sing-alongs during rides to and from sporting events.  Ah the '90s and the days of no smart phones.  Living in a small rural area meant a minimum 30 minute bus ride to get ANYWHERE.  If the ride was longer than 45 minutes or so the state required we be provided a small meal or snack.  I wonder if the legislators who came up with this rule imagined the tasteless watery apples, rubbery 'cheese' and dry peanut butter sandwiches as somehow good for us. "You've lost, that lovin' feeling, oh-oh that lovin' feeling."  We didn't win often, but we sure could harmonize.

Truth be told, it's a luxury to be the one to pick Oldest Daughter up after another day in the trenches of Middle School.  The best part of my day is identifying my Not-Quite Teenager from among the throng spilling out of the heavy oak doors.  Seeing her after time apart is like having a piece of myself returned.  She's put on layaway every morning and only returned when I've paid the account balance in minutes and hours.  When she gets in the car, I first feel relief and then all I can think is, how did I manage all day without her?

The Pick Up Ritual goes like this:  I arrive early so that I can park with a view of the main doors.  I wait and read or check messages or listen to the radio.  Most days, I bring a Peace Offering of some sort:  part of a giant cookie, a day-old muffin, a partially eaten bag of peanut M&Ms, a bottle of juice, or licorice.  When I don't bring food, I bring library books or small writing and drawing supplies she's asked me to pick up.  Sorry about another day of Middle School - have a biscotti.

Oldest Daughter shuffles down the cement steps and makes her way toward the car.  She opens the back door first to toss in her book bag.  She's favoring the messenger bag these days and has only just switched from her brown pilot jacket to a lighter-weight spring coat.  She rolls the cuffs of her pants up so that by afternoon she's always sporting capris.  I guess her calves need the air.  Her hair is long enough now to pull back into a small knot at the nape of her neck.  The messenger bag bounces against the side of her hip.  In a former life, the messenger bag belonged to a Mary Kay consultant.  We bought it at the thrift shop and I spent a few evenings ripping out the embroidered pink threads that made up the logo.  In the process I inadvertently ripped a few small holes in the black fabric of the bag.  My solution was to sew a stylized bird patch over them.  

"Hiiii," she says as she gets into the front passenger seat.  She's big enough to ride in the front now minus the sort of safety apparatus her brother and sister still require.  I recall turning her car seat from rear-facing to front-facing.  Wasn't that 5 minutes ago?  "Hey," I say, I brought you X," and I give her the Peace Offering.  She's young enough to still show surprise or delight.  See, I was thinking about you.  This half-eaten treat proves it.  Actually, I'm probably rarely NOT thinking about her and her siblings.  She would like this; she wouldn't like that; I want to bring Oldest Daughter here; I want to see that movie with her, etc.

Why do I bring things to my daughter?  I want her to look forward to The Ritual that we've created and spending time with me.  When I eat part of it, the Peace Offering becomes a physical manifestation of our sharing, of our bond.  We're still connected and I need the connection to be tangible.  Because it feels like in another 5 minutes I won't have The Ritual to look forward to.  I won't see her every day and we'll have to invent new rituals, new sacred objects and peace offerings to bind us together.

I drive away from Middle School toward the elementary school of Middle Daughter and Youngest Son.  Another round of pick ups and rituals is next.  On the drive, we talk about the events of the day as we experienced them.  I try to put mine in story form because I know Oldest Daughter likes to imagine what I do all day.  She tells me about jokes she and her friends told at school.  We speak a language made almost entirely of cultural references and inside jokes.  "Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra," for my Star Trek:  TNG fans.  She's appropriated the jokes of MST3K and uses them to crack up her classmates.  She wrote a school report about director Sam Raimi.  Our conversation topics range from My Little Pony and how awesome Rainbow Dash is to Descartes and Western Philosophy.

We arrive at the elementary school with 10 minutes to spare.  "Mom, come and swing with me," she says.  I reply "Oh, I'm not really up to swinging.  Can I go on the 'sits' instead of the swings?"  But I go anyway.  I sit and she swings and her feet touch the clouds.