A Soldier in a Shit Storm

I often feel like I am living out these crisis scenarios where a split second decision means the difference between survival and permanent psychological damage. It's as if I'm in some Mom Boot Camp training where I'm being presented with impossible situations and I'm expected to either fight or curl up in a corner and wait for dishonorable discharge. If I were dropped into the Amazon with nothing but a butter knife I think I'd have better odds sometimes. It's like life is trying to weed me out as one of the weak ones. Does she have the guts to make it? Or will she crack?

Here's an example. The other day, after finally getting the baby down for her nap, I anxiously opened the box which held her new play pen. Her grandma had gotten it for her for Christmas and it had just arrived. I couldn't wait to get it out and set it up because I had picked it out, mostly for its many unique features. Now, I was up against a deadline because I had an appointment later in the day. However, I was pretty confident that with the baby fast asleep I could focus and get it done. No such luck.

I no sooner started undoing the contents of the box, when the first wave of hazing began. Mandie and Maggie were barking to come in from outside so I dropped what I was doing to go and let them in. Just then, I heard noises coming from the baby swing. She was waking up. I let the dogs in and peeked my head into the other room to check on her. Some stirring but nothing to be alarmed about just yet. So, I went back to the box. I started wrestling out the contents. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by the smell of shit. I looked down to see Mandie standing next to me, completely unaware of herself. She had crapped outside and apparently had brought it into the house on her back end. It was all over her.


Then the baby really began to fuss. Definitely awake now. With pieces of the play pen in my hands I stood there frozen for a split second. I could here the voice of a drill sergeant in my head. "The dog has shit herself! The baby has too and now she's pissed! You're knee deep in it now soldier! What do you do? WHAT DO YOU DO?!?!?

So, I dropped the play pen, grabbed the dog, threw her in the tub, grabbed cleaning and sanitizing supplies, scrubbed her ass, rinsed her off, cleaned the tub, scrubbed myself up, grabbed the baby and off we went for a diaper change. But on my way through the kitchen I tossed a bottle in some hot water and threw away my rubber gloves. Oh yeah. And I even got the play pen put together before the appointment rounded the corner.

Not all crises are such successes however. Sometimes, you barely escape with your life. Just the other night, Chris and I had returned from shopping, baby in tow. We all were hungry and tired. The baby was very unsatisfied with our parenting skills for the moment but Chris was trying to feed her while I unpacked groceries and tried to fix him something to eat. About halfway towards bedtime for Mariella, the dogs came in from outside and thus began the unraveling.

Chris was wrestling Mariella to bed and left a half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table. Mandie walked past us and left behind her another trail of stench so fowl that the Christmas tree sagged. She had poop on her back end again. Almost as if it had been rehearsed, Maggie took the sandwich from the plate on the table and ate it while Mandie dragged her butt across the living room carpet, leaving a skid mark at least a yard long. The baby continued to scream as she and Chris came back out of the bedroom. When he noticed that his sandwich was now lying prey to Maggie on the floor, he started yelling, too. Then the smell caught him and the poop stain on the carpet struck him dumb. Mariella continued to cry. Just then, the sergeant in my head started getting in my face again.

"Sweet son of a bitch, soldier you've got a dandy of a bullshit situation on your hands now! You better get your shit together soldier or these bastards are going to chew a hole right through your ass! The dog has spread shit like peanut butter all over the goddamn carpet! The other dog is tearing through that sandwich like a lion on a gazelle and your husband is about ready to string them both up by their tits! And the baby is ready to walk out and find new parents! Whatcha gonna do soldier?!?!?! WHATCHA GONNA DO?!?!?!?!

You know, sometimes you just have to put down your arms and admit defeat. Surrender without incident. Because sometimes you just can't fight it. The shit is going to hit the carpet and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop it. Chris got the baby settled and into bed while I made him a new sandwich. Then I got down and cleaned up the stain on the carpet and got Mandie cleaned up again. Halfway through his sandwich, Chris took a deep breath and sighed. He looked over at me on the floor and said, "It's been a hell of a night."

I smiled and took a deep breath, too. I couldn't even say anything. I just nodded and kept scrubbing. I knew that tomorrow was bringing more and I was going to have to regroup and be ready to face it. Because I'm a soldier and that's what we do.

Stoned

It's still not over. I'm not out of the woods yet. Since the birth of my daughter I have had more doctor's appointments and trips to the emergency room than ever in my life. I have seen the inside of a hospital so many times that I now have my favorite nurses. And I'm about to go in a few more times before the end of the year. Two weeks after I delivered, I had a gallbladder attack. I of course did not know at the time what it was, just that it was some of the worst pain I had ever experienced. Right up there with the labor pains I had endured a few weeks earlier. The pain was so bad that night that it caused vomiting, diarrhea and chest pains severe enough to constrict my breathing. I thought, "Here it is. The H1N1 flu virus has gotten me. This is it. I'm dying."

Turns out, I was passing a gallstone. Who knew a knot of cholesterol the size of a pebble could make you pray for a swift death. Since that night, I have had at least 10 additional attacks, on average, about one a week. At first, Vicodin was heading off the pain when one would strike. But recently, it is taking more drugs and more time for the pain to subside. In the meantime, I practice my Lamaze breathing, I meditate and I try to relax in a hot bath.

The discussion of having the gallbladder removed has been going on since the first attack but Chris was not convinced initially that surgery was the best option. So he did some research and found a homeopathic remedy for gallstones and encouraged me to try it first. So, a month ago, I did my first flush. This consists of fasting, drinking dissolved Epsom salts, then drinking olive oil and lemon juice. The next day is spent running to the bathroom every twenty minutes. During the first flush, I wasn't confident it would work. Upon having a bowel movement one is supposed to be able to see small green stones in the toilet. But the first time I ran to the potty, nothing popped up. Then they arrived. It was like Christmas morning! I was so excited. I woke Chris up at about 4 a.m. to give him the news and asked him if he wanted to see them. He opted to stay in bed.

Thankful for the success of the home remedy, I was mistakenly under the impression I was now stone free. I was wrong. A few weeks later, the pain hit again. Hard. So I prepared for my second flush. This time I was going to get more involved in the process to be sure many stones came out. That day I called Chris at work.

"Honey, can you do me a favor on your way home from work?" I asked.
"Sure, what do you need?"
"I need you to stop by the store and pick up a small sieve."
"A sieve. Ok. What for?"
"I'm going to be prospecting for gallstones."
"Are you serious?"

I'm sure at this point he was thinking he had created a monster because anyone who was willing to pick through their own poop was surely mad. But I wanted verification in numbers and the only way to do that was to rescue the stones and collect them in a baggie. So, that's what I did. With the sieve, rubber gloves and several disinfecting supplies, I set out on my quest for the mother lode. In all, I collected more than 15 stones that were larger than a pea. Now because cholesterol will eventually melt and because I wanted to save them to show the doctor, I did what any rational person would do. I stored the baggie of stones in the freezer.

The next day, I met with the surgeon to discuss options and I brought my stones with me. When he came into the room, he introduced himself and began talking about my symptoms and issues. Then he stopped dead in his tracks upon discovering a small baggie on the counter with a strange substance inside. He peered at it curiously, leaned over to get a closer look and then said, "What is this? Did you bring this in?"

"Yes, those are my gallstones."
"Really. And how did you come by these?" he asked, humored.
"I flushed them out," I said proudly.
"You did. And how did they come out? Through your stool?" He seemed amused, shocked and a little put off all at the same time.
"Yes. It wasn't pleasant, but there they are."
"Interesting. I have to say, no one has ever brought their stones in with them. We don't see this sort of thing around here very often. Would you mind if I showed them around?"
"Be my guest," I said.

So, like show-and-tell, the nurse picked up the baggie and toured my stones around the office. After a few moments of Q & A with the surgeon I returned home to think about having the surgery. Basically my options now are to either live in constant fear of having another attack every time I eat fat or to shit myself every time I eat fat. When they say pregnancy is hell on your body, you think sure, stretch marks, saggy boobs but you never imagine that it could mean losing parts of your body or having chronic diarrhea for the rest of your life. So anyway, I'm not out of the woods yet. Basically, my experience with pregnancy is still resonating and I'm still not back to normal. Now, I'll never be. Instead, I'll forever be one organ less than normal and one ass explosion away from a very humiliating situation.

You Gotta Know When to Fold 'Em

I don't think Kenny Rogers was referring to raising children when he wrote "The Gambler," but as a mother, I play my hand all day long. Some you win and some you lose. Knowing when to fold doesn't have anything to do with the laundry, with the exception of my husband's T-shirts, which pretty much end up in a tousled mess in the drawer anyway, after his search for his favorite. No. Knowing when to fold has everything to do with surviving the day. What battles do you fight and which ones do you reluctantly pass over in hopes for a better hand the next time around. For instance, every single day, thirty seconds after letting my dog Mandie out to pee, I have to yell at her to keep her from treating the yard as an all-you-can-eat turd buffet. Is it a battle I should bother waging? Probably not. As long as I keep feeding her diet size portions of food to try and trim her morbid obesity, she's going to snack on her own shit when she thinks I'm not looking. She's like a fat girl who sneaks candy bars in her bedroom closet after everyone has gone to bed. She's addicted to eating and trying to fight it is a waste of my resources. But there are other battles that present themselves daily in which the odds are slightly more in my favor. Those battles are the ones where I line up my cards and hope that either my hand is stronger or my bluff is better. If you haven't figured it out yet, mothers are professional gamblers.

The other day, I won. After being cooped up in the house for several days, I needed to get out. Now trying to get out of the house within the window of time in which Mariella has napped, eaten and had a diaper change is in itself a big gamble but I was itching for a change of scenery and I had birthday gift cards to spend at the mall. So I packed her in her car seat, stocked her baby survival kit, grabbed my purse and headed out the door. When we got to the parking lot, I decided to put on the Baby Bjorn carrier so I could lug her around and still have both hands free. Now I've only used the contraption once and as a new mom I'm not yet an expert in all the baby gear, so figuring out how to put on what is the equivalent of a polyester puzzle stacked the odds against me even more. Seriously, I have had sexy lingerie that was easier to get in and out of than this damn thing. Plus, as I'm struggling with it, Mariella was reaching a boiling point in her car seat, so the pressure was definitely on.

So, there we were in the parking lot, trying to get into the Baby Bjorn. Because it was a particularly windy day, I decided first to get into the back seat and put the thing on back there and then attempt a smooth transition for her from car seat to my chest. It wasn't so smooth. I had one arm in when she started kicking and spitting. My anxiety jumped up a notch. I took it off, read the instruction label and put it on again. Mariella started yelling and snorting. I broke a sweat. Once I felt securely strapped in, I got her out of her seat and made the first attempt at putting her in the Baby Bjorn too. By this time, though, she was like a pissed off little piglet, squirming and protesting this ridiculous endeavor. I had her with both hands as her body was seized up and tense, trying to gently shove her down into the pocket of the carrier. She obliged but I couldn't get it right. First the carrier was too tight and needed to be loosened. Then I struggled with the fasteners. After the third time of putting her in and taking her back out, she was screaming and we were both sweating. The windows of the car were all steamed up and as we wrestled and bumped around in the back seat, I began to worry what passersby were thinking was going on inside my car.

But I won. Finally, after coming very close to giving up and going home, I got her in the carrier, safely snapped in, and we headed into the mall. The cool wind actually felt good on my face which was dripping with beads of sweat by that time. I stood up out of the car, took a deep breath, and enjoyed my victory. Five minutes into my browsing, she was fast asleep against my chest. I spent my gift cards, got some wardrobe items and went home feeling refreshed and reassured that every once in awhile, I'll take the pot.

Confessions of a Terrible Mother

Well, it's been two months since the birth of my daughter and I've already given up on the anti-germ crusade. Yep. I'm over it. I confess. The binkie just goes right back in the mouth. Why? Because after two months of chasing binkies in a race to the floor twenty times a day, I realized something. Here I am, an educated woman. I have survived a rigorous master's program while being pregnant AND moving my whole life to a new city. I have traveled two and from China, having successfully navigated my way through Beijing. I spent the first four years of my adult life in DC without a net. And yet a loose binkie careening perilously to the floor gives me a panic attack. It's ridiculous. I have literally done yoga moves and juggling stunts to keep a piece of plastic with a rubber nipple on it from getting away from me. At one point I was actually getting really good at catching them in my cleavage and was pretty proud of that trick but now I just summon the "Five Second Rule" and pop that puppy right back in. The way I see it, I can't raise her in a bubble and the hard truth of life is that binkies get dirty and sometimes we just have to suck it up.

As a first time mom, of course I wanted to be perfect and do everything right. But at this two month marker I'm finding myself already out of the honeymoon stage. Dog hair covered binkies are not my only infraction. In the morning, when I hear her stirring, instead of getting her up, changing her and feeding her right way, I pop that binkie back in and go back to bed for as long as I can before she stirs again. I'll do this at least two or three times before I finally give in and get her up. Early morning feedings are no longer the bonding experience they once were. Now, I gamble to see how many more minutes of sleep I can win.

The other day Mariella was having one of her, what I've come to affectionately refer to as "Pea-Under-the-Mattress Days." Pea Days are rough because it usually means that her highness is unsatisfied with EVERYTHING. She cries in her swing. She cries in her bouncy chair. She screams in her car seat and she squalls in her stroller. She cries if she's on her back and she hyperventilates if she's on her stomach. She's pissed if she has a wet diaper and she's pissed if I try to change it. She doesn't want to take a nap but she's miserable if she's awake. Pea Days usually mean I spend the day wrestling a badger and getting absolutely nothing else done.

Chris always knows when a Pea Day has hit, too, as soon as he comes through the door at the end of the day. There we are, both of us exhausted from the struggle, recovering from the trauma on the couch. I'm usually still in my pajamas with my greasy hair tied in a knot on my head. I'm covered in dried spots of spit up, as is she, and we're surrounded by rolled up dirty diapers, toys she has rejected, empty bottles and other random pieces of fallout.

Well, as I said, the other day was a Pea Day and like all the others, it had the makings of a real tragedy. But I had had my fill of Pea Days for the week and my chore list was piling up. There is a bed in the spare room upstairs I had been trying to put together and make up for weeks. I just could never get there. So, on this day I decided the bed was getting made and the spare room was going to get put together come hell or high water. Well hell came. I put Mariella down in her bouncy chair and grabbed the fitted sheet. In no time she was gearing up. And she can go from 0 to 60 in two seconds. But I was impervious. I put the four corners down and peacefully grabbed the other sheet, then a pillow case, then the other and put that bed together slowly and deliberately.

By the time the comforter was going on she was screaming with such rage that if she'd had a knife I think she would have murdered me in cold blood. But the bed was made and my impenetrable nerves survived her psychotic episode. And she survived too. She didn't break. At one point I thought she might pull a Rumplestiltskin and split in two right down the middle but she didn't. Her red face slowly faded back to a normal flesh color and we moved on with the rest of our day. I know. I'm a heartless evil woman but you know what? There might be a pea under the mattress but at least the bed will be made.

Pea Days can be excruciating and I'm not just guilty of letting her cry from time to time. I'm also guilty of drowning her out. Yes. It's true. When we're in the car and she's at top gear, tearing towards apoplexy, I get to a point where I either need to find calm or drive the car into a tree. So, I simply turn the music up and sing loudly until we get to a place where I can bring her back down to zero. It's not a nice thing to do and I know that but if both of us are racing towards madness, one of us has to stay on the road.

When we are safe inside the confines of our home, it is much easier to deal with a child who appears to have the ability to literally cry herself to death if you let her. Like my dog Mandie who would eat until her stomach exploded if she found herself with a full bag of dog food and no human in sight for miles, Mariella would literally scream until her head blew up. I know because I've tried the "let her cry herself to sleep" bit. It doesn't work. Death would come before sleep. So, when we're home and Mariella gets her diaper in a bunch, I have discovered a shameful trick to buy myself a half an hour of peace and productivity. I plop her in front of the TV. Now, before you judge me as the worst mother ever, hear me out. I had visions of grandeur once. I thought I would never be one of those moms who used the television as a babysitter. In fact, I had vowed to make TV obsolete for the most part. I figured I would find much more educational and enlightening ways to entertain my children.

Well, here is a lesson in pragmatism, friends. If the junkie needs a fix, at least you can supply them with a clean needle. And our clean needle is "Wonder Pets." This animated program, found on Nick Jr. is designed for preschoolers but Mariella LOVES it. She can't get enough. It has motion, colors, objects, animals, shapes, culture, music..... it has it all and it drives her wild. So for 30 minutes everyday she watches Wonder Pets and I get to take a shower. It's a trade off and the way I see it, since she's only two months old and already digging a show for four year olds, by the time she's in kindergarten she'll be watching the six o' clock news.

So, these are my confessions. Am I the mom I always thought I would be? Not even close. But I'm doing the best I can at the hardest job on the planet and at the end of the day, she's still breathing, all of her limbs are in tact and her head is facing the appropriate direction. It's one day at a time. Let the binkie hit the floor. Embrace the pea under the mattress. Sing through the anguish. Let the Wonder Pets save the day. And forgive the transgressions as any good mother would.

Milk Duds

Breastfeeding is supposed to be a joyful bonding time for mom and baby but that's only what you see in Johnson and Johnson commercials. The reality is that it can be a painful and frustrating experience that leaves you wanting to find any excuse to get out of the house where no one will touch you for at least an hour.

I used to love having my boobs get lots of attention. Now I wish I could hang an out of order sign on them or a Do Not Disturb sign. "No moleste!" Every three hours, though, they are in high demand, a commodity greater than petroleum. As a potential "Milk Goddess," or one who produces enough milk to feed a community, my breast milk actually goes for $4.15 an ounce. I know this because the nurse at the hospital told me I was likely going to be a Milk Goddess because my milk came in fast and furious, so if I wanted to donate it to a community milk bank, I could.

Well that was before stress and ailments caused me to be occasionally pumping dry wells. It has not always been a bountiful oasis. From time to time, I have seen drought. Historically my left boob produces only about an ounce and a half at any given time by the pump. But it is also the one that suffers the most pain. Currently it feels like my daughter has the tongue of a cat, rubbing my nipple repeatedly with a sandpaper-like sensation. Most of the time my left boob has had a tough day.

The right does a little better and so we tend to favor it. At any rate, when I am wearing the cape of the Milk Goddess and having a productive day, I still struggle to get her to finish a feeding. She chronically falls asleep with my boob in her mouth, about half way through the process. It's as if my milk is cut with some sort of sedative. Because of this, I sit through a feeding in an uncomfortable position for at least a half an hour, poking my baby like some kind of playground bully.

Breastfeeding is messy, too. When I wake in the morning I find that my breast pads are saturated, my nightgown is drenched and there are large wet spots on the bed where I was laying. Every time I unleash my boobs from my straight jacket maternity bras, they drip and leak all over me. I have to wear a bra to bed every night, which is not too comfortable, and I have to pump regularly in order to avoid engorgement. Engorgement is painful. Your boobs are tender and sore and the slightest brush against them causes you to cringe.

Everyone in the house seems to be enjoying my product but me. The other night, I was watching the movie "Interview with a Vampire" and feeding the baby. It was then that I made a connection. When she is hungry, she viciously attacks my breast, snarling and snorting and then sucking loudly as if it is the last boob on earth. She is for all intents and purposes a vampire, an insatiable little milk sucker. But she is not the only one who has a taste for what I got cookin'. Maggie has taken to eating my saturated breast pads. I can't keep her away from them. If I throw them in the trash, she digs them out. If I leave them on the arm of the couch for just a second, she's up there feasting on them. One night I opened the room to the nursery, only to find that she had gotten herself locked in there by accident but entertained herself by feeding on the used pads I'd left on the bed during a 4am feeding.

Chris is obsessed with my huge boobs, too, needless to say. That really needs no further explanation. When I first became engorged he took one look at me and began to blush and couldn't stop giggling. He was like a 14 year old all over again. Now I occasionally catch him sneaking a peak when I'm pumping. He's curious for some strange reason and apparently wants to know what it looks like when a nipple gets sucked into a tube and milk comes shooting out of it.

The occasions when we get through a feeding seemlessly with enough milk, regular burps, minimal spit up, no puking afterwards and remaining fully conscious the whole time, are rare. At $4.15 an ounce, I should be keeping track of how much ends up in a burp cloth and then deducting it from her future allowance. Hell, at $4.15 an ounce, I ought to just stop buying dog food and let the dogs have at it. But in the end, it's a labor of love. The payoff is a healthy baby, and apparently a healthy dog, and after all I've been through recently, I should be happy I can breastfeed at all. Who cares if my boobs look like week-old party balloons or my nipples look like hot dogs hanging out of a grocery bag. I'm a Milk Goddess and this is probably the only time in my life when I will have any kind of divine status. Even if the status means you actually have no power and no control and that you are in reality a servant. The way I see it, breastfeeding, while not the blissful TV commercial, is still pretty miraculous. Humbling and painful, but miraculous. Now if only I could figure out a way to convince my daughter that I am also the Strained Peas Goddess, or the Brussels Sprouts Goddess, maybe someday even the Keys to the Car Goddess, or the Stay Out Past Curfew Goddess....

If Pregnancy Doesn't Kill You....

I have come to the conclusion that post-pregnancy is actually worse than the pregnancy itself. In fact, being pregnant was really a piece of cake, compared to the string of illnesses and problems I've had since I gave birth. About a week before I delivered, I developed a mysterious, itchy rash all over my legs and back. I thought it was poison ivy but Chris and my OBGYN both said no. I thought this because my brilliant husband was out in the yard one day pulling the evil plant with his bare hands and bragging, "Look honey, I never get poison ivy!" Later that evening he came in, "washed" his hands, and gave be a foot, leg and lower back rub. A day or so later, I was covered in a red, itchy rash. Hmm.....

But the OB said it was heat rash and prescribed a topical that is actually used for fungal infections. So I applied the cream to no avail. In addition, I continued my ivy topical treatments. Nothing happened. After two days in a hospital bed, post-delivery, the rash had spread and gotten worse. The nurses said it looked like a yeast infection and told me to apply lotrimin cream. I did that and nothing happened. Well it got worse. I went back to my OB who then prescribed an antihistamine pill. Still nothing. So then he prescribed a steroid pill treatment. Nothing. All the while, I'm trying desperately to breast feed and bond with my newborn. After the rash continued to get worse, my husband insisted I go to the hospital. So we went to the emergency room where the doctors said it was not poison ivy and took samples of the puss blisters on my leg to determine if it was a bacterial or viral infection. Then prescribed more meds that did nothing.

The tests came back negative and still the rash endured. Finally my OB sent me to a dermatologist who took three chunks of skin out of my legs for biopsy to find out if the rash was related to pregnancy. My OB still insisted that it was heat rash and was hormone related. After a few days of a hard core topical prescribed by the dermatologist and a continuation of ivy topicals, the rash finally started to die. And wouldn't you know, the test came back negative. The dermatologist then determined that it was in fact poison ivy.

After all that, I started having other problems. A bladder infection and gallstones that put me in the emergency room again, all night, in excruciating pain, a slight yeast infection and itchy stitches in my crotch, incredibly sore nipples from breastfeeding and a wart on my face. In the last month I've had my skin cut out and stitched, snipped, burned, scarred..... I'm at the point where I dread waking up in the morning because I don't trust that there will not be another pain or problem to endure that day. No one tells you that when you have a baby your body falls apart. They say it's hard on your body but they do not tell you all the crazy things that can happen. Now to be fair, the poison ivy was not caused by having a baby but there is a strong possibility that it was as bad as it was because my body was weak.

At one point I actually started thinking maybe someone was trying to convince me not to have any more children. Like the gods were saying, "We're going to torture you until you break. Do not reproduce again!" I also thought perhaps I was just not meant to breastfeed. Probably the most important thing to me as far as nurturing my child has been under threat since the day she was born due to all the meds I was being forced to take. In fact, there were several I refused to take because I was going to have to pump and dump my milk. When the dermatologist prescribed the high octane topical lotion, she told me that if it did not work, she would have to give me a high dose steroid for a month that would pretty much put my boobs out of commission. I was hell bent not to let that happen so I applied the cream with vigor and kept coaching myself under my breath not to let the rash beat me.

I cried a lot over the last few weeks out of pure frustration. Ironically, after everyone warned me of post-partum blues, it was the biblical phenomena that just about sent me over the edge. If not for all the bullshit, I probably would have come off my hormones without a hitch. Today, I am scarred but healed, no more itch. But I have survived my third gallbladder attack so far and now face a possible surgery to have it removed. I'm not really in the mood to lose an organ so I'm going to try a homeopathic purge to try to get rid of the stones but that involves drinking epsom salts and then sitting on the toilet all day while I shit myself. And so many women seem to worry about their figure after pregnancy as their first priority. Honestly. If my stretch marks were all I had to be concerned about right now, I'd be thrilled. Right now, I embrace them. They are my battle scars and proof that I have survived one hell of a beating, that in some form or another, just keeps coming back for more.

Pre-Partum Blues

I have been pregnant forever. In fact, life before pregnancy is nothing but a vague, distant memory. If it weren't for my trip to China last summer, I'm not sure there would be anything significant enough to remind me of the person I used to be. But I know there was a different person before me. I'm sure of it. For instance, I never was a person who had to deal with constipation. Seriously, I was textbook regular most of my life. Now, though, I have to pop two stool softeners a night just to keep myself out of the emergency room with unbearable pressure and cramps.

The last time I had a bout of this "crappy" condition, I found myself in the bathroom contorted into any position on the toilet that would give me some leverage. My wonderful husband who has tried to be supportive even in these moments where he never thought he would ever be, stood outside the door saying, "Honey, practice your breathing. Hee, hee, hoo, hoo! Think of it like a practice baby!"

Lately, I've been waiting miserably as the last few days have ticked by counting down to my due date. The pressure, bloating, stretching, cramps, the pushing on my bladder and other battered and beaten organs, has gotten unbearable and yet she won't come out. Chris said she just doesn't want to come out. She likes it in there, he says. "She's probably got her arms stretched out, holding on and refusing to come out. You know like when you try to shove a cat in a toilet."

I'm starting to lose hope. Maybe I actually will carry this baby for the rest of my life. I honestly can't believe she will ever come out. The day will never come and I will be miserably uncomfortable for the rest of my life. One thing is for sure. I'm really not the person I used to be and I never will be again.

Addendum: As it turns out, this was written about three hours before I went into labor. I wrote this entry on the night of September 5 and went into labor at 2am on September 6, a Sunday. Mariella Joan Siemer was born at 8:45am on Sunday, September 6, 2009, weighing 8 pounds, 9 ounces and measuring 20 inches long.

The Huntress

My dog Mandie has not always been the fastest gun in the West and she is most definitely not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Although we love her dearly, she has a slow speed which she downshifts into both mentally and physically for the largest portion of the day. She moseys to the door laboring with every step, causing the cool air to leave the house and the flies to enter as I stand there holding it open for her....waiting. She spends most of the day laying lopped to the side like a beached whale, occasionally switching rooms for a change of scenery. She's lovingly referred to as a "foot stool" or a "dog skin rug" by me and my husband. She's just in no way, shape, or form remotely in a hurry to do anything......except to eat. That she does with record speed.

I wouldn't even call it eating, really. It's more like an inhalation of solid particles, much like a Dustbuster. There is no chewing, no tasting, no pleasure. It is purely utilitarian. She's like a professional food-eating contest champion, always in training. But that's really where it ends. Everything else is slow and deliberate. Of course because of her ho-hum attitude and her remedial intelligence level, we never pegged her for much of a huntress. Most of the time when we drop something on the floor we have to point directly at it, almost touching it and wait at least 30 seconds for her to gear up and arrive at it from across the kitchen. Most often if we don't guard it for her, Maggie snatches it up with a "you snooze, you lose," sort of approach.

So, many times we've had the conversation that if the world were to end as we know it and humans were wiped from the face of the earth, Mandie would be dead inside of a week. Of course her storage of body fat may keep her going for a little longer, but not by much. Without a human to stand next to a deer carcass or an overturned garbage can and point at it for her, Mandie would surely perish.

Well, this is what we believed until we discovered Mandie's bloodlust. Recently, we've started walking in the city park just for a change of pace. The park is fairly large, complete with a pond for ducks and fish, a walking path, many recreational areas and a grassy, tree area. Now, it is important to visualize Mandie to truly appreciate this shocking display of behavior which we have witnessed. Mandie is a Corgie-Sheltie mix. This means she is long with very short stubby legs, a big head and large pointy ears. She's got longer hair and a mane like a Sheltie, a stub where her tail used to be and she weighs in at about 43 pounds.

So, one afternoon as we took our daily exercise in the city park, Mandie noticed squirrels. Suddenly, with a sound like someone was repeatedly backing over her with a car, she screeches and starts tugging furiously at her leash. I learn quickly that my "foot stool" has a very low center of gravity and can pull me down pretty easily if she wanted to. I've walked Pitbulls with less force, to be totally honest. Taken completely by surprise, I struggled desperately to hold on to her and keep myself upright at the same time but she was foaming at the mouth at this point.

Charging like she is carrying an Inuit family of four on a sled in the Iditarod, Mandie fought me to get at this stunned little squirrel. I think the rodent had Fatty identified as a low threat grazer, but was shocked to find out he was now being pursued with the passion of brides-to-be at an annual wedding gown clearance sale. So, interested in seeing this play out of course, I drop her leash. And like a greyhound she's off. I couldn't believe my eyes. My morbidly obese, sloth of a dog moved faster than anything I'd ever seen. Now, she did not get the squirrel of course because she cannot climb trees, although she tried. Her adrenaline got the best of her and she screeched to a halt and leaped onto the trunk, just missing the tail end of the squirrel.

Nevertheless, I was amazed and so proud. To this day, I can't believe it so every day now we go to the park hunting for squirrels so I can see with my own eyes that I was not dreaming. And a couple of times since, we've been lucky to find a few helpless little guys caught totally off guard by my champion squirrel hunter. It's awesome and it's become my new sport.

Well, since the opening of this new door, Mandie has become quite the little killer-on-rails. During our recent trip to the cottage in the woods in Amish Country, we went for a few hikes. On the first one, we came up out of the woods into a farmer's field to find an oil pump teetering slowly back and forth. From a distance, Mandie spotted it on the horizon and like Don Quixote charging the windmills, Mandie let her rip and tore after the pump. Upon her approach, though she realized how big this horse-like figure was so she put on the breaks hard and fast. But it didn't stop her from harassing it. From about three feet away she taunted it furiously barking and bearing her teeth.

Of course Chris and I were on the ground crippled with laughter over this ridiculous behavior. We concluded that her legs can be wound up but apparently not her brain. She's still not too smart. Anyway, we reeled Slugger back in and got her back to the cottage. The next day we did an experiment to see if she would fall for her own blunder again and she did not disappoint. She tore after the defenseless pump and cussed it up one side and down the other, from a safe distance of course.

Our most recent episode with our aggressive little beast happened the other day. And we're sure now it most likely will not be the last. Apparently Mandie has been reborn. Anyway, last weekend I woke up and stumbled into the kitchen to make breakfast. As I turned toward the refrigerator I saw a horrific sight on the floor. Mandie had caught a mouse. It's lifeless body was placed right next to her food dish. Now we've had a minor mouse problem in this house for some time and have even discussed getting a cat because our two dogs had proven themselves useless in this profession. But on that day, to my great surprise, our Mandie caught her first mouse. It's her first official kill and I think after this she is really going to develop a taste for it.

So, let the bloodlust begin. And have mercy on the city park squirrels. Mandie the Fat and Slow has morphed into Mandie the Fast and Furious. Don't get me wrong, she still holds down the floor boards like a paperweight and will only come upstairs at night if I promise her a cookie, but given the right motivation, she changes like a super hero and takes on her new persona with a zeal that is unrivaled in our household. Not even Maggie's vicious kamikaze guarding of her spot on the couch or her persistent investigation of the trash can has as much enthusiasm as our Mandie's pursuit of random victims. She is our new little pride and joy, our champion warrior, and we have a new found respect.

Pregnancy is a Disorder

I have a veritable pharmacy in my bed. Since Chris has been living out of hotels in Dayton during the week for the last two months, due to his new job in our future hometown, I have inherited the king bed all for myself. And since I have developed an extremely obnoxious and unbearable case of snoring due to my pregnancy, even when he is home on the weekends, he ends up in the bed down the hall. So, for all intents and purposes, the king bed is mine all mine. And since this is the case, I have chosen to fill it with all the items that have become near and dear to my heart..... my pregnancy survival kit, if you will.

I have the following sundries in my bed with me: tylenol, cough drops, gas relief chewable tablets and pills, palmer's cocoa butter lotion for stretch marks, powder, tums antacids and a box of tissues. In addition to the pharamceutical needs, I have also chosen to include my cell phone, the remote control, a pen and notepad, a water bottle, hair ties and dog biscuits to lure the dogs in to my room at night. Everything is neatly lined up beside me where my husband used to lay.

Why don't I just use the bedside stand, you ask? Well, because since I have commandeered the bedroom, I moved the night stand to the foot of the bed and dragged the spare tv into the room to place on it, against my husband's "sleep hygiene" policy, so that I might be entertained while my child kicks the crap out of me all night. Besides, it's so convenient to have everything right next to me. I don't even have to roll over. And since I'm usually engrossed in an old re-run episode of the Golden Girls or Will and Grace, I have learned to find everything by touch. I don't even have to look to find what I need. It's bliss, really.

So, even though I have all the supplies I need to survive my long, often sleepless, nights, I have come to the conclusion that I am suffering from a disorder. The snoring for one thing could wake the dead. It doesn't wake me of course, but the dead, yes, I'm sure they take issue with it. According to Chris, the dogs are restless all night because of the ogre-like sounds that eminate from the caverns of my body, and we have decided that the baby must surely believe that she was swallowed by a monster.

This past weekend we escaped away to a cottage in the woods in Amish Country to have some R&R before the baby poop hits the fan. Because the weather was so perfect, we left all the windows open and slept amidst cool breezes. Of course, my husband ended up in the bedroom downstairs and left me alone upstairs to inhale anything not nailed down. But he said that as he lay there, he could hear me through his window. "No wonder there's no wildlife around," he says to me over breakfast. "You've scared them all away."

In addition to the snoring problem, I have now acquired an embarrassing appetite. It's not that I gorge food as if I were about to be discovered in a closet clutching a bag of Oreo's, it's more like I'm just always hungry. But I'm trying to control it by being reasonable and making healthy choices. Chris is not helping. He encourages me to eat even when it's not healthy. It's a sweet gesture that comes from a good place but I swear to God if I said a bucket of lard sounded appetizing Chris would run and get me a spoon.

That morning at breakfast in the cottage, Chris made a glorious breakfast for us. And breakfast is not breakfast without bacon. As we argued over who should eat the last piece, each insisting the other take it, Chris says to me, "Honey, I'm just making poop. You're making a baby. You take it." Feeling there is really no way to argue with this logic, I conceded and ate it. Besides, it's useless to argue with a man who wishes to nurture his baby. He doesn't have an umbilical cord, so his only option is to force feed me. It's really sweet, if you think about it.

At any rate, pregnancy is a disorder and symptoms include overeating and uncontrollable snoring. Symptoms also include not being able to bend over in the shower when you drop the soap, a constant re-supplying of toilet paper, an obsession with germs, getting stuck in the couch, an inability to reach and tie your shoes, and apparently, hoarding things in your bed like a muskrat so you don't have to repeatedly get up in search of them.

Pregnancy Symptoms

Everything I've ever been told about pregnancy I was always sure would never happen to me. I was wrong. I thought these symptoms were for the weak, the wusses. Surely I, with my iron will and sturdy body can avoid or overcome any malfunction, ache or pain that would come my way. Again, I was sorely mistaken. The first thing to go has been my memory.

So far, I have let ATM machines eat my cards, I have driven away with my drinks on the top of my car, I have left my purse at home and have had to return for it, I have parked and after spending five minutes digging quarters from the bottom of my purse, have gotten out of the car and simply walked away from the meter. I have missed many, many appointments even though I write them down in three different places, I have forgotten to pay my bills even though I get email messages reminding me to pay them, mailed hard copies of the bill, and online bill pay. I have driven all the way to the store to return items only to get there and realize I left the items at home. Oh yes, and this is only the tip of the iceberg.

Of course it was only a matter of time, that the next thing to go would be my looks. Like Stretch Armstrong, my body has been pulled and twisted into a sorry blob. To combat this and to make myself feel a little more attractive, I recruited the help of Frederick's of Hollywood. Naively I thought this would spice up my life and boost my confidence. Oh, I have so much to learn. After spending at least an hour searching their website to find something that pregnant ladies can wear, I managed to pick two babydoll outfits. When they arrived, I couldn't wait to try them on. The first one, well, it fit. Let's just leave it at that. But the other one was a disaster. In theory, it was sexy. It had open cups for a more revealing experience. But the problem was that my boobs have gotten completely out of control. They are huge. When I put it on, instead of giving a peak, my boobs literally pushed through the holes and hung out the front. It was horrific. I mean it was like squeezing play dough through a tube. So yeah, sexy is out.

The third thing to go now is the rest of my body. Things just no longer function properly. I pee literally every ten minutes, I have constant heartburn, I suffer from restless leg syndrome every single night, I have a new pain in my back every few days, I get winded just getting up off the couch, I'm hungry every two hours, my hands and feet are swollen and sometimes my left hand will tingle a bit. I can't wear any of my pretty shoes because they are now too tight. I got my wedding ring on but it ain't comin' off. But last night I hit an all time low.

I have had a cough over the last few days and occasionally I will wake up in the middle of the night hacking my head off. Usually I'll just reach for a cough drop and after a few minutes, I quiet down and go back to sleep. Not last night. Last night, I woke up coughing so hard I almost threw up. Then it happened. I coughed so hard that I peed myself. I peed. In the bed, down my leg, it was everywhere. Still half asleep, I hobbled to the bathroom where I coughed the rest of it out and cleaned myself up.

So, I don't know what's next but at this point I'm prepared for just about anything and nothing would surprise me. If I can pee the bed just by coughing, then I now believe that my body is capable of just about anything, especially now that I'm getting bigger by the day. So much for "that will never happen to me." Been there, done that. I peed the bed. I think I have earned the right to play the pregnancy card once in awhile.

Shopping with Daddy

Last weekend Chris and I decided to spend the weekend just hanging out, something we have not done since we realized we were going to have to move to Dayton. But both of us desperately needed some down time so we indulged with lunch out and some light shopping. After soup and sandwiches at Panera, we meandered into Old Navy. As luck would have it, they were having a sale. We headed straight for the maternity and baby section to shop for the largest and smallest items the store had to offer.

We giggled over the ridiculous size of the tops and dresses I'm finding myself fitting into these days and bonded over the teeny little outfits our daughter will soon be wrestled into. "This is the first time we've done this," I said realizing that since we found out I was pregnant we had not had any time to enjoy preparing for this exciting change that was barreling our way. "I know," he said as he held up a onesie marked with a cartoon crustacean and the phrase, "Daddy's favorite shrimp." "It's kind of fun."

After piling ourselves with a mound of outfits, we headed for the fitting room so that I could try on my mommy gear. Old Navy has always been fairly accommodating in their fitting area with comfortable benches outside for people to sit and wait but this time, there was something new. Just outside the entry there was a long table set up with crayons and coloring books and a father and son looking to be very much in the zone of their artistic endeavors.

The father was meticulously coloring in the leaves of some prehistoric plant in a dinosaur coloring book while his son added the final touches to a monster truck. They were both bent over their projects, intensely focused on making masterpieces.

I smiled and turned to Chris, handing him all the cute pink little outfits and said, "Okay honey, you go color and be sure to play nice with the other daddies."

"Very funny," he said.

"Hey, don't knock it," said the dad, overhearing us. "It's fun. The last time I worked really hard on one but I didn't get to finish it. I hope at least this time I'll get to take this one home."

"Dad, hand me the red."
"Sure, buddy."
He was dead serious and apparently very proud of his work.
"Here, this is a good one," he said trying to hand a coloring book to Chris and offering him a place at the table.
"Uh, no thanks," Chris said as he threw the pink onesies over a rack of men's shirts and took a masculine stance. "I'll just wait for her to try her stuff on."
"Suit yourself," said the dad and went back to his goal of completing the picture before his wife came out of the fitting room.

I giggled about this until I tried on my first outfit and realized that he was not the only one to feel humbled and maybe a little embarrassed. My belly and my boobs pressed against the fabric of several tops and I looked like I was trying to shoplift produce. It really didn't seem fair that the little culprit causing this expansion gets to have a square foot of fabric when I have to suffer with three yards of it.

Anyway, our shopping trip was a fun bonding experience and a relief from the chaos of our lives. Afterwards we went to Borders to look at books of baby names. Since "Daddy's favorite shrimp" is obviously trademarked, we were going to have to come up with something else. Of course for now, and for a little while, it works. We like it anyway. She can be the shrimp and I'll be the whale. But only for now.

Food For Thought

Have you ever watched anyone shove bread dough into a loaf pan? Well, this is what it is like for me to get into the tub these days. To my credit, our bathtub looks like an economy size for say an RV, so it has never been the relaxing place I wished it could be but nevertheless, as the baby grows, so do I. I literally stuff to fit.

So, as I waddle the earth these days feeling evermore like poppin' fresh, I look for whatever small hints and reminders of beauty I can find. They are few and far between. I'm too tired to fix my hair, there's no need to waste my makeup when I only leave the house to go the grocery store or Lowe's, and I struggle to keep my maternity pants up as they continuously slip down making a web in my crotch and exposing my crack. I hike them up every five minutes and have begun to dread bending over to pick something up because I know as soon as I go down, so will my pants. My underwear has become translucent because they are stretched so tight across my bum and hardly any of my shoes fit around my cankles.

Well, the other day I went to my OBGYN for our 20 week ultrasound. This is what makes it all worth it, I suppose. Recently the baby has started to move around a lot so I was so excited to see this and to find out if it is a boy or a girl. Feeling pretty despite my inflated state, and having that glow, I strolled into the building with a hitch in my step. I am a beautiful pregnant mommy, I tell myself, and today is a big day for us.

But, as I walk into the lobby I see a display for Breast Cancer Awareness. Now, as I mentioned my body is literally morphing into what feels like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. The only upshot is that my boobs have gotten huge. They are the only things I'm proud of right now and what make me feel pretty and maybe even a little sexy. But in their good intentions, the Breast Cancer people have managed to make a mockery of boobs.

The display offered bras of all shapes and sizes that had been creatively decorated and contributed by members of the community. They had fake flowers attached to them, coins glued on, lace, feathers.... you name it and apparently the goal was "the gaudier the better." One lady brought in a Santa Claus statue, only from the waste up, and modeled him proudly in a bra on the outside of his red and white furry coat. His bra was holiday appropriate with pointy Christmas tree ornaments poking out from the center of the bra cups. But the piece d'resistance was the pastry someone brought in to add to the booby celebration. Someone painstakingly created mound-sized cinnamon buns with huge raisins on the tops to resemble the nipples.

I felt crushed. My boobs were all I had left and now I knew I would no longer be able to think of any part of my body without immediately thinking of breads and pastries. So, I hiked myself into the elevator and tried to regain my excitement. I was going to see our baby and nothing, not even a drag queen Santa Claus or edible boobs, were going to get me down. I got in the office and not long after was getting prepped for my ultrasound. After a few minutes of looking around and identifying arms and legs, the moment had come. Boy or girl?

"You have to use some imagination," the tech told me. "Boys look like turtles and girls look like hamburgers. And...... it looks like you've got a hamburger."

"Better get used to it, honey," I thought to myself about our little girl. Apparently she has a life ahead of her where she will continuously be compared to food items. She's not even out of the womb and already she's being told her hoohaw looks like America's favorite sandwich. Is nothing sacred???

I felt like having a ritualistic killing of these analogies by consuming both a hamburger and a cinnamon bun but I thought unfortunately that this would only have the reverse effect and would only encourage my body to take on more of a dough-like persona. So, so much for beauty. For the next 20 weeks, I'm resigned to my fate of waddling around and getting stuck in the bathtub. But, it'll be worth it when our little girl shows up, hamburger and all.

As If God Can See Them From Heaven

On a recent house hunting trip to Dayton, Chris and I found ourselves spending a great deal of time in our car. All weekend we drove around, neighborhood after neighborhood, town after town, trying to find "the one." To save money, we booked a room in the cheapest motel we could find and took the dogs with us on the trip. The motel turned out to be what we presumed was a crack house/whorehouse where the baby mama who cleaned our room lived in the room above us and our room had a collection of overlooked cigarette butts and unmentionables under the furniture.

We took the dogs as opposed to boarding them, first because it costs $25 a day to board them in a place they hate and second because the motel, as luck would have it, allowed pets. I lovingly call the boarding kennel "Doggy Camp" to make it sound more exciting to the girls when we have no other option but to board them. But Chris has taken to calling it "Doggy Concentration Camp" and I think this gives the girls a complex about it. So, when we can travel with them these days, we do.

Now, when I booked the motel room, there was nothing online about pet fees, so I was under the impression it would be free to bring them. All the better. However, when I showed up at the "Whore-A Day Inn", there was a sign on the counter that said, "Please notify us if you have pets with you." So, being the honest person I am, I told the lady about the two small dogs we brought with us. To which she responded, "Are they clean?"

Startled by this concern for sanitation I began to respond that yes they were clean but I choked on the stale cigarette and mildew stench emanating from every corner of the room. The place was really called "The Red Carpet Inn" and I imagined it getting it's name from the amount of brutally murdered dealers and hookers found on the floors of the rooms. After a few coughs and regaining my poise, I said, "Yes, and they are house broken so there shouldn't be a problem but if there is I'll be sure to let you know."

"Okay, because I don't want them to mess up the carpet but if they do, just let me know so I can shampoo it," she said. Then I paid my $3 per dog, per day fees and we headed to our room.
After our first trip out to look at potential homes the next day, we returned to the motel to find two shirtless guys in lawn chairs hanging out in front of the building. They were slouched over a little hibachi grill, beers in hand (cans, not bottles) with their laundry hanging to dry from a nearby tree. Baby Mama heard us pull up from her open window upstairs and leaned out and shouted, "Hey! I put new sheets on ya'll's bed today!" and she gave us a friendly wave.

So, we went in to enjoy our fresh sheets, the only thing in the room that did not smell like cigarettes and mildew, rested up and headed out to search again. Every time we left the motel, we had to take the dogs with us of course because God only knows what kind of havoc they could wreak on our immaculate home away from home. But having them in the car with us everywhere we went proved to be a tenuous experience. The first day was hotter than I expected and although I kept cold water in a dish in the car and the windows cracked with the car parked in the shade, I felt bad for the girls and was concerned about their comfort. We kept them air conditioned as much as possible and got them out for short walks in between looking at houses but eventually I started feeling pretty guilty about the long day in the car for them.

So, when we broke for a bite to eat at a local shake shack, I bought them an ice cream cone which they shared voraciously. After our brief intermission with refreshments, we hopped back in the car and about ten minutes down the road we noticed an unusual odor from the back of the car. Somebody had tossed up the ice cream cone. It laid in a mushy off-white pile in the back corner of the car and every time we turned a corner or came to a quick stop, a paw or a tail would inevitably end up in it. Chris got a look on his face like he was going to hurl himself and began yelling, "Oh God! For crying out loud! That is so gross! God I can smell it all the way up here!" He turned on the AC full blast and leaned into it taking deep breaths as he drove.

He rolled down the windows but this unleashed a tornado of dog hair that had been accumulating in the back seat. So there was Chris, face smooshed into a putrid scowl, gagging and breathing straight from the AC vent while he swatted swarms of dog hair from his face. Occasionally he would make spitting noises which I assumed meant he had gotten a hair in his mouth and was trying to expel it without letting go of the wheel.

Eventually we pulled over so I could clean up the mess, get the girls out of the back for a brisk walk and get Chris out for some fresh air. I didn't have much to mop up the puke so I grabbed a few napkins which had collected in my glove box from the occasional fast food runs, and found a bottle of car scent. The bottle had lost it's spray nozzle so in desperation I just poured the coconut scented liquid onto the spot. We all calmed down and collected ourselves and got back into the car. We were hit by an overwhelming wall of coconut breeze but at least it was better than vanilla ice cream and stomach acid.

By the end of the day, we were becoming desperate to make the best of our situation. We still had not found a house, the car smelled like a tiki bar had overturned on us, the dogs were getting restless and shedding profusely and Chris and I were losing our sense of humor. That's when we noticed the stars. "Do they mean something? I mean are you a member of something if you have one on your house?" he asked me. "You mean like a cult or a secret society?" I said with a laugh. Apparently since I was the only Ohioan in the car, I assume he thought I had some inside information on this peculiar mystery. As if there is like an underground society of rural Ohio housewives who obsessively decorate in rustic decor. Although I have witnessed an inordinate amount of Ohio homes covered in wooden carved ornaments and fabric decorations, it's not like I have a membership.

Anyway, we've not seen the stars anywhere else in the country, so far. They come in all shapes and colors and some even have the American flag painted on them. Either way, it is uncanny how many houses you will see in Ohio with a star nailed to the side of them. We supposed that in the tradition of the fashionable goose and the porch flags that let everyone know what your favorite thing is, these metal 3-D stars are the next big thing in outdoor home decor.

So, we made a game out of it. As we drove through the neighborhoods, every time we passed a house with a star, we'd punch each other in the leg and yell "Star!" Houses with multiple stars got a punch for each star they had and American Flag stars automatically got a double punch. Whoever spotted the star first and got their punch in won that point. We were having fun with our stars and were perfectly content to entertain ourselves at that level when suddenly the residents of Troy, Ohio raised the bar.

By Saturday night we were still driving around and it was getting dark. That's how we were able to spot them. Like beacons lighting up the houses as if the family's were hoping God could see them from Heaven, these three foot arrangements of multi-colored lights hung proudly from porches and outside walls. Chris did a double take and blinked a few times before hitting the breaks and exclaiming, "Are those rosary beads?" I turned my head quickly to adjust my sight on what he was looking at. Sure enough, there hung in all their glory were large looped strands of lights with lit up crosses hanging from the bottoms. Giant rosary bead light arrangements.

"Are those seriously freaking rosary beads? Are you kidding me?" Chris was incredulous and began laughing in amazement. I too was shocked by the sight and began laughing hysterically. "That's awesome." Tacky took a higher level in this little town. Once we saw one, we began to see them everywhere. Around every corner another house lit up like a Vegas chapel. There was no special occasion, it wasn't Christmas, but for some reason, the God-fearing townspeople of Troy decided to Hail Mary their homes with the proudest display of religious fervor I've seen since the days of Tammy Faye. We paused for a moment, slowing the car down to a gentle halt and sat staring in a moment of silence at this statement of devotion. Our cheeks basked in the glow of the multi-colored bulbs and for a brief moment I was almost touched.

I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be nice if I could find myself a set of these giant rosary beads to light up our motel? If God really can see these from Heaven, well those people need all the help they can get." Then I thought, "I wonder if Jewish people put giant lit up Stars of David on the outsides of their houses?" But then I thought, "No, that would just be asking for it. They probably just stick to the yearly understated mennorrah and call it a day."

Anyway, we left feeling like our weekend in the car and motel was like a visit to Soddom and Gomorrah; animals and vomit, hookers and cults. It was just too much. Seeing the calm yet slightly creepy rosary lights was like a north star guiding us back to Bethlehem. We were going to survive this trip with only slight trauma but also with a renewed strength in pursuit of what will one day be our home. And when we find that home, I might just hang a small set of rosary beads on the wall to remind us of our suffering.

Appalachian Customer Service

I have found that one of the greatest cultural experiences money can by is a trip to your local Wal Mart, pretty much any where in West Virginia or Eastern Ohio. Customer service is of a unique quality that, while I would not say is particularly good or professional, it certainly is entertaining. And there seems to be personality profiles of your local Wal Mart staff, which can be found almost as if they have been cloned, at just about any store location in the valley. Let's start with my favorite, "The Hon Girl." You know her. She's the one who calls you hon, several times throughout the process of your purchase. "How you doin' today, hon?" "Did you find everything you needed today, hon?" Sign here, hon." "Here's your receipt, hon. You have a nice day now." It is her understanding that she is being friendly and polite by giving you such an endearing nickname. You are supposed to feel like family by the time you leave the store. And, if she were at least middle aged, with grey or white hair and looking like she has at least one grandchild, this would be somewhat comforting. Especially after you just braved Wal Mart on a Sunday after church lets out.

But too often, "the Hon Girl," is not a granny. She is instead a young girl, usually at least 10 years your junior, likely with no formal education to speak of. In this instance the "hons" are terribly condescending and "The Hon Girl" ends up grating on your last nerve rather than making you feel coddled and nurtured. She comes across sounding as if she has earned some superior status in the social stucture, like she is wise and learned and you, you poor thing, need her gentle hand holding in order to navigate the daunting process of putting your items on a conveyor belt and then swiping your card through a machine. "Whew! That was way over my head! Thank God you were here to guide me through that."
"No problem, hon."

Another personality I have come to feel kindred to is "The Sharer." She's the one who feels the need to discuss, either with you or with another employee in front of you, the drama which is going on among the staff. She'll either talk to said fellow employee, talk to herself, or tell you directly how she feels about whatever injustice is going on.
"I swear. Some people. She thinks just because she's pregnant, she should get extra smoke breaks. Well, I've been here since four and I'm taking my break whether she likes it or not. My feet swell too!"

Sometimes she complains about the customer who was ahead of you. "Some people can be so bitchy, you know? I tried to tell her she can't purchase a six pack with her W.I.C. card but she got all pissed off about it. Whatever. They gotta pay me more than seven bucks an hour to put up with that shit. Did you find everything alright today, hon?"

One of the best personalities, however, is "The Manager." This name gets quotations because so many times you'll find a manager who does not really know how to manage. They have the keys to all the registers and they know how to fill out all the paperwork and to tell the employess when to take their breaks but beyond that, they're at a loss. As for professional communication skills, well really you're just asking too much. Take today for instance. I went to Wal Mart Express Tire and Lube to get my oil changed. During the "express" hour that I waited for them to get started on my car, a very disgruntled man wearing a red plaid flannel shirt and work boots came tearing into the customer service area yelling about the tires on his truck.

He flung his arms around and raised hell, apparently because he was disputing the tread measurements on his tires for an inpsection. The employee doing the inspection claimed they were too low and would not pass. He adamently disagreed. Finally, a "manager" came over to intervene. After about a few minutes of trying to explain the law and the rule for tire tread, the irate man caused the manager to blow. Within five minutes the two of them were in each other's faces, pointing fingers and screaming at each other.

"You watch your mouth sir!" said "manager."
"They do not need to be replaced, they're just low!" said irate man.
"Sir do not talk to me that way! I'm the manager!"
"I'll talk to you anyway I want and don't point your finger in my face!"
"Get out!"
"You touched my face! I'm calling the cops!"

You can guess how this episode ended. After the irate man was "managed," two police cars showed up, statements were taken, the irate man was banned from Wal Mart and "manager" stood outside smoking cigarettes and discussing his side of the story with other employees for about twenty minutes.

Again, if you're on a budget, as so many of us are these days, go to Wal Mart, not necessarily because they're prices are so low, but because it is the cheapest form of entertainment you will find and its unque cultural quality is unsurpassed.

Turds in a Circle

The other day, I was walking Maggie and Mandie on our daily route through the neighborhood. Now, people acquire dogs for a lot of reasons. They're man's best friend, a robber's worst enemy....I originally got my girls to fill some need to have something to love and care for. I never anticipated the comic relief they would give to me. As we walked down the street at our usual stop-and-go gait, Mandie paused for the fiftieth time. She sniffed the grass, pivoted a few times--- once left, twice right---and then curled her butt up underneath her until she resembled a hedgehog. This is the dance. The poop dance.

The problem is, my girls have doggie ADD. A good dump requires focus, meditation if you will. But at the slightest bark off in the distance, Maggie and Mandie are railing in a chaotic bark-at-the-wind style. "Where is it coming from?" They seem to say frantically. "I don't know but we must sound the alarms until we nail the sucker!" This is what took place in the middle of her crap, disrupting the ritual. Mandie continued to pooh but pivoted in a full circle as she did so, all while raising her head to the sky and barking out in protest of the mysterious culprit.

When she finished, she walked away from what resulted as a miniature turd Stonehenge. Staring at this sculpture in amazement, I found myself almost proud. I never have a camera when I need one! My dog is an artist! Mandie continued to bark in her broken record, medium tempo as she kicked back her legs, spraying Turdhenge with a grass storm. Meanwhile Maggie inspected Turdhenge, obviously for its authenticity, and then we moved on down the road.

When we got back to the house, Chris was making dinner. The girls raced into the house to check on his progress. He was making spaghetti. As the girls begged and danced around his feet, he reached into the pot and pulled out two wiggly noodles. He placed the sticky pasta in their hair on the sides of their heads.

Both of them furiously threw their heads to the side trying to grab the noodle dangling off their ears. And each time the noodle flung simultaneously in the same direction. Looking like two dogs with the same nervous tick, they persistently chased the noodle that swung towards their face and then away, just out of reach of their mouths. As we hollered in laughter at this ridiculous display, the two continued to chase their prey.

Eventually, Mandie, the one who would be thrilled to be fed 24 hours intravenously, got wise and decided to go after Maggie's noodle. She waited for it to swing toward her and then she snapped at it like a crocodile. Once she caught it, she began to tug at it, jerking Maggie's head to the side. By this time the noodle was wrapped up in Maggie's hair and it looked like Mandie might take her ear along with her noodle. Chris was on the floor. When Maggie got over the shock of what was happening to her head, she realized that this strategy was much more effective and she went after Mandie's noodle. The two of them were intertwined like two mating eagles, tugging and nibbling on each other's heads. They turned slowly, choreographing their moves so that each could get substantial bits of the furry pasta.

Finally, the episode was over and the noodles were sufficiently retreived from their heads. Chris and I filled our plates and went off to battle the ravenous beasts as we guarded our dinner. Art, dinner and a show all in one evening. Who knew we would be leading such rich lives?