an inexplicable urge to climb the water tower

Ok, I am going to admit something else. This whole IQ test business has really thrown me for a loop. I never remotely entertained the notion that I was of near-genius levels. But I did consider myself somewhat intelligent. Must I now face that I am not?

I thought the IQ test was a great idea. In fact, I believe that I was one of the first to proclaim, "HECK yea! Let's all take a test to measure our intelligence! And then lets compare the scores to see who is the smartest!! What fun!" and then I believe that I even said something to the effect of, "I will post my scores no matter what they are! YAY for IQ tests!"

HA!!!

That was before I knew that I had the intelligence of a blind garden rat. I assumed, incorrectly, when I proclaimed that I would post my scores no matter what, that my scores would be somewhere in the middle masses. I hoped for a 138, but would gladly settle for a 125. Or a 120. No big deal. I never remotely considered that I would have the lowest score posted. Or NOT posted as the case may be!!

This is the saddest part of the whole story. Brace yourself, and prepare to feel pity for me. I wanted to insure the best score possible, so I didn't take it Thursday afternoon with the rest of the group. I am not a good afternoon person. I attribute it to the blood sugar drop after lunch. I get restless and have a hard time concentrating. So I got up EARLY Friday morning, and drove to work 30 minutes before opening time. I sat leisurely at my desk, drank my morning frappe, and began. The office was quiet, and I had plenty of concentration time. I took the test under the best possible circumstances, and felt pretty good about my academic performance.

Then, a few minutes after completing the test, my little "You have new mail, would you like to read it?" banner popped up, I eagerly punched the "YES!" button. You bet your bippy I want to read it!! I have some posting to do!! When I excitedly clicked to open the "YOUR IQ TEST SCORE!!!" email, and saw the score that was there, I literally did the "double-take-eye-rub-look-closer" reaction that is so often used in the cartoons. Those numbers remained unchanged. "How can this be? Am I really this unintelligent? Why hasn't anyone informed me?"

Now, to my credit, there was a lot of math on the test. When it comes to math, I am of sub-level intelligence. I willingly and unabashedly admit that. I blame this on my mother. She used to tell me in grade school, "Just wait until you get to junior high, and start taking algebra. It's impossible. I never figured it out. And don't expect me to help you figure it out either." I think she set up some subconscious blocks in my head with her simple words so that, when the time came, and Mrs. Ratliff put that first equation on the board, "X + 1 = 3" ... my mind went on a hiatus until the next class. I completely could not grasp it. I failed Algebra that year. I failed Algebra the next year. The year after that, we moved to Seattle and I was weary of failing Algebra so I took Geometry. I made an "A".... both semesters. See, these were shapes, not letters, and my mom had never taken Geometry and therefore had set up no short circuits in my brain.

See, it is her fault!

To this day, if you present me with anything other than common math, or without a $ sign in front of the numbers, an odd thing happens. Within seconds, my eyes glaze over. Soon, my mouth goes slack. If you were able to hear inside my head, you would hear the Muzak version of St. Elmo's Fire. It's not merely an issue of not quite understanding... It is utter and complete uncomprehension. It's like you have suddenly tossed me into an aboriginal tribe meeting. And told me to figure out what they were saying, or be thrown into the volcano. It's just not going to happen. I can only hope that it is an inactive volcano.

So, I am not smart. Maybe the best I can hope for is a Forrest Gump-type existence, where simple phrases that escape from my mouth can be interpreted as deeply spiritual and meaningful by those of greater intelligence. I will become a mascot for the ages.

And thats all i got to say 'bout that.

Choices

Before I start, let me say that I am suffering a bit of stage fright here. Kind of like when I was 13, dancing and singing to Wham! All by myself in my bedroom. "Wake me UP (jump) before you go-go (shimmy), I ain't planning on going solo (shaking finger while shuffling back) Wake me UP (jump) before you go-go (shimmy) take me dancing tonight!! (weird shaking twisting move)..." You get the picture. I felt like Madonna, I was cool. Until I saw my mom standing in the door with a laundry basket with a huge grin on her face. Not only that, she had gone and gotten my DAD and he was guffawing. Yes, reeeeeallly funny!! (Luckily they had missed the opening act of Careless Whisper... I had learned some rad moves from MTV...) Once I knew that they had seen my show, it suddenly seemed dumb, and immature.

Now that I know there are some of you out there reading this, I am a bit nervous about writing. Every post I wrote prior seems a little... Weird. I went back and found spelling mistakes. and places where I left out words altogether... ahhh well. I will plunder on. Just let me know when I am getting stupid.

Today's topic is about breastfeeding. (HA!!) Seriously it is. (double HA!) But I am not going to be arguing points, or which is better or which is more accepted. I just have a few things that I want to explain about me and about my feelings. Trust me, I have no grandiose illusions that after reading this blog, breastfeeders and bottle feeders will wipe away tears of understanding, clasp hands and burst out into "I'd like to teach the world to sing". But maybe someone will say, "Huh. That's interesting." Most will probably say "Geez, she is weird." But that's ok. It's my blog and I can ramble if I want to.


The first time (and really the only time) I got into a heated thread on babycenter, it was the infamous "Non-Breastfeeders" thread. I was honestly stunned at how heated and mean the thread became. And I was right in the middle of it. Not because I feel passionately about formula, or passionately against breastfeeding. Just because I was stunned that people were attacking each other over it. I felt that I must defend my choice simply because people were so angrily against what I did. I have learned my lesson more or less.

What really suprises me about myself is how the topic still gets to me. I can't get my head around my feelings, and therefore can't really verbally express in a clear and concise manner WHY I feel the way I do. I can discuss nearly any other topic without difficulty. But say "I think its wrong that you didn't even TRY to breastfeed your poor child." and I turn into a cavewoman. "you mean. go way. i, me. you, you." I might even throw a rock at you. (figuratively speaking, of course.) *wink*

The first person I ever saw breastfeeding her baby was my aunt Cheryl. (I have found out since that my aunt breastfeed, but was always sent to the back room, so i never witnessed it) I was 9 years old, and my uncle had moved home from Houston, Texas with his new pregnant bride. The phone lines were burning up between my mom, her sister, (who would be my uncle's twin sister) and my grandmother. I paid no attention. I was FASCINATED by the new member of our family. She was gorgeous. Tall, pregnant, dark complexion with long black Farrah Fawcett hair. And besides all that, she was closer to my age than anyone else in the family. I followed her around like a shadow. I tried to force my curly locks into wings. I was enamored with her.

Fastforward a million years, and I am pregnant with my first baby. A little girl. From the beginning, I planned on breastfeeding. Which, believe it or not, had I succeeded, I would have been one of the first people I knew that did so. All my friends bottle fed. But I thought it was something I should do. The breast is best literature surrounded me. I look back now and think that no matter what words were coming out of my mouth, I never really committed to breastfeeding. I never bought a nursing bra, or a pump, or storage bags, or nipple cream. Maybe subconsciously I knew it was something I didn't want to do. But I wouldn't admit it.

My doctor induced me on a Friday morning at 4AM. I am very sensitive to any kind of drug. One tylenol PM and I am out for about 10 hours. Back in the Adipex days, half a pill would have me up for nearly 24. Pitocin threw me off a cliff. I was in utter agony. Nine months of watching A Baby Story did not prepare me for the body wrenching contractions that I was experiencing. On TV, pretty women would discuss quantum physics with their significant other until a contraction hit, and then would close their eyes, say "Oh.... That's strong one.... ahhh, ok..." and then continue the discussion where it left off. They would deliver without breaking a sweat, with three pushes, and still have lipstick on. I could not form complete sentences. When I would feel a contraction coming, I would moan tearfully "MARTY!!!!" that was his cue to start rubbing my back and hip with every bit of strength he had in his body, until he felt that he was going to break a bone. When the contraction was over, I would fall into a speechless stupor, terrified of when the next would hit.

To really explain the depths of my agony, I should tell this story. My brother was serving in the Marine Corp in Beaufort, SC. When he found out about my induction he had headed straight for Arkansas after he received clearance. (I went to the Dr on Thursday and he put me in that night. I was a week overdue, with zero dilation, and a firm cervix. They could tell that she was big, and didn't want to wait any longer.) My brother arrived mid morning, and I remember my mom saying "Open your eyes, someone is here to see you." I had not seen my brother in months. When I saw him standing there, I burst into hysterical sobs and began screaming "WHY ARE YOU HERE???" and clutching Marty. I thought they had called him to come because I was dying. That was the only thing that made sense to me, given the agony I was experiencing. In my mind, he had come to say goodbye.

I labored on and on. I had the LUCK of having two new nurses. I begged them to let me walk around. I think they pulled out a nursing manual and tried to decide what to do. They told me no. No walking. Stay in bed. The pain got worse and worse. Towards 4PM, I decided that I didn't care if I died. Marty talked to my Dr. When he came to check on me and told him that the nurses wouldn't let me walk. He was upset and talked to them and I received walking clearance. Forget it. I couldn't walk if my life depended on it. I stopped talking completely. I couldn't have an epidural because I was only dilated to a 3. Marty decided that something had to be done. He headed out to call our Lamaze teacher. We had both fallen in love with her during our classes. She took no shit, was very outspoken, and took care of her little mothers. He got to the elevator and there she was. Sent from God. He told her of our plight and she came right up to my room and kicked out all my family and the nurses and shut the door. She helped me get up, move around and got me to talking. She was there for two hours and when she left, I was dilated to an 8. (She did tell Marty that she had only seen contractions like mine a couple of times. There was no gradual up and down. Mine graphed out in big boxes. Straight up, straight across and straight down.) I never dilated further than an 8 1/2. My blood pressure started dropping at around 9, and Elizabeth's heart rate was all over the place. I ended up with a cesarean. I feel asleep while they were stapling me back up. I was exhausted and don't remember much of anything about that night.

The next morning, the post partum depression was already seeping in. The horrid labor and unexpected surgery had left me lethargic and tired. They brought Elizabeth to me first thing. I had not even really gotten to look at her. The lactation consultant brought her to me and said "Your baby is hungry." She came right around the bed and opened up my gown, tossed Elizabeth under my arm and started manipulating my breasts with her overly manicured hands. I swear her nails were the longest fake nails you can get. I tried to tell her that I could do it and she insisted that there was a right way and a wrong way and no matter what I thought, I had never breastfed before and I didn't know what I was doing. I started crying about halfway through and could not stop. Marty asked her to leave the room and she stomped out. When our nurse came in, he told her that we didn't want the lactation monster back in our room. I was still crying. It wasn't an hour later that my sweet, kind doctor showed up in his sweatshirt and jeans and dirty cowboy boots. One of the nurses had called him and told him of my distress and he came in on his day off and sat with me and talked to me about breastfeeding versus bottlefeeding. I won't go into what he said, because many would not agree and it's not my intent to start a debate. But he sat with us for over an hour. And when he left, he asked my nurse to bring me a bottle so that I could feed my daughter. And I finally got to hold her, and look at her, and feed her. And I began falling in love. And the next time she was hungry, I was asleep. And Marty got to hold her, and look at her, and feed her. And I never looked back, and never regretted that decision.

And when my due date came close with my son, Marty asked, "Are you going to try and breastfeed?" and I said "Actually, no. I don't think I am cut out for it."

I know many will be shaking their heads in disbelief. But I know in my heart that I did the right thing for MY family. It doesn't make Elizabeth or Colby love me any less. It doesn't make me a bad mother. What it all comes down to is making choices that are right for you. Why can't we all see that? Why do we have to attack and bring each other down?

In the choice between tennis shoes and heels, I chose tennis shoes. And I am pretty darn comfortable with that. And your heels are nice, too. Glad we both got our shoes on, because, with any luck, this is going to be a long, long journey with these precious children, and we are going to need them.

I am thankful.

I just feel like I need to say that. Before I knew my little fetus had a penis, I knew he was a girl. I just knew it. I told everyone that I was going to have 3 girls, no boys. I had the same caliber of morning sickness that I had with Elizabeth. I lost the same amount of weight (14 pounds) in the first 3 months as I did with her. I craved the same foods.

When we went for my ultrasound, Marty and Elizabeth crowded around me, expectant. I had convinced them I was carrying a girl too. Elizabeth and I had been calling my stomach "Shelby Francis" for 2 months. "Little Shelby is 3 inches long this week!!" I would show her the pictures in Your pregnancy week by week. "This is what Shelby looks like now!" I even bought her an outfit.

The ultrasound tech asked "Would you like to know what you are having?" She is the same woman who told me I was pregnant with a little girl 4 years before.
"Yes!!" We all say. "Well, if you will look right here, you will see your baby's little penis!"

MY DAUGHTER HAS A PENIS??? HOW MUCH DOES IT COST TO HAVE THAT TAKEN CARE OF???

I burst into tears. The tech thought it was tears of happiness. "Yes, yall are going to be such a cute little family!!" Marty knew I was mourning the death of my dream. No sisters sharing secrets in the night. No matching gap dresses for christmas. No ladybug nursery that I already had secretly started on. No pink walls. No saying "When my girls were little...." or "GIRLS!! You're going to be late!!"

On the way home, Marty says "Why don't we stop and buy our son something?" I start to cry again. I don't want to. But we stop at Walmart, and we look and look. Boys stuff. Cars. Dinosaurs. Monster Trucks. Spiderman. Spongefrickingbob. I felt sick. I finally decided on a fluffy blue blanket with a little elephant on it. I didn't know what else to buy. I know pink. I know flowers. I know butterflies. I know bows.

Obviously, I adjusted. When people would ask me what I was having, I would sigh and say "a boy." in a flat voice. I got better with time. And of course, the excitement towards the end got to me.

I went in for my scheduled c/s on a Monday morning. Terrified. Shaking. I go into surgery, Marty right beside me, rubbing my shoulder. The doctor is talking about the Triple Crown while he is carving me up like the turkey that I am. Everyone gets quiet after a few moments and I start to worry. What is going on down there? My doctor kind of chuckles, and says "We are having a little trouble... your baby is enormous." I hear the baby start to cry and I start to cry too. My whole stomach is vibrating with his cries. Finally, I feel the rush of fluid and the collapsing of my stomach. "Good Lord!! What a big boy yall have!!" my doctor laughs. He holds him up for me to see, and he is FAT.... and RED.... and PISSED. And beautiful. And all mine. I made that 10 pound, 5 ounce, boy with a penis.

Now I look at his little chubby face and feel shame for who i was. I love him more than i ever thought I could. He is a boy. He likes to wrestle and laugh and be tickled. He likes to dance, and fake sneeze for attention. He likes to pull out all the video tapes and stack them. He likes to swim, so much that he crawls out over his head and has to be rescued. He will splutter and cough - never cry - and then laugh, and head right back out to the deep water again. He eats everything he can get his hands on. Every single morning for breakfast he has a banana, a muffin and a huge bowl of oatmeal. He is slower than his sister was in reaching his milestones. He still isn't walking at nearly 15 months. But I don't care about milestones. I just care that he is in my family. That he is my son, Elizabeth's brother. My son. My daugher.

I have never covered him up with that blue fluffy blanket. Inside of that blanket are the remnants of a bratty woman who wasn't thankful for what she was given. In that blanket are sour threads of bitterness. It is woven with sadness, and guilt. But I keep it in the bottom of his blankey basket. To remind me that life isn't always what you plan. Sometimes its better than you could have ever imagined.

"KIDS!! You are going to be late!!!"

Sound beautiful, doesn't it? I can't wait to say it a million times.

blah, blah blah, enchiladas part deux

Subtitled "One of these days your kid is going to break your heart, too."

I mentioned that my little precious 5 year old has "fat" issues. I don't know where she got them and I don't know how to stop them. I am afraid I am going to be making trips to the eating disorder clinic in 6-10 years. Or sooner.

She doesn't eat. When she does eat, its junk. I try not to keep any junk in my house, but my husband is a junk food junkie. He actually hid a box of cupcakes a few months ago. On a Saturday, Elizabeth got up early and said she wanted to watch TV. I was still tired and the baby was still sleeping, so I told her she could and that I would get up in 45 minutes. When I got up, and got the baby settled, I asked her what she wanted for breakfast. "I already ate" she says. "What did you eat?" I asked. "Cupcakes." she replies.

I go look in the trash and there are SIX empty cupcake wrappers. But I have to beg her to eat anything good, anything healthy.

The point to this story is this: Last night we all went to my dads to get haircuts. (and a color for me... YAY!!!) After we got done, we decided to go eat at Chili's. I ordered chicken and mushroom fajitas, Marty got a steak, Colby got chicken, and Elizabeth ordered a corn dog. I told her that was fine, but that she needed a veggie and she ordered steamed broccoli. Well, the food comes and I am orgasmic over my fajitas. I love mushrooms. I could live on them. I eat two, really quickly because I am also chopping Colby's chicken, and helping Elizabeth with the ketchup and fixing the sippy cup, ... you know all of that parenting stuff. While Marty sits and leisurely eats a steak, chewing carefully, inhaling the sharp spices, and letting the sauce drip leisurely down his chin. Long, slow, swallow of beer. Another bite of steak... ahhhhhh.... to be a man.

Anyway. Elizabeth eats almost all of her corn dog and no broccoli and starts in on her standard mantra: "My stomach hurts. I am full." I know full well she has not eaten a thing since 11:00 and its after 8 at this point. I tell her she needs to eat some broccoli. "I can't!! My stomach hurts!!" Meanwhile, Colby has eaten THREE chicken strips, a bowl of cinnamon apples, two pieces of Elizabeth's broccoli and is stealing fries off of Marty's plate. Marty says "Elizabeth, look at your brother. He has eaten twice as much as you!! You need to eat, it's a long time until breakfast!" and she said...

"But daddy!!!!! Skinny people like me and you can't eat as much as chubby people like mom and Colby!! Our stomachs are just not big like theirs!!"

Goodbye, fajitas. You weren't so good after all, I guess. Or maybe its just this lump in my throat.