Like Mom and Michael Moore

On Sunday I was given a another Mom's Day (lucky me). I took a nice long bath, shaved my legs, put on some nice clothes and make up then went to a showing of Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 9/11. In a word it was wickedly entertaining. Okay. So that was two words. Are you really counting?

As one might predict, I will leave the tales of housewifery for another day and indulge myself and perhaps a few readers in the ramblings of a former politico. After all, I have been a liberal a lot longer than I have been a mom, and I've been politically minded longer than I have been a liberal. It's in the blood.

After 12 years of Clinton bashing conservatives shouting over everyone about murder conspiracies and sex scandals, I am, of course, thrilled to see a film that puts them on the defense. I've listened to enough Rush Limbaugh, Oliver North, and Bill O'Reilly to tell you that they had it coming. Oh, they so had it coming.

To actually lump Michael Moore and his film in with these neocon clowns would be a drastic mischaracterization. Fahrenheit 9/11 is a far, far cry from the Clinton Chronicles. One could label it as left wing spin, but it certainly isn't filled with misleading information, outright lies, and preposterous conspiracy theories like the garbage that came from the right during the 90s (and still continues to this day).

Why is it that we now have a cable news channel dedicated to broadcasting right wing propaganda all day long (Fox News) and that doesn't sound any federal election violation alarm bells. But when a movie is made unveiling the buffoonish nature of our commander in chief, suddenly the FEC is called in to rule on whether the ads for the movie are in some way campaign ads. It's because they are scared.

The fact is that Moore is brilliant as an entertainer. He creates some hilarious bits throughout the movie (like reading the Patriot Act to Congress from an ice cream truck), edits sound bites down to snippets, and verbally ambushes people to catch them off guard. And yet, the truth is there in plain light for us all to see.

The truth is that the president did sit in that classroom for 7 full minutes after hearing the words "America is under attack." It really doesn't matter how Moore edited those 7 minutes or what he voiced over the footage. Watching Bush sit there reading "My Pet Goat" is enough for any halfwit to figure out that the leader of the free world was completely clueless as to what to do next.

Moore's sneak attack on Congressmen asking them to enlist their children in the Army is high comedy. Seeing these wealthy elitists repulse the very thought of it is, for this military wife, giggle inducing. Is it fair that Moore does this? Perhaps not. But is it fair that of all the Congressmen on th Hill only one has a child serving in Iraq? Is it fair that the poor are expected to go out and fight wars that make the rich richer?

And what about Lila Lipscomb of Michael Moore's hometown, Flint, Michigan who's son died in Iraq. Is her pain any less real because Moore edited it into his film? Because he showcased her and her family's loss is it somehow plastic grief? No, it's real pain. Something that the Bush administration doesn't want the voters here to be reminded of. It is no wonder we don't see pictures of flag draped coffins or grieving widows held up by uncomfortable sargeants bearing grave news. It's horribly easy to forget what's going on if we aren't bombarded with it every day.

This country is becoming more and more divided. But don't blame Michael Moore or his movies. Look at people like Ann Coulter whose books are not meant to entertain but to misinform. Look at a president who jokingly refers to "his [political] base" as "the haves and the have mores." Or to a news network who doesn't even make an attempt at unbiased coverage.

Anyway, go see the movie. Enjoy it. Take it in as you would an op/ed piece in the Sunday paper. Glean from it some useful information, laugh at its brilliant humor, and cry at the heartbreak of a nation led into an unjust war by an undemocratically elected president in well over his head.

And if you still vote for Bush this November, I've got a beach here in Hawaii I'd like to sell you.

From the Mouth (and Arse) of Babes

We're in the midst of a mega family invasion. My parents brought my neice here as her eighth grade graduation gift and my dad's cousin, her husband, and their three children are also here on our island paradise from Altoona, Pennsylvania.

Things are hectic, but fun and full of love. Since I don't live near any family, I am always moved by the love I am enveloped in when they come to see us. It's a warm and fuzzy, cozy kind of thing to see my children cared for by family they hardly know and rarely see. Love truly is a wonderful thing.

On Father's Day we attended mass at Hickam Air Force Base. During a quiet lull, my daughter who was sitting on my dad's lap, announces, "Pap's got dirty ears. He didn't take a bath. Him's dirty. He needs to take a bath!" My poor dad heard all the people behind him tittering as the priest began to pray.

We later tried to explain to her that Pap indeed did take a bath and that his ears were not in fact dirty. That what she thought was dirt was really hair. But she didn't buy it. "No. No hair in ears. Them's dirty!"

It would seem that my poor dad is the target of her comedic lashings. She later announced, "Pap's got no muscles. He needs to get some muscles." And when asked why he has no muscles, she replied matter of factly, "Cuz he's got diarrhea in his pants!" Oh, yes. I see clearly, now, thank you.

Family bonding. Insults and potty talk. What could be more binding? How 'bout a baptism with baby poop?

Roman had a total baby poop blow out, landing some of his excrement on his 12 year old cousin Katelyn and her mom, Lauri. All three of them had poop everywhere. Roman had it all the way up to his neck. Katie had it on her swimming suit. Lauri was still finding baby poop on her clothes and hands hours later, despite a good nurse's scrubbing (she's a NICU nurse) in hot soapy water.

It's a good family trip. We're all feeling the love. And who wouldn't with words and poop like that?

Keep Faith, Little One

Tonight, before saying night time prayers, Reilly Kate and I lit up a guardian angel candle that I'd bought Roman for his christening. We had some extra special prayers to send up tonight, so the candle was important. And Reilly was very impressed.

Immediately, once it was lit, she began singing Happy Birthday. In her years of experience (2 years to be exact), candles are lit when birthdays are celebrated. No matter I had been telling her that we would light the candle to give our prayers that little added something. She still thought "Birthday."

I stopped her and then said, "Ni-Night prayers, Baby. Let's start..."

The she clasped her hands together and put her chin to her fingers and began:

"Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
Angels watch me through the night
And wake me with the morning light."

As always, she closed with:

"God bless GG. Make her well. Amen."

Then I told her we had to say some additional prayers for GG since she is really not feeling very well. For those that don't know, "GG" is my Grandma Mallow ("GG" stands for "Great Grandma"). And GG is quite ill with a diagnosis of Myelodysplastic Syndrome heading into leukemia. She's been in the hospital for a week and we will find out tomorrow whether she'll be able to go home and continue with her current medicinal regiment or whether she'll be staying in the hospital for a month long mega-chemo session.

When I talked to her today, her sole request was to "keep those prayer wheels spinning." So as promised, here I knelt with my young child in front of a burning candle, rusty on prayer, rustier on faith, and feeling a bit awkward.

"Please, God, help GG feel better," I prayed and prodded. "Reilly, would you like to pray for GG, too?"

"God bless GG. Make her well," was her response, eyes wide and focused on the candle's flame, looking a little unsure.

"Yes, make her well. We love her and want her around for boat rides and golfing, buttons and the chicken dance, vacations to the far East and Ireland and snorkeling, gardening and quilting, floating in the lake..." my mind drifted off and I paused for a moment to choke back all the things still left to do with my daughter and her GG.

"God bless GG. Make her well," she repeated with familiarity and uncertainty. She saw my eyes welling up with tears. This certainly was not our usual night time prayers.

I took a deep breath, then, and searched for words to explain to Reilly Kate that we had one more important prayer to add. My friend Tami had just attended a memorial service in a labor and delivery room. A baby boy whose family attends Tami's church was born still. He never saw the world, the bright lights, the vivid colors. He never took a breath. He never cried. Or laughed. He never would look up at his Mama with a milky smile and a poopy diaper. He would never grow to be a man.

How do you tell that to a young child?

"We need to pray for Baby Louie, Reilly Kate. Baby Louie had to go to heaven to be with God and his mama and daddy and sisters are very sad because they miss him," I explained.

"Uh huh. Them's sad." Reilly Kate, hands still clasped in prayer, nodded.

"Yes, they are. But we need to pray that their sadness goes away because baby Louie is in a good place with God. Even though they will always miss him, we pray that their sadness goes away." I felt like I was fumbling. Not sure what to pray for or how to relate it to a child as young and tender as Reilly.

"Uh huh. Them's sad."

I had her then bless herself and blow out the candle. I thought she would be excited about blowing out the candle, but she remained somber and quiet.

As she hopped into bed, she looked at me and with a huge smile asked, "GG feel better now, Mama?"

"Oh, I don't know, Reilly Kate. I hope so. But I'm not sure."

"Yeah. Yeah, she feels better. She feels better." She responded with a confidence that one could only describe as faith. Pure and untarnished faith. A faith I haven't seen or felt in a long, long time.

"And Baby Louie," she added, "He's with Jesus now. His Mama Daddy not sad anymore. He's with Jesus. Them's happy."

With her faith wrapped warmly around her, she cuddled her dolly and snuggled down into her bed. In minutes she was peacefully asleep. To her, all is right with the world.

And really it is.

Driving me Batty

I hate bad drivers. Before I had kids, bad drivers only irritated me, eliciting a string of profanity the likes of which would make a rapper blush. Now that I travel with my most precious cargo every single day, I hate them. And I mean "hate" with all that goes with the word. Not as in "I hate swiss cheese" or "I hate my hair." I mean "hate" as in I wish a pox upon their house.

Do you realize that every car passing you on the road, or traveling along side you, or behind you, even if for just a split second, has your life in their hands? I cannot help but think of that. I cannot even see their face, but I appreciate them driving responsibly so that my children can see another day.

When I was a teen, I used to make fun of those stupid "Baby on Board" signs that were so popular with parents in the 80s. What the hell is that supposed to mean? I wondered. Should I actually be more careful around that car than I normally would?

Ummmm... HELL FUCKING YEAH! There's a BABY in the car!!!

Kids just don't get it. I wasn't paying any attention when I was driving. I was too busy checking the mirror to see if my AquaNet was withstanding the wind from my open window. Or wondering which of my Swatches had the correct time while cranking up my Beastie Boys tape. Or spritzing myself with Giorgio perfume despite the lit cigarette hanging from my mouth.

I'm sick of the drag racing. I'm sick of seeing cars with kids in control, driving out of control, at 90 or 100 miles an hour. Fuck the Fast and the Furious. I'm FAT and I'm FURIOUS and I'd like to kick some puny little teenage ass every time I'm forced to plead to GOD to spare my family from a fiery death.

The fact is the legal minimum driving age should be raised to 18, with an automatic suspension till 21 for anyone getting a moving violation. Even for just 5 miles over the speed limit. End of story.

And while we're on the topic of age, let's talk about the living dead out there behind the wheel. With all due respect for the elderly, they should not be driving. How many times have you been stuck behind a Cadillac the size of a Hummer doing 25 in a 55? Or been cut off by a tiny ancient barely peeking over the steering wheel? If they cannot read the menu at Denny's because they forgot their reading glasses at home, they shouldn't be driving to the Denny's in the first place.

Look, they raised their children in a much safer, more secure world than I'm raising mine. Their grandparents weren't out careening through the neighborhood while their kids were riding bikes. They should relinquish their license with dignity rather than have it forcibly taken from them after they mixed up the brake and the gas pedals.

Make the maximum age limit for driving 75 and give them all free bus passes. Especially before those baby boomers all hit the road in their 80s. I dread the thought of my parents cruising in a convertible with the Beach Boys blaring, unable to see the signs or the road or even the speedometer.

The worst offenders, however, are those that drive drunk. Many of us have done it. I did it once and will never, ever do it again. I only drove less than a mile away but it was the scariest thing I've ever done. No control whatsoever. No matter how hard I tried to stay within my lane, I swerved. And I wasn't even that drunk.

A couple of months ago, we took Reilly Kate and Roman to the zoo down in Waikiki. As we were walking back to our car, a drunken man walked by. He was so inebriated that he could not walk. He fell down, stumbled on the grass, and criss crossed his feet as he went. Mike and I said it was a good thing he was walking and not driving, but then we saw him reach into his pocket and retrieve his keys. I was in such a state of rage I had to stop myself from stomping my hooves and charging him with the full force of my weight. The only thing that really did stop me was Mike. He kept insisting that there was no way a man that drunk would actually pull out and drive. But then he did. Drunk man started his car, pulled it out of its parking space, and drove off.

I called the cops with his license plate number and the direction he was heading. They didn't find him. Of course, they didn't. I doubt they even put much effort into finding him. You know if I hadn't put the full buck-25 into the meter, I'd be sitting on a ticket. But the drunk, he drives home to sleep it off, free and clear.

People who drink and drive should be punished. And the punishment should fit the crime. It should be so stiff that no one would ever consider it. The police officers should be more concerned about drunk drivers than prostitutes and johns. Whores and the middle aged, fat, bald men that enjoy them are amusing. Drunks and cars are lethal.

Everyone wants to get rich quick, right? But very few people rob banks. Wanna know why? Because you go to jail for a very long time if you rob a bank. There isn't this, "Oh, it's a first offense" crap. You go to PRISON for even just TRYING to take a bank's money. So why the excuses for drunk drivers? Why are they allowed to go and do it again and again? Why is robbing a bank a bigger crime than driving drunk, I ask you?

This is what I propose: First offense, you lose your license for 5 full years automatically. Second offense, you go to jail for 5 full years, no parole. And the third time you get caught drunk behind the wheel of a car you go to jail for the rest of your natural life.

So that's my rant. Driving. The young. The old. The drunk. I've been young and drunk. I plan on being old and drunk. And I plan on robbing a bank to pay for my chauffeur driven Lincoln Continental.

Motherhood is Fattening

There is little doubt, in my mind at least, that motherhood is fattening. And as far as I know, there is no low carb version. I was never really fat until becoming a mother. Sure, I had had an encounter or two (more like 23) with unfriendly scales before, but it took motherhood to get me my membership in the Obesity Club.

It all started when I got that plus sign on the pregnancy test. I was so excited that I simply had to celebrate with my two best buds: Ben & Jerry. I didn't toast with champagne, instead I ate two pints of Chunky Monkey with a Chubby Hubby chaser. Afterall, I did need to increase my calcium intake. Strong bones and teeth and all that.

I quit smoking cold turkey so I also quit running. The way I saw it, if I was no longer slowly poisoning my cardiovascular system with tobacco, then there was no need for me to kill myself on a treadmill. I was even steven. Besides, pregnancy has it's own aches and pains. Why add to it with all that needless exercise?

When the queasiness of morning sickness popped in on me, I treated it to a full on banquet. I stuffed everything in my mouth. Nothing was too heavy or greasy for this sufferer. Most people when sick to their stomach refuse to eat or they eat lightly. No, not me. When sick, I must eat, and eat good food. I once spent the night in the ER hooked up to IV fluids since I couldn't keep even water down. When discharged, I went home and demanded my mom order me a pizza.

"No," she said incredulously. "You can have some broth and saltines."

I negociated my way up to a package of ramen noodles to which I added some ham and two slices of cheese when she wasn't looking. I also grabbed several Pop Tarts, a box of Little Debbie brownies, and some Cheezits for dessert. Hey, I was sick! I needed to feel better and some shitty hot water bullion and crackers made of dried paste just wasn't going to cut it.

It didn't cut it when I was a kid with the stomach flu and it didn't cut it when I was (almost) a mom and miserable from the HCG poisoning my body suffered from for the first 13 weeks of pregnancy. I basically ate nonstop right through the first trimester.

Oh, and forget diet pop. No way was I going to expose my precious unborn child to potentially harmful chemicals. Instead, I drank so much high fructose corn syrup that my pancreas went into shock I and developed Gestational Diabetes. No surprise then, that precious babe was born so fat that she didn't need to gain any weight for 6 full weeks.

I gained 10lbs every month. Month after month, for nine full months. You do that math. I was so big that when my friend Holly came to visit us, her husband Ron took one look at me and said, "Well, I guess we don't have to go anywhere for whale watching."

When I went home for my baby shower, my great, great, great aunt Doris (thin as a rail since she never had children) greeted everyone as they walked in the door with, "Look out! She's as big as a house!" whispered as loud as a lion's roar. She later embraced me in a fragile hug and said, "Don't worry, honey. That weight'll come right off. I've seen 'em all blow up like you. Well, maybe not that big. But they lost the weight. You will, too."

And that's where they get you. Everyone tells you that the weight will just "melt right off" after the baby is born. Especially if you are breastfeeding. Weightloss is touted as one of the magic benefits to breastfeeding by that lying Le Leche League. Yeah, right. And my tits are the size of mosquito bites and produce White Russians after 9pm.

The truth is that a nursing mother's body holds on to fat "like a bulldog to a bone," as my friend Michelle puts it. You could eat nothing but lettuce and egg whites, exercise like an Olympic athlete in training, and pump yourself up on caffeine. The only results you'll see is stomach upset, shin splints, and a cranky baby that only sleeps 10 minutes at a time due to the caffe latte coming from your udders.


It's some kind of evolved protection mechanism, to safeguard against famine. Fat is like money in the bank and I got lots of twinkie investments stored up on my ass just in case the locusts descend upon Safeway. My offspring and I could live off the interest of Doritos and Cherry Garcia for six complete months. I guess I can take pride that in a "survival of the fittest" world, I would beat out Deborah Messing or Gwyneth Paltrow. They and their offspring would shrivel and turn to dust since they didn't bank their food. Silly ninnies.

There are those who encourage mothers to embrace and celebrate their new, softer, rounder bodies. I will admit that if I were my child I would love that saggy piece of flesh that once was my abdomen. It's so soft it's almost fluffy and makes the perfect pillow for watching Dora the Explorer.

I, however, am less than pleased. I am not a pillow, I am a person. I may be a mother, but I am also a woman who wants to be attractive. I am human and I seek approval from society. I need to be a normal weight. I need to be a normal size again.

The time has come to buckle down. All this extra baggage around my middle is only going to come off one way and it will be a hard road to success. I know if I just stay the course, be persistent, unrelenting, and determined, I can achieve my dream. Our dream. The Fat Mamas' Dream. We overweight mothers need to band together and work toward one goal: Government Funded Plastic Surgery!!!

Ha. You thought I was going to say "lose weight." Like I said, that ain't happening. Been there. Done that. Got the stretchmarks. That weight isn't going to just melt off. As long as I'm still nursing, the only thing that is melting around here is my Ben & Jerry's Half Baked. I need to learn to eat quicker.

Getting Back on the Bike

Ya know, when one person in the house is sick or in some way incapacitated (such as Mike with this back thing), it throws everything off in the household. It is like getting lost in your own neighborhood and you're not sure where the map is. That's how I feel, at least. Laundry piles up, dishes sit in the sink, and the kids are restless.

But we're plugging along. Mike's back is still pretty bad and he's losing patience with it. I feel for him. I do.

Reilly Kate is... well... Reilly Kate. Her newest bizarre thing is slapping my stomach and saying, "Fat belly. Fat belly. Fat belly." I guess that is supposed to be motivating. I downed three pints of Ben and Jerry's this weekend, though, so I'm not sure how effective she's really being.

She's started learning to steer her tricycle which is a huge relief to me. I was starting to think she'd be 27 and still on training wheels, crashing into garbage cans while singing Twinkle Twinkle and wondering why the bike doesn't steer itself.

Roman is just about ready to crawl. He's on the cusp of it. He's mobile now with his scooting and rolling. But the crawling is just a couple weeks off. It seems he was slow to start, but he's exploded in development all of a sudden.

I'm convinced he is going to be painfully shy. Today when faced with a baby girl a couple days older, he responded to her infant wails of joy with true, fearful tears. He just cried and cried. After comforting him, I sat him back up near her and he put his head down to his toes and cried some more. Poor thing. Girls scare him. Of course they do. Look at his sister. I'd be scared too if she was the only girl I'd ever experienced.

Anyway, like I said. It's hard to get back into the swing. Hopefully, we will soon and I'll be back to regular posting on this here blog. Oh, I might have made a new friend this weekend. Stay tuned for that story. It's a good one.

All I want for Christmas is a Body Cast

I've come to the realization that in order for me to get a proper vacation (that is one that includes actual rest and relaxation) I will need a full body cast.

How I plan on acquiring said cast is still in the works, but I'm thinking that a Christmas ski trip might be my answer. I'll have to jump off the ski lift, of course. And it'll have to be on the first trip up the mountain. If I wait at all, I run the risk of Mike somehow legitimately injuring himself while skiing, blowing all chances of any relaxation for myself.

With my luck, however, the doctor will crook my arms for baby holding, leave my hands free so I can wipe snotty noses and poopy behinds, and cast around my nipples so the baby can still nurse. Mike would have to cook meaning we'd be eating grilled meat and over nuked tv dinners. Reilly Kate would use me as a jungle gym and Roman would get slobber deep into my cast. The laundry would pile up so high that I wouldn't be able to see the television and I'd probably gain 20 pounds.

On second thought, I think I'll just shave my head and join the Hare Krishnas.