Motherhood Miracles

Heavy with child on Christmas Eve is a new experience for me. Both my older children were born just before Christmas. I never knew how much holiday maternity clothes suck. All I'll be missing are some bubble lights and a bit of tinsel. Ho ho ho.

I've also been thinking a bit about Mary, the mother of Jesus. Feeling the kicks and squirms of a baby about the same size as hers, I can't help but try to put myself in her shoes and imagine what she must have been thinking, fearing, expecting. Just as Mary was, I'm homeless, without modern prenatal care, searching for a safe place to birth my baby, and yet feeling very blessed.

Erma Bombeck once said, "If I had my life to live over, instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I’d have cherished every moment and realized the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.” I'm enjoying this last chance of being part of a miracle. It's hard, with my hips feeling like they've come undone and my breaths coming in shallow little puffs, but I'm trying to treasure every last second.

And I'm looking forward to giving birth in a way that God intended -- fully connected, body and soul, with the goddess within, the child my body will bring forth, with the universe and her many miracles... fully connected. And to be fully connected, one must divorce herself from intervention. That is my goal.

I know many think I'm crazy. I've heard it all from "You should do what's best for the baby," to "You need to take care of yourself." But what a lot of people don't understand is that I am doing what is best for the baby and I am taking care of myself.

And I have faith in the power of miracles.

Perhaps if more women had faith in themselves, in their bodies, in their babies, in a higher power, fewer doctors would be allowed to victimize women and children in our country. Then maybe, just maybe we'd all start seeing the miracle that each and every one of us truly is.

Here's a little something that I read online. It was written by Dr. Bob Braile, a chiropractor. I think it's funny and poignant. Please give it a read.

Have a blessed Christmas everyone.


The First Christmas

Nearly 2000 years ago the baby Jesus was born in a manger in Bethlehem. This blessed event would have been looked upon quite differently if seen from a medical perspective. Let us examine the so-called "modern" thinking about this event.

What a big risk our Heavenly Father took when He sent His Son to us in the way He did. First of all, the Virgin Mary was much to young to bear such an important child. Plus, no tests were performed to see if she was even capable of carrying the child full term. Also, Mary was not adequately prepared. She attended no birthing classes, did not practice her breathing, nor did she read up on the birth process.

It should also be noted that some safety procedures were ignored during this pregnancy. I mean, no blood tests were done, no obstetric examinations, no ultra sound, or even the listening and monitoring of the child's heart beat. And surely, for such an important baby, an amniocentesis should have been done! Not even the proper regime of vitamins was given to the mother for her nutrition. When you think about it, we're taking a major risk here.

And just think of the terrible conditions for the birth itself. Certainly the stable was not sterile. And with all those animals in the same room it's a wonder there wasn't a major infection. Not even simple clean sheets, or surgical masks for the three Wise Men were used. And I'm quite sure that Mary was not on the proper delivery table with her feet in the stirrups.

If that's not bad enough, common medical practice was ignored from this point on. Certainly an important woman like Mary should have been given some pain relievers or a spinal block to help ease her discomfort. Of course an episiotomy would have been called for to help out. I'll bet that a set of clamps weren't even available in case of need. Not to mention the lack of fetal monitoring equipment in case an emergency cesarean was required. I mean this whole procedure sounds like a nightmare.

From there on it still got worse. No surgical instruments to cut the cord, no silver nitrate for the baby's eyes, no fetal intensive care units, no alcohol rubs, no temperature control cubicles, no suction of the child's nose or throat, none of the modern safety precautions that should have been used.

The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced this entire procedure was a menace to the mother and child. Someone should be liable for mal-practice in a case like this. With the state of things as they were, I'll bet the child Jesus never even got His required vaccinations!
I don't know,... but if it were up to modern medicine, this should have been done much differently. God sure took a big chance.....

... or maybe we need to rethink the things we think are necessary and stop interfering with normal God-given miracles.

by Bob Braile, D.C.

Assholes of America

As we are no longer is Seoul, I am not able to continue with my Slice of Seoul series. I must move on. And seeing as I've only been back to this country a few weeks and have already run into many, many assholes, it seems fitting to start a new series entitled Assholes of American.

We runneth over with assholes here.

Don't get me wrong. I've been all over the world and trust me, there are assholes in every corner of the planet. Hell, Seoul is teeming with them. But the fortunes of living in another part of the world are the cultural and language barriers. Asshole behavior can be excused as cultural differences or ignored completely due to the inability to understand the assholes' asshole comments.

Not so when you are home.

My idea for the Assholes of America series was to take out my ever present digital camera and snap a picture of the asshole then post it here. I still intend to do so, but the biggest problem is that assholes tend to asshole and run. Juggling two kids (soon to be three) and all the required baggage that goes along with aforementioned kids doesn't make for easy photo shooting. I'm no paparazzi, let's put it that way. So when I can, I will take a photo. But at the very least, I will post here the best description of the asshole so you all can be on the lookout.

Perhaps if we out the assholes they will stop their assholing. It's worth a shot anyway.

My first post here is from an incident that happened last week. I have another from today that I will post tomorrow or so. But for now, let's start with last week, shall we?

My mom, the kids, and I walked into an overcrowded post office with a long, winding line to three working windows. After grabbing some shipping supplies and boxes, my mom and I packed up our loot and addressed it all. The kids were behaving as well as can be expected for a 5 year old and 3 year old in a cramped bureaucratic wasteland, but I knew they wouldn't last much longer.

I looked around at the line that had hardly moved, scanning past the cattle to slaughter and zoned in on a miracle of modern technology: The Self Checkout. No line. No wait. Just a machine and a friendly looking postal worker standing close by to assist me should I need assistance. It was like manna from heaven and I seized upon it.

I easily breezed through our packages, printing out postage for them all, until the very last box. It was a box that I needed to pay the post office for and the self service machine didn't give me that option. I asked the friendly looking post worker how I should pay for the box and he pointed me to that blasted, still standing line.

"You'll have to stand in line and pay at a window. Can't pay for packaging supplies here," he grumbled.

Is it any wonder then that people don't want to use these fucking machines?

Anyway, we stacked up our already stamped and ready to mail packages and get ourselves a place in line. At this point we'd been in the post office 20 minutes already. The kids were beginning to lose patience and quite honestly, who could blame them?

We'd been standing in line for about ten minutes when Roman began doing a wicked little dance that ended with his throwing himself down on the ground. It was all to impress a pretty little temptress of 4 years old who was standing directly in front of us. She wasn't to be wooed easily and he was giving this dance his all. I repeatedly told him to stop, but he was determined. There are times when disciplining a child can be more disruptive than the actual behavior you're trying to stop and this was case fast approaching. I backed off.

And then he threw himself down particularly hard and lost his balance in the process. He landed and slid into the feet of an older woman. He stood up and I made him apologize.

"Me sow-wee," he said with his head hung low.

"That's okay," said the nice lady.

Forgiven, he turned his attentions back to his crazy dance and the vixen tot his was bound to have as his own. Again, he threw himself down and again he lost his balance, this time bumping into the feet of a different older lady. And again, I made him apologize.

"Me sow-wee," said my baby boy.

"It's not okay and I'm not going to put up with it," said our inaugural Asshole of America -- a mousy brown haired woman of about 65 years of age with obvious gray roots, glasses on a chain around her neck, and approximately 5'6" and 135 lbs.

Of course, I didn't keep my mouth shut. I told her he had apologized and that she at 80 years old (age exaggerated to cut to her cold, cold heart) should be more forgiving of a 3 year old who is stuck in a post office line for over a half hour in the middle of the holiday season. I continued on and on for a good ten minutes about how horrible people treat each other and how there should be more kindness to one another, especially children. Others around me agreed. Asshole just stood there with a smirk on her face.

It was then that I realized I should start taking out my camera and exposing these people. She looked like a rather nice lady. Beware. She's lurking out there, ready to pounce. Another asshole in America.

Quote of the Day

"Me want a toy and a lipstick."

Roman's list for Santa as told to the very shocked jolly old elf in Woodfield today.

And hair is the LEAST of it

Things have been really crazy here in my life. Crazy crazy. Not good crazy. Not funny crazy. Not omigod-I've-got-to-blog-about-this-shit crazy. No, things have been pretty suck crazy. Call it pregnancy hormones. Call it homelessness. Call it 35 year old pregnant mother living in her gray haired parents' basement with her two kids and two dogs during the holiday (and birthday) season for the second year running. Call it whatever you will. But it ain't fun, it ain't funny, and it ain't really even blogable.

Plus, my hair looks like shit. And nothing does me in like bad hair.

I did have my hair done when I first got here. Two hundred bucks worth of done. Highlights, low lights, cut, blow out, the works. It looked good. For three days. Then it went to shit. You see, pregnancy turns my hair a very yucky shade of dark, dungy, dirty blonde. Hell, it almost looks black. So my stylist did my color and it looked good, if just a bit too light. And then my hair grew. And yes, pregnancy also makes my hair grow wicked fast. So in two weeks I have about a half inch of roots. Dark, dungy, dirty, almost black, blonde roots. I look like a reverse skunk. It's awful. My mom, somehow trying to make me feel better, I'm sure, commented that my hair almost looks gray now. Splendid.

We had Christmas pictures taken the day I got my hair done. They turned out nice, thankfully. And I had a few belly shots done, too. Here's one. Yes, my hair looks nice. But trust me when I say, my hair no longer looks like this.

Pregnancy... hell, MOTHERHOOD is not for the vain. I am indeed in the wrong business. Perhaps I should have been a Mary Kay girl instead.

That's all for now. I'm going to go rub vitamin E on my stretch marks, check on my hemorroid, put my striped hair in a scrunchy, don my galoshes, and waddle on over to Chuck E Cheese.