- Moving Forward, Looking Back -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Band of Mothers -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Beginning Again -- Regina Walker
- Resurrection, Part 2 -- Regina Walker
- It's Like Angry Sex...Only, Tastes Better -- Elizabeth Thompson
- In Search of a Second Opinion -- Stacey Greenberg
NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2005
Moving Forward, Looking Back
In the Summer of 2002, after having spent a year writing about my personal adventures in motherhood, I had accumulated a dozen or so essays in my portfolio, and was frustrated. Not with the writing process, put with the submission process. I guess I thought national parenting magazines were going to read my essays, recognize my genuis (lol) and immediately offer me my own column.
When that didn't happen, I began submitting to smaller regional markets and online publications. I experienced moderate success, and my essays were posted here and there. I soon realized that smaller niche markets online suited my writing style. After all, I didn't want to write happy-sappy 1000 word tributes to motherhood with neat and tidy endings. I was writing about the joyous, and not-so-joyous, moments of mothering. I wanted to write THE TRUTH.
Not seeing the truth out there, I did what any creatively-frustrated woman would do -- I decided to take things into my own hands. In the Fall of 2002, I launched a webzine called The Philosophical Mother.
I had given birth twice. How hard could self-publishing be? Once upon a time, I had worked in public relations, so I knew to design newsletters for non-profit organizations. Why not design one for myself? I also knew I could take advantaged of new technology which allowed almost anyone to create online magazines, with virtually no start-up costs. While I had never created a website before, my experience in desktop publishing allowed me to get the hang of page design fairly quickly.
The response to my new baby, The Philosophical Mother, was neither immediate nor grand. Nobody was knocking down my doors to read my words. And I learned a quick lesson about the Internet -- You can build it, but that doesn't mean they're going to come.
There are thousands and thousands of websites out there. Sites with the best placement on search engines get the most hits. It takes money for advertising and marketing, if you really want to be make a big splash. Word of mouth helps, but they have to know you're out there, in order to talk about you.
I tried not to let this get me down. I told myself that if nothing else, the webzine was a good way for me to showcase my own writing. It forced me to write on a regular schedule, and allowed me to create an easily accessible online portfolio of my work. It gave me something to focus on besides laundry, shopping, and caretaking. And it fed my creative soul.
Still, as I began posting to the site, I felt as if I were stranded on a deserted island, cut off from the rest of the world. I was unsure if anyone would ever get my "message in a bottle." I held my breath and waited for a response.
In January of 2003, I returned from vacation and found my inbox full with submissions from other mothers. My call for submissions had run in Poets and Writers Magazine over the holidays, and apparently a lot of people had seen it. I had a response from the outside world. Perhaps, I was on to something. Perhaps other mothers were dying to talk about the same things I was dying to talk about.
They had received my message in a bottle, and sent back their own. Contact had been made. There was no turning back.
Over the next three years, I continued to receive submissions from all over the place. Several wonderful writers became regular contributing columnists, and together we posted a monthly webzine for mothers (and fathers) who who wanted to share their honest (sometimes brutally honest) tales of parenting.
Looking back, I am proud of my little webzine that started in the imagination of one woman but expanded to touch the lives of thousands of others. There are over 300 essays in our archives. And sometimes, I go back and read through them just to reconnect with the place and time that these essays represent.
I moved on from The Philosophical Mother in December 2005. My filmmaking and screenwriting began to fulfill my creative energies. Plus, I no longer felt comfortable sharing my children's stories as they aged, and became aware of what Mommy was writing about them online for strangers to read.
Still, the stories I shared, as well as the stories of others, remain here in our archives. They are here so that others may enjoy. They are here so that others may understand. Motherhood can seem lonely and isolating at times. But we are all connected. We are not alone. We struggle, but we get through it.
I survived, and so will you. Our stories bear witness to it all.
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Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Band of Mothers
When I was young and single, I wasn’t anything like the women in Sex and the City. My girlfriends and I never sat around over lunch discussing every intimate detail of our sex lives. In reality, us girls talked, but with more modesty and vagueness.
And if any of us were having sexual problems, I never knew it. We just assumed everything was fine and dandy down there. We barely felt comfortable discussing our private parts with our highly-selected gynecologists, let alone our best friends.
However, all that discomfort with my body went out the door once I became a mother. Suddenly, I found myself sharing a common bond with thousands of strangers simply because we had crossed the threshold into motherhood.
I discovered that veteran moms can share “war stories” that are explicit enough to shock those seemingly unshockable chicks from Sex in the City.
After becoming a new mother, it amazed me how many times I found myself sitting in a fast food restaurant sharing the most intimate details of my life with other mothers, while at the same time doling out happy meal prizes. We easily conversed about episiotomies, hemorrhoids, engorged breasts, bowel movements, and other unmentionables as if we were discussing the weather.Usually, we discovered that while our birthing experiences were similar, they were also each unique and special too. Thus, we found ourselves in a secret sisterhood – bound together by something so enormous that before we had children, even we could not comprehend it.
We were survivors of war. And we had the C-section scars to prove it.
MOMMY BOOT CAMP
Pregnancy, as I see it, is sort of the motherhood Boot Camp. For nine months, future mommies are put through grueling physical tests and hazing rituals. Eventually, this madness culminates in our entry into the sisterhood of Mothers.
The humiliation in Boot Camp is great, starting with the monthly weigh-ins at the
This Boot Camp experience is about toughening us up as mommy soldiers for the real battle ahead: Parenthood.
For as grueling as pregnancy and labor are, parenthood includes the daily skirmishes of “The Toddler Wars” and “The Teenage Rebellion.” Therefore, we are put through rigorous drills for nine to tens months in preparation for what lies ahead.
Motherhood, it seems, is not for the weak in body or spirit.
THE BLOODY BATTLE
As if Boot Camp is not hellish enough, the real terror lies in the fact that all of us mommies-to-be know that the only way to become mothers is to live through the greatest trial of our life: THE BLOODY BATTLE aka LABOR AND DELIVERY.
During the labor, we often languish for hours in intense pain, terrified that we (or our precious cargo) will perish during the battle. However, we push on and brace ourselves for the onslaught.
If we are lucky, Boot Camp has prepared us well. And if we are really, really lucky, the baby will conveniently pop out with one or two pushes and we won’t feel a thing.
Not all labor is "flesh-and-blood" bloody, but more metaphorically bloody. For adoptive mothers, The Bloody Battle of labor, tied up in paperwork and bureaucracy, can lasts for months, instead of days.
I find that after emerging victoriously after the Bloody Battle, most mothers immediately begin the process of selective amnesia. We look down at the perfect baby in our arms and forget most of the worst parts of the entire bloody experience. Later on, when others ask about our labor or adoption experiences, most of us will not share the truly gruesome horrors.
Giving life is painful, difficult, and terrifying. However, most of us forget this and willingly sign up for second, third, or even more Tours of Duty.
Many of us are even good at recruiting future moms. Yet, there are times when recruitment gets tricky. While most civilians (i.e. non-moms) do not want to know intimate labor stories, every once in a while you get an expectant mom who demands to hear every detail, so that she can be prepared. My first thought is to scream back at the naive mommy-to-be like Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men – “You can’t handle the truth!”
Instead, rather than destroy the future-mommy’s bliss, I answer, “To be honest . . . it’s really hard. The hardest thing I ever had to do.”
If her face goes blank and I fear she will faint, I quickly add, “But yours might not be. Besides see what you get when it’s done.” At which point I then gesture lovingly toward my own precious offspring.
POST TRAUMATIC STRESS SYNDROME:
Like all wars, returning to civilain life after labor isn't easy at all. Most new mothers are shocked to realize that not only do we no longer fit into our old clothes -- we also don't quite fit into our old lives.
We return home in a daze, with uncertainty and fear about our new roles. To add to the uneasiness, many new moms discover that instead of feeling blissful, we feel overwhelmed, exhausted, and depressed. Post-partum blues happen to the very best of us. These feelings are intense, and especially disturbing because they come at a time which is supposed to be joyful.
But these feelings are quite normal, caused by wicked hormonal fluctuations, coupled with sleep deprivation, and round-the-clock caretaking.
The goods news is that this initial shock eventually goes away, just in time to go back into battle and have another baby.
WAR STORIES:
The fact is that motherhood, like war, changes a person’s life forever. And it also affects the way a woman thinks and feels about her body.
It is very difficult to be modest after having gone through labor and have had dozens of strangers peek and poke at your private regions. It’s impossible to be bashful when your body has been ripped apart and put back together again. It’s ridiculous not to talk explicitly when so much of who you are seems to be directly tied to your sexuality and physicality as a woman.
As mothers, we each possess a distinct and amazing “war story” to share. We’ve been to hell and back and we’ve lived to tell about it. The victories are mostly sweet and beautiful, but sometimes marred by sadness or unspeakable tragedy. Either way they are ours. And we WILL NOT FORGET.
For there are many stinging defeats scattered along the path to glorious motherhood. We want and need to share these experiences. Mostly, we are ecstatic to find instant camaraderie with strangers who share a common language and understanding of the universe simply because they are mothers, like us.
Motherhood is the ultimate hero’s journey. We begin this journey, like all heroes, with reluctance, and an unwillingness to change. We slowly overcome our reluctance and begin preparing for big changes. Then we are put through a series of physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual tests.
Labor, of course, is our ultimate task – the threshold we must cross in order to complete our journey. It is also the point of no return and the moment in which each of us confronts our greatest fears, and our own possible death. Each mother completes her heroic journey transformed and reborn by the experience, and rewarded with the gift of her baby’s life.
As a mother, I am amazed not only by myself, but by all the other women who have come before and will come after me. Despite the risks and dangers, we do not flinch from our destinies. And while history may never acknowledge women’s sacrifices or accomplishments as mothers, I know that there is tremendous strength and valor in each and every ordinary woman who enters the battlefield of motherhood.
We will probably never get a "Mommy Veteran's Day" parade or a Mommy Memorial to commemorate our heroic accomplishments. So we'll celebrate our deeds in our own way. We will continue to pass each other in the park, and nod in silent recognition. And when we get together, we will talk, and talk, and talk about our experiences -- blood, and guts, and all.
Sure, real war may be the bonding experience that makes all men brothers, but motherhood is that which makes all women sisters.
Beginning Again
“To risk nothing is to take the greatest risk of all.”To paraphrase Albert Einstein, I have been practicing my own brand of insanity by continuing to do the same thing over and over again and hoping to achieve different results. It has taken turning 41 years old and experiencing an existential loneliness that defies a description comprised of merely words to awaken me to the pattern I have lived a life in.
I am pessimistic by nature though I often disguise myself as a realist. I had always thought my inherent pessimism and avoidant personality shielded me from rejection or profound hurt. Then I had children. Though I remained a pessimist, my heart no longer solely resided within me; protected behind walls and within armor. Instead, it wandered around me in no particular pattern while embodied in two little boys who do not wear armor and who have a penchant for bridges.
At first, I ran behind them with my invisible net at which they would laugh and shriek and then run away faster. So I began to change -- to shift -- to become someone else. I have not so much allowed myself to be hurt but something was born within me when my sons came into being. Part of me awoke and I began to yearn for connection.
But connection has never been my forte so I am not very good at it. I have reached out over the last few years; awkwardly and cautiously and gotten hurt. I feel emotionally like a much younger person. Rejection stings at any age but it seems somewhat more intense now. I realize too that I am mourning the loss of that which I have never allowed myself to have which makes the pain even more poignant.
I have come to truly believe and accept that when one door closes at least one other opens. But I have spent so much time and energy in the past banging on the closed doors that I have been unable or unwilling to see the doors that newly open for me. I also think I have been afraid. The risk it would take to cross the thresholds of those unknown doorways has been an invisible barrier for me.
I have chosen, though often unconsciously, to remain in darkened hallways afraid of taking a chance. But in risking nothing I have been taking the greatest risk of all. So I am starting to cross some thresholds. Slowly, fearfully but with a grain of faith and hope. And tightly holding a small hand on either side of me.
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Copyright 2005 Regina Walker
Regina Walker is a psychotherapist in NYC. Her work has appeared in numerous publications including Hip Mama, widdershins, Mamaphiles 2, Moondance, Motherverse, and Literary Vision. She can be reached at cswcasac@aol.com.
Resurrection, Part 2
“Karma is a boomerang”
I have been remembering my dreams lately. This is an enormous anomaly as I normally sleep the sleep of the dead and awake feeling that merely a moment has passed.
My dreams recently have been invaded by people whom I have lost. I dreamed of my father the other night who died nine years ago of cancer. In the dream he is apologizing for never really being there for me. I walk through the dream simply dumbfounded that he is there at all. I remember little of what he said to me in the dream and when I awake, of course, I realize he wasn’t really there.
I have also dreamed of my sister who has been dead for 25 years now. In the dream she is still 19 years old and I am my older, wiser, current version. I am overwhelmed in the dream and bombarding her with questions. “Where have you been? Why did you allow us to believe you were dead so long?”
She responds matter of factly that mistakes happen. She just went away for awhile and she plans to go away again. “You shouldn’t worry so much”. I remember that comment most from the dream as it is something she would say to me often 25 years ago.
I awake from these dreams uneasy and disoriented. Why am I channeling so much of my past? My sister and my father, though close in the sense of biology, remained distant in life. Their presence within the intimacy of my dreams leaves me uneasy and questioning.
And I have been dreaming of other people from my past who have been absent from my day to day life, in some cases, for many, many years. The business that remains unfinished with people in my life both dead and still living emerges.
I am moving away from the belief that I am what I have been through. That belief has limited me but I have not realized it until very recently. Unconsciously and unknowingly I have accepted that what I have done and who I have been before would always be the determining factor on what I could be and do in the future.
I feel in some way I am breaking free. I have begun to see the future as a blank canvas on which the shadows of my past no longer linger. I can create what I want which is both frightening and freeing.
“You shouldn’t worry so much.”
And yet I do. Or I did. Though I fight against myself I know I cannot be in two places at once. The past with all its’ pain and glory is no longer. And the future is mine alone.
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Copyright 2005 Regina Walker
Regina Walker is a writer and psychotherapist in NYC. She can be reached at cswcasac@aol.com.
It's Like Angry Sex...Only, Tastes Better
By Elizabeth Katkics ThompsonThere’s this place I know, out-of-the-way although easily reached, where the sky meets the earth in the midst of gentle rolling hills dressed in soothing shades of green and lavender.
Soothing currents of air, sweetly scented in herbs and berries, gently intersect amid shade and stippled rays of sunshine that fracture the shadows with multi-colored warmth that rouse the little hairs on the back of the neck.
There is peace, and quiet. And happiness abounds.
You can’t get there by car, bus or train and need not pack a bag or a map, because it’s never in the same spot except easy to find.
**heavy sigh**
It’s my happy place.
When I lose all sense of control and nothing seems to go right -- and I’m not right, so the kids are not right -- I go to my happy place.
The kitchen.
**dog begins to bark**
“Daddy’s home!”
**slamming front door**
“Where’s Mommy?”
**banging pots**
“Nevermind.”
**walks into kitchen and loosens tie**
“Any news about Mom?”
**wiping brow, adjusting all four burners to full blast**
Here’s the thing – I’ve spent the last twelve years raising four children and killer dust bunnies – I cannot speak a complete and coherent sentence, consecutively.
I mean, in my mind, it makes absolute and total sense. But, one way or another, the words begin mingling with thoughts and, wel, listen:
“They’re releasing her from the hospital today….they can’t tell me what’s wrong with her….but they’re sending her home….called the cardiologist myself…test results aren’t all in….and he’s sending her home….should have some answers in a couple of days….told me not to worry….can’t tell me why I shouldn’t….should have some answers soon….did I mention that they’re sending her home today?”
**ears begin to ring**
“Maybe it’s her heart, maybe not….”
**warning lights begin to flash**
“….I’m thinking…lips turning purple and fingertips turning blue…definitely not good!”
**lips quiver and hands begin to buzz**
“Telling me not to worry….WTF am I supposed to do….sit here…take his word for it and watch everything turn to shit?!?”
**all system shut down…and I am re-routed to happy place**
“We’re having steamed chicken with fresh tomato, garlic and basil salsa. Cauliflower mashed with butter and chives with a loaf of crusty bread on the side. And for dessert, I made you some of my tiramisu. Oh, and I made a pot of chicken soup to take to Mom tomorrow.”
**blank stare**
“What?”
**shakes head**
“You’re nuts!” He says.
And my happy place quickly dissolved into sweltering house overflowing with empty DVD covers and snack food wrappers, bits and pieces of Polly Pockets and dried-up Play Doh, kitchen scraps, empty grocery bags and used mixing bowls.
But the smells were heavenly!!
And I shrugged my shoulders, grabbed my husband by his collar and kissed him deeply. You see, my husband is on a mission -- an ongoing quest it seems -- to successfully synchronize our sex drives.
Lately, we suck.
I don’t mean to imply that we do this in a sexual manner or that it’s not for the lack of wanting.
Our timing is a little off, that’s all.
Most days my husband and I meet at our coffee maker, giggling, whispering and openly flirting with each other.
“Ooooh, you smell good!”
“Yeah, and do I look as good as I smell?”
“Oh yeah – and I bet you taste just as good too!”
“Just wait ‘til tonight!”
And we’d give each other a playful grope before heading in two different directions.
I’d go about my day, typically spent behind the wheel of our minivan, feeling all saucy; my husband would sit behind his desk and fantasize on what exactly it is I have planned for him for the night.
Psst, after 15 years of marriage, I can still be very…um…creative.
We’d sail through supper, rush through baths and homework -- giving each other sexy glances and sometimes a sexual innuendo or two -- skip story time and tuck our four kiddies in for the night.
After all, we’ve waited all day for just the right moment. The children are visibly asleep. We turn down the lights. We get all cozy…and then swiftly fall asleep.
To be honest -- after a full day of coping with tons of extended family issues, cajoling four unhappy children and juggling a book of nasty customers (or visa-versa) -- even the best laid plans are usually the only thing getting…you know…around this full house.
Oh well.
Later, watching the kids clean the last of their plates and listening to their praises of, “That chicken soup was awesome,” and “You are the best cooker, ever,” I sipped on a deliciously crispy glass of chardonnay and found myself feeling pleasantly full.
“How was dinner?”
**taking the last of my bread**
“Great! But, you didn’t have to cook on such a hot day.”
**finishing my wine**
“You know how I get….when I’m all nervous or pissed off….I have to cook!”
**shaking his head**
“Yeah, I’m sorry you feel so shitty, but it’s like, I’m sort of excited, too.” He says.
**synchronizing watches**
“At least, I know I’ll be eating well for the next couple of days.”
**laughing and snorting wine through my nose**
“Yeah, it’s kind of like angry sex….only….it tastes better!”
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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
In Search of a Second Opinion
I was a “good girl” growing up. I did what I was told for the most part and didn’t ask a lot of questions. In college I quickly learned that the way to get good grades was to tell the professor exactly what s/he wanted to hear. I was a “go with the flow” kind of person with very few expectations.But when I got pregnant, something changed. I started questioning everything. I’m sure it is a typical maternal response, but I found my newfound inquisitiveness somewhat thrilling. Formerly unused parts of my brain started to flutter and tingle, much like the baby growing in my belly. I shocked a lot of my friends and family by having a homebirth, not vaccinating, and doing other things that aren’t deemed mainstream.
I was lucky to find a family doctor who supported the homebirth midwives and parents who chose not to vaccinate their children. Between Dr. Cool and the information (and people) I found on the Internet, questioning authority soon became second nature to me--especially when it came to my children’s health.
This summer, after weeks of coughing fits, combined with what came to be known as the “cough/puke maneuver,” my three-year-old son was diagnosed with asthma. I was devastated. We have no family history of asthma. I am the anti-smoking Nazi. Second-hand smoke does not come near my offspring. However, we do have several pets and my husband discovered unknown mounds of dust lurking under large pieces of furniture.
Dr. Cool decided to treat Satchel aggressively with a steroid shot and Singulair, but after a few weeks of taking it, I didn’t see much improvement. The fact that Satchel wasn’t getting any better made me a little crazy. I had Warren take him in to see Dr. Cool again, but he ended up seeing the nurse practitioner instead. He came home with a prescription for a decongestant and an antibiotic. Frustrated, I e-mailed Dr. Cool.
Hi Dr. Cool,
You diagnosed Satchel with asthma, gave him a steroid shot and handed me several samples of Singulair. When they ran out, you called in a prescription for me, even though I expressed concerns about whether it was working. You asked me to try it for a few more weeks and keep a chart. I did both.
Satchel has continued to cough and even wake up in the middle of the night and vomit several times a week. He also vomits in the evening and in the morning. There is a coughing fit followed by vomit at least once every other day, if not more. He does not seem to be gasping for air when he coughs, but the cough will not go away. Sometimes he makes some really bizarre noises while coughing.
Warren brought him in yesterday. Erin said she heard no wheezing and prescribed a decongestant and an antibiotic. He doesn't appear sick and has not slowed down in any way over 8+ weeks. I would think if he had a bacterial infection, it would have worsened over the past few months.
I am really frustrated and I just want my child to stop coughing and puking everyday. Please advise.
Thank you,
Stacey
****
Stacey,
I would be frustrated also. The antibiotics are a good idea for such a difficult situation. I would finish that course. Get my nurse to help set you up for chest X-ray if he has not had one. I think he will need to see an allergist or a pediatric pulmonary specialist after the x-ray, even if it is normal. It sounds more like asthma than anything, but should have been responsive to our aggressive therapy.
Dr. Cool
***
Dr. Cool,
Thanks. I will call and set up an appointment for an X-ray. Should I give him the decongestant or go back to the Singulair?
Stacey
***
Stacey,
I like giving him the decongestant, the antibiotic and the Singulair. But, if you see the allergist or pulmonologist, discontinue all meds for four days before appt.
Dr. Cool
***
I really didn’t like the idea of pumping my three-year-old full of multiple, possibly unneccessary, medications. I called the allergist, who was very nice. He said I should go to the pulmonary specialist first. He gave me a name, number, and offered to call on my behalf if I couldn’t get an appointment within the week. I was quite pleased until he said, “Has your son had his DPT shot?” When I said no, he replied, “Well then, we really need to get him in fast.”
That freaked me out enough to google “diptheria” and “pertussis.” After reading a few pages, I was 100% convinced that Satchel had pertussis (a.k.a. whooping cough). Instead of freaking out, I was elated. Now, most people might expect a mother to be upset by the news that her offspring has whooping cough. Not me. The smoking gun, I thought. Now we can cure him!
I called Warren to tell him the good news. “It’s whooping cough,” I told him happily. “We’re off to the pulmonary specialist now.” I felt like Super Mom. I fought for answers until I found one and now I have a same day appointment with a specialist! I thought.
After filling out numerous forms, taking various tests, and talking to a number of nurses, Satchel and I busied ourselves wiping each other with sterile alcohol swabs until Dr. Lung walked in and asked, “So what brings you here today?”
“Whooping cough,” I happily announced.
Dr. Lung looked skeptical. “Is he up to date on his vaccinations?” he asked.
“He hasn’t had any vaccinations,” I chirped.
Dr. Lung looked appalled. “Why not?” he asked.
Uh-oh. I put on my I'm a serious, smart mom face. “My husband and I chose not to vaccinate our children for various reasons with the support of our pediatrician, Dr. Cool,” I said.
His face relaxed a little. “Ok, let me take a look,” he said. He listened to Satchel’s breathing, looked in his mouth and ears, etc. “How long has he been coughing?” he asked.
“Three months,” I said. And then I went through the whole game of “is it asthma or is it an infection” that I’d been playing at Dr. Cool’s.
He listened patiently and then asked, “Is anyone else in the house sick? Is there a family history of asthma?”
“No and no,” I said.
“Whooping cough usually only lasts a couple of weeks,” he said. “And everyone in the house would have it.”
My face fell.
“But, I don’t think he has asthma either. I don’t hear any wheezing,” he said.
That cheered me up a bit.
“I can just look at his face and tell you it is allergies. See these dark circles under his eyes?” he asked. I nodded. I always thought of the dark circles as shadows cast by Satchel’s impossibly long eyelashes. “We call those ‘allergy shiners.’ And he has a lot of mucous draining down his throat—enough to make him cough and even vomit.”
Next we had a discussion about whether or not Satchel would allow me to shoot a nasal spray up his nostrils once a day. Then Dr. Lung said he was going to prescribe an antibiotic. “Why?” I asked.
“We know it isn’t whooping cough, but just in case it is, Zithromax will zap it.”
“Okay, so you ‘know’ it isn’t whooping cough, but you want to treat it anyway?” I asked.
He nodded. “I’m also prescribing Zyrtec for allergies.”
“Then can he stop taking the Singulair?” I asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “Let’s get him well and then we’ll start taking away medicines.”
“Thanks,” I said looking for the exit, tallying the medications I was supposed to give my 35 pound child in my head. I dutifully dropped off the prescriptions at the pharmacy, but I told myself that I would get more information before actually giving any of it to Satchel.
I called my boyfriend, Dr. Vaccine, and set up an appointment for the next week. "It's not pertussis," I dejectedly told him, "Or asthma," I added a bit more perkily.
I entered into an e-mail debate with Dr. Cool and tried desperately to get him to say Satchel didn't need to take all of the medications, but he didn't. (Even though I liked questioning authority, I also like to appear cooperative.) After much back and forth I finally wrote him and reminded him of his earlier e-mail that said, “But, if you see the allergist or pulmonologist, discontinue all meds for four days before appt.”
I talked to my doctor friend, my midwife friend, and other parents who all seemed to agree that I had amassed an awful lot of medications for Satchel’s cough. “Definitely don’t give him the antibiotics,” they all advised.
Something inside me still believed it might be whooping cough so I decided to give Satchel the antibiotics anyway. Then a funny thing happened. Satchel stopped coughing and puking and really seemed fine. I was thrilled and confused. By the time our appointment with the allergist rolled around, I wondered if we really needed to go. Since he had been so nice on the phone, I opted to take Satchel “just in case.”
Dr. Vaccine's office was full of extremely nice people who didn’t make us wait at all. I was actually startled by how fast Dr. Vaccine came in the examination room. The nurse conducted the allergy test and the entire staff was amazed at how calmly Satchel handled being poked 20+ times with a stick.
We discovered that Satchel had an extremely mild reaction to mold and dust. Dr. Vaccine suggested covering our mattress and pillows with a special cover and then, like Dr. Lung, prescribed Nasonex and Zyrtec. (To his credit he did say the Singulair seemed unnecessary at this point.) This time I didn’t even bother dropping off the prescriptions.
I feel good about not blindly accepting the asthma diagnosis and not dispersing unneccessary medications, but I wonder if all of my questioning did more harm than good. I dragged Satchel to six different appointments with three different doctors and then didn’t listen to anything any of them told me. The only thing I did listen to was the “it isn’t asthma” part, which I guess is all I really wanted to hear in the first place.
I am really glad that Satchel has returned to good health, even though I don’t know exactly why. I still believe it is important to question authority, but I am going to have to come to terms with the fact that not all questions have answers.
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Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg
Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons.
OCTOBER 2005
- Wanting A Girl -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Changing the Script -- Regina Walker
- Mighty Duck -- Gerry Di Gesu
- Night Time Parenting -- Stacey Greenberg
Wanting A Girl
In 1974, when my mother became pregnant with her eighth, and last baby, my siblings and became embroiled in a gender war. The five of us girls practically demanded a baby sister, even though our poor outnumbered brothers clearly needed another male on their side.When my brother Paul was finally born, three days late and weighing in at a hefty ten pounds, my brothers rejoiced while my sisters and I pouted. But our disappointment was short-lived. We were immediately won over by the indisputable cuteness of our new brother.
While my sisters and I might have been the most vocal and honest "girl wishers" that ever lived, we clearly were not alone. Still, when I became pregnant myself, I discovered that it was "bad form" for expectant parents to express a gender preference. A mere eight years ago, before “high definition” sonograms and skilled technicians most of us were not aware of the sex of our unborn child.
And most of us were afraid to inquire about the sex of our baby because in the early days of ultrasounds, we knew of too many people who were told they were carrying a girl, only to discover after months of painting the nursery pink and searching for feminine names, that their Tiffany was in fact a Thomas.
Rather than risk the appearance of being shallow, ungracious, or just plain disappointed, I did my best to hide my own gender preference.
When my friends asked me whether I wanted a boy or a girl, I always stated quite discreetly that "I don’t care what the baby is, as long as it is healthy." Like some kind of political candidate hedging her bets, I knew that this "not-quite-so-honest" answer was the right answer.
My husband, on the other hand, would blatantly joke, "I don’t care what the baby is, as long as it has a penis."
This punchline received lots of laughs from those who understood my husband’s warped sense of humor. Needless to say, many shocked acquaintances looked to me and inquired, "He’s kidding, right?"
Within mere minutes of beginning the scheduled C-section surgical delivery of my first baby, Dr. M said the words I longed to hear – "It’s a girl!" These magical words were then directly followed by the not-so-grand declaration by my doctor that my newborn daughter was “peeing on her.”
In the midst of my surgery-induced haze I simply blurted out, "It’s Olivia! I knew it. Hello Olivia."
I was clearly overjoyed, as was my husband. And if he had any misgivings, about his firstborn not being a son, he never showed them. In those first few magical moments of parenthood, we found ourselves completely in awe of this beautiful and perfect human being that we had created.
And a couple weeks later, my sarcastic husband who had brazenly wished for a son, would say of our daughter, that "It was love at first sight."
In the first months of parenthood, gender really became even less of an issue. My husband and I were both so overwhelmed by our tiny baby’s basic and neverending needs that we had little time to care about whether the baby’s stuff was pastel pink or sky blue. And it may sound corny, but it was true: we really were just happy to have a healthy baby.
Besides, when it came right down to it, our newborn was rather gender-less in her needs and looks. Even when dressed in pink ultra-frilly feminine outfits with bows in her hair, our daughter was still mistaken for a "cute little boy" in public. Clearly, strangers could not tell if I had a boy or a girl. And in a way, I too became gender-blind in that first year.
As our baby morphed into a toddler, I happily immersed myself in a girly-girly world, and couldn't help but dress my "mini-me" just like me. Meanwhile, my athletic husband taught our one-year-old daughter how to throw and kick a ball better than most boys twice her age. I couldn't help but wonder if my husband would have treated our daughter differently, more like "a girl," if we had a son first.
When I became pregnant a second time, my husband no longer made "penis" jokes about the possible gender of our child. He bravely stated that two girls would be great, even though I knew he secretly wished for a boy.
For me, the pressure was off. I had "my girl" and truly no longer had a gender preference. I would love to have another girl, a sister for Olivia, but a boy would be something completely new and special too. Either way, my husband and I agreed that two children were probably our limit. There would be no "trying for a boy" if we had another girl.
After two exhausting hours of agonizing pushing, my son was born. With much relief my husband declared that our family was officially complete, and he jokingly asked the doctor to "tie my tubes" while she had me on the table. I gave my husband a dirty look, and then bragged that I "knew it would be a boy all along," even though we still hadn’t come to a consensus on a boy’s name, and wouldn’t until the next morning when well-wishers started calling the hospital.
Years later, and in hindsight, I can finally be honest and admit freely that when I was pregnant with my first child, I really, truly, deeply, madly wanted a girl. During my pregnancy I dreamed about my baby girl and even wrote in my pregnancy journal that I suspected, no, I KNEW, that I was carrying a girl. I could see her when I closed my eyes and imagined the future.
Before becoming a mom, I feared that I would give birth to one boy, followed by another, and then come to that point where I was so afraid of even trying again. But without trying I would never have “my daughter.” And I would go through life with regret and "what ifs."
I sensed that in some way, without a daughter that I would always feel incomplete. I thought that I wouldn’t know anything about raising a boy since I didn’t really like “boy stuff.” And I think I truly believed that a daughter would be easier, as if she would be a mere extension of myself -- the part that made me whole.
I can’t believe how naive I was to think that a daughter would be easier. Don’t get me wrong, I love my children both the same. But somehow my son just seems to adore me no matter what, while my daughter and I seem to have far greater expectations of each other. And we tend to clash on just about everything.
But things are the way they are, and it seems strange that I once wondered, wished, and worried about the gender of my children. I simply cannot remember a time before Olivia and Jared were a part of my life and family. And I now find it difficult to imagine that I would have ever wanted things any other way.
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Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Changing the Script
Life is a game where the rules change as you play.
I have recently returned to work. I am again busily involved in managing schedules so that childcare and school and work all exist in a perfect harmony.
Organization and order have usually been my strong points. I loved doing puzzles when I was a kid and the sense of relief and accomplishment that came with fitting the last piece of the puzzle in its place was worth all the effort and time that came before.
Before I had children, I assumed they would be like puzzles. I would put the time and work in and by the time I sent them away to college, the last piece would be carefully and lovingly put in it’s place. They would be complete and whole and ready to conquer the world. And I would have succeeded.
Like most parents, I had a script, which included hopes and expectations for both of my sons. Zachary is incredibly smart. He is in a gifted school program and is an avid and talented chess player. He loves to read and has a wonderful sense of humor. I read every article and did all the things I thought a parent was supposed to do to nurture and support his development. I have even taken a bit of credit for his achievements and allowed myself to indulge in pride.
I, of course, did the same for Sam. We own every Baby Einstein dvd and I even had a whacko bassinet that pumped in the sound of a heart beat and electronically rocked at precise intervals when he was an infant. But Sam has taught me an enormous amount. He can't follow my script. The pieces don’t quite fit. I have to either abandon my hopes and expectations for him or change them.
I have decided to follow his script. Each day begins a new chapter that ends with a new cliffhanger. We are writing it as we go along. His developmental delays are our outline but he fills in the rest. I do things differently with Sam. I have to. I follow his lead and he leads me into the unknown most of the time. And often times I must remind myself that the story of Sam's life that I had written before there even was a Sam separate in body from me is actually fiction. It was not the story that was meant to be.
I had already experienced the disappointment of my discarded expectations when I was presented with his diagnosis and truly, and as best I could, accepted his uniqueness. I still struggle though with a sense of sadness and grief that I allow myself to occasionally indulge. But it has been like building up muscles I never realized I had.
Zachary poses his own challenges but on many levels he has embraced my 'parent wish list' for the time being, at least. Sam makes me work. I have to think outside the box. He makes me face my fears and come up with new solutions. I must travel streets and roads without a map. Sam takes me to places where no roads exist so we build them together. We are drafting our own map; composing our own story. And he has made me stronger. Because other disappointments and challenges can’t compare.
I have also learned that I can be dealt some bad stuff and be able to deal with it. I didn't always think I could. I used to feel I had to keep myself safe. That I wouldn't be able to deal with truly difficult situations. But now I think I can because I have to. I may not be great at it but I get by. I guess that is all I can hope for. One page at a time.
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Copyright 2005 Regina Walker
Regina Walker is a writer and psychotherapist in NYC. Her work has appeared in Hip Mama, Mamaphiles 2, widdershins, Moondance, and Literary Vision. She can be reached at cswcasac@aol.com
Mighty Duck
Mighty Duck is flying in two directions as he always does. It’s not easy. I’ve tried it for ages and it just doesn’t work.Years ago my husband’s friend presented him with a duck for our home on Cape Cod. This is a special species of duck, able to flap separate wings in opposite directions at the same time. I don’t understand the mechanics, but however the metal wings are attached to the gray and white wooden body. It allows the unique creature to fly in two directions at once.
My husband couldn’t wait to give the duck a home and wanted him to fly high atop a pole attached to the fence on our front lawn. Totally tacky, I protested. He wasn’t amused and consigned the poor bird to the garage for years.
This summer, however, I was surprised to see him (the duck) flying atop a small metal pole attached to the top of the arbor in our backyard. He flew valiantly in the every-present breeze, oblivious to the brilliant morning glories which danced on the arbor beneath him.
I pretty much ignored the bird’s flight until one cool morning this summer as I sat on the deck having a cup of coffee after breakfast. I was in a funk and having a hard time shaking it. The bright sunshine, flowers and birds at the feeder did not lift my mood. Then I saw the duck whirling away and started to laugh. I saw my life.
The poised duck awaits flight, brown-spotted wings lined up evenly. One wing starts spinning slowly while the other remains motionless. Then it stops and reverses. The pole moves slightly and both wings spin wildly in the breeze — in opposite directions. The pole shifts again; one wing slows to a stop as the other increases its speed. Slowly, it continues to travel in circles.
On rare occasions both wings will line up exactly and even start to spin in the same direction, but only for a few seconds. Sometimes both wings are tilted forward, other times both tilt backward. Which way am I going?
I live on Cape Cod; I live in New Jersey. Health is good; health is poor. Family is happy; family’s a disaster. Plans are made for a day, a week, a month. Then life intrudes and plans, hopes, and dreams are changed or set aside.
The longer I watch the duck flapping away, the harder I laugh. “Going in circles, which end is up, pulled in two directions” — how many more clichés describe my feathered friend and me?
I’ve often described much of my life as controlled chaos and although I laugh as often as I can, I don’t always think it’s funny. But my duck brilliantly reminds me that emotional ventures in many directions - travels throughout a lifetime - are a fate which I share with everyone.
Today — another funk. Having friends for dinner and I’ve lost the tablecloth. Can’t find it anywhere. How do you lose a tablecloth? I need a haircut and my toenail polish is chipped beyond repair. Really important problems.
Then my son calls to say a promised loan to expand his business is now in jeopardy. My daughter flies out of the house to drive a friend to Cape Cod Hospital to be with her child who has just attempted suicide. I learn a friend is scheduled for immediate cancer surgery.
Upset and despondent, I step onto the deck to search the sky for Mighty Duck. For I am sure that as he flies to far destinations, he will be able to provide balance, perspective and remind me once again that life will be okay.
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Copyright 2005 Gerry Di Gesu
Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women Magazine. Her recently published collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – is available on the web from iUniverse.com, amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. E-mail Gerry at digesu7@comcast.net.
Nighttime Parenting
I was exhausted and up way past my bedtime. Midnight—what was I thinking?
I buried myself in the covers that had been kicked to the bottom of the family bed. My one-year-old and my three-year-old were occupying the entire top half—each had his arms and legs outstretched as if he had fallen asleep while making a snow angel. I desperately hoped I might go unnoticed for a few hours before one of them woke up and I had to start my nighttime parenting shift.
Jiro must have smelled me because less than fifteen minutes passed before he was rooting around, his lips puckering up for my milk. I moved to the top of the bed and started nursing him. Usually a few minutes of nursing is all he needs, but he seemed restless. (I had thought he was so cute at dinner—stabbing beans with my fork and carefully placing them in his mouth one by one. Beans!)By 1:30am, I was still awake, very much wanting to scream. My nipples were aching and I desperately wanted to sleep, but since I was contorted in a half-twist maneuver that allows me to nurse from both breasts without moving, 90% of my body weight was resting on my battered left butt cheek. The throbbing, a result of months of this maneuver, kept me from dozing off.
I should have known better than to stay up late in the first place. By the time I finally got out of the office, picked Jiro up at daycare, got Satchel from Montessori, cooked some pesto, cleaned the kitchen, played Legos and airplane, got them both clean and in their jammies, read books, and nursed and rubbed them to sleep, it was almost ten. I needed some time to myself. I needed to work on my zine. I needed to watch “Kept” on VH1.
As I nursed Jiro, I took deep breaths and tried to think of how far I had come. I was on week six of my husband’s eight-week archaeological dig in the tick-infested Mark Twain National Forest. I don’t know which of us had the harder job, but we each seemed to envy the other’s position. I dreamed of having a bed all to myself in a hotel room somewhere far away and he lamented missing Satchel’s swimming lessons and Jiro’s new tricks.
I listened to Satchel coughing in his sleep, wondering how long it would be before he was awake too. Having one baby awake in the middle of the night is annoying, having two is debilitating. Thankfully, Jiro released my nipple and I rolled over. I should have waited because my small movement was enough to rouse him again, and he started kicking his meaty little legs up and down—his prelude to a scream. I’m going to kick and scream too.
More nursing. More throbbing. More deep breaths.
Last summer my husband had a sixteen-week dig, and I had a newborn and a two-year-old. That’s when I really earned my stripes. Things are a little easier now—I have a routine in place and a cleaning woman who comes every other week—but not getting enough sleep throws me off course. Last summer I was on maternity leave and could nap during the day if I needed to. Now I have to use precious vacation time if I need to stay home and catch up on my sleep.Besides how many times can you tell your sixty-five year old boss that you are sleep-deprived or that you had the worst night ever before she just thinks you are a complete slacker? At least the boys get to nap at school.
Despite the pain in my ass, I started to doze off. However, my slumber was quickly interrupted by a loud thud. I heard Satchel crying from the floor. I went around to pick him up and to try and soothe him. Of course, Jiro woke up the minute I moved and started crying. Crying in stereo. I’m the one who should be crying!
I got everyone back in bed and reluctantly nursed Jiro some more. I refused to look at the clock and I tried not to think about the day ahead. Usually I look forward to Fridays and my husband’s weekend visits, but he called at dinner to say he was coming down with something—maybe Strep, maybe Lyme’s disease. He had Strep in December (during my only vacation of the year) and was a wreck. For a week he walked around with his hand on his head, presumably to hold in his brains, and his throat looked like a musty cave lined with maggots feasting on raw, regurgitated meat. I was already feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want to take care of three people! I want someone to take care of me.
After a moment or two of silence, Satchel started whimpering. Dammit! I screamed inside my head. “I need to sleep!” I screamed outside my head. Insulted, Jiro started whimpering too. I jumped out of bed, banged my fists on the duvet, then stomped my feet up and down (picture Jennifer Beals in “Flashdance”) while half-yelling, half-grunting at the top of my lungs. I’m a maniac and it shows.My tantrum was over before it started, and I felt both better and worse. Needless to say, I scared the crap out of the boys. There was a brief moment of silence as they watched me in horror, but now the speakers were threatening to blow.
Calm down, breathe, stop thinking about the time.
I had to pull myself together—my kids weren't purposely trying to make me a zombie. I’m sure they’d rather be asleep too. “I’m sorry,” I said in my most reassuring voice. A weekend of playing nurse, waitress, and cruise director won’t be the end of the world. “Shhh…Everything is okay…Shhh…How about some cough medicine?”
To avoid more crying, I picked Jiro up and carried him to the linen closet to search for the medicine tote. I grabbed it with one hand and flung it on the bed before I could lose momentum and drop it. I gave Satchel the recommended two droppers full, and then gave one to Jiro for good measure. We crawled back in bed, but Satchel had already started up again. "My pee pee hurts!" he screeched.
I should have seen this one coming. Somehow he got three of the world's itchiest mosquito bites (chiggers?) on his testicles while playing outside. His testicles! I really did feel for the little guy. “You want some pink medicine for your pee pee?” I asked."Yes," he said between screeches and scratches.
I picked an increasingly cranky Jiro up again and went on a hunt for the Calamine lotion. I instinctively maneuvered around the toys scattered on the floor, and just missed bumping into an errant tricycle thanks to the light coming from the microwave clock. Two-thirty am! I remember when that meant last call. I was tempted to reach for a beer in the very back of the fridge, but saw the sought after pink bottle sitting on the kitchen counter.
"Ok sweetie, pull your pants down," I instructed as I came back in and reached for the light.
"Don't turn on the light!" he whined. Putting Calamine on a three-year-old's testicles in the dark while holding a pissed off one-year-old is not easy.
"You're spilling!" he cried. Deal with it kid.
"It's okay, that will make it feel extra better."
"No it won't!" Back to the reassuring voice.
“Do you need to go potty?” I’ve got to get ahead of the game.
"Yes," he said, sniffling. "But don't turn on the light!" Normally I wouldn’t trust Mr. Three to pee in the dark, but I was tired and I knew Selma was coming to clean in the morning.
Another reason I have to get up early.
I got everyone back in bed. More nursing. More throbbing. More deep breaths.I needed to put everything in perspective. Worrying about a good night’s sleep is actually a luxury. I’m sure mothers in Iraq have much weightier concerns. For that matter, mothers on the other side of town have much weightier concerns—some of my clients have four, five, six or more kids they are raising on their own with just a SSI check. Get over it.
I heard a whisper, "Mommy...MOMMY...rub my back..."
Why didn't I Ferberize these children? Why am I still breastfeeding? What is wrong with me?
Satchel went back to sleep with minimal rubbing, but Jiro was still awake despite having access to the all night titty bar. I was ready to tear off my nipples and throw them across the room. When do I get to say “goodnight” and have the boys scamper off to their bedrooms, not to be seen again until morning?
Jiro, aware that he had center stage again, crawled on top of me and happily bounced up and down on my bladder. As mad as I was, I couldn’t help laughing. With his newly shaved head (don’t ask) and his big grin, he looked like a giant infant. How about some Orajel?
I took him to the back bedroom where he and I sleep when my husband is in town. Sometimes just a change of scenery will calm him down. I tried my best to rub the magic salve on his gums. He did not like this. I tried snuggling him, but he didn't like that either. Our bed is strategically placed in the corner, so I pretty much had him trapped. O.K. scream then. I'm going to sleep.
I rolled over and he screamed his lungs out for about two minutes. Then he grabbed his blankie and thrust his body toward mine and got very still. I readjusted a bit to give my ass a break and then he sat up, alert, like he was just humoring me. I pressed the indiglo button on my watch: 3:45am. Oh my god.
I wanted to cry. So I did. Right along with Jiro. Five minutes later we both fell asleep. Moments later Satchel came running in the room with his blankie. "Mommy..."
"Get in," I whispered.Now the three of use were snuggled up together in the double bed, while the king-sized bed sat empty in the other room. I was pinned down with one boy in the crook of each arm.
Screw it, we’ll just sleep in.
And we did.
All the way to 7:00 am when my husband called six times on two different phones to let me know he was on his way home.
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Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg
AUGUST/SEPTEMBER 2005
- Craving Slow News Days -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Gratitude -- Regina Walker
- Coming of Age and Reasonable Doubt -- Elizabeth Thompson
- Once Upon A Summer -- Gerry Di Gesu
- Back to School -- Stacey Greenberg
Craving Slow News Days
JonBenet Ramsey. The name of a six-year-old beauty pageant winner shouldn't terrify me -- but it does. Like Danielle van Dam, Megan Kanka, Polly Klaas, and Etan Patz, JonBenet has achieved national name recognition in a way that none of us would ever choose for our own children. And JonBenet's brutal murder represents everything we fear as parents.It seems as if every other month we add another posthumously famous young victim to this elite, ghastly list. Let's face it, we live in terrifying times. Besides kidnappers who steal our sleeping children, there are parish priests that molest our young innocents. Troubled teens armed with acne and assault weapons spray our schools in gunfire. Terrorists take aim at airplanes, day-care facilities, and the workplace. Nannies shake babies to death. Drunk drivers plow into pedestrians. E.coli poisons our hamburger meat and organic vegetables. Anthrax pollutes our mail.
With all that threatens us and our children, it is no wonder that reportedly 19 million Americans suffer from Anxiety Disorders.
In the months following 9/11, I mentioned to a group of mothers that my family was planning a vacation.
"You're flying? I'm afraid to fly," one mother says.
"My husband WILL NOT fly with the kids," another mother chimes in.
"I'm nervous," I admit. But with more than three billion passengers flying worldwide each year -- air travel is statistically and unbelievably safe.
Logically, and intellectually, we all know that air travel is not risky. But we remain haunted by the Twin Towers Attack. Thanks to our media, we relived that assault over, and over, and over again. And we cannot forget the images of airplanes turned into explosives, and monolithic structures crumbling into dust.
Is the news responsible for our collective parental paranoia? Some would argue that the news merely reports the doom-and-gloom, and doesn't fabricate it. But I say, in this media-saturated worlds -- all facts are not treated equally. "Newsworthy items" tend to be those which are sensational or aberrant.
And so, Americans are fed a daily diet of disaster, tragedy, and scandal. As a parent, I simply do not have the stomach for it anymore. I crave slow news days.
I'm not saying I want to be blissfully unaware or uniformed of world events. I'm just asking for a little balance in news coverage. There are approximately 281 million Americans, and I want some acknowledgement that an overwhelming number of us ARE NOT victims or statistics. In fact, millions of American children WERE NOT kidnapped from their beds last night. Thousands of domestic and international flights took off yesterday and landed at their destinations WITHOUT incident. Billions of people eat UNTAINTED meat every year. Millions of Americans (although not the ones featured in the news) are leading very normal, NON-NEWSWORTHY lives.
Why not report these facts? In these especially anxious times, we need to "accentuate the positive, and eliminate the negative". We need to be reminded about the absolute normalcy of life. And we need to stop repeating grim statistics that do nothing but create anxiety and fear in our population.
Yes, we should be outraged and sickened by the despicable and cowardly crimes committed against our children. Of course the kidnappings and murders repulse and terrify us. But we need to put things in perspective and grieve for these isolated, tragic events -- without allowing them to define our culture or cripple us with fear.
While the media seems to take pleasure in reporting the more aberrant nature of society, the fact remains that few of us will ever suffer the horrific fate of the Ramsey family. For the most part, our own days are completely uneventful (in a newsworthy sense) and devoid of sensational tragedy.
Maybe once we understand this, we will be able to sleep soundly at night, take family vacations, send our kids to school, trust our neighbors, and order hamburgers -- without first reaching for Zoloft.
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2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
This essay was originally published at The Freedom Chronicles and was written in the months following September 11, 2001, when everyone seemed to be afraid of everything and the news only seemed to be making things much worse.
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