Kanye Hates on…Reading!

I admit that reading a little salacious dirt about a celebrity feud can be extremely entertaining. Who doesn’t get a little smug satisfaction about how above it we all are when you read about Rosie versus that blonde twit from The View, Lindsay Lohan versus Hillary Duff over some ex-Backstreet boy’s brother and most recently Nick Cannon versus Eminem over Mariah Carey. But, the latest feud is so off-the-charts stupid, I can barely believe I’m blogging about it.

Kanye West is simultaneously hawking his first book while also promoting the fact that he’s a “proud non-reader.” What an idiot! Hating on books? Unbelievable! Now, now, I know that I’ve said in past blogs that we should not judge but what the hell? The man makes money making music which implies that he knows how to play music, thus being able to read notes, and write lyrics, ergo he seemingly can write words. How else do you learn how to do these things you jackass?

He went on to say that authors that write novels are “self-absorbed,” (seriously?) and that “I’m not a fan of books. I would never want a book’s autograph.” Hello! Has the man in the plastic 80’s sunglasses become so delusional that he now thinks books have grown appendages?

How ironic is it that Kanye’s late mother was a professor and the chairwoman of the Chicago State University English Department? She was also head of The Kanye West Foundation that was founded in 2005 to combat the drop out problem in high school. Kanye, a little newsflash, it’s easier for a high school student to graduate if they can actually read!

What have I done to my son’s head?

In the heat of this weekend, I was sure that I was ready to give my 2 year-old son Aidan his first buzz cut. His hair has been looking a bit too Little Dutch Boy/Bad Bowl Cut and I frankly was tired of people telling me how cute my twin girls were. I didn’t notice when my brother in law put on the number 1 attachment to the clipper (honestly, I had no idea what number 1 meant anyway) and after he took the first swipe, I nearly fainted. The number one clipper attachment is basically the closest length to bald that you can get!

So, after my husband splashed cold water on my face and I got my head straight I sat nervously as he continued to finish the cut and started thinking about seconding guessing and parenthood. It seems like everyday my brain goes through the ping pong match of trying to figure out how best to deal with things like how to get a kids to eat something healthy, how to deal with homework, how to deal with my daughter’s need to tattle tale on everyone and how to get my kids to sleep in their own gosh damn beds!

There are moments when I feel like a complete rookie in every way. Did I give my son the constructive criticism he needs without completely making him hate doing homework? Did I make too big of a deal about eating fruit and will it turn my kids into Twinkie eating fiends when they leave for college? Do I really need to deal with the tattle telling thing when she’s a good spy for future misbehavior?

I was staring down at Aidan last night as he slept and for a moment I felt like I was looking at a completely different kid. Change is good and in my day to day life of having to make decisions for a family of 6, second guessing isn’t so bad when at the end of the day you have a cute kid to look at before you go to sleep.

My first blog tirade

It’s May 27th and I’m just now finding out it’s Asian Pacific American Heritage Month. Excuse me, but how did I miss the memo on this month-long celebration? Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s because no news organization has written about it, no networks have created new logos that flash on every hour like they do for Black History Month of Hispanic Heritage Month, featuring an Asian American and their contributions. Do I sound upset? I hope so because I am. I’m tired of being part of the invisible group of immigrants who continue to make amazing contributions in the U.S.

This month alone I have traveled to San Francisco, Chicago, Harrisburg and I work in New York City for Christ’s sake. Being a media whore, I read every magazine and newspaper I can get my hands on, watch every local and national broadcast and yet I saw nothing of this month-long celebration, nada! Not one report, not one Asian reporter giving a shout out, not one small news story, not even one network showing a calendar of events in their city.

In a time where Steven Chu (Chinese descent) is Obama’s appointed Secretary of Energy and where Obama chose to keep a Bush legacy White House chef, Cristeta Comerford (Filipino), the first woman to ever hold the position (big ups to Christeta!) and Bobby Jindal is largely thought of as the GOP’s last great hope for party progression, how can this month have gone by without a single bit of media coverage?

In a report published in April 2009 by the Committee of 100, a national non partisan organization composed of American citizens of Chinese descent, the committee found, “…that despite a positive trend in the attitudes toward Asian Americans, racial discrimination and suspicions still exist.” I thought we had come farther than that. What does this mean for my children? Yes, I admit we’ve come a long way in dealing with race relations, but clearly not far enough!

Hard Habit to Break

I am your garden variety girl scout. I don’t smoke, rarely drink, never let my car registration expire and have never shop lifted a thing in my life. My husband thinks my lack of vices will someday make me go on some kind of bad girl binge where I’ll end up in Reno in some seedy hotel room covered in tattoos and wreaking of last night’s tequila shots (pardon me while I pull my eyeballs back from rolling so far up into my skull, I thought they’d never reappear). Don’t worry; I’m much too much of a control freak for any of that to happen.

The one vice I cannot seem to break is buying women’s fashion and beauty magazines. Just like any other female, I am always curious to know, are there really bathing suits to fit every body, are there really 30-minute meals that my kids will love, can you really get catwalk chic for under $50 and what does Kate Winslet really think about her wrinkles (don’t you just love that girl?).

Unfortunately, the sum total experience of buying and reading these magazines is that while you do sometimes come across interesting articles, you are subliminally reminded on every page about someone else’s ideal of beauty. Having lived on this earth for 38 years, I can tell you that I’ve spent more than half of those years with internalized dislike for my appearance because I didn’t fit the standard of beauty that I was seeing everywhere; TV, magazines, billboards, movies and the Internet.

The other day my 6 year-old daughter asked me if I could put some powder on her cheeks. I told her, “You are too beautiful for make-up!” (Yes, it was a very McDonald’s commercial moment). After thinking about what I said she asked, “How old do I have to be before I can wear make-up?” Cut to me being on a slippery slope! How big of a hypocrite would I have to be to tell my daughter that she’ll never need make-up?

I didn’t use more than a little lip gloss until I was almost 27. It wasn’t that I wasn’t curious or I didn’t want to wear it but having grown up with strict parents, I wasn’t allowed to wear make-up and by the time I was on my own, I guess I just couldn’t be bothered (to this day I really don’t know how to put on eye shadow, pathetic I know). When I finally made an appointment at Sax for my first all-over make-up application, I left feeling that I looked like an Asian Trannie getting ready to do some kind of cabaret show.

I’ve since made my peace with wearing make-up and apply just enough to cover the 38 years that are becoming more and more obvious on my face. I hope I can make my two daughters feel so beautiful that they won’t feel the need to wear make-up until they absolutely have to. Best case scenario is that they’ll learn that no matter what the magazines say, beauty on the inside will always win out over what’s on a magazine cover. If not, I’ll be at their first make-up application appointment and make sure they don’t leave the counter looking like RuPaul.

Arkansas in the House!

Unless you are living in a tent in African Congo, you know that Kris Allen upset Adam Lambert to be crowned the newest American Idol. I’ve been a fan of both men throughout the season and know that both will get record deals in a hot minute. While I think it was clear that Adam out sang Kris in the final, Kris’ performance of Ain’t No Sunshine was pretty spectacular, better than the first time he sang it. Anyone that attempts Bill Withers and pulls it off is a winner in my book.

From his first audition Kris Allen was criticized for not believing in himself enough, for not owning the confidence (Simon called it vanity) that could convince a nation that he WAS the next American Idol. Even upon his winning he was gracious, saying that he thought Adam deserved to win. You’d have to be extremely cynical to think that Kris was being disingenuous. I for one applaud his humility and I’ll tell you why.

In a world where professional athletes perform “impromptu” dances in the end zone before the final score is tallied, beauty queens utter one controversial comment and get anointed a voice of a party and businessmen risk the economic health of a country by gambling that their overconfidence and hubris can keep a bull market going, what is wrong with a little humility? I’m all about self-love and self-belief but I’m finding that a little dose of humility can’t hurt in a world where delusional amounts of confidence is churning out kids that display no grace in winning and even less grace in losing.

Kris Allen was raised right. The people of Arkansas should be very, very proud.

The Tao of The Outsiders

Last week my perennially cheerful son came home with puffy eyes and had his hoodie pulled on like the Unibomber. After a little coaxing, he told me that some kids in his class told everyone that he farted and that after ceaseless taunting; he “accidentally started crying.”

Now, if you know anything about me, you know that I turn into a homicidal maniac when anyone messes with my brood. While I secretly wanted to hunt down these demon children and open a can of whoop-ass, I had to count to ten and try to find a way to make this a teachable moment for him. First, I told him that the kids that were making fun of him were not being nice (so wanted to drop the A-bomb!) and that it doesn’t matter what they said. Words are just words and their opinion shouldn’t matter. I also told him that it was OK that he cried, but that next time he should try to count to ten and then just ignore them.

Feeling very proud of myself for being so mature, I left for the grocery store to pick-up last minute pot roast fixings. When I got back, my husband was washing dishes and my son was at the kitchen table doing his homework. “How is Max?” I asked. “Fine,” my husband said, “I took care of it.” “Took care of what?” I asked. “I talked to him about the whole farting and crying thing,” he said. Oh Sweet Jesus! “What did you tell him?” I asked. “I told him the next time a kid made fun of him, to punch him right in the face!” He went on to explain that once Max got the reputation for being a guy that punches first and asks questions later, no one would ever mess with him again, or with any of his younger siblings for that matter.

Now, Paul and I are not in synch about much but what we are normally good at is being on-message and consistent with the kids. It was hard to know what to do next so I just went into the kitchen and sat down next to him. After talking to him about his math homework, I asked him if he talked to Daddy about what happened at school. He said, “Yeah, and he told me to punch them in the face next time, except for the girls.” There was an awkward pause and then I told him that it probably wasn’t a good idea to punch a kid for making fun of him. He just rolled his eyes and kept on adding and subtracting.

The next day he came home from school without a care in the world. I asked him about the kids that made fun of him and he acted as if he had no memory of the incident. Hopefully, he will have this same lapse of memory recalling his father’s advice.

NOTE: In case you were wondering, my husband is the guy on the far right of this photo.

Birthday Parties – Is restraint possible?

Walking down Michigan Avenue in Chicago on a Saturday afternoon, one would not believe that we’re in a global recession. I could hardly get past the department store formerly known as Marshall Fields without being elbowed, bumped or paper cut by a sea of shopping bags. The goal of my jaunt was to get some cardio and also figure out what to do for my son’s eighth birthday.

My husband and I have been grappling with the idea for a few weeks. We’ve at least agreed on what we don’t want to do:

- no jumpy castle and no scary face-painting clowns
- no Chuck E. Cheese party (I have no issue with the rat but with swine flu still around, I can’t risk having my two-year old twins swimming around in the dirty ball attraction and contracting the virus)
- no over-the-top shindig with themed goodie bags filled with cheap junk that will end up in land fills

You need only pick up any number of newspapers or magazines to read about the supposed age of restraint; people are using coupons and shopping lists! Sales at Wal-Mart and other discount retailers are booming! Car sales are down for the umpteenth consecutive quarter! While I believe many Americans have restraint on their mind, it is only because their 401Ks and IRAs have shrunk, their property values are down and many are afraid of losing their job. It’s not a rational decision; the behavior is born out of necessity, a feeling that they are no longer as wealthy as they once were, even if they’ve been lucky enough to still be employed.

So, how does one plan a birthday party in the age of restraint? A depression era theme where you ask people to wear sandwich boards and arrive with tin cups? Have an anti-gift policy and leave your child scarred for life? Plan a BYO sandwich meat party where we only need supply bread and we ask our friends and family to provide the meat?

One of the first big culture shocks that my immigrant parents experienced was the spectacle of birthday parties. In the Philippines, birthday parties are a rarity. They celebrated everyday that they did not die from Malaria, Polio, Smallpox, a monsoon or starvation. Growing up, my parents attempted to adapt to this tradition by singing Happy Birthday over carrot cake, banana bread or zucchini bread, all cakes made with no frosting, no character themed accoutrements or candles molded into the age of the recipient. Did it make me into a crack-head frosting fiend in my adult years? You betcha! Did I feel they loved me any less? Absolutely not.

I’m certain we’ll come up with some middle ground plan that teaches our kids that it does not take a fortune to usher in another wonderful year in their lives. However, you can bet whatever we choose to do, it will involve some type of frosting.

Only Douche Bags Cheat on their Wives

I discovered today that my husband and Elizabeth Edwards have a very big thing in common. If you asked my husband his thoughts on infidelity he would say, “It’s a douche bag move to cheat on your wife. You should leave her if you want to bone someone else.” (Charming, I know, but you can never take Jersey out of the boy). After reading at least a dozen articles about Elizabeth Edward’s brave new book, Resilience, it pains me to know that she point blank asked her husband to leave her before he ever humiliated her with an indiscretion as painful as infidelity. Yet, he could not keep it in his pants and do the right thing.

Before the Barack Obama train came to town, I actually thought that John Edwards was going to be my presidential candidate of choice. He seemed to be everything you would want in a president, charismatic, educated, compassionate about the poor and disenfranchised and a loving father. He may still be all of these things but he truly is a douche bag for cheating on his wife, and even more so because he responded to the lamest come-on in the history of the world, “You are so hot!” (cue the gagging noises).

You know who else are douche bags? The women “journalists” who are hating on Elizabeth Edwards for staying with her husband. I’d like nothing more for one of them to walk in her shoes for a day, survive cancer, bury a child, raise young children and try to forgive someone you love. I double dog dare you disgusting cretins to even try two! As a mother of four, the loss of a child would potentially push me so far over the edge, if my husband was Attila the Hun, I would be clinging to his leg for dear life. Don’t get me wrong, do I think that all women should stay with their good for nothing cheating husbands? Absolutely not. But, who are we to judge her choices?

There is far too much judgment in the world. I’d like to believe the douche bags of the world will get theirs, with or without our judgment.

Quatromom, I think not!

I’m no shrinking violet but I like to think my mama raised me right. While she never outright said the phrase, “It is not appropriate to ask strangers personal questions”, I learned by her example that there are just some things you don’t ask about in mixed company. I thought everyone knew this. After the birth of my twins, I learned otherwise.

It was as if my twin pregnancy emitted pheromones that attracted total strangers that felt compelled to ask inappropriate questions or make inappropriate comments. They would look at my pregnant belly, and then left to right at my two older kids and ask these three questions

- “Did you do IVF or something?”
- “Was it an accident?”
- “Are you freaking out?”

I don’t know if it was hormones, but I always seemed to detect a thin layer of judgment in these questions that I just couldn’t put my finger on. I wasn’t going to ask these strangers to help with midnight feedings, change diapers, bath the babies or pay their college tuitions. Why the fascination? Why the need to ask me these questions? Why the need to freak me out even more than I was freaking out and then ask me to own to it?

I just read an article in Time Magazine’s May 18th issue called The Breedy Bunch. How cable’s megafamily reality shows captivate parents and push our social buttons. Basically, the article says that the shift to smaller families in the U.S. makes families like mine (with more than 3+ kids - - ooooh, so shocking) a novelty so the idea of seeing families of 8 or 14 or 18, in the case of the new TLC show called 18 Kids, a complete and total train wreck that cannot be missed. He goes on to say that “These shows offer drama, cute kids and sweet, sweet judgment.” Can’t we leave judgment to our friends on American Idol?

What the article also smartly points out (big ups to James Poniewozik) is that “It takes a village to raise a child, they say. But how many of us have the guts to raise a village?”

So, enough with the annoying questions and shocked looks (Wow, I may still have some post-pregnancy hormones coursing through me.)! I take responsibility for my mid-sized village, the good, bad and the ugly, and no, I am not freaking out, at least most of the time.

I Became an Ugly Soccer Mom

Before you get all judgmental, I did not punch, kick or spit on another mom or the coach or anything hideous like that.

I can always tell when my 7 year-old son Maxwell is nervous. First, he gets eerily quiet and starts to pick at the skin around his nails until his fingers are red and it looks like his hands have been attacked by a lobster on crack.

A few months ago we signed Maxwell up for a recreational soccer program thinking it would be a good way for him to burn off some energy on a Saturday morning. The day of his first game I noticed that his fingers looked like they had been through a meat grinder. I asked him if he was OK and he said, “I’m just nervous.” Like an episode of Leave it to Beaver (Am I dating myself, or what?) I told him, “Just do your best and have fun. I’ll be proud of you no matter what.”

Then, the whistle blew and I lost my mind! For a solid hour I was pacing up and down bleachers yelling things like, “Keep your eye on the ball!” and “Stay in your zone!” and “Be aggressive Max!” By the end of the game, I had lost my voice and my husband sped out of the gym so as not to claim me as his wife and the mother of our four children.

After my shameful display, I decided I needed to do one of three things:
- wear a muzzle
- take Valium an hour before each game
- correct my behavior and realize that adding pressure to my kids first experiences is the absolute wrong thing to do

By the way, Max scored a goal that first game! He’s a soccer phenom (no pressure)!

Cokie Roberts Rocks

It’s always a gift when insomnia imprisons one to a night of channel surfing and you happen upon an interview with someone that you think is amazing. Craig Ferguson (who I admittedly already have a crush on) had Cokie Roberts on last week. I have only one thought after seeing her, She rocks! Finally, late-night talk television not featuring some vapid twit of an actress talking about their latest formulaic Hollywood film!

Not only is Cokie from New Orleans (always cool), her 93 year-old mother (former congress woman and former ambassador to the Vatican!) lives on Bourbon Street, she has traveled to 49 states in the U.S., was nearly funnier than Craig Ferguson, has earned Emmy Awards and her professional name is Cokie! She called herself Cokie before all of the Brooklyns, Apples and Suris - - she is a true OG (for those of you not hip to gangster rap, that means original gangster or just plain bad ass)!

She was hawking her latest book, We Are Our Mothers Daughters, and while I’ve never purchased a Chicken Soup for the Soul type of book, I will surely pick up this one. If you have an extra 9 minutes today, spend some time on Mother’s Day watching a true American gem.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GUoZbvLKnsU

My Marathon Experience

Last weekend, the whole family got up early to stand on a rainy street corner in Long Branch NJ to cheer my brother-in-law on as he did his first marathon. We didn’t exactly know when he’d get to where we were standing so we parked ourselves underneath an umbrella and clapped and cheered for random marathon runners and yelled things like, “Way to go!,” and “Good job!” and “Keep it going.”

I found myself in prolonged awe of those who would push themselves to the limit physically by choice. Faces whizzed by, men in their 50’s in sleek Nike running gear, girls in their 20’s with bouncy, high ponytails, hairy chested men wearing thick gold chains and a guy that seriously looked like he was 100 years-old. The last thing I would choose to do is push my body to the point of feeling like my heart is going to beat out of my chest or that at any moment I could lose control of my body. As I continued to clap, cheer and woo hoo (I now admit freely that I am a woo girl), it then dawned on me that I had done something like this, three times.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I always brought a pad of paper of different questions of things I was anxious about. At an appointment during my sixth month, I asked what my recovery time would be like if I had a vaginal birth. My OB told me that after I gave birth I would feel like I had just run a marathon. The memories came back to me like a tidal wave, the sweating, panting, heart beating out of my chest, physical burning sensation in my lungs and finally, the complete and utter loss of control of my body until, in what seemed like an instant, I was holding a baby in my arms.

While I never got a medal and there was never a finish line full of people cheering me on and saying woo-hoo, I’ll take my 3 experiences with childbirth over an actual marathon any day.

Ode to Swiffer

I love Swiffer products. I own them all and verbally worship them to anyone who will listen. My kids love Swiffer products. They often fight over who can help mom clean up the crumbs underneath the dinner table or dust the picture frames on the mantle or wipe up the footprints across the ceramic tile floor on rainy days.

Why the shameless plug for Swiffer you ask? The answer is simple, chores. I’ve been told by different sets of parents that they think my chore chart and chore assignments for my older two children Max and Natalie are “a bit much.” I disagree. I think they have things waaaay too easy and here’s why.

Back when my three brothers and I were latch key kids, we didn’t have the dust and hair attracting fibers of the Swiffer duster or the combo power of the Swiffer dry duster with vacuum action. What did we have you ask? I had a ten year-old t-shirt that my father had finally given up on, a bottle of furniture oil (try cleaning ornately carved elephants made of wood with a ratty old t-shirt and you can talk to me about “a bit much”) and about an hour after school before my mom came home and started cooking dinner. My older brother was in charge of taking out the trash. My brother Ben was in charge of vacuuming. We were all under the age of 10. I can’t remember what my younger brother had to do. Oh yeah, probably nothing. Typical!

Back to my point. My point is that I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal for my children to have chores. I was once told that if you want to reinforce a certain behavior, modeling an activity is the best way to do it. When I started using my beloved Swiffer products, my intention was never to turn my kids into Swiffer-loving cleaning machines. They saw me cleaning and they begged to help. Now that I ask them to do it on a regular basis, they don’t face the tasks with the type of dread and gloom that I may have approached mine when I was 7.

Unless we want to live in a world full of entitled kids, I think we all need to get back to giving our children chores. And, the good news is, Swiffer offers all kinds of coupons on their website!

Disclaimer: Though I freely admit to exploiting my kids for this blog, the picture included on today's post was not posed. I literally could not get my daughter to give me my Swiffer back. It nearly turned into a wrestling match. I'm not proud.

When Did We All Become Cheerleaders?

OK, so I get it, positive reinforcement helps a child know when they are doing something you want them to do. We do it everyday. When a child comes home with a good grade on a test we say “good job!” When a child scores a goal at a soccer game we yell “Way to go!” But when did we go from the occasional “great job!” to literally cheerleading for every little thing they do? When did it become normal for a child to expect a toy just for finishing their meal at a fast-food restaurant? When did returning a toy that doesn’t belong to you become a reason to give someone a citizenship award?

I’m guilty of positive reinforcement on steroids. I launch into a full-scale cheerleading chant when my 2 year-old daughter sits on the toilet to attempt #2. When my oldest daughter cleans up her room without being asked I quite literally will do a touch down dance in the hallway. A month ago, I nearly lost my voice when my son brought home 105% on a spelling test (though he spelled recycle wrong, he got extra points for spelling engineer and guitar).

My parents are old school Filipinos. There were no touchdown dances, high-fives, sticky gold stars and bathroom chants during my childhood. When my brother scored three touchdowns playing Varsity football as a junior in high school, my father would ask him why he didn’t score four. When I brought home all A’s my father would ask why not all A+’s. My brother once won an art contest in school and though he brought home a ribbon and was featured in the local newspaper, there was no accompanying party or spontaneous wave done at the dinner table.

Surely there must be a happy medium between no reaction, modest reaction and full-scale arena style cheering to keep a child motivated and let them know that you think what they’re doing is pretty terrific. While I know my kids appreciate my enthusiasm, will my touchdown dances, chants and woo-hoo’s become so regular that when the big things occur, graduation, winning the Pulitzer (It’s OK to dream!), getting their first job, the impact will be less special?

Politics and Parenting in the Year of Obama

One of the eight words that my two year-old twin son can say clearly is “Obama.” That he can say the name of the President is a great source of pride for my husband and I even though it would probably be far more useful for him to be able to say, “hungry,” “tired,” or the penultimate “potty.” His twin sister, in contrast has been speaking in full sentences since she was about 15 months old and can say his entire name, “Barack Obama,” clear as day.

My twins learned the name of our President during the many hours their mom was glued to primary and election coverage. Given that my four children will probably not understand the magnitude of what it means for a non-white president to be elected during their lifetime, I thought it a good idea to at least give them a sense of what was going on in Washington.

During the primaries and especially during the general election debates, I would sit in bed with my four children and try to have them watch the news coverage. My husband would roll his eyes as I would tease the upcoming TV coverage, “After dinner and dessert, we’re going to watch the Obama and McCain debate (if I had been more creative, I could have probably come up with a name that sounded more like a Disney Channel movie). Often, these forced sessions turned into full-scale mutiny for the channel to be changed or crying fits for my husband to take them down to the basement for rough-housing or a DVD animated movie. On the nights where the twins fell asleep early and my two older children stayed with me to watch a debate, sometimes the sessions would turn into discussions.

When Sara Palin winked at the camera and I audibly gagged, my son asked me what was wrong. I told him I didn’t think it was appropriate for a candidate to wink at the TV to get her point across, and that I believed in the power of words over the overt use of feminine wiles. When John McCain said “That guy…,” and gestured in a nearly dismissive way to Barack Obama, I pounded my fist on the bed. My daughter asked me what was wrong. I told her that it was disrespectful to not call another opponent by their name.

With the election coverage turning to the first 100 days coverage, turning to first puppy coverage, turning to how the administration is dealing with Swine flu coverage, I wonder how much of this election my children will remember. I also wonder if allowing them to hear my political point of view will taint the way that they look at the world. For better or worse, my political ideas are nothing I will hide from my children. My hope is that they stay active citizens, enjoying every freedom this country affords, including having a political point of view.

It's All About Faith

I had three tough pregnancies. I’m not looking for pity or compassion I’m just stating fact. When I say I tough I mean 5-6 months of feeling like I had just been punched in the head, puking everyday sometimes 10 times a day and having to finally have home nurses come in and stick an IV in my arm so that I could have some fluid in my body. Suffice it to say that I did not fit the vision of the beautiful, plump, rosy cheeked pregnant woman that people compliment for “pregnancy glow.”

My husband Paul was taken completely by surprise by my body’s reaction to pregnancy. His assumption was that given that I am nearly obsessed with food, that pregnancy would be nine sublime months of watching his wife eat anything she’d like without the guilt. After I got pregnant the 3rd time and we found out it was twins, I thought my husband would turn tail and run for the hills straight from the ultrasound room.

Knowing how tough my pregnancies had been, those who knew me well could not believe I had gotten pregnant a third time. One friend asked me how I could do it to my body again given what I had experienced with Max & Natalie. While everyone’s experience with pregnancy is different, I believe the common denominator is faith. Acknowledge it or not, all pregnant women go on a 9-month journey of faith. It must take a nearly delusional amount of faith to grow another human in one’s body and trust that:

- you’ll know how to hold the baby

- you’ll know how to bathe a baby

- you’ll know how to survive sleep deprivation and not drop the baby in the middle of the night

- you’ll know how to loose the ass fat and flubby bits that linger around the waist (unless of course you are Heidi Klum – tall, gorgeous, German alien!)

- you’ll know what to do the first time your baby is sick

- you’ll know what to believe about vaccinations after hearing a head-spinning amount of medical experts contradicting themselves everyday on 24-7 cable news

- you’ll never curse, raise your voice or have horrible thoughts about sneaking your baby into an R-rated movie because you’re sick of Baby Einstein videos

- you’ll know how to love the baby and weather all things from teething to potty training to first time defiance to experimentation to dating to getting their drivers license and hopefully navigating them through the crazy world you’ve brought them into

If we could bottle the faith that women must have in nearly bulging abundance during pregnancy, could we sell it to the pentagon and find a way to end all matter of disagreement, war and genocide in the world?