I was planning a scathing post on the epic fail that is the choice of Sarah Palin as Republican VP nominee, but after seeing that woefully unprepared, out-of-her-depth interview with Katie Couric I just can’t do it. Not right now anyway, seems unnecessarily cruel. She’s apparently going to have some more interviews before the VP debate; depending on how people perceive her performances afterwards, I may have to resurrect my original objections.

But I do want to address something that her supporters tout, that I have not heard her come out and say in so many words. Her saintly shouldering of the “burden” of a special-needs child. I actually heard a girl in line at the store say just how much she admires Palin for that. Look, having a child with special-needs doesn’t make you extraordinary, or a saint, or a martyr; it makes you a mom, just like every other mom in the world. No better, no worse. I’m sure Sarah Palin herself does not look on her child as a burden, so why this public saint-making?

Oh yes, she found out, through amniocentesis, that she was carrying a child with Downs Syndrome and made the choice to continue her pregnancy. So what.

Why is it so amazing to people on the right that she would have her baby. Would these same people choose to terminate if they found out they were having a special-needs child? Is that now an acceptable reason to compromise one’s personal convictions? Are these people against terminating pregnancies except if the baby isn’t “perfect” and then it’s fine and dandy? So I guess that’s what makes Palin so saintly for having her “imperfect” baby. Well then, it seems that lots of moms (and dads, too) should be up for sainthood, including lots of Democrats. Which, no doubt, comes as quite a surprise to Phyllis Schlafly.

On September 2, Phyllis Schlafly went on a radio show and spewed forth this hateful bile: “If Sarah Palin were a Democrat, she would have aborted the baby. That’s the difference between the Republicans and the Democrats. And Sarah Palin demonstrated that she is pro-life in contra to all of the Democrats.”

She continued on with some statistics and the assertion that Democrats are full-on all about the abortions. Must be why none of us ever have any kids. Oh wait, we do. What do you know about that?

Before I move on let me set the record straight, (addendum) Shlafly-style. Contra to all of the Republicans, we (Democrats) believe that no one should be discriminated against because of race, religion, ethnic background, gender, age, ability, or sexual orientation (I think of it more as “sexual hard-wiring”); we believe that all people should have a living wage and affordable healthcare and enough to eat; we believe that quality education is the first step to a better life; we believe that concern for children does not stop at birth; we believe that families have value, all families of all configurations, not just some faux-50’s “ideal” family; we believe that hatred is not a family value; we believe the earth is not ours to destroy; we believe that waging preemptive war is a bad thing; we believe that religious beliefs are best taught in the church and in the home and should not be promoted in schools; we have respect for people of faith, different faiths, or no faith at all and are not so presumptuous to imagine that we can force others to our personal beliefs; and for the record, Phyllis, being pro-choice means that we respect each other enough to trust that each woman is capable of making her own medical choices, that we have absolutely no right to dictate what happens inside of someone else’s body.

So there, I’ve just schlaflied all Republicans. I have presented my personal beliefs as the beliefs of all Democrats, painting those high-minded ideals as the polar opposite of what all Republicans believe, regardless. I have vilified all Republicans, assuming that they all are greedy, selfish, bigoted, ignorant, fearful, hate-filled warmongers. (addendum)It isn’t right when I do it, and it is certainly wasn’t right when Schlafly did it. I know a lot of folks who vote republican because they mistakenly believe the lies put forth by people like Schlafly and others. (addendum)But I do not think they are evil, just deceived.

(addendum) But obviously many prominent right-wingers think all Democrats are evil, Schlafly, Dobson, Pat Robertson, too many to mention. And they have no problem spreading lies and hatred. (all addendums are dedicated to Bob.)

With such public figures proclaiming Democrats’ beliefs to be “evil”, is it any wonder that a delusional man walked into the UU church in Knoxville and opened fire? Is it any wonder that doctors have been murdered for providing legal, requested healthcare for women? Is it wonder that women still are at a wage disadvantage compare to men? Is it any wonder that people think single-payer healthcare is bad? Is it any wonder that gay people are still denied the right to marry the people they love in most states? Is it any wonder that synagogues and mosques are still targets of hatred? Is it any wonder that good stewardship of the earth has been rejected as weak? Is it any wonder that science and critical thinking have been thrown over in favor of superstition and denial? Is it any wonder children, and their care and their health and their education, are not our society’s first priority?

But children are generally a parent’s first priority. And even though I’m sure that Palin and I have very different parenting philosophies, I have no doubt she makes her children a priority and loves them to pieces. But she’s no saint for carrying a pregnancy to term.

And here’s why: If either of my children had had Downs, I too would’ve carried them to term, because I would have not found out until after they were born. I got kind of a late start on having babies and was offered amniocentesis for my daughter. The doctor told me there was a slight risk of miscarriage, and after having two miscarriages I really didn’t want to even slightly risk another. But my decision to forgo the amnio was cemented when the doctor asked both of us, “Would it make a difference?” He was asking us if we would terminate such a pregnancy. We both said, quite forcefully, “No!” And he told us not to take the chance.

That decision didn’t make me a saint. That decision made me a mom, just like every other woman who has a baby. And even if I had decided to go ahead with amnio and had gotten a diagnosis of Downs, I still would’ve had both my babies and not changed a thing! Hey, look at that, a Democrat who wouldn’t have terminated her pregnancies!

But I’m still not a saint, and neither is Sarah Palin.

My supernatural klutz powers are as strong as ever. I’ve always been a klutz–that saying about not being able to walk and chew gum at the same time? That’s about me. But this week has been a veritable showcase of accidents.

Tuesday evening I stopped at the store for a few things and went through the express lane. Just as I was turning to leave I slipped on a puddle on the floor and nearly hit said floor. But I only hit the puddle with one foot, slipping while the other foot remained in its original position. So I ended up nearly in splits position on the floor, which is no small thing for a chubby 40-year old woman with a bum hip. As always, innocent spectators were appalled while it was no big deal for me.

Then on Wednesday morning I fell on the front porch. It was raining and the porch was wet, and I was retrieving the stroller from the car. I hit a slick spot and then hit the ground. When I fall out in public I make a real effort not to yell or scream or cry or yelp, that way fewer people take notice of my humiliation. But that morning I was at my own house and nobody else was in view, so did I ever holler! Hubby heard me while he was in the shower. I told him that I fell, again, but that I was ok. I wasn’t, but what was he supposed to do about it? My leg is feeling much better now, thank you, but I re-hurt the foot I tore a ligament in when I was preggers with Pumpkin. That is not a happy foot.

The central problem seems to be shortage of synapses. If I try to do too much or even think about too much while trying to perform some kind, any kind of physical task, something fails. Usually my feet. You see, my body wants me to give my full, undivided attention to every little physical task. Not that I blame it, every time I don’t remain perfectly motionless my body is in mortal peril. But I’m not sure that remaining perfectly motionless would solve the problem. I’m the kind of person who would be struck by a meteorite while sitting on her own couch.

Apparently, when I’m walking, I should only be thinking “Right foot left foot right foot left foot…” This also applies to simple things like making lunch.

Today, while making lunch, I experienced a synapse malfunction of epic fail proportions. Boil water, insert pasta, sounds easy right? But there was a problem–I wasn’t just thinking “Open bag of pasta, pour into water.” I was planning an anti-Palin post in my head, and then I started thinking about grating some Parmesan for the pasta and wondering where my rotary grater thingy was. The cheese was the last straw, the straw that broke the synapse’s back.

Somehow, only slightly less than half the bag of pasta ended up in the pot. The rest spilled on floor and on the stove top, right around the burner I was using. Just barely on time, I remembered to turn off the flame before I started a massive kitchen fire. I’m pretty disappointed, it was a bag of tri-color fusilli from Italy. My favorite. Still, Pumpkin and I did have enough for lunch. And it was good.

Now if only I could manage to stay upright.

Like all parents, we have been stressing the importance of honesty to our children. But every time I told one of them to always tell the truth, I felt like a fraud. And I couldn’t understand why.

In the past two weeks I have had to admit some uncomfortable truths to myself. You see, I haven’t been happy in a very long time. But if you had asked me how I describe myself the answer would’ve been “happy,” until about two weeks ago. I’m not sad or mopey or depressed, and I confused the absence of depression with true happiness. If I had been more honest, I would have described myself as angry, thwarted, dissatisfied.

My husband said that I have been unhappy for as long as he can remember. And he’s right. There are bits and pieces of happiness in my life–Hubby, Monkey, Pumpkin. But running underneath it all is a fetid stream of disappointment and it has been there since I was a teenager.

It seems cliched and too easy to lay the blame on my parents, but they at least got the ball rolling. My parents were two very unhappy people. Dad always seemed happiest in his absence from home. When he wasn’t at work, he was at church, stuffing his life full of other people and crowding us out. He joined a bass fishing club so he could be away on Saturdays as well, free from the thought of all his many obligations.

Mother was an unhappy woman from a long line of unhappy women. My maternal grandmother never was allowed to fulfill her potential and she made damn sure that her daughter wasn’t either. To be fair, both of my parents seem much happier now. They take fun vacations and smile a lot more. Perhaps it was having children that turned them both into such curmudgeons. Now the pressure is off and they can afford to loosen up a little. And they are much better grandparents than parents.

I never felt as if my hopes and dreams carried any weight. Writing was the first thing I really wanted to do. I wrote my first free verse at 12, it wasn’t very good, but I was 12. I read it proudly to my parents who promptly belittled everything about it. They stabbed me right in the dreams.

As I matured, others took notice of my writing and praised me for it. But no amount of outside encouragement could make up for its utter lack in the home-front. Journalism seemed like a good outlet, so I joined the school paper. (And not at my parents’ prompting mind you. My driver’s ed partner encouraged me. Thanks Gina!) But journalism and I weren’t a good fit. And nobody ever informed me that you don’t have to write for the paper to have a career in writing.

I loved to write stories and used the typing practice my parents forced on me to write them. My dad would read the stories to check my typing progress and laugh at me for my ideas. I learned to push my dreams down where no one would laugh at them anymore.

When college time loomed, I quietly sent off for information from Bryn Mawr and Mt. Holyoke. I wanted so badly to go to a women’s college and study writing, but I knew better than to voice those desires. Again and again I silenced my dreams, refusing to give them voice.

Denying myself my hopes and dreams became a kind of survival mechanism. If I didn’t tell anybody what I really wanted, they couldn’t laugh at me, denigrate me, dismiss me. And after a time I forgot who I was and what I wanted. I forgot why I wasn’t happy.

I began looking for other things, outside things to make me happy. If I only do this thing, then I will be happy. But nothing outside of me had the power to make me happy or unhappy.

I always knew I wanted marriage and a family, so I married the love of my life, who loves me, happy or sad, good or bad. Adjusting to married life kept my mind occupied for a long time. Then just the busyness of life took over and I forgot, for a time, about the unhappiness. But then we started trying to have a baby and ran into some difficulties.

Unhappiness threatened to overwhelm me. My body was betraying me daily, steadfastly refusing to get pregnant. I mistakenly believed that my infertility was the cause of my unhappiness and when I finally had a baby, everything would be all right.

What a terrible burden to put on a baby. Then post-partum depression hit. I was in the deepest, blackest pit in the dungeon. Alone, unnourished, with only the dank, stony walls of my prison to comfort me. Even after I came out of PPD, I still had a load of anger and resentment to carry around.

No matter what I tried, I couldn’t off-load that anger and resentment. Too often they would come bubbling up to the surface, spilling over onto my poor family. I thought going to nursing school would “fix” me. But I don’t really want to be a nurse. I’m certainly capable of being a nurse, but I’m not suited to it. Maybe I was trying to curry favor with my impossible-to-please mother.

Finally I couldn’t take anymore denial–I had to admit to my husband and to myself just how I really felt. I had to admit that I am not the basically happy person that I fancied myself to be. I am not a happy person, there I admitted it. I was honest.

Then I had to figure out why. It felt like there was something missing inside, but what? What is this shape in my heart? The one that I can trace with my mind, the way you can trace a missing tooth with your tongue. Oh yes, that is the shape of my dreams, my hopes, the thing I really want but have been unable to say aloud in too many years.

I want to be a writer! An author, the kind that gets recognized and paid for her words. The kind whose thoughts are valued and whose ideas see the light of day in the printed word. I want my words, my thoughts, my ideas, my fine sharp mind, to be set down in print.

With a boldness I have never expressed before, I claim my dreams. Never again will I allow any thought of my parents to dictate what I do and do not write.So, to all my readers–I am now open for business as a writer. If you know anyone who needs a writer be sure to let me know and let them know, too.