Not.

I generally despise television advertisements, especially the ones aimed at women or their children.  We all know that children are rather suggestible; my son wants a blanket with sleeves and my daughter wants some of those wonderful hanger thingys. Personally, I could use some Space Bags ™ for my over-stuffed linen closet, but that’s neither here nor there. The worst commercials are aimed squarely at middle-aged moms.

There are the ads that want me to believe that Andie McDowell, Linda Evangelista, et al, would be dried-up, old hags without the unguents and potions they want us to buy. Or that grown women need to be small enough to fit comfortably in kid chairs or wear their teenage daughters’ jeans. Anything approaching a post-pubescent hip-width is greeted with horror.

OK, so not only are we supposed to maintain an impossible beauty standard, lest we suffer the odious fate of not being sexxxay anymore, we are also not allowed to feel physical or emotional pain. Now, I am all for medications to relieve pain or depression, solely for the benefit of the person in pain. But this attitude is apparently not shared by advertisement agencies. If we are depressed, we need to take antidepressants so we can be more social and not burden others with our sadness. Any benefit to the depressed person is but a side-effect.

Physical pain is even less acceptable. Women who suffer from fibromyalgia and rheumatoid arthritis are being targeted for several new pharmaceuticals. This is especially ironic because so many women suffering from fibromyalgia were told it was all in their heads by so many doctors for so many years. Now fibromyalgia is fully recognized as a medical disorder and women are getting the treatment they need. The thrust of the ad, though, is “take our meds ’cause middle-aged ladies in pain are no fun.”

My newest outrage comes from an aspirin company pushing their migraine-specific version. The tag-line is “Don’t let your pain become someone else’s problem.” The visual is a mom playing with a child. Because the only reason we should even want to relieve a headache is to keep from imposing on our families. God forbid we should want to get rid of the throbbing pain because it sucks for us! No, we alone are not worthy of a pain-free life. If not for our poor, beleaguered partners and children, we should just allow the pain of a migraine to reduce us to a mass of quivering, light-phobic jelly.

I don’t get migraines, but my tension headaches are real barn-burners. Trust me, the last thing I think about when I take those little blue gelcaps is whether or not someone else is inconvenienced by my pain. I am inconvenienced by my headache and that is enough. 

Interesting how you never see men-specific meds marketed as “cures” for other peoples’ problems. We never hear how a man’s sexual problems may be affecting his partner so he should take Brand X e.d. drug. Or how his frequent nighttime bathroom trips are also keeping his partner awake so he should take Acme Prostate drug. Every drug specifically marketed to men emphasizes the benefits to men. Weird.

Exactly why is there a difference in marketing? There are really only two possibilities, equally disturbing. One, marketing departments assume that women should only care about their health as it pertains to and affects others. Or the more probable two, the knowledge that women have been socialized, inculcated with the belief that they are defined only by their relationships to others.  Since we are not individuals, worthy in our own rights, we are just daughters, girlfriends, wives, mothers, sisters, grandmothers. And as just somebody else’s whatever, it is assumed that we won’t take care of ourselves unless we are told that our health problems make us bad wives or mean mamas or burdens on people who shouldn’t have to actually care for us.

The sad thing is, they’re right, to a degree anyway. Check out Twitter or Facebook profiles sometime. People who put their relationships to others first on the list are usually women. I’m guilty of this myself; wife and mother are the first two things on my profiles. Mr. Prairie, the most dedicated husband and father, doesn’t put either in his profiles. While anecdata is no proof, check it out yourselves. Moms are more likely to put that high on the list, because it is expected of us.

While parents of either gender are supposed to put their children’s needs ahead of their desires, only mothers are expected to subsume themselves to their families. If we don’t put ourselves dead-last on our own lists, we are horrible people, bad mothers, selfish bitches. Even when it comes to our health, we have to consider others first. So the ones taking care of others get the least care themselves.

Since most women have been thoroughly socialized to be nice and accommodating, and to fear being perceived as mean, selfish, forceful, or bitchy, maybe we do respond to different kinds of marketing. It just pisses me off. Maybe I’m weird, but I want companies trying to sell me something to acknowledge that I, alone, should be reaping the benefits of that something. I apply face cream to keep my skin from feeling tight, dry, and itchy. I take pain relievers so I don’t feel like hitting myself in the head with a tack hammer. Tell me why your face cream or lipstick will make me feel better, not sexier or younger. Tell me why your pills will make my body or head hurt less, just for me.

And any benefit to my husband and/or children can just be a side-effect.

Sunday marked the one year anniversary of the House of the Burning Prairie housefire. Can I please have a boring year now?

Sunday officially kicked my butt. Yesterday didn’t just beat me up–it punched me right in the kisser, held me down, and took my lunch money. Sunday had help. Friday softened me up for the kill with a little help from Thursday. Over a four day period I took my son on four trips to three different medical providers for two different issues.

Thursday was bad enough. Monkey noticed some swollen lymph nodes in his neck; they seemed to get bigger and more tender so I took him in. The nurse practitioner noticed a tick bite near the swollen glands. The tick had long since fallen off, but still. A TICK BIT MY BABY!

Then, on Friday, I got a call from the school. The secretary told me that Monkey was in the nurses office and I had to come get him and take him to the doctor, pronto. The nurse told me that he fell on the playground and split his head open and that he would need S-T-I-T-C-H-E-S (she spelled it out).

And if you didn’t know already, scalp wounds bleed. A lot. It was gruesome. Monkey proudly informed me that he didn’t even cry. Then he told the nurse that he didn’t cry and then he told the doctor that he didn’t cry.

Happily, they didn’t need to cut off any of his beautiful, golden hair to put in the three staples. But before they installed his new hardware, I got stuck with the difficult task of holding a piece of gauze soaked in numbing agent on that golden head for half an hour. Mr. Can’t-Sit-Still-Ever wanted to touch everything, climb on the gurney, pull on the room decorations, and generally make it nearly impossible to numb his little scalp.

Finally, after about forever, the doctor came in to install the staples. Monkey insisted on seeing the stapler first and declared that it looked like an alien robot. I’m so proud. After the staples went in, he said it just felt like he got stuck with a thorn from a rose bush.

Robots and roses, that’s my funny little man.

We took it kind of easy on Saturday. We went out to lunch and then hung around the house. I went to work and came home at my customary wee hour. Mr. Prairie told me that Monkey had complained of a headache in his temples and had been given ibuprofen.

Sunday morning came too early, as usual. We needed to go to the grocery store and thought we’d get out early, while other folks were in church. Then Monkey sidled up to me and said, “My head hurts here, ” one hand to his temple. “And here, ” other hand to his other temple.

I called the pediatrician’s answering service. The doctor-on-call (the kids’ favorite) told us to take Monkey to an urgent care center. I’m fairly certain that every runny nose in town was there. Monkey closed his game and rubbed his eye. He told me it hurt and that everything looked foggy. I promptly freaked.

Oh, I may have appeared calm, but I was all panicky on the inside. When I told the lady at the desk about the vision-thing, they told me to take him to the E.R. I insisted on seeing a doctor first. She told me he needed a head CT. Right then.

Having children brought a new level of fear into my life. When I was pregnant I was terrified of miscarrying or being murdered for my precious cargo. I didn’t like going anywhere alone and developed an unreasonable suspicion of (and hostility to) anyone who seemed too interested in my belly.

After Monkey was born, I was nearly paralyzed with fear. Fear of dropping him, bathing him, overdressing him, under-dressing him; fear that he wasn’t getting enough milk even when he topped the 90th percentile for weight. I was scared of SIDS, abduction, germs, anything that could possibly harm my child.

As he has grown and begun to venture the world (well, school anyway) without me, I’m scare because I’m not there to catch every fall, to cushion every harshness, to deflect the slings and arrows. I’ll have to face this same fear with my beautiful little girl next year, but for now, she’s still safe under Mama’s wing.

But yesterday, Sunday, that awful day, I was scared that my boy was going to die.

All from some stupid playground accident; all because my child, who knows no fear, tried to do a back flip on the monkey bars.

I couldn’t show that fear to my sweet baby, but several receptionists and nurses witnessed me fighting back the tears and the terror.

The coolest ER doctor on the planet (he had Chewbacca and Boba Fett on his stethoscope!) shone a bright ray of hope and joy into my black pit. After fully examining Monkey’s head, eyes, reflexes and cognitive functions, the doctor told me that a CT scan was not necessary. At worst, Monkey has the mildest of mild concussions.

After that, my alive-and-kicking baby tried to dismantle the gurney and demanded popsicles of everyone who entered the room.

After they sprung us we went out to lunch at his choice and then went grocery shopping. Both the kids were absolutely atrocious at both places and I couldn’t have been happier.

Oh, Monkey has promised us no more back flips! At least until I can get him into gymnastics.

After so many hours containing my abject terror and putting on the brave face, I cried all the way to work, while thanking God for saving my little boy.

We have never been coy and evasive about biology in this House. I don’t scream and shamefully cover myself when one of the kids walks in on me in the bathroom (which is pretty much all the time). In fact, I’ve told Mr. Prairie that I should write a parenting book called, “He (or She) Won’t Let Me Pee!” Heck, I’ve even covered the rudimentaries of evolution with Monkey.

When we found out I was pregnant with Pumpkin, we told Monkey right away. We prepared him for her arrival and told him that she was growing inside Mama just like he had. He has always enjoyed the story of the day he was born and he loves to look at pictures from that day. Of course that first picture shows my head wearing an oxygen mask on the operating table, one screaming baby, and a blue surgical drape.

Monkey watched me get bigger by the day and was one of the two people allowed to touch my belly and feel the baby move. (The other one was Mr. Prairie.) He knows that babies grow inside of mommies. Of course we haven’t yet had to tell him how babies get inside the mommies. But I will handle it in an age-appropriate and medically accurate way.

So I was a little surprised at a very knee-jerk, visceral reaction I had today. Monkey comes in with Pumpkin’s big Dora doll and a much smaller baby doll and informs me that Dora had a baby. I laughed and said that was silly since Dora was just a little girl. Then my too-smart-for-his-own-good son says, “Ok, Dora is a teenager and had a baby!” And since I, in no way, shape, or form, want to give the impression to my children that teenage pregnancy is an acceptable thing, I freaked.

I said, “Teenagers shouldn’t have babies! That’s BAD, BAD, BAD!!!!!EleventyOne!!!!”

Then Monkey asks, “Why not?” A reasonable question that now means I have to find some logic behind my emotional reaction. I can’t, and won’t, use a lot of moralistic crap, that I don’t even believe, on my kids.

I’m not trying to sound like a scold, but I honestly believe that teenage pregnancy is not something to be encouraged or even condoned, but something to be prevented. I don’t subscribe to the notion of sticking one’s head in the sand, fundamentalist-style, and realize that parents can only guide, not force, teenagers to good decisions. But right now I don’t have teenagers, I have two small to middlin’ children. So how was I, a logical and liberal mom, to explain my objections in an honest, non-hypocritical way?

I settled on the health angle. I told Monkey that teenagers’ bodies are still growing and it’s healthiest for mamas and babies if the mamas are full-grown adults. He accepted that answer, for now. I’m sure that we’ll be having weightier discussions on this subject in fewer years than I may like, but I think I handled this one pretty well. Especially for being caught so off-guard.

That’s what kids excel at–catching Mom and Dad off-guard. And mine are pros at it.

Baby oil removes “permanent” marker marks from skin. How did I come to acquire this little tidbit of knowledge, you may ask? Because I have a 3, soon to be 4, year old, that’s how.

Yesterday morning, Pumpkin somehow managed to access my purse, which was hanging on a rather high coat rack. Seems the child has gotten taller since we hung the pegs on the wall, imagine that. Anyway, the little pickpocket found one of my Sharpies, lucky for all of us she found the pink one and not the black one.

I didn’t find out about the theft until I noticed the silence. That eerie silence that occasionally descends upon the House; the kind of silence you hear in old Westerns when the notorious gunfighter walks into the saloon; the kind of silence that usually only exists in libraries or funeral parlors; the kind of silence that always means a kid is up to no good. Mr. Prairie walked in and asked what Pumpkin was doing and I decided that I should find out. Together, we opened her door and peered in just as she threw something under a box, spun around, and yelled, “Nothing!”

When Pumpkin yells “Nothing!” you can bet that it’s something, and it’s never a good something. She had stashed my pink Sharpie under the box, after liberally applying said marker to her hands, arms, lips (just like lipstick!), and bellybutton. We didn’t immediately discover the bellybutton thing. Mr. Prairie called out from the back of the House, “Check her bellybutton!” I did, and she had. Why she is so fascinated with coloring in her bellybutton I will never know, but this not the first time she’s done it so it wasn’t exactly a surprise.

Getting the stuff off of her was quite a chore. Scrubbing didn’t work, fingernail polish remover didn’t work, lotion didn’t work. I was down to my last idea so I gave it a whirl. So if anyone ever asks you how to remove Sharpie marks from toddlers, tell them to try baby oil.

Then just a couple of hours later, while we were shopping in Big Warehouse Club, we got a call from Monkey’s school. The school nurse called and left me a voicemail telling me that he had been in an accident at recess. She said that his lip was split and swollen, but that he had already returned to class.

Monkey looked like the losing side in a prize fight. His sweet little upper lip was very swollen and red and there was blood on his clothes. He told us that he fell face first on the blacktop while engaged in a rousing game of something he and his little cronies call “Midnight Joker.” I’ve never been able to determine the exact rules of “Midnight Joker,” but it seems to involve climbing to the top of the tallest piece of playground equipment, throwing oneself off of it, and yelling, “I’m the midnight joker!” I hate that game. And now I’m mad at that song.

So I started a new tradition, when a child get hurt in school, he or she gets special treat. I took him to the store and let him pick out some candy.

This morning the last thing I said to Monkey when I dropped him off at his classroom was, “Be careful!” Apparently he didn’t listen.

When I picked him up this afternoon his teacher greets me with, “You are never going to guess what happened today. Monkey tripped in the classroom today, got a big scratch under his eye, and hurt his lip in a different spot!”

Today, I bought him some ice cream. If he does this for a third day in a row I’ll assume he’s doing it for the snacks.

OK, I guess I need to get this toddler potty-trained. She starts Pre-K in the fall and they won’t take her if she’s not potty-trained. HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am putting out the call to all parents, especially anyone who has been through this with a girl, for any help you can give. I perfectly open to buying books, treats, prizes, special products, anything it takes. But I need some advice here, and possibly some consensus.

There are techniques and programs that people swear by, but I don’t know which one to try. This child does not seem interested in the least. I’ve tried to let her take the lead on this, but we’re getting down to the wire here.

What hasn’t worked? The potty chair she picked out all by herself, the potty ring that lets her be a big girl on the big potty, Hello Kitty underpants, promises of kitties or a puppy, and appeals to her better nature. The only thing I will not use? Candy or other foodstuffs as a reward.

HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Work is going forward on our House, hopefully we’ll be out of Hotel of the Burning Prairie by Halloween. It’s not bad, really, just a little cramped for two active kids; and the fold-out bed I’m sleeping on is killing my back.

Pumpkin is about the only one of us who seems unaffected by our situation, probably because of her age. And her generally role-with-the-punches temperament, which she developed as a result of being Monkey’s little sister. My patience is cut short and frayed at the ends. Work feels like a rest at this point. Hubby’s, shall we say, “artistic” temperament is more pronounced. (And people say women are moody!). At one point, he looked at me and told me he felt stressed and didn’t know why. I looked at him, mouth open in disbelief, and said, “Hello! You were in a House fire, with the babies!” And he said, “Oh, yeah.” Like it snuck up on him, unawares.

I wasn’t there during the fire itself, so I can deal with this at a remove. But I told Hubby he needs to start processing this or he’s going to suffer from PTSD. He was in a House fire, with the babies! I told him that he’s my hero for keeping my babies safe, but he still has a lot of stuff with which to deal.

Monkey is still processing all of this and he probably will be until well after we move back into our House. He thrives on routine and doesn’t care for change, so he’s acting out more than usual. He cried twice this week when I dropped him off at school, something he usually doesn’t do. But our situation is anything but usual.

There was a substitute on his first day of school after the fire, but his regular teacher was back the next day. She said that he told her all about the fire, “in great detail.” When Monkey and Pumpkin play, I hear a lot of pretend involving fires. I know that this is part of his way of dealing with what happened, and all the changes that have resulted, so I just listen but don’t intervene. Part of his way of dealing involves art. Monkey is just as creative and talented as his father, and just as temperamental.

He tells us he wants to be an architect when he grows up; he wants to design and build cities. The walls of our room are now sporting what Monkey calls his “art museum.” He has been prolific, drawing and constructing submarines, safety signs, volcanoes with cave men, and many, many houses. I told Hubby that I think Monkey’s drawing so many houses because he’s not in his own right now. He misses our silly, old, ghost-lousy House of the Burning Prairie.

And so do I.

As all of you know, I am a mom of two beautiful and frustrating children. Sometimes they drive me nuts (and it’s a short drive), sometimes they make me laugh, and all of the time they make me ache with how much I love them. I’m not perfect, I’ve never claimed to be, in fact I am a deeply flawed individual who’s just trying to do my best by this family. Not every parenting decision will be perfect or even all that good, no one can hit it out of the park every day. I’ve tried to learn from the mistakes my own parents made (so I can make all new mistakes!) and just hope that the kids don’t have to get therapy.

One thing I have learned is that if a child is being violent, destructive, or dangerously reckless, you stop them. Immediately. When a child hits or bites or physically lashes out in other ways, you intervene. You don’t wait to see if the other child is going to get upset or fight back; you don’t wait to see if the situation will work itself out. Children love to make messes and that’s OK, as long as there is no actual damage done. When making a mess devolves into damaging and destroying their own or others’ belongings, you stop it. You don’t wait to see just how bad the damage will get. Once a child sinks into destructo-mode, you don’t wait to see if he or she will calm down and clean up his or her own mess. When you see a child, any child, preparing to do something reckless, stupid, dangerous, something that permanently damage them physically, you stop them. You stop kids from running into the street, you stop them from throwing themselves off the top of the jungle gym, you lock up your cleaning products so they don’t get into them. Much of parenting is stopping children from doing the things that they don’t know are dangerous.

The Republican party is a big, violent, destructive, and reckless child, and it’s way past time to stop them. The entirety of the GOP needs a time-out. In 2000, the current administration claimed to be all about restoring dignity to the White House. Instead we have had eight years of the worst behaviors childhood has to offer: selfishness, greed, fear, bullying, lack of empathy, the inability to understand consequences, detachment from reality, meanness, hatred, pettiness, poor impulse control. The GOP runs with scissors and does NOT play well with others.

In 2004, in the midst of a war of choice, I heard many people say that George Bush the lesser should be re-elected so he could clean up his own mess. But the thing about it was, Bush wasn’t (and isn’t) just throwing his toys on the floor and spilling his grape juice on the couch. Bush was (and is) hurting other people and tearing up other people’s stuff. And his complete lack of judgment, utter recklessness, and ignorance of consequences has led his party, and the rest of the country, into many kinds of trouble.

The grown-ups in this country should’ve put this over-grown toddler into time-out four years ago, but we made some poor parenting decisions.

There is a ridiculous school of parenting-thought that advocates down-playing negative behaviors and praising positive behaviors. This is about using positive reinforcement only. Maybe it works on perfect children, but it sure doesn’t work on mine. You can’t just go around hoping to catch your kid doing something good so you can over-praise him. Oh! Little Johnny finished his lunch! “Thank you so much for finishing your lunch, Little Johnny, what a good boy, what a perfect boy!” Oops Little Johnny just ripped the arm off his sister’s doll, better to just ignore it, wouldn’t want to emphasis those bad behaviors.

I think that every half-way decent parent knows that you praise your children for the good stuff and deal out the consequences for the bad stuff. There’s a scene out of Mr. Hobbs Takes A Vacation that illustrates this beautifully. One of Mr. Hobbs’ daughter gets mad at him for stopping his grandchildren from doing something destructive. She haughtily tells him, “We don’t believe in saying “no” to the children. According to all modern psychologists, saying “no” leads to neuroses.” Mr Hobbs responds with, “It can also lead to bankruptcy, too, if he breaks enough stuff!”

Nobody has ever said “NO!” to Bush and he’s finally broken enough stuff in this country to lead to bankruptcy, not to mention what he’s done to the rest of the world. And his leadership has induced his party to jettison any pretense of real conservatism in exchange for greed-mongering, fear-mongering, war-mongering.

When my son hits his sister, he loses privileges and has to go to his room and stay there until he can act like a civilized human being. It is time to take away the GOP’s privileges and send them packing to their rooms until they can act like civilized human beings. You know, human beings that actually care about others. No longer can we adults, we parents of this country we are raising up, refuse our duty of discipline. It is high time that the GOP learn that there are consequences for their actions. And they are lucky we parents have become more enlightened.

Fifty years ago, they could’ve expected a peach switch out behind the woodshed; today they can expect an extended time-out (maybe eight years to pay for the last eight) and to not get to play with their video games. Let’s get busy here, parents, elect the grown-ups to the White House, the Governor’s Mansions, the state and federal legislative branches and give the GOP a little time, space, and perspective to do their own growing-up.

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.