Sleep – The Most Dangerous Activity

As a new mother, I’ve been given lots of advice on how to make my baby sleep better. Most of the advice makes perfect sense, and I’m grateful to receive it. However, when taken as a whole, it is impossible to follow sleep advice, because EVERYTHING IS DANGEROUS. AND EVERYTHING IS CONTRADICTORY. I’m being 100% serious. There is no safe, effective way for a baby to sleep. Anytime Nadia sleeps, she is courting death.

Here is what I’ve been told about baby sleep –

1) She must sleep on her back.
2) If she sleeps on her back, she might choke to death on her vomit, like some degenerate 70s musician.
3) If she sleeps on her back, she must remain elevated, in order to prevent reflux.
4) It’s best for her to sleep on her stomach, to help with gas pains.
5) Sleeping on her stomach will kill her, because her face could get smashed into the mattress and she will suffocate and die.
6) Sleeping on her side is best, because it will prevent her from choking to death on her vomit.
7) Sleeping on her side will kill her, because she will roll over and suffocate herself and die.
8) Babies like to sleep swaddled, so make sure to wrap her up in a blanket nice and tight.
9) Babies should never sleep with blankets, because the blanket could somehow get wrapped around her neck like a fucking boa constrictor and suffocate her. OR it will get pulled over her face, and it will suffocate her.
10) She should sleep in our room with us, so we can monitor her and keep her safe from suffocation and vomit.
11) She should not sleep in our room, because it’s a bad habit and we’ll never get her out of there if we start it now.
12) She should sleep in our bed, because it keeps her happy.
13) She should not sleep in our bed, because we will roll over on her and kill her.
14) You will only roll over on her and kill her if you’re drunk or something. KEEP HER IN YOUR BED!
15) YOU’RE HITLER! HOW DARE YOU ADVOCATE KILLING BABIES? DOCTORS SAY! EXPERTS SAY!
16) She should sleep in her swing, because babies like the rocking motion – it’s soothing.
17) Except babies should not be in a swing for more than a half hour at a time, because swings haven’t been tested for sleep safety.
18) A used crib will kill your baby, because the mattress has chemicals and mold in it that will cause….asphyxiation?
19) A new crib will kill your baby, because the chemicals on the mattress are still fresh and will cause….asphyxiation?
20) A chemical-free mattress will kill your baby because those chemicals prevent fires. Do you want your baby to die engulfed in flames? WELL DO YOU?
21) Bassinets are good for the baby – use a bassinet!
22) Bassinets are dangerous, because the baby will grow out of it too quickly and will topple out of it and hurt herself. Or die, of course.
23) Bassinets are fine, as long as the sides are made of mesh, in order to prevent suffocation.
24) In order to elevate the baby, you cannot use pillows or blankets or anything like that, because they will kill her. Instead, you should prop the mattress up, but putting blocks underneath it.
25) Never let your baby sleep in a mombo, or on a bean bag chair. Because, suffocation. Yes, it is effective, and yes, your baby loves sleeping in the bean bag chair. But don’t do it. Your baby will die.
26) OK, you can let her sleep in the mombo, but ONLY if you stay awake and watch her the entire time.
27) Don’t let the room be too warm – it can somehow kill your baby.
28) Use a baby monitor to make sure your baby doesn’t die.
29) Baby monitors can be hacked by creeps, so don’t use them.
30) Never let her sleep in a car seat. Car seats have not been approved for safe sleeping.
31) If she won’t sleep, strap her in the car seat and go for a drive!
32) Do not allow any toys to be in the crib with your baby when she sleeps. They will kill her.
33) Get a sleep aid toy and put it in the crib with her – something that makes soft music and has a little light show.
34) Your baby should be sleeping for 3-4 hours at a time.
35) Your baby should be getting on a more regular schedule now.
36) Have your baby sleep with a pacifier to help prevent reflux and SIDS.
37) Don’t allow your baby to use a pacifier – they cause tooth and gum problems.

These are just off the top of my head. And these are just the safety rules! Don’t get me started on the sleep rules for proper intellectual and emotional growth!

Identity Crisis

I think the hardest part of becoming a mother is reconciling the person I am with the person I want to be as Nadia’s mother. The person I want to be Nadia’s mother is very, very different from the person I am now, and the juxtaposition is jarring, and it makes me feel panicked, like I’ll just suck horribly at motherhood. I’ve never considered myself to be a mommy type – I’ve never been one to get all excited over babies, or baby type stuff. I’ve never really enjoyed babysitting. But here I am, about to become an actual mother – a change which I DO find exciting. I want to be the best possible mother, but it’s hard for me to feel like I will be a good mother, when so much of my character is not particularly maternal. Here is some of what I mean –

Nadia’s mother does not swear, or complain, or make snotty comments about things that are stupid – the types of speech that comprise 80% of all of Dana’s communications. Nadia’s mother lives by the phrase “If you don’t have something nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.” Dana lives by the phrase “If you don’t have something interesting to say, don’t say anything at all.”

Nadia’s mother only cooks nourishing, balanced meals from scratch. Nadia’s mother sits at the table when she eats, and uses napkins. Nadia’s mother has perfect manners, always. Dana likes to eat in front of the TV, on the couch, while watching Downton Abbey. For dinner she might have a giant bowl of mashed potatoes, half a bottle of Champagne, and chocolate. Or for breakfast.

Nadia’s mother protects her child from corrupting influences, and only allows her child to watch intellectually stimulating programming, like documentaries about the history of US foreign policy in Nicaragua, or maybe Sesame Street. Dana likes to watch extremely violent horror movies, and trashy TV programs about weight loss.

Nadia’s mother is always supportive and kind, and warm and fuzzy. Nadia’s mother makes Nadia feel loved and safe. Nadia’s mother is nurturing. Dana has tendency to be cold and dispassionate – not because she doesn’t care, but that’s just how she comes off sometimes. Dana would find it hard to be supportive if her daughter wanted to do certain things, like play soccer, or ride bicycles. There would not likely be a lot of nurturing of any horse-riding tendencies, if Dana were in charge.

Nadia’s mother is strict, and would never allow her child to talk back to a teacher, or use foul language, or stay up past her bedtime. Dana thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to talk back to a teacher if the teacher is dumb, Dana likes foul language, and Dana doesn’t care about bedtimes at all. Sleep when you’re tired. Figure it out.

It’s very important to me to be a good mother, and to set a good example for my child. If I were going to change my character in order to be a perfect mom, I would have approximately two weeks to change, or at least learn to conceal, the aspects of my character that are not suitable to motherhood. The problem is, I like the aspects of my character that need to be changed. I don’t want to sacrifice who I am in favor of being a “mommy”. I want to be a good mother without changing who I am, but that’s seeming less and less possible, the more I think about it.

I think for me, the solution will be compartmentalization. From now on, I have two identities. I am Dana – the person you currently know. And I am also “Nadia’s Mother” – who is all about being a perfect mother and not having bad habits. Both people will reside in me, and I will switch on and off as suits the occasion. That way I can still enjoy being the person I am – when Nadia’s asleep or not around – and I can still be a good mother.

I’m Starting to Understand Why People Home School

Choosing schools for your kids is an extremely complicated task in Orange County, fraught with peril and misdirection. Where I grew up, this wasn’t an issue. You went to whatever elementary school was closest to you, (there were like three) and then to the junior high (there was one), and then to the high school (again, only one). There weren’t any other options. There was, technically, one private Catholic school, but it only went up to 8th grade, and it was literally the only alternative to whatever public school you were assigned to based on your location, and since it was a poor area, most people couldn’t afford it, unless their parents were like, employed or whatever.

In Orange County, there are literally hundreds and hundreds of schools from which you can choose. BUT – and this is a big but – there is a VAST GAP in the quality of these schools, which means that your choice MATTERS. Everything in me says “Don’t worry about it Dana. It doesn’t matter what school your kid goes to – a kid can learn anywhere as long as she’s properly motivated. She doesn’t need the fancy bells and whistles, she just needs a desk and some books and old fashioned gumption.” But the more research I do, the more it seems that this attitude is a one way ticket to Loserville for my daughter. I need to step up. I need to do better.

So here are the options as I see them.

1) Nadia attends the local public schools.

The public schools she would be assigned to based on location are freaking awful. Like, really, really bad. The rankings show that the kids who attend these schools basically can’t read, or do basic math, or like, think. I like to think that my child would be able to rise above the crappy schooling and achieve good results anyway – you know, because of her inherent specialness – but let’s get real. It’s entirely possible that my child will not be special, and will need a school that can provide her with basic educational requirements.

However, as awful as these school are, I’m not totally throwing out the idea of sending her to them. I could just supplement her learning myself with lots of at-home tutoring, music lessons, etc. Also, there is the added benefit of saving money, since the public schools are free. Also, I don’t want my kid to be separated from people who are lower on the economic spectrum – I don’t want to foster an attitude of elitism in my child. Sending her to public school will help to curtail that.

2) Nadia attends the local Catholic School, St. Justin Martyr, and then goes on to Mater Dei or Cornelia Connolly.

The private Catholic schools are better in quality than the public schools, there is no doubt. However, Phil is dead set against our child attending any kind of religious school, for reasons with which I don’t agree. But he’s footing the bill, so there it is.

There are downsides to the Catholic school route from my perspective as well. One, we’re not Catholic, and would be charged extra tuition as a result.

I don’t particularly care from a religions stand point – it’s true that I’m not Catholic, I’m Episcopalian, but honestly, I’d send my kind to a Hindu school if it was the best education available. But there are other options available – better options – that won’t teach my child a religion to which I do not subscribe.

But there are pros as well to the Catholic school route. St. Justin Martyr is just a short walk from our house. Many of the more interesting people I know went to Catholic school – I don’t know what it is, but I think Catholic school makes people more interesting. Also, if our daughter goes to Cornelia Connolly, we won’t have to worry as much about her slutting around, since it’s an all girls school. Unless she’s a lesbian, in which case we sent her to Disneyland.

The cost of attendance is not as high for Catholic schools as for other types of private schools, and they do offer some financial aid.

3) Nadia attends local non-religious private schools, then goes on to private boarding school.

This is the way I’m leaning.

There are some very good private schools in the OC for K-8. VERY good. And though the cost is from $30k to $50k per year, they offer financial aid based on your family’s income. Of course, she would need to take tests to qualify for these schools, and her admission would be contingent on her aptitude. But if she can get in, they can waive all or part of the tuition.

Then it gets really exciting! Once she is ready for high school, we can apply for prestigious boarding schools. If she has the appropriate educational background, she should have no problem getting in. And best of all, lots of the boarding schools offer scholarships and tuition waivers as well! I’ve been looking at these schools, and they make my mouth water, they are so awesome. The offer courses like “Advanced Arabic” and “Keynesian Economics and other Models” and “Robotics”. They go on week long trips to do things like white-water rafting, and building houses for habitat for humanity. You see, if she gets in, Nadia will have ALL OF THE OPPORTUNITIES. ALL OF THEM. The best education of them all!

You might be wondering why I’m not considering sending her off to boarding school at an earlier age, since I’m so gung ho about it. Well, I guess I worry about sending her off too young, before she’s ready to handle the responsibility of living away from her parents. I know the kids in Harry Potter did it, and I know that it’s done in lots of places (England), but I would worry too much I think. Selfish, I know. But I never claimed to be unselfish.

But I think that being away during her high school years will teach her responsibility, toughness, and resourcefulness. And it’s not like she’d just be living on her own in an apartment somewhere – these are very structured environments, and there is plenty of supervision and guidance. I think it would be the just right balance of freedom and responsibility.

But there are some cons: I think being away from my daughter might be hard at first. Also, if she doesn’t qualify for scholarships or tuition waivers, there is no waaaaaaaay we could afford these places. They are reeeeeeeeally expensive. And being the paranoid person I am, I think I would feel the need to compulsively check on Nadia to make sure she’s ok, and I would basically turn into a stalker. Also, I would worry that she would be overly exposed to rich people, and as a result she would either develop an inferiority complex or a snotty attitude. Because while I want her to have the best possible education, I also want her to be comfortable dealing with people from all along the financial spectrum, not just the wealthy. Sheltered and pampered is not what I’m going for.

Of course, I have no idea what the future will bring. I do have a few years to make these decisions, and a lot could change my mind in the interim. But I shudder to think of Nadia sitting in classes designed for the intellectually unfortunate, growing bored and getting into trouble. Or worse, becoming discouraged with learning and discouraged with life and turning her brain off for years. Alternately, I shudder to imagine Nadia having a “learning disability”, and needing extra attention, but instead of sending her to a good program to help her, she gets stuck in some awful school where she’ll get the worst special ed ever, where she won’t be taught anything except how to properly brush her teeth, and maybe how to count. Though I suppose if she’s a little on the slow side, we have to consider a whole different set of options.

Choosing schools is overwhelming and hard. Maybe I should wait a couple years before I decide. But I hate leaving things undecided.

Skills I Have Not Acquired

Most people learn basic life skills in childhood, or at the very least, in early adulthood. I flatter myself that I’m pretty good at “life skills” but there are a few areas where my competency is lacking. For whatever reason, I just never learned how to do this shit.

1) Washing my face in the sink.

I always wash my face in the shower. It’s easy. I keep my face wash on the shelf in the shower stall and wash my face and rinse it in the shower stream. For me, this makes total sense.

But I think most people wash their faces in the bathroom sink. Read any skin care guide, and it will recommend that you wash your face twice a day – and since most people don’t shower twice per day, that must mean that they expect you to wash your face in the sink. Also, you see this on TV and movies a lot. A person just turns on the sink and splashes water on her face, like it’s no big deal – like it’s something that can just be done, easy as that.

I have tried to wash my face in the sink, and this is what happens –

I get water ALL over the place. Not just on my clothes and body, but on the sink, in my hair, and then all over the floor as I frantically flail around trying to reach the towel.

I have tried to remedy this by taking my clothes off first, keeping the towel nearby, and pulling my hair back away from my face, but I’m still utterly unable to keep water from getting all over the bathroom, like I took the shower nozzle and fucking sprayed it around, for funzies. I might as well just scrub the entire bathroom every time I wash my face in the sink.

2) Folding the bottom sheet.

I am not entirely certain I had sheets before the age of twelve – if I did, I don’t remember them. After I moved in with my dad, I had one set of sheets, but only one. When necessary, I would wash and dry the sheets, and then put them back on the bed the same day. This is how I lived until I moved in with Phillip and his bizarre fancy rich boy need for multiple sheet sets.

And I learned the following: It is not possible to fold a “bottom” sheet. No matter how hard I try, it just winds up in a giant wad in the linen closet. How do people do it? How do they fold the bottom sheet to make it nice and wrinkle free? Is that even a thing? How? HOW?

3) Opening packaged food.

I suck at opening packaged food. I can handle, like, a candy bar, and other such things. But most of the time I get so frustrated with the excessive packaging that I just get a knife and stab it open, often ruining the shape of whatever was contained therein.

Phil gets frustrated with me when I take knives and scissors to things instead of opening things “How they should be opened” but I feel that my way is generally effective, if not always a means to aesthetically pleasing end products.

Phil: Honey, did you stab open the package of crackers? Again?

Dana: Yes.

Phil: Why do you do that?! Now you’ve completely ruined the top so we can’t reseal the package. See? (Here he shows me that there are two little plastic lines at the top, which supposedly you can press together to retain crisp-cracker-freshness. Below, in the middle of the bag, is a gaping hole where I have stabbed open the package.)

Dana: It’s ok. Just fold the bag over and everything will stay fresh.

Phil: siiiiiiiigh.

4) Opening and closing mini blinds.

I hate blinds for a myriad of reasons – they are tacky, hard to clean, and SO UGLY. But mostly I hate them because they are impossible to use.

Blinds always have three little ropes that you are supposed to pull to lower and lift them. Except they NEVER FUCKING WORK.

Let’s say you want to lower the blinds so you can have some privacy in your house. You pull the all the little ropes, and try to make the blinds go down. Nothing happens. You pull one of the ropes. Half of the blinds lower, halfway, at a severe angle. You pull the other rope to try to make the other side come down, evenly. Nothing happens. You try pulling all three of the ropes again. Now the blinds are back up at top, where they started. You begin experimenting, pulling on the various ropes and STILL YOU CAN’T GET THE BLINDS TO SHUT. Fifteen minutes later, you get a knife, because you’re going to stab them down, but then you remember that Phil will get angry at you if you stab the blinds down, so instead you stay out of the kitchen until you can force Phil to fix the fucking blinds. Then you spend the next week bitching about not having curtains.

5) Window washing

I CAN wash a window. It’s just that none of you will agree with me.

Every time I ever wash a window, someone tells me that there are “streaks”. I NEVER see the streaks. The window always looks just fine to me. For a long time, I thought people were just saying that to fuck with me, but at this stage in my life so many different people have said it to me in so many different window washing situations, that I have come to realize that the problem lies with me. I am physically unable to see or care about window streaks.

To me, as long as there is no obvious filth on the windows – like bird crap or dust – then the window is clean. But everyone but me is a Miss Picky Pants who can’t handle the fact that you can tell that there is a window there.

Well here’s a message for you, Miss Picky Pants. Once, when I was a little girl, I was at a friend’s house. They had a sliding glass door that was immaculately clean – you couldn’t tell it was there. And their five year old daughter thought it was open, and she ran right through it, shattering it. So what NOW Miss Picky Pants? Who’s the REAL hero? Me, who makes sure the window is clean, but not so clean you can’t see it? Or you, who obviously wants small children to get maimed and possibly killed, all so you can feel superior about your streak-free windows?

That’s right, Miss Picky Pants. I win.

Meeting Phil

I knew from the moment I met Phillip that I was going to marry him. Lots of people talk about “love at first sight” and stuff like that, but it was nothing so irrational. It wasn’t a particularly romantic feeling. It was mostly just a feeling of calm certainty. And shock. Lots of shock.

You see, I always assumed that I would marry a very different sort of man. He would be sporadically employed doing some kind of manual labor. Because of his inability to hold a job, I would be the primary breadwinner. He would be much dumber than me, and I would have to spend our entire marriage pretending to be even dumber than he was in order to boost his fragile ego and keep him from beating me, while simultaneously outwitting him in order to get my way. He would have constant grime under his nails, and his family would be dysfunctional. We would have to loan them money, and the more degenerate members would often live on our couch and steal shit from us. I would be pregnant all the fucking time. He would be super conservative, and kind of angry with it. There would be a lot of fighting.

Understand, that’s not what I wanted. It’s just what I thought I would get. I was in a negative state of mind when I met Phil.

You see, I had just got out of a relationship that may or may not have existed solely in my mind.

Ok, I’d better explain that, or else I sound really crazy.

There was this guy. We worked together at the gas station, and he did impressive things like teach himself Latin, and play chess with customers and make art and music. He was an existentialist. He took me out to dinner, coffee, swimming at the lake, etc. He surprised me with cheesecake and little letters that he would hide around the gas station for me to find. I felt dated. But we never had sex, which was confusing. I still to this day have no idea what his intentions toward me were. He announced one day that he was going to ride his bike to Chile to live on a commune. Not a motorcycle – a bicycle. And this wasn’t just idle talk. He left. He rode his bicycle to Chile to live on a commune. You see, that’s the kind of guys I liked for a while.

I met Phillip a few days after he left. I was in no way expecting to meet my future husband; I was mostly focused on my depression and self loathing. I was hoping to have a nice time at the party, but my hopes weren’t that high.

The party was at a mutual friend’s house. It was a Halloween party, though it took place on November 1st, and we were dressed in half-assed costumes. Phil was dressed as a “golfer” meaning he was wearing plaid pants and had a golf club. His hair was enormous and fluffy. And when I talked to him I was not bored. He had a sick sense of humor, and liked horror movies, and was funny and kind, and obviously not an idiot. I was comfortable talking to him in a way I hadn’t been with anyone I had ever met. And I knew – I KNEW – we were going to get married. I recognized him for what he was. The Best Person In The World.

But as the night went on, I became confused. He was a self described feminist, and a vegetarian, trying to transition to vegan. He was studying management information systems. At the time, I was basically a carnivore. I couldn’t just have steak; I had to have steak with gorgonzola crumbles and butter. I had never eaten a salad. No really. Never. I didn’t use computers – in fact I HATED computers – and didn’t have the faintest notion of what “management information systems” was. His job involved computers, but it was over my head, and I didn’t understand him when he talked about it. He was friends with his ex-girlfriends. He didn’t know how to fix things or build things – he actually took his car to a mechanic. Not only was his family not dysfunctional, he had absolutely NOTHING bad to say about a single family member. This was a completely bizarre experience for me – every guy I had dated up until that point – even the ones who had good relationships with their families – had at least one negative thing to say, like “Oh it annoys me when my dad clips his nose hairs and insists on showing everyone” or something like that. Not Phillip. I assumed that his family was either The Brady Bunch, or they were the leaders of some mind-control cult that had brainwashed him.

How was this even going to work? I was Ron Swanson. And my future husband was the opposite of Ron Swanson.

This did not change my mind, however. I still knew that we were going to get married. I was just extremely, extremely surprised that this was the guy. He was so…not an asshole.

The party ended, and I left without giving him my number, or making any plans to see him again. I didn’t worry. I knew we were going to get married, so obviously our paths would cross again.

And they did.

About a month later, the same mutual friend threw another party – this time it had a “Eurotrash” theme, and we were supposed to dress accordingly. I got all fixed up and felt pretty cute, which was good. I wasn’t sure Phillip was going to be there, but I wanted to look as hot as I could, just in case.

And he did show up – WITH ANOTHER GIRL.

Ummm……no.

The “other girl” was super pretty, taller and thinner than me, with a gorgeous haircut that I wanted to copy for myself. I’m not one of those women who “hates” pretty girls, nor am I a jealous type, but I found her presence to be completely unacceptable. This was my future husband. What was she doing there with him? WHAT WAS SHE DOING THERE WITH HIM?

She had to go.

I sat on the couch, chatting with some girls, enjoying myself, waiting for him to approach me. He did – but WITH THE GIRL. Seriously? Seriously. I couldn’t tell whether they were a couple or not. They didn’t touch, and he introduced her to me using only her name, not as his girlfriend. This uncertainty drove me a little bit crazy – I’m not a boyfriend stealer, and I didn’t want to become one. But this WAS my husband. He was mine, whether he knew it or not.

I did what I had to do. I focused my attention on him like a laser beam. I acted like he was the only person in the world, and I addressed myself to him, and him alone. I’m not a natural flirt, and I’m not great at seduction. But what I am great at, is focus, and that can be just as effective if done properly – by that I mean not in a clingy stalker way, but rather in a “I find you fascinating” way. I made myself as interesting as possible, and made sure that he knew I thought he was fantastic. Other Girl got tired of it and left.

After a few hours, she came to where Phil and I were sitting on the couch, and asked Phil to take her home. He told me not to go anywhere, and that he would be right back. I smiled. Of course I wouldn’t go anywhere. I was enjoying his company, and would enjoy it even more if Other Girl was gone.

When he came back a few minutes later – he must have drove really quickly- I asked if she was his girlfriend.

No, no, she was just a friend.

I raised an eyebrow, but let it pass. Later, I found out that she was not, in fact, his girlfriend, and they were just friends. This made me feel better. Of course, later I would be freaked out by the vast number of female friends he had, but I would eventually get over that as well.

By the end of the night, we had exchanged numbers, and made plans for him to teach me how to play pool.

A few weeks later, I received a package in the mail – it was two books we had discussed at the party that I hadn’t read. He had gone home to California for Christmas, and sent me the package from there. I reciprocated by sending him a book we had discussed that he hadn’t read. He called me to thank me. Thus began our relationship.

My Smog Test Center

If I were to open a smog test center, here is how it would be different from all the other smog test centers:

1) There would be a customer service person working at a desk, who would greet you when you arrived. She would then process your paperwork, and give you an accurate estimated wait time.

This is in stark contrast to the current process, where you have to stand around a bunch of machinery for about 15 minutes, unable to find anyone who works there, getting progressively more annoyed. When you finally do locate a worker, he (always a he) may or may not give you a wait time. He is pulled away from his work to assist you, which slows the progress of his work, and makes everyone’s smog tests take longer.

2) There would be an actual waiting are with chairs and perhaps a water cooler or snacks. It would be clean.

Currently, there might be a chair somewhere if you’re lucky. Wherever that chair is located, while sitting in it you will feel like you’re trapped in a 1990s Bosnian bombed building. Water and snacks or magazines are mere pipe dreams.

3) The entire process would be routine, and uncomplicated. When you arrive, there would be an actual parking lot, making it clear where you should park. You would wait in the waiting area, until the smog check was done, at which point, someone would tell you that your car is done, and give you the results of your test. Your keys would be returned to you. Then you could leave.

The current process is the exact opposite of that.

Bad Diet Advice

As my pregnancy progresses toward its end, it’s time for me to turn my attention to my body and my plans for it after the baby is removed. Obviously, I will need to go on a very, very strict diet. I weigh more now than I have ever weighed in my life, and it’s sort of terrifying. Worse – it’s entirely likely that I will gain even more weight, as I am only 25 weeks along. So, after the baby comes, it will be time to get this shit under control.

I think back to all the diet tricks and tips I used to hear and try, back before I was pregnant. Some are sensible, like “watch your portion sizes” or “avoid fast food”. I’m not going to discuss those. What follows is the stupidest diet advice I’ve ever heard.

1) Drink water! Sometimes you aren’t hungry, you’re just thirsty. Also, water fills you up, so you’ll eat less.

Ummm….what? Hungry is hungry, and thirsty is thirsty, and if you can’t tell the difference between the two, there is probably something wrong with you neurologically. You might as well say “Just try taking a nap. Maybe you’re not hungry, you’re just tired.” No, I’m pretty sure I’m hungry.

And who gets full from drinking water? I have never in my life drank water and said to myself “Well, I guess I don’t need lunch today. I’m so full from that tasty water, I couldn’t possibly eat a bite.” That’s not a thing.

2) Eat lots of small meals throughout the day.

On the surface, this seems like great advice. It keeps your calorie counts low, and, theoretically, you’ll never be hungry, because you’ll always have a little snack.

Then I tried it, and realized that it’s the worst advice ever.

I meticulously planned out my little 200 calorie “meals”. I brought them with me to work in a little lunch bag, and carefully spaced them out throughout the day. I did this religiously for a week, and then I cracked.

Because it didn’t work. All it did was turn me into a cranky nightmare of a person. You see, humans need that feeling of being satiated. You need to feel like you’ve had a good sized, tasty, satisfying meal, and if you don’t get that feeling, you become a bad person full of hate.

Also, the effort involved in planning 7800 mini meals is exhausting. It’s too much effort. Worse, it means that you have to think about food CONSTANTLY. You have your little snack, and before you know it, it’s time for your next snack, but none of the snacks make you feel full, so you’re not only constantly hungry, you’re constantly thinking about food, because of all the planning and forced snacking. It’s absolute torture.

3) Every time you eat, ask yourself “Am I really hungry? Do I really want to eat this?”

Yes, I’m really hungry. Yes, I really want to eat this.

4) Only eat things with ingredients you can pronounce.

This makes the assumption that all chemical additives make you fat, which is not true.

This also makes the assumption that you have not graduated from the sixth grade, since everyone who HAS in fact graduated from the sixth grade should be able to pronounce any word on any food label she sees, provided that the food label is written in a language she speaks.

5) Instead of eating ice cream, put a plain Greek yogurt container in the freezer, then top it with berries. It’s just like ice cream, but healthier!

It’s nothing like ice cream, you sadistic fuck!

6) Don’t grocery shop when you’re hungry.

This might work for some people, but for me, it doesn’t work at all. If I’m full when I go grocery shopping I think everything looks unappealing, and I won’t buy anything.

7) Weigh yourself every day to check your progress.

Maybe there is something wrong with me, but my weight fluctuates almost 5 pounds, every day. I used to weigh myself every day, and it would confuse the crap out of me, because it seemed like it had no correlation with my food and exercise intakes. I would eat like 300 calories one day and do 4 yoga classes and a zumba class, and the next day the scale would say that I gained 3 pounds. Then I would eat out at Stacked and indulge myself and the next day my weight wouldn’t change. Your weight doesn’t change in exact lockstep with your actions – it takes a while for your body to adjust to whatever you do. So if you weigh yourself every day, you’re going to get confused, frustrated, and angry. Better to just weigh yourself once per week, and not obsess about every little ounce. Think “big picture”.

8) Distract yourself from food cravings with another activity. Like exercise! Or getting your hair done!

This might work for people with ADD or whatever. But some of us – particularly those of us who have the exact opposite of ADD – are not so easily distracted.

When a food craving comes to you, it’s not something that can be just brushed off, or set aside. It’s not a mosquito you can just bat away. That food craving will be with you for the duration of your life, until you give in to it. There’s no way around it. There’s no distraction strong enough to eradicate it. You must have it. You must.

The only way to get rid of a food craving is to indulge it. Better to just have a little bit of whatever it is you’re craving, or better yet, have a lot of it and then just work out.

9) Share dessert.

People who try to share my dessert piss me off. If you want a dessert, get one yourself. I’m not fucking sharing my food with you. I got this because I WANT it. I didn’t get it for you. If you’re such a weak little anorexic that you can’t handle eating an entire scoop of ice cream on your own, then you don’t deserve to have any ice cream. If you’re on a strict diet, then you shouldn’t be eating sweets at all, anyway. Leave my food alone!

10) Wear a tight belt, so if you overeat and your stomach gets distended, the belt will pinch and hurt you.

Seriously? So you already feel bad about your figure – hence the diet – and now you’re wearing an article of clothing that is designed to give you a muffin top? You’re already miserable from the starvation, and now you want to add additional physical and psychological torment on top of it? What is wrong with you? What kind of hideous self loathing defines your existence that you would do this to yourself? You need help.

11) Put a sign on the refrigerator that says “closed after dinner”.

I don’t myself have a problem with late night snacking. After 9pm, I’m pretty much useless. I’m an “early to bed, early to rise” kind of woman, and the idea of cooking in the middle of the night seems like a lot of work. I’d rather be sleeping.

That being said, I understand that many people are night owls. And while my advice would be simply to go to bed instead of eating, I know that it’s not always that easy.

But here is my problem with this advice. It’s just a sign. Would that really work? I can’t imagine that that would work on me, even if I was a late night eater. Because I’M the one who put the sign there. There is no authority figure who will punish me for disobeying the sign. It’s just paper. If I was hungry enough, I would just ignore the sign. Easy as that.

My diet plan will simply consist of eating less and exercising more. Probably followed by lipo.

Phil and I Have Inappropriate Reactions

When the ultrasound tech said she was having trouble seeing one part of my baby’s heart, I wasn’t too worried. Nadia likes to sleep with her arm covering her chest, and so I assumed that was the problem.

When the doctor came in and continued the scan and began to say alarming things, then I started to worry. She would say things like “That’s a little too generous” or “Why aren’t they crossing? There should be a cross” or “We should get a cardiologist in here”. I kept interrupting her, trying to get her to explain herself.

“What does that mean?” I would snap. Or “Is that bad?” The doctor kept shushing me and telling me that she didn’t know yet.

“But she has a heart defect? Yes? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

“I’m not there yet” said the doctor, sounding annoyed.

HOW DARE SHE GET ANNOYED WITH ME?

At that point I completely shut down, because I knew that if I said one more word I was going to lose it on this cryptic panic-maker. I just laid there on my side and let her have her way with me with the ultrasound thingy, as my thoughts grew more and more frantic.

Phillip, of course, tried to comfort me. He does this. It infuriates me. If other people are around, I don’t want any attention drawn to my vulnerable emotions. I do not want any acknowledgment of my pain or fear whatsoever. I don’t like looking like a weakling. I love his comfort when we’re in private, but in public I want to be stoic.

He stroked my arm and said “It’s ok honey. It’s not time to worry yet. They’re just checking the heart to make sure it’s ok, that’s all.”

I didn’t respond. Because I am stoic.

“Well that quieted her down, didn’t it?” said the doctor.

“She’s panicking” explained Phil.

“She’s totally panicking” chuckled the doctor.

Totally.

:I

My whole body clenched with fear and anger as the next doctor came in to repeat the heart scan.

And that’s when we got the diagnosis. Our baby has a heart defect called transposition of the great vessels, or transposition of the great arteries.

He explained the defect to us in a compassionate, calm manner, as I rapid fired questions at him. “Are you sure? Can this be fixed? What caused it? What do we do now?” etc. Phil, unaccustomed to negative news or dealing with doctors, said nothing.

We sat for a while, letting everything sink in. And that’s when my coping skills surfaced.

“See?” I said, turning to Phil. “Our baby is totally special.”

We high fived.

The doctor looked at us, aghast. I’m guessing it was the first time he saw a high five after giving such awful news. He furrowed his brow and kept talking. We left, with an appointment to see the pediatric cardiologist the next day, and instructions to go get some lunch and talk things over.

After we left the doctor’s office I immediately burst into tears, which lasted off and on for days. It’s terrifying to think that your child has something really, really wrong with her, and that there’s nothing you can do about it. I kept picturing baby with tubes in her, needing me to snuggle her, with me helpless in some distant room, while cold, sterile instruments hurt her. It was rough. It still is. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to talk about it, because if I did, I would cry some more, so I made a facebook post instead. That way I could get the information to everyone without the trauma of having to retell it over and over again. At that point, it was too raw for me to be comfortable with that. I had enough to deal with with my daughter having a heart defect. (Cue violin and snow)

And then there are other things to consider. How are we going to afford this? What if there are other things wrong with her? I had an aunt who had a heart problem, and she was also mentally retarded. Is this a genetic thing? Is my baby going to be retarded too? How retarded? Which hospital should we go to for delivery? What hospital should Nadia go to for her surgery? How will this heart problem affect her? Will she be able to have a normal life?

The only way to deal with this kind of depression and panic is to make it funny.

And so it began.

In order to deal with terrible things, I need to be able to laugh at them, and be flippant about them. And, as it turns out, Phillip is the exact same way. What followed were a series of terrible jokes about our “little mutant” and how awesome it would be that we could save money on ballet lessons. How we could tell her “awesome” stories about how she got her scar. We laughed at the “birth plan” template, at how little of it applied to us now. We made plans to tell our new doctor that we’re planning a natural home-birth, and that we plan to treat the baby’s heart condition with lavender and tea tree essential oils. The jokes got worse. Much worse. But we felt a whole lot better.

Now, after the initial shock has worn off, I find that I have an almost compulsive need to talk about my baby’s condition, even in situations that are not appropriate. I find myself bringing it up at baby showers, out to dinner with friends, at parties, etc. It’s completely awful of me, but I can’t seem to help myself. It’s on my mind. A lot. And worst of all, when I talk about it, I find that I talk about it in a detached, blasé fashion, almost as if I didn’t care. I’ll muse about whether it would be ok for me to drink in the delivery room, or I’ll talk about how lucky Nadia is, because overcoming a heart defect is a college admission essay that writes itself. I smile.

Phil talks about the heart defect too, but he doesn’t make inappropriate comments. Instead, he talks about it in a way that is creepily cheerful, with a big grin plastered on his face. He gets manic and hyper when he talks about it, like he’s planning a skydiving trip. He makes wild hand gestures – if you were watching him talk from a distance, you would think he was telling a really awesome funny story.

I think, in the end, this is totally acceptable. It’s true that we aren’t handling this with “typical” emotional responses, but we are handling it. If our jokey, flippant reactions make people think we’re terrible parents, then so be it. We aren’t terrible parents. We are providing our child with the best medical care possible, and we’re doing what we need to do to toughen ourselves up for what’s going to be a hard, rough road. We are thankful that the vast majority of our friends and family know us well enough to understand that we DO care; we just don’t necessarily have normal reactions to things. But strangers and people meeting us for the first time have given us some pretty weird looks.

Ugh. If Nadia ever gets kidnapped the police are totally going to suspect that Phil and I killed her, because we don’t know how to behave appropriately with sadness and grief. I can picture us up on the podium as a bunch of reporters ask us questions.

“What do you have to say to the kidnappers, Mrs. Hammer?”
“Uhh….thanks! Now we can start spending all that money we saved for her college fund! I mean, no. Sorry, that was inappropriate. What I mean to say is, bring our daughter home. Please. Obviously we want her home. What kind of stupid question is this anyway? Why do you keep asking me such idiotic questions? How do you think I fucking feel? What do you think I want to say to the kidnapper? Fucking idiots.”

“Mr. Hammer, do you have anything to add?”
(Phillip’s face lights up in a giant grin. He gestures wildly as he speaks.) “I second what my wife said. Not about the college fund that we’re going to spend. Not that we’re going to spend it. That’s not what I meant. But I mean, I want our daughter to be brought home. That is what I meant to say.” (GRIN)

And that’s when the arrests happen.

In Which I Solve All of the Problems

I’m reading a fantastic book called “Abundance: The Future is Better than You Think” by Peter Diamandis. It’s am amazing book, and I highly recommend it. In it, Diamandis discusses how we as a society can incentivize progress in order to solve the “big problems” we currently face -issues like disease, global warming, poverty, etc. He goes on about the things that will typically cause humans to focus their energies and problem solve – he talks about fear as motivation, money as motivation, and things of that nature.

But he never mentions sex.

Sex is the prime motivator for all of human behavior, in one way or another, and yet there is NO mention of sex as a tool for motivating progress and positive change. Odd, right? This is probably because the author is not as large-minded as me, and he assumed that sex as a motivator would entail hiring prostitutes to have sex with scientists who perform well. But that kind of short-sighted thinking is an example of why I’m even smarter than Mr. Diamandis.

Here’s my idea.

We STOP having sex with scientists until shit gets done.

If you are the romantic partner of a scientist, or if you just happen to know a scientist, you are not allowed to put out in any way, shape, form or manner for that scientist until the “big problem” is solved. This doesn’t just go for professional scientists – it goes for that guy you know who makes inventions in his basement, too. However, this policy would not apply to people who have no scientific aptitude, even if they happen to be professional “scientists”. You know who they are.

Of course, this would be extremely hard to coordinate. I bet most romantic partners of scientists wouldn’t want to stop having sex, and it would be difficult for them. But I say, suck it up. It’s for the greater good. And trust me, it won’t last long. I bet if we denied all kinds of sex to all scientists, until, say, we cure cancer – cancer would be cured by the end of the week. Some 21 year old college student would have that shit fixed, no problem.

Also, it would be hard to coordinate which projects we should focus on first, and the order of the projects. After I’ve won my hard earned Nobel Prize for this revolutionary blog post, I’ll be happy to jot down my own ideas on the subject, but I’m not opposed to someone else taking the reigns on this.

Also, I think it’s important to note that there needs to be a “break” between projects. For instance, after we’ve developed cheap, clean energy sources and have distributed them all over the world, the scientists can have sex again for, say 6 months, until the next project is announced. Also, the person or team responsible for solving any of the problems is exempt from the ban on sex, forever after.

Now, of course, scientists are smart and tricky. They’ll do things like go into bars and be like “I’m totally not a scientist. I’m just a regular bro who likes to crush puss. Do me!” (That’s a scientist’s impression of a non-scientist.) We must guard against these sinister tactics by agreeing to refrain from sex with people we meet in bars unless we are able to establish – with certainty – that the person is not, in fact, a scientist. Which likely means we will be abstaining from all sex with people we don’t know personally. An inconvenience for some, surely – but people said the same thing about recycling, and look how we view recycling now!

The scientists will also complain. They’ll say stuff like “but we don’t have the funding to do the required research”. They will whine. And we will respond with “Tough shit. Figure it out.” And you know what? They will figure it out.

In Honor of PTSD Awareness Day

I’ve recently learned that scientists are actually working on making “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” a reality! This made me ever so happy, because even though I know the whole point of the movie is “Don’t Do Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, because our experiences shape who we are and are important parts of the human experience” blah blah blah – I’ve ALWAYS thought it would be a great idea to be able to erase certain memories. People say “Well if something bad happens to you, you should just suck it up and get stronger and move past it. People are too soft nowadays. After all, I was totally sad when my cat died, but now I’m a stronger person for having suffered that way!”

To them I say – What about a five year old girl who is brutally raped and tortured? Should she have to live with that experience just so she can live up to your ideals of what makes a person tough, or so she can have the “richness of human experience”?

Now look, I’m not saying that the memory erasing technology should be used willy nilly for every little sadness a person experiences. For instance, if I were in charge, it would not be used for breakups, sadness over friends moving away, or even for grief over the death of a loved one. Those are sadnesses that are healthy, normal parts of live, and they DO in fact, make us stronger people.

If I were in charge, it would be used for traumas that are caused by events WHICH SHOULD NOT HAVE HAPPENED. In other words, it would be used to make things right for victims of severe trauma. The veteran returning from war who is constantly plagued by the terrible violence she’s experienced. The rape victim. The person who was in a terrible plane crash and is tormented by constant flashbacks of burning bodies and charred wreckage. Things like THAT.

One argument I’ve heard is that if victims of serious crimes could simply erase those memories, then the perpetrators of those crimes could argue – somewhat correctly -that their actions caused no lasting harm, so why should they be punished? Since the victim is obviously perfectly fine now, then why should the criminal be punished?

I understand that line of thought, but here is my response. That way of thinking prioritizes punishing criminals harshly over helping victims to heal, which is a pretty fucked up way to look at it.

I’m not saying those criminals shouldn’t be punished. I’m saying, it’s MORE important to make things right for the victim than it is to impose harsh sentences on criminals. Does memory erasing technology make crimes like rape, torture, etc. seem less horrific? Does memory erasing technology make wars seem more acceptable, since soldiers would not have to deal with the crippling effects of PTSD? I suppose it could be argued that it does. But I would argue that the benefits of healing the traumatized are greater than the negative effects of de-emphasizing the horror of crime and violence.

Think about it! All those ‘Nam vets could get their shit together again! All those abused children could resume their normal childhoods! All those people who have developed terrible phobias in response to traumatic accidents could leave their homes and live normal lives! Are we really willing to turn our backs on those kinds of good, positive outcomes, just so we can give the maximum sentences to criminals? Just so certain backward thinking people can cling to less effective ways of dealing with trauma, because they’re afraid of change and afraid of doing anything “unnatural”?

I say, BRING ON ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND! YAY SCIENCE!!!