Doctor, Doctor: Here's The Story

Yesterday I explained why I'm writing about doctors and/or medical professionals. If you haven't done so already, you can read it here: http://http//beatriceblount.blogspot.com/2009/11/doctor-doctor-give-me-news.html

Well, today I want to just jot down a few of my favorite doctor stories. I know you probably have some of your own, and no doubt some of them top mine. But these are encounters that I have personally lived through, and so are meaningful to me.

Dr. Crook (haha, yes I know) has been part of the Nashville medical community for a number of years. He was an ears/nose/throat doctor, and I'm pretty sure he had to look up the nostrils of 85% of the Middle Tennessee population during the years of his practice. (Does anyone actually remember the correct title of such a doctor? I never do without looking, so I won't cheat by googling it.) Dr. Crook and his family were part of our church community when I was a child, and so it was a no-brainer that I would go to him for help with my throat's love affair with strep. After spending all their hard earned money on amoxicillin and other lovelies, my parents decided that perhaps I should have my entire throat removed to save us all the grief of my recurrent illness. The good doctor decided that I should have my tonsils out, and that this would help the issue.

At the age of eleven, I was nervous about undergoing anesthesia and the idea that I would be completely and totally unaware of my body and mind for a few hours. Most parents would calm such fears. My dad, who is often given to very strange parental practices, thought it would be funny to talk about Dr. Kevorkian. In fact, his last words to me as I rolled away on a squeaky gurney were to "run if you see the death doctor!". Despite his best attempt to give me a nervous breakdown, the surgery went well, and after eight gallons of apple juice, fourteen boxes of Popsicles, and and endless supply of Campbell's, I was ready to go back to school and life as normal.

Two weeks later, as my family prepared for Wednesday's evening church services, I tasted blood in my mouth. My throat was still a little sore, and I assumed that I had just eaten something too scratchy. I went to the bathroom, and stared at my eleven year old throat in the mirror. I didn't see anything, so went on with arguing with my sister as to why she should let me borrow her shirt with big bellsleeves (shudder). I soon had to return to the sink, however, and this time spat out a mouth full of blood. Still, there was nothing to be seen amiss in my mouth. Within an hour, my mom and I were the only ones at home, having decided that spewing blood from one's mouth is not the best way to spread holiday cheer. And within another hour, I couldn't move from the sink. The blood was pouring from my mouth like a fountain.

My mom got the car ready, supplied me with a large blue plastic cup, and helped me to the car. We drove through the mid-December air towards Southern Hills Hospital, where I had my surgery just two weeks prior. I was terrified, and had to open the station wagon's door at every stoplight to empty the blue cup. I have never, ever been so delighted to see a giant golden star as I was that night. For those of you who don't live in this area, Southern Hills has always placed a big star on their roof during the Christmas season. It was my beacon of hope that night, because I knew some type of help was near. I'm not a terribly 'open' person when it comes to talking about my real fears. If possible, I was even worse as a child. Somehow I managed, though it embarrassed me to no end, to ask my mom to pray for me. I was, very much, terrified.

We parked near the Emergency Room entrance, and I again spilled the contents of my cup on the ground. I've never thought til now that someone found those contents and probably spend the next week in fear that I had spread all manner of illness upon the streets of Nashville. At the time, I didn't care. I don't remember the lady that checked us in, but I do remember my mother's mutterings of frustration that as her daughter continuously poured blood from her insides, she had to sit and fill out her address and place of employment.

Suddenly, as you almost always do, I knew that I was going to be ill. I ran down the hall and found a large silver sink. I filled it with yet more blood and a number of blood clots. I then remember my mother running down the hallway yelling at the top of her lungs for a doctor, check-in lady be damned. And then, truly as mystical and smoke filled as on a movie, a lady wearing a horribly ornate Christmas sweater took me by the arm and led me to a room. She had a sweet face, lovely reassuring hands, and the timber of her voice was like an instant sedative. It could have been the blood loss, but I think she was one of those nurses that gives the profession such a good name.

The next thing I knew was that Dr. Crook showed up. As far as I know, he wasn't an E.R. doctor. But somehow he had found out that I was in the hospital, and he left the Christmas party he was attending to come and attend to me instead. A familiar face in a time of fear is indescribable. Between lovely Dr. Crook and the lovely nurse, I was given some numbing spray, a weird little spit sucker, and then asked to lie very still while they put an enormous metal instrument in my mouth, into my throat, and towards the blood clots that had yet to make their appearance in a large silver sink.

I don't know how long I was there, but I remember not wanting to leave. I wanted to stay and have the red sweater nurse to cluck her tongue and smooth my hair all night until I could disappear into the oblivion of sleep. But with instructions I don't remember, we were sent home.

Well, I've always held Dr. Crook and the unnamed nurse in high sentiment for their loving care of me that night, at age eleven, when I was pretty sure I was going to die. And their services would have been enough. But one day, just a few years ago, I was at Vanderbilt. I had some nodules on my thyroid, and though it is common enough, you still have to have them tested for cancerous cells. I was not amused. Needles in your neck are only slightly better than needles in your eye, and with the even remotest chance of cancer hanging on the microscope, there just really isn't a way to approach such a test with anything but dread. Austin and I were waiting on the cracked plastic chairs, he talking about our upcoming trip to Phoenix and trying to keep me from going totally insane and running from the hall while stripping off my clothes and pretending to be a rooster. Stress can get to you.

And then, a familiar voice came into the small room. Dr. Crook, now a friend of my spouse (life is odd, isn't it?) had heard that I would have this test. He came to sit with us, and to wait. He was calm, which should have calmed me. Instead it made me feel more stressed for feeling stressed. But he crossed his leg at the knee, smiled mildly at us, and talked until my name was called. He assured us it he would be there when we came out, and that it probably wouldn't take very long. I won't embarrass myself by telling you what happened in the next room. The doctor suggested that if I ever have to have such a test in the future, I should ask to be completely and totally knocked unconscious. But it was over, and Austin led his puffy-eyed wife back to the antiseptic covered waiting room. Dr. Crook, still calm and waiting, said nothing about my obviously red face. Instead he gave us a hug, said he was glad it was over, and gave us some reassuring statistics about thyroid nodules.

I was no longer his patient, he no longer my doctor. But he is always a doctor, and I think that might be what I so love about the friends I have that are doctors and nurses. Even when off the clock, they are never off duty. They have knowledge and experience, and they have the ability to bring peace to a troubled mind. Even when they can't bring peace, they bring their presence.

And now you love Dr. Crook as much as my family does.

Here's a nurse story for you:

My mom had a wickedly wretched and life-threatening brain aneurysm that ruptured in June of 2004. It should have killed her, and it was through a series of amazing people, from the brain surgeons to the cleaning lady, that brought her through the ordeal. Still, however, there were weeks and weeks of recovery, and it was during this time that our story begins.

My dad was almost always with my mom during visiting hours. Every once in a while he had to be somewhere, and would ask Austin and I to make sure that Mom's routine and medicines and favorite slippers were all seen to. Austin, Moira and I had dinner with Mom and watched her do some walking exercises. We helped her get into her pajamas, put on her favorite music, and attempted to make her brush her teeth (to no avail).

Before leaving, I changed Moira's diaper. And then I remembered that Mom wasn't yet capable of getting to the restroom by herself. She was walking, but still not unassisted and not at a normal pace. I asked my mom if she wanted me to help her to the restroom before she got in bed. She agreed it was probably a good idea, and so I helped her in and then shut the door. Moira and I played a puzzle, Austin watched the news, and a half hour passed. I called in to ask if she needed anything, to which my mother happily responded that she was just fine. Fifteen more minutes passed. I asked again and again if anything was wrong, and she laughed at me for being concerned. I didn't want to intrude on a grown woman's privacy, especially when there were very few things she could do without assistance. But after another fifteen minutes, I knew I had to do something. I laid on the floor and looked under the small dusty gap to where my mother sat. She was happily chattering something and swinging her legs back and forth with gusto. She was just sitting there, not wanting to get up and go to bed, and I had no idea what to do.

I called for a nurse, and hung my head while I told her that I couldn't get my mother out of the bathroom and that I didn't want to embarrass her. This woman, my mother, had through the years wiped my bottom and told me to stop the nonsense and get into bed before something bad happened....I had no intentions of doing the same with her. But I also needed her to get to bed and rest, because she wasn't well enough for me to leave without seeing her safely to her room. The nurse walked right in as I internally cringed and waited for my mom to throw a fit and then come out and yell at me. However, Amazing Magic Nurse came in and laughed with the patient about how she had successfully avoided her bedtime by a good hour, and wasn't she clever? The nurse somehow managed to help my mom with this very intimate act of BATHROOM GOING and yet did so with humor and respect that flowed through to the patient and the patient's discouraged daughter. They washed her hands, let her choose a lotion, and walked to the room.

Mom was smiling VERY cheekily, and even in her mental fog, I'm quite sure she was enjoying the stress she put me through. Moira, one year old and quite past her own bedtime, tucked her grandmother in to a bed with big silver rails. They smiled at each other, and I mentally clung to the nurse and her expert ways. I don't know that I have been able to describe how relieved I was that my mom would have such respectful care. It might be hard to imagine if you haven't been in a similar situation. But even when death is at the door, and all you care about is keeping life's breath inside a loved one's body, you still want their dignity to be maintained. You want their humanity addressed, but you want their spirit addressed as well. It is hard to do such a thing when you are changing the soiled linens of a parent, or convincing a grandparent that they aren't able to continue driving a vehicle. I'm not well-schooled in how to do it all with grace, and even humor. But the nurse that night was, and I am grateful that I got to see such a gift in action.

You knew it would show up, and I won't disappoint. A receptionist story!

There is an AWESOME clinic in Nashville called Siloam. They have top notch doctors and personnel, and they don't work from health insurance. They are supported by a number of incredible monetary saints, and work on a sliding scale to give you medical care that you can actually, seriously, afford. I've been when insurance sucks (often) and I have to get tests done that would rob my family of 6 months salary. It is a really, really nice office not only in feeling, but in its physical layout. This isn't a crappy nasty office where they don't clean the bathroom. It is one of the very nicest health offices I have ever been to, and many people are paying twenty dollars to be seen. It is AMAZING and if you ever have need of it, GO! Or, if you have resources, GIVE!

Anyways, there was a time when a lady who appeared to be homeless walked in the waiting room. I'm not saying she was shabby or didn't have a bath that day. It was obvious that she had been sleeping outside for some time, and wore all she owned on her back. Her hands were swollen and chapped, her nails yellow and caked with dirt. She walked to the front desk, received a genuinely kind greeting from the office worker, and put a very wilted dollar on the table. You might wonder what was to be done. I mean, of course you know somewhere in your brain that homeless women need a doctor as much as you do. But public protocol is awkward and often doesn't come out right, and the silent get silenced further. Amazingly, wonderfully, without any awkwardness or whispered questions, the woman was taken back to see a doctor. A dollar for her care, for her needs, for her dignity. The front office worker was the hero of the day in my little world. Sometimes we overlook those that help us get to the doctor, but they are important too. They make decisions that affect us, and we should speak up when they do something amazing. They don't have the degrees or the salary or the importance, and let's just say I know from experience that they often go home feeling like a pile of unimportant poo. So tell them they aren't. Even if they smile and wave it away, they will most likely hug themselves that night, remembering that somebody noticed.

So! Tired yet? Sorry...I can be wordy. One more? Ok then. Feel free to go grab a cuppa for the next one. I'll leave you to decide what goes in the cup.

My father-in-law, Dennis Cagle, fought a very short, fierce battle with pancreatic cancer just over two years ago. He lived in Phoenix, and we in Nashville. I didn't visit his doctors or nurses through the very brief treatment. They may have been wonderful. They may have been terrible. Other family members can answer those questions. I only know what happened at the end. One day, by the absolute and total grace of God (and I don't say that lightly) Austin and I felt very impressed that we should get to Phoenix the very next day. We had tickets for the following week, but suddenly were filled with itching urgency to make it happen sooner. Through extra cash given by friends, and airline points by the same, we did in fact land in the Valley of the Sun late the next morning.

When we landed, Austin switched on his phone to tell his sister that we had arrived safely. Instead, he had a number of messages from his family saying that his dad had taken that notorious turn that we dreaded. Chelsea was now waiting at the airport to whisk Austin to the hospital, no time to waste on collecting bags. Luckily, Dennis held on throughout the rest of that day. After settling my kids with friends, I was able to join those who loved Dennis at the hospital and spend a few hours smiling at the sweet things he said. He wasn't himself as I had known him, yet still himself in that way that just doesn't make sense unless you've been in that situation. And then, the very hard part. He was to be moved to hospice that night. The family broke for an hour to collect dinner, clean clothes, various papers, a few strong lattes and a big breath.

The hospice, it sounds weird to say, was amazing. I'd never had a family member in hospice before, and it is surreal and eerie and calm and unnerving. Dennis kept giving big smiles to whomever walked in the room, and the rest of us stared and talked and sat and stood and picked our fingernails. A nurse came in to ask Dennis if he wanted anything. He replied that he wanted some juice, but he knew he wasn't allowed to have any because of the sugar. The nurse conspiratorially informed this dying man that he could have all the juice he wanted. Dennis was so happy, and the nurse kept that orange juice coming! He (the nurse, I don't know his name) held the wide, foil capped cup up to Dennis' mouth and talked to him as if he wasn't lying literally in a death bed. And yet...the nurse wasn't ignoring the non-ignorable facts surrounding Dennis and his condition.

I don't know how doctors and surgeons and nurses do what they do. But I really, really don't understand how hospice workers do what they do. As a doctor, I can imagine that even on a really bad day you can try to focus on those you saved, those patients who would be able to see the next morning because you intervened. You feel sorry for those that didn't make it, but it is par for the course and a sad reality of life that death is the end...or maybe something like that. But hospice workers know that they are ushering bodies through their last hours, and even their last minutes of life. They know that nothing can be done to save the hurting families, nothing can keep the pain from entering the body and the room. So they give cups of concentrated orange juice, their time, and their sincerity. This is a respect that is startling, a type of love that is almost unbearable. These workers give what the family might not have left in them, or at least give the family time to walk into the hall, clench their fists so hard the nails make crescents on their palms, and then walk back in for another round of Life Sucks.

I was really, really honored that someone who didn't know him would treat my husband's father in this way. It didn't make the pain less, but it made it get stuck less in my throat on the way down.

So there's a few of my stories. As always, I don't know that I conveyed what I wanted. The stories are mine, so they are important inside my head and heart, and maybe they didn't make the full travel to the page with all their emotion and truth intact.

But for what it might be worth, I'm saying a big thank you for all those workers who do a job I could not do. It really is a gift, and even for those who don't believe in God, a spiritual gift at that. In my opinion, we overhonor those gifts that seem magical and mysterious. We are amazed at those who see angels (or we are scared of them, kind of depends on the person) and those who can correctly prophecy tomorrow's contents. I'm going to say something uninformed and not researched, something totally from my weepy little heart. Gifts of practicality and perhaps even obviousness are magical. Without prophecy, we have to wait and see what happens. Without educated medical knowledge and applied study, we can die. Without angel stories, we may not think as much about angels...without the gift of hospitality, we live life alone and separated from those who can help us know ourselves and our God.

If you still have a cuppa something in your hand, I toast with you to practical gifts. Gifts of mind, of applied thought, of nights spent wrestling with the names of all the bones of the body. I personally didn't receive such a gift from the Gift Giver, but I am a happy recipient of its contents all the same.

Doctor, Doctor: Give Me The News

You might assume by the title that I am going to spew another long collection of paragraphs about how I freak out when I see a doctor. And as interesting as that might be for a second, third, or thirteenth time around, it is not the case for today.

My dad is the pastor of a church that many of you attend, have attended, and/or vow to/never to attend in the future. You might already know that next week's service is out of the ordinary. Senator Bill Frist will be speaking, and I'm actually pretty excited about that. I'm not a political junkie, and I'm certainly not a Republican junkie (though if I was I'm sure I would hide the fact behind very expensive ties and discrimination towards lower-income families).

No, I'm not looking forward to this speaking engagement because he is a big shot D.C. guy with all kinds of political history and influence. I'm looking forward to hearing what he has to say because he is doing something important to help people. Of course, public service on either the red or blue side of the coin does something important to help people. I'm still nice enough to believe that politicians start their career because they want to make a tangible difference in the lives of those around them. Regardless of what school of thought they adhere to, I think that many of those in political service do want to have a positive influence in our communities.

Senator Frist has been involved the last few years in a group called Hope Through Healing Hands. I went to their website: http://www.hopethroughhealinghands.org/ to get this info (which is not copied by permission, just in case anybody asks).

Hope Through Healing Hands is a nonprofit 501(c)3 whose mission is to promote improved quality of life for citizens and communities around the world using health as a currency for peace.

Through the prism of health diplomacy, we envision a world where all individuals and families can obtain access to a skilled, motivated, and supported health worker, within a robust health system-domestic and abroad. Specifically, we support partnership in service and training for sustainability.

Under the umbrella of health diplomacy, we include child survival/maternal health, clean water, extreme poverty, and global disease such as HIV/AIDS, TB, and Malaria. Strategically, we promote Global Partnership by working hand-in-hand with leading organizations who best address these issues in developing nations.

Pretty cool, right? And whatever his views on how such a plan would be carried out in our country, I think it is really, really great that he (and many other nameless people, such as their receptionist) is involved in an effort to help people with their practical needs.

So...what is this about? Well, in addition to having Mr. Dr. Senator Frist speak, our church is taking the opportunity to thank the medical professionals that attend our church. My dad also urged people to write their own caregivers just to say thank you, to let them know that you appreciate their work and service. He reminded us that it is really hard right now for medical personnel. They went to school using exorbitant loans, and spent many late nights eating Cup O' Soup and not having any normal relationships while they learned about the intricacies of catheter insertion disasters. Sure, they might currently drive a car that costs more than my house, but they also have to jump through all kinds of hoops in order to not be sued by people that don't know enough to not drink antibacterial hand cleanser. Their please-don't-sue-me-insurance fees are astronomical and they still often don't have any normal relationships because they have to attend weekend seminars entitled Doctors: Stop Smoking or Remember To Remove The Sponge After Surgery. Despite the very high importance our society places on medical professionals, and specifically doctors, they really don’t lead a life of wealthy leisure.

The idea of writing your doctor can sound sort of cheesy. Show Your Random Whatever How Much You Care Day isn't normally the kind of thing I jump on board with. When Pastor Appreciation month rolls around, I roll my eyes around. And that isn't very nice of me. But there it is. I do Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and Female Appreciation Day (a lonely party, please join me next year) and call it done. But I’m going to do what my dad asked this time. He is just as shocked as you are.

I can get super frustrated with the current healthcare situation. It once contributed to my homelessness, and also contributes about twenty points to my blood pressure number. I'm still not sure if it is the top or bottom number, but either way...not something that eating oatmeal four times a day for thirty days is going to solve.

But then I thought about my doctor. And I thought about all of the other doctors and nurses and surgeons and psychiatrists that through their combined efforts have brought me to this day. And I was, in fact, grateful.

I haven't had cancer or a heart transplant. I haven't been hospitalized for anything more serious than having a baby. So why would I feel such sentiment towards my healthcare providers?

The human body is a fascinating and scary thing. After all the years of research and questioning and hypothesis, there is still so much that we cannot understand and unlock about the skin-covered shell in which we live. Amazing, isn't it? And yet, still scary because at times we know there is nothing…nothing to be done for a body that is ravaged with an invading tumor.

I am by nature a nervous worrier. I’m quite sure that it comes from my grandmother, although it might just be that grandmothers are, by their very nature, a worried lot. I (and the grandmothers of the world, apparently) rely on a nurse to tell us at four o’clock of the morning that our infant isn’t dying of a rare tropical disease brought on by smelling some fancy coconut candle at the mall. When my daughter went to Vanderbilt Children’s E.R., I could have wept when the doctor took charge and helped my blue-tinged toddler to breathe again. And let’s not forget my favorite job of all: the lowly receptionist. Poor things, they are the first line of defense for or against you. I’ve personally been guilty of asking the front office workers to please diagnose my child over the phone and could they please DO SOMETHING!?

In all of these situations, I know that it is highly possible that the nurse, the doctor, the receptionist, or whomever is helping me, will leave my crazy presence to return to a break room full of mealy cantaloupe cubes and burned coffee. And in that break room, various medical workers will chuckle and roll their eyes at my stupidity and fear. They will wonder why, with no symptoms or problems, I brought myself to their office to hear that everything is “A OK Mrs. Cagle…here’s your paper go check out at the front desk see you at your next visit remember to sneeze into the crook of your arm.”

What I’m getting at, slowly yet hopefully surely, is this: regardless of their feelings towards my excessive use of WebMD’s symptom checker tool, they treat me. They hear my fears, answer my questions, and tell me what I can expect for a given query. It seems obvious and simple, but the reassurance and knowledge they give is invaluable to me.

Some doctors just suck. I know this, you know this, and they probably even know it. But we aren’t talking about them. If you don’t have a doctor that you like…find a new one! Or complain and call until they are forced to give you the attention you need in order to keep yourself healthy and sane. (Note: Beatrice Blount does NOT condone excessive shows of frustration and/or stupidity, such as blowing up a doctor’s office or kidnapping a nurse.)

The best doctors give you knowledge paired with a great gift: dignity. Asking a nurse why you pee in rainbow colors is really, really embarrassing. And I’m sure it is really, really hard for said nurse to answer without his or her mouth twitching. But if they are still held by the ideals that once captured their young hearts, they will be able to answer you while remembering that you have feelings that need to be handled with care.

I could just copy and paste each of my doctor’s names into a pre-written letter that says something like this:

Dear Dr.__________,
Thank you so much for your continued efforts to make me not afraid of touching doorknobs during flu season. I realize that you might have to have an extra cup of coffee or smoke break before I come to your office. I just want you to know that the kindness is noticed, and I’m grateful that you haven’t told me the lie that you are closing your practice to patients who cannot meet certain criteria. Thank you for answering my frantic calls about heart murmurs and tapeworms. Just so you know, my husband has blocked all medical websites from our computer, and this should cut down on my learning about new diseases and conditions that probably will never affect me.

Yours sincerely,
Beatrice Blount

I’ve been lucky to personally receive amazing, dignified care on numerous occasions. I’ve also been fortunate in hearing other’s stories about health care workers that treat disease, fear, and uncertainty with the greatest of compassion. I don’t want this blog to get too long, so I’m going to put those stories in a separate post this afternoon. Also, my 3 year old is demanding computer time and won't be put off a second longer.

For now, let’s just say I appreciate my doctor, and my nurses, and the lovely pharmacist who didn’t chastise me when Sabra yelled an inappropriate word. You keep this nervous lady from being institutionalized, and I love you for it. Except for the one doctor who threatened to send me to the crazy house. I don’t love you and I gave you bad ratings on the Rate Your Doctor website.

Alien Ankles

I have been very lax in posting things as of late. Some days this is because all I want to do is look on eBay for a cheaper version of a bag I really, really, really want. At other times, I fail to write because I'm slightly (ever, ever so slightly) hormonal with twenty-five pounds of baby baggage and think that I shouldn't say anything because I have nothing nice to say. Mostly, however, I've been writing and just not posting.

I know, I know. You are outraged at being thus deprived. But I'm trying to write something that will one day turn into The Most Fabulous Book and earn me money and fame and all those things that life is really all about. Some days I love the book (when does it become a book and not a short story or essay or really long collection of paragraphs?) and other days I wonder if I'll make it to the next chapter. But it is time to emerge from my lair of creative genius and let you know that yes, I am indeed alive and well.

I wasn't really sure what to talk about today. I've read some really fantastic books lately, and I've got my thoughts swarming around stuff like how we might be revisiting the Dark Ages, generosity as a discipline, and the ridiculous obsession with whether or not President Obama deserved his prize. Depending on how intelligent I can make my arguments, I may or may not write about these in forthcoming weeks.

But today I just wanted to...talk, I guess. What about? I could tell you that Sabra's school situation has me alternately engaging in tears and quiet expletives. I could unfold my poor wrinkled heart to you and ask you to please smooth the ragged edges, because I already see so many anxious thoughts in Moira, and I often don't know how to address them. She's so young! How will she and I make it?! Why couldn't she get my best qualities?

Instead, I bring you these headlines. Forgive me if you've heard about them on talk radio for the last week, as somehow they have escaped my notice. Let's chat, shall we?

Teenagers Find Unidentifiable Creature In Panama

Here's the story as of today: Four teenagers in Panama were out walking by a creek when they saw something coming towards them. It was an animal of sorts, but they were scared because it looked like nothing they had ever seen before. The 'animal' was, in their minds, threatening enough that they deemed it to necessary to pelt the creature with sticks and rocks. After the animal was dead, they went home. At some point they thought it would be a good idea to return and take pictures of this unknown 'animal' and begin a world wide discussion ranging from animal cruelty to environmental toxins to time travel.

Before we proceed, here's a picture of their findings:

I've looked at a few message boards and zoologist opinions, and have found that overall it is thought of as a type of sloth without hair and strangely formed arms. One website claimed it to be the lovechild of Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter, which might be funnier if I knew more about Ann Coulter.

But really...isn't this odd? I know that it could be proven a hoax of sorts, but I'm going to assume otherwise for now. Many sites said that it appeared to be an animal fetus, though the type of animal is still up for conjecture. And if the teenagers are telling the truth, I would find it hard to believe that a fetus was able to run after them. Some say that Panama's water is full of mercury, and this is the sad result of toxin buildup. Others claim alien, saying that Gollum has relatives that have come back to Earth. (If you don't know who Gollum is, please do yourself a favor and go read Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Additionally, if you've only see the movies, love yourself enough to read the literary masterpiece.)

I'm not sure what I think, as I am totally unqualified to make any conjectures into the field of unidentifiable objects. When I find such objects in my pantry, I throw them away and think no more of them. The grand exception to this practice is the Pantry Incident of September 2009 in which I unwittingly made cheap vodka from a bag of forgotten potatoes. After discarding the bag of smelly goo, I doused the area in anti-bacterial something or other. This created an odor that I hope to never meet again, and I was forced to generously sprinkle (dump) every box of baking soda I could find into the lower portion of my pantry. I lit an unknown amount of candles, and the kitchen appeared to be holding a vigil to the utterly deceased potatoes. I have yet to clean the hastily applied baking soda, because I would probably just make a larger mess. Additionally, the smell still lingers in a haunting sort of way, reminding me that pantry cleaning should probably be a weekly chore. My neighbors, who already think poorly of me, would no doubt swear in court that I have a cocaine business running right out of my own pantry. My neighbors have fake flowers planted in their yard, which makes them experts in all things proprietary.

Back to the Panamanian UO. What do you think? Part of me wonders if the kids went searching the garbage cans outside of the Panama Wax Museum and created something creepy. Otherwise, I'm of the opinion that environmental toxins makes sense. It could have been a sloth-like creature that met with a large bag of wasted potatoes. Once you've seen evidence of what oil spills and high lead contents can do, you have to at least agree that an animal mutation is possible.

I said that these kids sparked interesting debates on time travel. This isn't exactly true. But for some reason, when people talk about aliens, I always think of time travel. They don't have to be in the same thought category, and surely one could exist without the other. But I'm of the opinion that either one could be possible. There isn't concrete evidence to support those ideas, but for some reason that doesn't really bother me. I think of all the discoveries throughout human history that have been so 'out of the box': electricity, space travel, organ transplants...and I just don't have the heart to shut my mind's door on the possibility that anything can happen. (Yes, this does contribute to my anxiety levels. But it also makes me more creative.)

I learned early on that most Sunday School teachers do not share these views. "After all," they said, "wouldn't God have told us if there were other life forms?" I argued that God didn't tell us lots of things, but maybe thought it would be a good idea if we used our gift of a brain and tried to discover the vast mysteries and intricacies of the world. God didn't tell us that penicillin was a good idea. He let us discover that radioactivity could be a good thing and that Pluto is/is not a planet. I think it would be very dull indeed to live in a world where there is no mystery. How sad would it be to have nothing to grapple with or doubt? Anything really can be possible, even if it is just for a little while, until you (or someone smarter than you, hello Marie Curie!) prove otherwise.

So at least for now, I like to think that time travel is possible. I'm not sure why, but I think that God is into fantasy literature. Yes, he made things orderly. But he also made things straight up odd. We think of the body's process of oxygenating blood to be orderly. But that is only because we discovered that it has an order. Until then, it was fantastical and unknown, and could at any moment be changed! Don't you find that idea totally amazing and exhilarating?! No? Well...maybe you should go back a few centuries. I'll push you down a black hole worm tunnel when you aren't looking.

So now I've talked on and on about my potato blight and why I was shushed in Sunday School. I meant to talk about headline #2 for a bit. But it just might speak for itself.

Shoe Designer Christian Louboutin: "Barbie's ankles are too fat!"

Yes, he did. Perhaps he doesn't know she's fake? Shouldn't he first argue that she is painfully short, if concerned with her proportions? Why, when presented with the world's mysteries and concerns, would he think that anybody cares about plastic ankles? Is his life really that empty? Didn't he know that women around the world would mock him and his stupidity? At the same time, could he not see that he would make these women completely PISSED OFF?! I mean, her ankles are the size of my fingernail! WHAT on EARTH?! I've never been a huge Barbie fan, but I also don't want her to feel bad about herself. She's changed from being That Whore Next Door to Every Woman, and try as you might you just can't hate her. She's about 8963 steps up from those skanky Bratz dolls AND she has a job. She is the modern American woman, and there is just no reason to talk about her ankles. Her ankles are fine! Even if she had big scary cankles, surely we can think of better things to talk about...right?

In summary, I think that Christian Louboutin was environmentally poisoned by the potatoes in my pantry. His brain was addled and mutated, and now he sees the world around him as though looking through a fun house mirror. It might be humane to throw sticks and rocks at him until he gives up the ghost of his craziness on the banks of a Panamanian creek.

This blog brought to you from the future.

To Force The Hand

Have you ever watched Sex in the City? I'm not a avid fan, but I have seen enough to know the general plot from season to season. Free HBO month at my parent's house matched with being a church widow* made it possible.

*Church widow= your spouse is seeing someone else, and that someone takes the form of an organization, event, or ministry fundraiser that leaves you to fill your evenings with cereal dinners and all night viewings of sitcoms the rest of the world watches on a regular basis. Sometimes you cry and feel alone and vow to write an amazing novel that will sell many copies and allow you to fly to see your sister on a weekly basis.

Something that always bothered me about this show was the way that everything fell into place just in time for Sarah Jessica Parker's character to write about it. I know that in television land, everything does sort of fall into place. And on the rare occasion it doesn't, you are still given some lovely music while you see the characters look off into space with a meaningful expression that shows their resilience and you get the idea that all will be well.

It isn't the predictability of these shows that bothers me as much as the thematic element. SJP, while dressed oddly and yet alluringly in a boa, t-shirt, and underoos, would manage to weave all of the current events of her friends' lives into whatever piece she was writing. If it was time for her to write about infidelity, all of her friends would somehow find that their spouses were cheating on them. Or maybe they would cheat on their spouse. They would cheat on their housekeeper or hairdresser. Somehow, someway, she made it all fit in uniformity of topic. And I found that to be irritating, and just too perfect for believability.

Enter the lives of my own friends, clicking into once big piece of the same crazy puzzle.

It started a few weeks ago, when my friend had a medically necessary operation. She feels much better now, and is mending and adjusting to life after major surgery. The only down side (other than the big fat medical bills) is the result of this procedure. My friend, who is lovely and smart and giving and good, now cannot physically bear children. She wrote, in a poignantly gut-wrenching poem, about her feelings on the matter. Her grief, and the singularity of it, is what got my thoughts flowing.

If you had asked her ten years ago, she would have agreed that she would one day have children. We all kind of assume a 'normal' idea of what our lives will look like when we grow up. Marriage and job, home and family, wisdom and fulfillment. And then, as we grow older (but not always up), we change our ideas about what we want or what we need. In the last few years, as her thoughts turned to having children, she wasn't sure that having biological children was in the cards for her anymore. It just didn't have the same luster as it once did, and as a very responsible person, she was going to wait until her heart was settled on the matter.

She put it in on the backburner of her mind to simmer. Every once in awhile, she would return to stir the pot of ideas, and then walk away again, knowing that it wasn't yet time to commit to that particular dish. Maybe the day would come when she would just know what to do. But until then, time was on her side.

And then, one day, it all changed. Her decision was made without her consent or knowledge, without her approval or signature. A medical professional delivered the news that there would be no further wondering, no more stirring.

Though I knew her thoughts on having children...should I/shouldn't I...I knew that the finality of the news was a terribly bitter burden. The hardest part of the finality was that it didn't wait for her to call the shots.

She had no choice, she had no say, she had no option.

I started thinking about how much we depend on our ability to make choices. I might choose to have the same breakfast every day for 43 days straight simply because I want to. But if you tell me that I have to eat one more blasted bagel on day 44 and all of a sudden I'm unable to stomach the inhumanity of this cruel treatment.

Bagels and babies are not the same. But choice is important, perhaps even vital. If we can't be in charge of our choices, we become despondent and angry. If we can't steer in the direction we think best, we can lose our sense of self.

Not that long ago, marriages fell into this category. Sometimes, neither the bride nor the groom had a say in their matter of happily ever after. And it was expected that you would do your duty and live somewhat harmoniously with one another, fulfilling your end of the marriage bargain to either sire or bear children and try to pass on your name and wealth to the next generation.

Many studies have been conducted on arranged marriages, and whether or not the divorce rates or levels of happiness differ from non-arranged marriages. So much of the findings are inconclusive, though, because the cultures or historical periods that embrace such relationships make personal happiness a non-issue.

Are we entitled to pursue happiness? Are we entitled to choice? Can I choose how to be happy, if life is continually changing?

I never, ever in my life wanted to be a mother that stayed at home during the day. I didn't want to make a baby's nap schedule, use glue sticks, or be involved in the pick-up line after school. Hopefully I don't sound like an angry ogre, but it just wasn't my idea of a fulfilling way to pass through the day. I wanted to DO something and BE somebody All those mommies that told me I had to stay home so that my kid wouldn't grow up to be a crackwhore with no intelligence and fear of intimacy didn't help the issue. I would make My Choice. Don't fence me in.

And then, I found one day that I did want to stay home with my child. If I had a fulfilling career that brought me joy, it might not have been so. But leaving my sweet baby to trudge to a job that only paid some of my bills and sucked my soul from my very being wasn't a good trade-off. When the baby cried and held her fat little hands out towards me, well...I don't have a heart of stone. I would bathe in a glue stick and take a unicycle through the pick-up line in order to spend my day with the little cherub. All those mommies that told me I had to keep working so that my kids wouldn't perpetuate the myth that women are supposed to bake pies, have babies, and no education, didn't help the issue. I would now make My New Choice. Don't fence me in...in the other direction.

I wouldn't work anymore. Problem solved, right? Not so much.

While I was free to make a decision, I wasn't free to implement that choice in my life. The result is, quite frankly, maddening.

I know that I absolutely bristle when someone tells me what I will and will not do. Yes, this could be a potentially bad character trait. Gentle, guiding leadership is the more effective in my book. I would rather learn from my mistakes any day of the week instead of becoming a robot who is unable to discern delight from damage without being told. You can imagine how easy it was for my parents to raise me. However, the result is that when my parents say 'woah...watch it' I now believe that they might have a point. I've been kept from many pitfalls because they let me fall in the beginning.

If only we could have such gentle, gracious teachers for all of life's decisions.

When you are faced with whether or not you will stay in your marriage, when you are faced with paying $10,000 to just attempt to conceive a child of your own body, when you are faced with taking a loved one from life support...life is full of choices that are hard to wade through. We agonize over what to do, what we should do, and what we want to do.

I wish we all had someone who quietly gave wisdom and guidance but then let us stir our thoughts and decide what should happen. And then...if we could implement our choices and at least be in the driver's seat. I can't control the outcome, as only God can do that. But I don't want to just wait for the outcome either.

What has been fought for during all ages, in all countries, by all mankind, is freedom. We want to choose. We don't always think we are right, but we truly need the ability to decide what we think is right.

Prove me wrong, make me pay, laugh at my choices. But don't force my hand. Eventually I'll forget what my hands are for, and won't be able to stir on my own.

These hands, done writing for today, are happy. I may be wrong in all I've said, but I can say it. And for that I'm thankful.

I wish, like our dear friend Sarah Jessica Parker, I could look off into the distance and know that all will be well for my friends who bristle under the pain of someone else's decision. I wish their hands would not be forced.

In lieu, I can only promise to be sympathetic of their pain, and to never be seen in a boa and underoos.

Ruby Slippers?

I've wanted to write about this for some time, and now that I'm ready to do so, I'm a little reluctant. I feel the need to issue a statement before we proceed. You know that I'm not trying to offend you, and have nothing against tradition, sacred text, or authority. So please, in view of this information, do not throw stones.

Ok, so here's my grand confession: I don't like Proverbs 31.

It started many years ago, when I was trying my darnedest to fit in. You will be shocked to discover that I haven't always found myself to be part of the 'in' crowd and often had to bust my butt to have someone to sit next to at lunch. Well, church wasn't much better. In some churches, the pastor's kids are automatically 'in', while in others they are automatically 'out'. I had the great misfortune of being in an 'out' church while in high school.

So I tried a sampling of the various cliques. I wasn't a stoner, nor a sports kind of gal. I didn't work in the goth group despite the fact that I wore all black clothing. I worked my way down to the last group. The Church Group. I'm calling them this to sound nice. But really, they are the fringe weirdos that all cling together because nobody will have them. In order to have an image, they start bringing their Bibles with camouflage covers and five highlighters.They wear an icthus on every article of clothing and only want to watch Christian television. They say 'PRAISE GOD!' when you are talking about where to go for coffee, and put W.O.G. stickers on their notebooks. If you don't know what a WOG or a MOG is, just be grateful.

Sincere in their beliefs or not, you cannot argue with me that this group is socially awkward and will one day look back and shake their heads at their behavior OR become those socially awkward adults that won't let their kids play with action figures unless they are Bible action figures.

So...I got a new Bible and small notepad for jotting down the ingenious things our socially awkward youth pastor would say. And I tried, once again, to fit in. At the time, The Church Group was delving deep into the wisdom of one Joshua Harris. His book, I Kissed Dating Goodbye, was making quite a splash on the church front, telling everyone that dating is a bad idea. Suddenly we had a deluge of breakups and purity pledges and group hangouts that were meant to give time for 'fellowship' but not 'dating'.

I've been arguing somewhat with the courtship crowd for awhile, but that isn't today's focus. One of the teachings of dear Mr. Harris was on what you want/need/expect/should pray for in a spouse. While I might encourage my girls to find someone that respects them, understands them, loves to learn, shares in those beliefs that cannot waver...the interesting (crazy) people that Mr. Harris attracted encouraged the world at large to just make a checklist from Proverbs 31.

Does she wear purple cloth? CHECK! Proceed...

Does she work with wool and flax? CHECK!

Does she get up while it is still dark? CHECK!

And if you were the female, all you had to do was ask if your potential courtship partner respected you for your linen purple tunic more than your chest size. Yes? CHECK!

I know, I know...the book of Proverbs shouldn't be held to the tests of today's society. Yes, it is relevant, but no it isn't historically compatible. Times change. If you want to disagree, I'm going to ask you if you spend much time outside the city limits in a tent after you discover a boil on your bum. Yes, there was a virgin birth. Yes, there was death and life and ascension. As always, there exists a fine line between literal and symbolic. I don't think that trees will really clap their hands or that I can leap over a wall, unless God has some sort of specific reason for happy trees or me with bouncy feet.

So where in all of this does the book of Proverbs land?

Is it literal, but just in need of a modern makeover? If you updated verses 10-31, my sister says it would say things like She wakes up before she really wants to and puts lunches in backpacks. She stumbles to minivan and starts the carpool pickup. She shops at Costco to get good deals. She helps with homework. And I'm sure somebody out there in Evangelical Bookstore World has made an 'modern' version of the Proverbs 31 woman. No doubt you can get it embroidered onto a Bible cozy or hideously oversized sweatshirt.

I haven't done any research on this passage, and might catch an earful from my husband, who actually teaches classes on understanding these passages in their historical context. I haven't attended his classes, however, and don't know what the historical context of verses 10-31 is.

But I'm just going to take a stab in the dark here. The author of Proverbs is largely thought to be Solomon, who was a king. Few people think he actually sat down and wrote his tidbits of wisdom. But despite all the years that have passed, it is by and large thought of as 'his' book. You probably have heard that he was the son of great King David, was reputed to have stopped a baby from being cut in half, and had quite a few wives.

Sounding familiar?

Well, as I think on this passage that has always caused me internal sighing, I have to wonder why this passage is still upheld as the checklist for What Makes A Great Woman. Solomon was giving advice on how to pick out a good wife. Um...have 300 wives? That might help in the quest! Also, a king who is looking for a wife is usually looking for a queen. A queen might have the funds to 'consider a field and buy it and then plant a vineyard' as the passage suggests she should. A normal, everyday woman in the time of Solomon wouldn't have been able to do such a thing, would she? Where would she get the money? Could she even buy a field without the permission of the man that owned her?

I've also been puzzled by the portion that says 'her husband is respected at the city gate, where he takes his seat among the elders of the land.' I'm going to equate this with something like a city council or even church board. But what does this have to do with the wife? Will she only be great and 'beyond the price of rubies' when her husband has a spot on a council? Why is that? What does the greatness of one spouse indicate about the other? Support, for sure...but then what about the opposite? If I fail at being someone 'great', how much does that reflect on me versus my family?

It says that 'her lamp doesn't go out at night'. It also says that she 'wakes while it is still dark'. So...the woman has insomnia? Or is just really, really haggard? If she doesn't ever get to sleep, and has to weave scarlet clothes for her kids, how can she really 'laugh at the days to come'?

If I knew I was up against a lifetime of spinning and cooking and staying up late and getting up early, I certainly wouldn't laugh about it. And I would definitely make my spouse come home from sitting around with the elders. No sir, he would be at home making hummus and carving me a new bed because I would be moving into my own bedroom.

There is a portion about having a servant girl, which I wouldn't necessarily be against...except for the whole immoral issue of slavery. Maybe it means I'm supposed to hire a live-in housekeeper? A chef? A launderer?

But if I had such a household staff...what would I do? Would I then be free to pursue my talents and dreams? If I had servants doing all the undesirable tasks, why why why would I be staying up late at night, not letting my lamp go out?

I once had a teacher who proposed by telling his love how she was like the Proverbs 31 woman. Despite what reactions that would elicit in me, she answered in the affirmative and they still live happily ever after.

I'm all for a man giving praise to a woman for the things she does, her attributes, her qualities, her hard work. So why does this passage bother me so much?

I wonder if Austin would react similarly if I made a male version.

The Proverbs 31 Man

He gets up early and works out in order to maintain chiseled pecks.

He makes homemade breakfast and lets me have all the hot water in the shower.

He goes to his very lucrative job that provides enough for our chic home and quarterly vacations to Europe.

His wife is totally wicked hot and the envy of all the PTA.

He comes home early because he couldn't wait to see his kids, and tells me how lovely I am in sweatpants and a ponytail.

SIGN ME UP! I want me one of those!

I'm not going against years and years of history here. I know that this passage has a purpose that doesn't rest on my understanding of it. But I'm also very much under the impression that many others misunderstand it too.

Perhaps the Jewish view of women and their role as wife/mother/home manager is very different from the Americana Cherry Pie role we place on Evangelical Christian women today. Maybe they were indeed praised for being clever and resourceful, and not just because they could bring milk and graham crackers to Sunday School Silly Sing-Along.

Maybe I just need to be Jewish. After all, I would be encouraged to plant a vineyard and have a housekeeper.

Now that would make me laugh at days to come!

The F Bomb

Last night I was waiting in the uncharacteristically long pharmacy line for Moira's steroids to be filled. I was tired, the kids were slaphappy, and I had a cart full of melty things like popsicles. I was...impatient. The kids were...impatient.

As I explained thankfully but now forcefully to the pharmacist, Moira should not have a red flag on her account because she has never had a reaction to any medicine. She looked at me, willing me to remember what meds could have caused this red flag. I looked at her, willing her to give me the liquid and let me leave with my kids who were chanting random rhymes and giggling hysterically.

Sabra decided that simple rhyming wasn't getting enough attention from the gigantic line of people snaking the aisles behind us. She started yelling all the scandalous words she knows, including fart, tinkler, and stinkfartboogerbutt. She and Moira were red with glee. I kept giving them The Mom Stare and hoping they would be filled with fear. They weren't.

They combined the attention getting schemes, now making rhymes of 'dirty' words. They did elicit a few smiles from the toothless hag standing directly behind our cart.

I turned around to see if the pharmacist would PLEASE give me the steroids now when Sabra positively yelled at the top of her high-pitched voice FUCKAFUCKA!

I turned around, horror stricken. What a horrible rhyming combo to arrive at. Hopefully she would move on to 'puckapucka' and then 'guckagucka'. No such luck. For whatever reason, this word felt right. She shared it with Moira, and Moira liked it too.

Two children saying FUCKAFUCKA very, very loudly while the pharmacist tried to talk to me about the drawbacks of steroids in young children. Awesome.

At this time, the pharmacist went to go check something else on our account, giving me time to turn to my horrible little monsters and to put my hands on their mouths to illustrate that Mommy really meant that they were to cease their wicked devil conversation immediately.

Moira's face was subdued into a quiet grin. I removed my hand. Sabra's face was impassive, perhaps contrite...I removed my hand. And then, as if she had a bullhorn in her possession, she let lose with a string of FUCKAFUCKAFUCKAFUCKAFUCKA!!!!!

I looked around, expecting to find other customers smirking at the antics of my cute little 3 year old daughter. Instead I was met with a host of disapproving glares and furrowed eyebrows.

Naturally this brought out the hilarity of the situation, and I laughed maniacally while Sabra continued to yell expletives.

The pharmacist finally, finally caught on to the social cues that were pulsing around her throne room of medicine, and just handed me the bag and her sincere wishes that my night would be a good one.

And really, it was. My kids dropped the 'F' bomb at Target, but the popsicles didn't melt and Moira didn't grow face warts when the steroids touched her lips.

I dipped a few extra times into the Ben & Jerry's, though. It was called for, don't you think? I might write the company with a few suggestions on a new ice cream name.

What flavor should 'The F Bomb' be?

The Sticker Chart

Did you ever have a sticker chart?

My friend Kristi has them for her kids, because she is uber organized and has the foresight to commend good behavior and not just yell at bad behavior. She printed it out herself, and there's lines and check marks and gold star stickers. Amazing.

Moira wants one, because she's like that. She wants me to ask Kristi where to purchase these amazing materials and write things like Make Your Bed, Pick Up Toys, Brush Teeth, Be Amazing First Born Child.

I've told Moira that I'm not a complete dunce and I know how to make an Excel sheet but she just gives me The Look that clearly says I'm not altogether capable of creating such a holy object. She is a little bit right. I don't know where to buy those foil stickers. I don't know where teachers buy them, and I felt as a child that said stickers were a bit over the top. It added a stress rather than rewarded my obvious genius. I had to worry if I would get a good grade, but then I had to worry about the remarks the teacher would make in green ink. (She didn't use red because that struck fear, but really all she did was make me wary of green pens.) I had to worry about the sticker I might or might not receive and then I had to worry if it was as intricate or cool as the other kids'. I just feel that sticker politics do not add to a child's well being. And of course God saw fit to give me a child that would jump through a troop and leap over a wall to receive a sticker for any completed task. I digress.

Well, I was thinking last night about the sticker chart and how it might be helpful. With the oh-so-modern American life my family is participating in, I find that my Blessed Google Calendar is now operating as a personal assistant of sorts. Granted, it can't actually perform the tasks I record, but it does remind me in multiple colors on my phone, calendar, and email that I need to remember to Give Kids A Shower and Buy Lunch Meat So As Not To Send Kids To School With Dry Oatmeal Again.

I've started printing out the week's activities/tortures and putting the information on my fridge so I can have a constant reminder of what is coming next and what is still overdue (Put Away Laundry and Bake Banana Bread). I also add handwritten notes about ideas for dinners that sound chic and doable at the time but soon become an insurmountable task that has me cursing the color-coded map of This Week In My Life.

I had a thought. Perhaps it was too much to ask a calendar to be my everything. Maybe it should just record who needs to go where for what meeting or appointment. Calendars shouldn't have to remind me to Pluck My Eyebrows or Pumice My Reptilian Feet. I needed something else. I needed a sticker chart.

I thought that it might be a good idea to make a sticker chart for Moira, Sabra, and myself. I could just see the cheery little charts attached to the fridge, showing our ability to stay organized in a whimsical cherry print with scratch-and-sniff stickers. The planets would align. The soon-to-be nursery would clean and assemble itself while I looked on, singing like bloody Mary Poppins. All that stood between me and a life of clean lines and a functional sock drawer was a piece of paper with foil stars.

I started thinking of all the things I need to do in one day, including those things that we are supposed to do daily (Floss, Take vitamin) but often leave til 'later' (once per month). I won't bore you with my mental list, but let's just say it was a bit intense. I bit off my remaining cuticles while staring at the wall, jotting down in the ironclad recesses of my brain the menial and yet mandatory actions and tasks I must accomplish in order to keep the wheels of this small family rotating.

We've all read that ridiculous email about what a 'housewife/homemaker/stay at home crazy' is worth. I'm guessing that some husband put that together when his wife told him how miserable she was trying to find self-worth in the front seat of her minivan. It was nice of that anonymous man to tell the world at large that a crazy lady drinking Bailey's in her coffee before 10 a.m. is worth more than a personal chef, chauffeur, assistant, launderer, maid, nanny, and gardener. But I disagree with the well-meaning spouse of a woman gone mad. I don't feel even a tiny bit more appreciated or fulfilled by knowing that people get paid to do this stuff. It doesn't help that no matter how many stars I get, there's always so many more blank spaces that loom large and white and taunt me with my lack of efficacy.

Now, I'm not being down on myself. I'm actually the best candidate in my household for keeping the wheels turning. Everyone has their gifts and shortcomings. Austin, for his varied talents and killer good looks, had a shocking lack of attention. He knows the leaders of the Roman Empire and which ones slept with which slaves. He remembers entire passages of the Bible after a quick scan of the text. He can take someone's arm off with his volleyball serve, and he makes perfectly symmetrical pancakes. But I really think he would let three weeks pass by before he thought to give the kids a shower. He would give them a piece of gum instead of brushing their teeth, and he would make all manner of clothing faux pas. I'm not sure why he cannot remember things that are done EVERY DAY, such as dinner, but he does. It continues to irk and amaze me that such a smart, normal person can forget to do things like eat a meal.

Most smart women know that most smart men would weep and beat their breasts by the time Fish Stick and Ore*Ida Time rolled around if they had to 'do it all' and still appear to be holding on tightly to threads of sanity. If you haven't picked up on it before, I'm quite under the impression that women are superior to men in almost every way. And I'm not being cheeky or cute. Women get the thankless hair-pulling task of carrying, delivering, feeding, bathing, clothing, medicating, educating and loving children because men simply could not handle it all. The blow to their ego would be too great.

When I'm comparing myself to my picture perfect spouse, I remember that if he had to keep track of all of Sabra's daily medications and remember all of Moira's phobias while doing art projects and playing dolls and finding more efficient ways of lunch packing AND going to a meaningless paid job, he too would be reduced to a frizzy haired harpy that cries when Steve from Blue's Clues gets to go to college.

The sticker chart and the email that says I should make 350,000 per year aren't doing it for me. No amount of money IN THE WORLD makes it worth my while to squeeze a teaspoon of self-worth from the dry rock of home maintenance, especially when the rock is now the size of a volcano.

In short, the sticker chart doesn't work. Not for me, anyways. I'll still (try to) remember to get Moira a cute little chart with bubble letters that say 'do your best!' and applaud her faithfulness in picking up her toys. But her chart only has a few lines to fill. If I made her list, like mine, run multiple pages with cross references to Austin's schedule and the paycheck schedule and the sales on pudding cups at Target, I think she would become glassy-eyed and start gnawing at her cuticles.

Instead of gold foil stars, give me gold foil wrapped chocolates. I'll eat them instead of my cuticles and try to be at peace with the chaotic home in which I reside. And if I can one day laugh at the sock pile, I'll just cross that off my mental chart of Things That Annoy The Hell Out Of Me.