Coast to coast, LA to Chicago
Western male
Across the north
And south to Key Largo
Love for sale
Smooth Operator - Sade
Today's topic: When Boredom Shows in Personal Grooming.
Today we're chatting with Brenda, a 40 year old woman who is currently on bed rest due to a high risk pregnancy.
BOB THE FICTIONAL CORRESPONDENT: Brenda, is it true you've gone insane with nail polish?
BRENDA: Yes, Bob. It's true. I noticed this morning that I have ten toes, and ten different shades of nail polish. I decided this was a sign, and painted each toenail a different color.
BOB: I see. And what about fingernail polish?
BRENDA: Well Bob, I'm a nail biter. Bad habit, I know. So for fingers I've gone somewhat conservative. All 10 nails are done in the same polish - clear with silver, blue and purple sparkly bits.
BOB: A wise choice. Is there anything else you'd like to share?
BRENDA: Well, yesterday I was sorting through an old cosmetics bag, and I found some Brazilian Wax stencils. I'm considering surprising my husband with a Shamrocked girly zone.
BOB: Do you think your husband will appreciate the new look?
BRENDA: The shamrock will amuse him. The fact that I'm dying it green might take him aback.
BOB: Well folks, that's all we have time for today. Tune in tomorrow, when Brenda shares her feelings on Matt Lauer, lava lamps, and the letter "Q".
**********************************************************************************
As the title indicates, this is part 1 of a 2 (or more?) part series on the serious issue of Brazilian waxing. I figure I've been writing about some heavy duty stuff lately, so it's time for a wee break. Stay tuned for Part 2 - Me, Myself and Aiyeeeee!!!!
Monday, May 18, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
A Mother of a Day
Zip-a-dee-do-dah, zip-a-dee-ay!
My oh my, what a wonderful day!
"Song of the South", as sung quasi-sarcasticly by yours truly
Another year, another Mother's Day. Ugh.
Don't get me wrong, moms are great and deserve to be celebrated. But the endless commercials, the Hallmark displays, the tear-jerking photos of first-time moms clutching cooing babes - these things are the salt in some very painful wounds if you are a woman who has suffered from pregnancy loss or infertility, or god forbid both.
Disclaimer: I am now blessed with a four year old daughter, and as of this writing am 28 weeks pregnant with a son. I am one of the incredibly lucky ones. But I am haunted by something akin to "Survivor's Guilt", or perhaps more accurately "Succeedor's Guilt". I have my family. I've held my living, breathing, drooling, smiling child in my arms and marveled at the intensity of the bond between us.
And so damned many women have not.
I first began to hate Mother's Day when I was in my mid-twenties. That's when it first became apparent that I was not one of those women who "gets pregnant when a guy smiles at me!" as self-proclaimed "fertile-mertyls" love to pretend-complain.
Publicly, I adopted the persona of the career-and-party girl who abhorred the thought of children. "Me, a mom??? Dear God no! No child should EVER have to call me 'mom'!!!" In reality, I was charting my cycle, buying supplement after supplement, and praying for a miracle. Every month I peed on a stick and felt the crushing blow of watching the one solitary, pathetic line appear in the window. I'd wait twice as long as the instructions said, and turn the damned thing every which way, convinced that maybe there was a faint second line there. But no, there never was.
Eventually I gave up. I didn't have money or the right insurance to pursue aggressive fertility treatments, and emotionally I wasn't prepared to deal with it, either. I decided to concentrate on my music, and to let my songs be my "children". I figured that at least on some level I could create something that would impact others, and live on after me.
At age 33, years after I'd abandoned the dream of having a child, I miraculously discovered I was pregnant. To say I was overjoyed would be gross understatement. I honestly, truly felt that somehow I'd won God's favor, and like some biblical heroine was being rewarded with a child who would be the delight of all.
On December 19, 2003, that child was born at 23 weeks gestation. He was my son, Rory, and he died two hours later in my arms. I buried him in a nearly-frozen grave two days before Christmas, and my heart, my soul, my dreams went into that cold darkness with him.
If I had previousy loathed Mother's Day, I now feared it about all else. How could I do it? How could I possible endure the onslaught of modern-day madonna and child that I would be forced to endure from early April through mid-May?
I consoled myself as best as I could by reminding myself that I was, in fact, a mom. The fact that my child did not survive did not make me any less a mom. Perhaps it made me more of a mom, because I'd epxerienced both the ultimate joy and ultimate sorrow with my son.
My family was my salvation. They bought me cards and jewelry, and reaffirmed my belief that I was, and always would be, mom to a very special little boy. Instead of trying to escape the discomfort of my grief, they opted to share it, embrace it, and help ease the burden. I don't know if I would have survived without them.
In April 2005, I gave birth to my daughter Ciara. That year, for the first time ever, Mother's Day came and I had a beautiful, living, breathing child to hold. I was inundated with gifts and cards from those who understood what this meant to me. And yet... the day was at best bittersweet. Like a child's first Christmas after he discovers the truth about Santa, the material aspect was nice, but my heart was heavy with the knowlege that the magic just wasn't there. Not for everyone.
I'm 40 years old. I'm the mother of one "angel", one daughter, and God willing, a healthy little boy named Matthew who is due to make his appearance in August. My closest friends in the world are women who've shared my journey: beautiful, strong, compassionate women who've fought the same battles I've fought, often in isolation and even shame. We've lifted each other up, and been lifted when we tear ourselves down. We get it. We understand that the day a coworker walks in and says "Oh my GOD, I cannot belive it, I'm pregnant again and Joey is still breastfeeding!" that our reaction will always be "F*** You, you ignorant piece of S***". Not that we really hate this woman, or resent Joey. But when someone plunges a knife in your heart - even if they do it unintentionally - you're going to bleed. Sometimes our chat rooms are more like a battlefield triage; we do our best to patch each other up so that we can continue the fight.
If you've never fought this battle, God bless you. I could lie and say we don't resent you, but the truth is, most of us do, at least a little bit. Hell, my sister is the best thing that ever happened to me, and the best friend I've ever had. And yet, I've resented the hell out of her along the way. Not through any fault of her own, but through the cruelty and suffering that comes with the territory I've been forced to navigate.
It doesn't mean we don't like you or love you. It doesn't mean we want anything bad to happen to you. It's just so hard for us to watch your happiness, when we ourselves struggle daily with bone-crushing sorrow.
If you have a friend who has no children, tread lightly this Mother's Day. Even if she laughs Cruella DeVille style and proclaims her intolerance for all things toothless and drooling. Resist the temptation to say "Oh, I bet at this time next year you'll change your mind and have a set of twins to show for it!" The fact is, many of us are consummate actresses. Not one of my friends ever even suspected I battled infertility for years. And I was completely, totally stunned by the number of friends who came forward after the death of my son and said "I've never shared this with anyone, but I lost a baby who would be 5 years old now" or "Joe and I struggled for years, we finally decided we couldn't afford more fertility treatments, either financially or emotionally."
I hope this post doesn't come across as an attempt to rob anyone of their right to enjoy and celebrate being a mom. By all means, enjoy the breakfast in bed, the homemade cards, the mothers rings, flowers and candy. Snuggle your bundles of joy, be they 6 weeks or 16 years old. "Mom" is the toughest job in the world, and you deserve your day! All we ask is that you spare us a thought, perhaps a prayer, and a kindly gesture. If you know we've had a miscarriage, don't say "Oh heck, by this time next year it'll be your turn!" Because nobody can know that, and even if it's true, it doesn't ease the pain of this year, and this loss.
What you can do for us is to be a compassionate and understanding friend who helps us to feel comfortable in our own, currently-unstretchmarked skin. We know you can't make it better. We just ask that you be there for us when it's at its worst.
God Bless, and Happy May 10th to all my friends.
My oh my, what a wonderful day!
"Song of the South", as sung quasi-sarcasticly by yours truly
Another year, another Mother's Day. Ugh.
Don't get me wrong, moms are great and deserve to be celebrated. But the endless commercials, the Hallmark displays, the tear-jerking photos of first-time moms clutching cooing babes - these things are the salt in some very painful wounds if you are a woman who has suffered from pregnancy loss or infertility, or god forbid both.
Disclaimer: I am now blessed with a four year old daughter, and as of this writing am 28 weeks pregnant with a son. I am one of the incredibly lucky ones. But I am haunted by something akin to "Survivor's Guilt", or perhaps more accurately "Succeedor's Guilt". I have my family. I've held my living, breathing, drooling, smiling child in my arms and marveled at the intensity of the bond between us.
And so damned many women have not.
I first began to hate Mother's Day when I was in my mid-twenties. That's when it first became apparent that I was not one of those women who "gets pregnant when a guy smiles at me!" as self-proclaimed "fertile-mertyls" love to pretend-complain.
Publicly, I adopted the persona of the career-and-party girl who abhorred the thought of children. "Me, a mom??? Dear God no! No child should EVER have to call me 'mom'!!!" In reality, I was charting my cycle, buying supplement after supplement, and praying for a miracle. Every month I peed on a stick and felt the crushing blow of watching the one solitary, pathetic line appear in the window. I'd wait twice as long as the instructions said, and turn the damned thing every which way, convinced that maybe there was a faint second line there. But no, there never was.
Eventually I gave up. I didn't have money or the right insurance to pursue aggressive fertility treatments, and emotionally I wasn't prepared to deal with it, either. I decided to concentrate on my music, and to let my songs be my "children". I figured that at least on some level I could create something that would impact others, and live on after me.
At age 33, years after I'd abandoned the dream of having a child, I miraculously discovered I was pregnant. To say I was overjoyed would be gross understatement. I honestly, truly felt that somehow I'd won God's favor, and like some biblical heroine was being rewarded with a child who would be the delight of all.
On December 19, 2003, that child was born at 23 weeks gestation. He was my son, Rory, and he died two hours later in my arms. I buried him in a nearly-frozen grave two days before Christmas, and my heart, my soul, my dreams went into that cold darkness with him.
If I had previousy loathed Mother's Day, I now feared it about all else. How could I do it? How could I possible endure the onslaught of modern-day madonna and child that I would be forced to endure from early April through mid-May?
I consoled myself as best as I could by reminding myself that I was, in fact, a mom. The fact that my child did not survive did not make me any less a mom. Perhaps it made me more of a mom, because I'd epxerienced both the ultimate joy and ultimate sorrow with my son.
My family was my salvation. They bought me cards and jewelry, and reaffirmed my belief that I was, and always would be, mom to a very special little boy. Instead of trying to escape the discomfort of my grief, they opted to share it, embrace it, and help ease the burden. I don't know if I would have survived without them.
In April 2005, I gave birth to my daughter Ciara. That year, for the first time ever, Mother's Day came and I had a beautiful, living, breathing child to hold. I was inundated with gifts and cards from those who understood what this meant to me. And yet... the day was at best bittersweet. Like a child's first Christmas after he discovers the truth about Santa, the material aspect was nice, but my heart was heavy with the knowlege that the magic just wasn't there. Not for everyone.
I'm 40 years old. I'm the mother of one "angel", one daughter, and God willing, a healthy little boy named Matthew who is due to make his appearance in August. My closest friends in the world are women who've shared my journey: beautiful, strong, compassionate women who've fought the same battles I've fought, often in isolation and even shame. We've lifted each other up, and been lifted when we tear ourselves down. We get it. We understand that the day a coworker walks in and says "Oh my GOD, I cannot belive it, I'm pregnant again and Joey is still breastfeeding!" that our reaction will always be "F*** You, you ignorant piece of S***". Not that we really hate this woman, or resent Joey. But when someone plunges a knife in your heart - even if they do it unintentionally - you're going to bleed. Sometimes our chat rooms are more like a battlefield triage; we do our best to patch each other up so that we can continue the fight.
If you've never fought this battle, God bless you. I could lie and say we don't resent you, but the truth is, most of us do, at least a little bit. Hell, my sister is the best thing that ever happened to me, and the best friend I've ever had. And yet, I've resented the hell out of her along the way. Not through any fault of her own, but through the cruelty and suffering that comes with the territory I've been forced to navigate.
It doesn't mean we don't like you or love you. It doesn't mean we want anything bad to happen to you. It's just so hard for us to watch your happiness, when we ourselves struggle daily with bone-crushing sorrow.
If you have a friend who has no children, tread lightly this Mother's Day. Even if she laughs Cruella DeVille style and proclaims her intolerance for all things toothless and drooling. Resist the temptation to say "Oh, I bet at this time next year you'll change your mind and have a set of twins to show for it!" The fact is, many of us are consummate actresses. Not one of my friends ever even suspected I battled infertility for years. And I was completely, totally stunned by the number of friends who came forward after the death of my son and said "I've never shared this with anyone, but I lost a baby who would be 5 years old now" or "Joe and I struggled for years, we finally decided we couldn't afford more fertility treatments, either financially or emotionally."
I hope this post doesn't come across as an attempt to rob anyone of their right to enjoy and celebrate being a mom. By all means, enjoy the breakfast in bed, the homemade cards, the mothers rings, flowers and candy. Snuggle your bundles of joy, be they 6 weeks or 16 years old. "Mom" is the toughest job in the world, and you deserve your day! All we ask is that you spare us a thought, perhaps a prayer, and a kindly gesture. If you know we've had a miscarriage, don't say "Oh heck, by this time next year it'll be your turn!" Because nobody can know that, and even if it's true, it doesn't ease the pain of this year, and this loss.
What you can do for us is to be a compassionate and understanding friend who helps us to feel comfortable in our own, currently-unstretchmarked skin. We know you can't make it better. We just ask that you be there for us when it's at its worst.
God Bless, and Happy May 10th to all my friends.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
