Unfit Mother

Hmmmmm...

Ever wonder about the story behind a picture?

We were driving home from Costco when Ivy said, "Mom, look at that squirrel!" We were stuck in traffic so I look in this little sapling lining the sidewalk of a hardware store and see the oddest thing. And of course I had to pull over into the parking lot to take a picture because the animal is dead and all I could think is: How the hell did THAT happen.  And then all the other inhabitants stuck in their cars look over to see what the crazy lady in the van is taking a picture of. Thier reaction is the same: quizzical looks and finger pointing. If only I had the time and motivation to time lapse the coming days.

Adaptation

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Word of the Day

Blistless - when a blogger becomes lazy about updating his or her blog

(Huge work deadlines this week. More soon.)

Just A Mom

I was sorting through some old emails when I came across one of those cutsie messages that a friend of mine sent. I usually abhor the kind of drivel ending with “pass along to three great women and you’ll have good luck all day.” Ugh. But this one is different and it reminds me of the Mommy Blogger discussions ripping through the blogosphere a couple of months ago. Her Bad Mother hosted a little contest for a BlogHer conference registration package. I didn’t attend the Chicago gathering and I never did get my candy, come to think of it…

But I was thinking how it isn’t just Mommy Blogger that receives criticism, but Motherhood in general isn’t taken seriously. It seems women are always struggling to define themselves and fighting for their identity. Sigh.

The author of the following is anonymous to me, but it is a clever anecdote illustrating this sentiment.
____________________________________________________________________________________
A woman, renewing her driver's license at the County Clerk's office was asked by the woman recorder to state her occupation. She hesitated, uncertain how to classify herself.
    "What I mean is," explained the recorder, "do you have a job or are you just a...?" 
    "Of course I have a job," snapped the woman. "I'm a Mom." 
    "We don't list 'Mom' as an occupation, "housewife covers it," said the recorder emphatically.

I forgot all about her story until one day. I found myself in the same situation, this time at our own Town Hall. The Clerk was obviously a career woman, poised, efficient and possessed of a high sounding title like, "Official Interrogator" or "Town Registrar." 
    "What is your occupation?" she probed.
What made me say it? I do not know. The words simply popped out.
    "I'm a Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations.”

The clerk paused, ballpoint pen frozen in midair and looked up as though she had not heard right.  I repeated the title slowly emphasizing the most significant words. Then I stared with wonder as my pronouncement was written in bold, black ink on the official questionnaire.
    "Might I ask," said the clerk with new interest, "just what you do in your field?"

Coolly, without any trace of fluster in my voice, I heard myself reply.
    "I have a continuing program of research, (what mother doesn't) in the laboratory and in the field, (normally I would have said indoors and out). I'm working for my Masters, (the whole darned family) and already have four credits (all daughters). Of course, the job is one of the most demanding in the humanities, (any mother care to disagree?) and I often work 14 hours a day, (24 is more like it).  But the job is more challenging than most run-of-the-mill careers and the rewards are more of a satisfaction rather than just money."

There was an increasing note of respect in the clerk's voice as she completed the form, stood up and personally ushered me to the door. As I drove into our driveway, buoyed up by my glamorous new career, I was greeted by my lab assistants -- ages 13, 7, and 3.

Upstairs I could hear our new experimental model, (a 6 month old baby) in the child development program, testing out a new vocal pattern. I felt I had scored a beat on bureaucracy! And I had gone on the official records as someone more distinguished and indispensable to mankind than "just another Mom." Motherhood! . What a glorious career! Especially when there's a title on the door.

Does this make grandmothers "Senior Research associates in the field of Child Development and Human Relations" and great grandmothers Executive Senior Research Associates"? I think so!!! I also think it makes Aunts "Associate Research Assistants”.

Breastfeeding Challenge 2007

Invitation to Join the Breastfeeding Challenge 2007

Join us to celebrate breastfeeding in a fun “competition” where every child “wins” because they are breastfed!!

What: Quintessence Breastfeeding Challenge 2007 This fun event is a challenge for which geographic area ( province, state or territory) has the most breastfeeding babies, as a percentage of the birthrate, “latched on.” at 11am local time.

When: September 29th*

Why: to celebrate breastfeeding and demonstrate promotion, protection and support for breastfeeding women and their families. It’s a chance for education and peer support done in a fun social way.

Location: a health unit or hospital, local coffee shop, mall or any other venue.

Numbers: 2-??

“Latch on”: 11am local time. Some sites are a few breastfeeding women who get together to “be counted” and others are much larger events with lunch, raffles, education, speakers, door prizes etc

Registration: online at no cost and submit some simple paperwork to be counted on the big day. Dial up www.babyfriendly.ca

Background: In 2001 when this event started, there were 856 babies at 26 sites in British Columbia, Canada. Last year there were 4,687 babies at 156 sites across Canada and the US. This year we would love to see that number increase dramatically. Do your part, join us – organize a site – big or small! Every breastfeeding baby counts in the final count.

Amateur Night

As can happen to anyone from time to time, my car was broken into the other night. It is more of a headache than a real problem: calling my insurance, filling a police report, cleaning up glass, having my entire obliterated dash board replaced; simple things, but a real headache, nonetheless. But the greatest fanfare was the exciting CSI activity that followed for the kids’ entertainment and mine. Many people asked if I felt violated, this being the unpleasant post-crime feeling after shock and anger. But I don’t. I feel completely grossed out that someone’s blood is all over my car (which I didn’t realize until I took Tavi and Bea to the library the next day), but not violated.

A friend of mine noticed my broken car window and came to the door. It had probably been a good 12 hours after the incident, but I wasn’t going to catch the person anyway. I needed to meet Ivy’s school bus and figuring this situation would require the remainder of the day spent on the phone, I decided to collect my child before beginning the laborious task ahead of me. I told Ivy about the discovery and took the opportunity to discuss the role of the police in our community. Now, I come from an anarchist background and have suspicion verging on contempt for law enforcement, but for the sake of “the truth” we tell our children, I broached the subject cautiously. Some groundwork must be laid; conspired stories devoid of corruption must first be told to children before they can begin to see other truths for themselves. I didn’t think this was the time to get all Rodney King on her.

Ivy was really excited about police coming to our house. She wanted to know if I could request a policewoman. I thought about asking when I called, but was doubtful anyone would arrive at all and I didn’t want to hedge my bets. Before I left to meet Ivy’s bus, I found the appropriate number and made some initial calls. As soon as we came home and Ivy had an opportunity to see the broken glass and the disheveled scattering of worthless trinkets, we called the Portland Police Department. I was more amused than surprised that an actual police officer would be dispatched to my home. A previous car break-in, years ago resulted in a “sorry, not much can be done” over the phone report where I was issued a case number to provide my insurance.

Officer Chapin knocked on the door within the hour. The first thing he said to me was, “sorry I still have my shoes on.” We have a ‘Please Take Off your Shoes’ sign on the door. I was shocked that he even considered it – I can’t even get our closest friends to comply most of the time. And although I warned Ivy that even if it was the police officer, not to open the door while I was tending laundry in the basement. In her excitement, she forgot and I intercepted her turning the lock on the door welcoming the officer. I made him show Ivy his badge and he was absolutely eager to please.

Officer Chapin took my statement, handed out McGruff Jr. Officer badges to the girls and even carried Tavi out to the car to have a look. (I couldn’t vouch for the integrity of her diaper at that point, but he seemed unfazed – four kids of his own). Our noble civil servant took a look at the damage and said, “You know what, there’s a lot of evidence here. I’m going to call in our criminology department.” Say whaaaaat? The last time my car was broken into I was told I had no chance of reclaiming property because they never caught these guys and it was a useless battle. This man was telling me that not only could he send out some real life David Caruso, but also there was a chance the fingerprints could already be in the system. His optimism caught me off-guard.

And sure enough, the next cast member arrived precisely when Officer Chapin said I could expect him. Officer Cushman came to the door complete with black safari vest stuffed with various flashlights, swabs and plastic tubing as well as a big tackle box. I led him to the car where he preformed a spectacular show worthy of the next birthday entertainment hire. Officer Cushman collected DNA samples from the blood left on the abandoned crowbar in the front seat. Then, in his best Las Vegas showmanship, gave each of my three children a white card stock imprint of their fingerprints created with the same magnetic iron powder used for Wooly Willy’s follicly challenged form. By this time I was expecting trained monkeys to pop out of his box and a ride in the squad car – this was the service in “to serve and to protect”!

The kids had an exciting afternoon and were bursting with chatter to assault daddy’s ears as soon as he walked in the door a short time later. In the meantime, Officer Chapin called again to leave his personal cell phone number where I could reach him with the serial number from our stereo. I called him back with the information but still could not believe how nice and helpful these guys were. All I could think is, other than the fact both cops were also dads and the kid factor probably weighed heavily in the performance, that this grand gesture was in response to recent backlash from the treatment of some Portland citizens. If the PPD is trying to make a more positive impression on the public, they have me fooled. 

But the real irony of the situation is my stereo is actually still sitting in the van. The faceplate is gone, not much use, but my thief did not amass much profit from his night’s activity. And funnier yet, even though we have to have the dashboard replaced, it needed to be removed anyway for an extensive heating fan / coil replacement. So basically instead of paying for the expensive removal of the dashboard to replace this part, our insurance will pay that portion of the bill. And the karmic portion of this divine comedy? The thief stole two $25 girl cards to McMenanmins pubs – that had already been redeemed. I would pay good money for the front row of that “oh shit” moment when the bill arrives. So as big of a headache as this whole situation is, there are some small silver linings. And my faith in the PPD has been redeemed a little bit.

Epilogue
After the whole car break-in epic, the following night, my friends down the street (whose car was also broken into the same night, but suffered no accountable loss) encountered a young man who took off running when he was discovered in an empty house they are selling. My friend had to give a police report and the remainder of the evening passed with the whole neighborhood flanked by squad cars and police with searchlights, dogs and bullhorns. Quite an exciting evening – it will be interesting if this suspect is discovered to be the car stereo culprit.

Teaser

Stonewall Baskin Robbins

An Open Letter to:

Baskin Robbins
3010 Harrison Ave Nw
Olympia, WA 98502
360-943-1231

Customer Service seems to be declining in Olympia, Washington. While I do not know the specific laws governing whether or not a restaurant has the legal obligation to offer washroom facilities to their patrons, I do know there is a point when common decency should override an establishment’s policy.

My oldest daughter, Ivy, is five years old and already an ice cream connoisseur. She also has an acute condition called Glomerulonephritis. No, I am not writing on her behalf with a melodramatic plea to grant her some dying wish involving cardboard containers of rocky road. Fortunately, she isn’t that sick. Instead Ivy is plagued with the need to quite frequently use the bathroom. And being five and a member of a family including toddler twins, Ivy neither remembers to nor do her parents always remind her to use the toilet before we leave the restaurant where we have just eaten dinner.

Opting to forgo the delicious desert selection at Tugboat Annie's, our happy entourage of Mom, Dad, Ivy, twin baby sisters and grandparents decided instead to stop at Baskin Robbins for a delightful late summer treat on the way home – Grandma and Grandpa’s treat. With visions of decadent scoops filled with chocolate, cherries, nuts and other assorted flavors within the 31 range of offerings, we loaded into our VW Vanagon and headed on over to Harrison Ave NW. Along the way, Ivy declared her need for relief. Already in the car and on the road, I begged for her patience. But a little further up the road, Ivy began turning a little green as her eyes welled with tears. She had to go now! And then her stomach began to hurt and then she had to throw up. “Almost there, baby girl”, I assured my first-born. “ I can see the blue and pink logo now!”

Like a catcher of strike balls, I crouched under my child with a plastic bag positioned favorably for preventing expensive car detailing later. Even in the company of immediate family, she was clearly embarrassed. She wanted to wait until we arrived at our promised and much anticipated destination.

As soon as my husband pulled into the convenient storefront parking spot, I unbuckled Ivy from her booster seat and hurried her into the building. Searching for the facilities, I found none. But looking to the right behind the barrels of dairy goodness, I saw a black sign with big orange letters: NO PUBLIC RESTROOM. Thinking this surely meant, not for the public out THERE (In here we were all paying customers, right?), I asked, “Could we please use your restroom?”

I was countered with blank stares from the three adolescent scoopers left in charge. “We don’t have a public bathroom”, stammered one of the two girls. “But she HAS to go”, I stated incredulously. “And she feels like she’s going to throw up”! More blank stares. “I’m sorry,” offered the other girl. “So, where should she throw up then?” By this time I was furious, at both the situation in which I found myself and the lack of concern exhibited by anyone else in the store. “Should she throw up on the floor?” Still I was stonewalled.

The rest of our family then joined us with toddlers in tow. After a few lobbed volleys of arguing and the appearance of a consolatory trashcan in which Ivy could throw up (gee, how sanitary for the other customers) we left Baskin Robbins in search of friendlier services. Rushing across the road to the Safeway grocery store, I ushered Ivy to the bathroom where upon peeing to her great relief, she no longer felt sick to her stomach. A complete recovery and she was ready for ice cream! We met the awaiting family in the frozen food section where we proceeded to buy several pints of Vermont's finest, Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

So why am I bothering to write you a letter? First of all, as I mentioned in the opening of this tirade, I’m not sure what the law requires of an eating establishment in terms of washroom facilities for their patrons but I like to teach my children to wash their hands before they eat. I require this simple germ eradication even before desert. Did Mmes Baskin and Robbins not demand the same of their children? Maybe they were not from the south from where I hail and learned something we like to call manners. Might I be so bold as to suggest that if you are going to offer the paying public a place to congregate and eat with friends and family, you should provide this necessary accommodation? But I am also writing as an example to my children. (And here I would begin playing a recording of some very patriotic and emotional background music.) We live in a country that has access to indoor plumbing, but more importantly certain alienable rights! Including the right to lodge a complaint and (you scream, I) scream for justice when we have been wronged. I want to teach my daughter to stand up for herself when she feels inappropriately treated, to speak how she feels and to demand answers to questions like, “why can’t I use the bathroom, mommy?”

So please, do tell me: why does Baskin Robbins not offer restrooms for their paying customers or why not teach your employees to make allowances for special circumstances?

Sincerely,

Ivy's Mom
Portland, OR

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Post Script:

Thanks to Sarah at OlyBlog for the support. It's nice to have a two tiered soapbox!

Ordinary Moments: The Whole Story

You know that voice in your head? Your inner Jiminy Cricket; the one that says, take your cell phone; make sure it’s charged. I did not listen to Jiminy’s incessant chirping and found myself instead bobbing the waters of the Puget Sound in a gas flooded jet ski.

We arrived at my in-laws the Saturday afternoon of Labor Day. Within a couple of hours, I was cruising Budd Bay on their 2-stroke Skidoo. It was an exhilarating and freeing moment to myself away from children. But first I took Ivy for a quick spin, and each life jacket encrusted baby for a short putt in shallow water. Then G and I went for faster spree though the wakes until we almost ran out of fuel. I could not wait for the next liberating opportunity. When grandma and grandpa offered to take the brood to the movies the next day, I volunteered to fill the tank at the marina pump. G and I were off with instructions for mixing oil and 91 octane. After a short jaunt across choppy water, I puttered and bumped into the Boston Harbor Marina station with a little nautical help from some locals. G jumped off, located the opening opposite the oil depository and began pumping gas into our motorized sea-faring machine o’ fun.

Sitting on the skidoo I thought 13 gallons seemed like a lot of fuel for our tiny vessel. And at 30 bucks, G figured we were good to go. Wanting to ensure our oil mixture was appropriate for some recreational time on the water, we lifted the dry container to check the oil tank. A greenish broth swirled in the hull. Were we leaking seawater in? Gee that smells like gas. The thoughts I did not heed; I habitually ignore that cautious cricket. We pushed off the dock and I pressed the engine start button. Nothing happened. And as we drifted further into the harbor, the term “dead in the water” came to mind. All these nautical terms from common language came into use; ironically applied in their proper context. Recognizing the helpless look of amateurs, a patron at the pump threw us a line. Once tethered to safety we began investigating our problem. The engine was fine before we filled the tank with gas, so what was the problem now? While G checked out the oil tank, determining if our mixture was the source of our strandation, I somehow, belatedly, noticed the gas tank. After G had filled the tank I remarked it was odd that it had no lid. Shut up Jiminy. Sitting there without power I finally realized our mistake. G had poured gas into the vent instead of the actual gas tank and the vehicle was now flooded with the newly acquired 13 gallons of fuel.

Enlisting help from the station employee we realized we would have to bail the gas out of the skidoo. It was about this time that Nathan; our “I’m just trying to be helpful, not antagonize the situation” helper noticed gas leaking into the harbor. He alerted the marina owner and the gravity of our situation became more apparent. A woman from the harbor patrol came to tow us to the opposite beach in a kayak and about this time G’s cell phone battery died. Up until this point my role had been one of uninvolved observer, letting G control this situation. Once I realized this was not going to be a 20-minute trial of inconvenience, I reluctantly eased off the machine, quit ADDing over the delicate jellyfish tendril caught on the pier and inserted myself into the situation. G and the marina asshole owner were squabbling over whether or not G could siphon the gas out with a hose and a bucket. Meanwhile I got down on my hands and knees and started bailing the noxious stew out of the hull. I filled three buckets before an actual pump materialized out of the ether. Even with an oil boom soaking in the skidoo and three buckets of recovered petroleum, we still had a flood. By this time I thought to engage the onslaught of holiday harbor cruisers offering condolences to our plight into a more sensible strategy. We found a tow from the first boat owner I asked. (Later, G referred to this as my feminine charm, which I took to mean: I actually had the idea to get us out of the situation we were in and asked for some freaking help.) I realized that if we were towed to the opposite shore without a cell phone, we were in for a long disastrous day into evening away from breastfeeding babies and any hope of rescue. My in-laws lived on the East side of the bay and by car it would have taken anyone an hour to get to us. That is if they knew where to find us. Since G’s cell phone was dead it also meant we had no access to pertinent data like telephone numbers and addresses. Who the hell has a phone book anymore? Not the Boston Harbor Marina.

Precariously balanced behind the Lazy Lightening, G cursed his newfound hatred of motorized recreational watercraft. Steady at a menacing pace of 10 mph, I assured him we would not fall into the "drink" and invited him to think of this as an adventure that could have been much worse. After all we were cruising along the bay on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

What did I take home from this very convoluted story that could have been much shorter?

Here is what I had the presence of mind to think about even in the moment. As a parent, I believe irrevocably, that my actions are much more demonstrative than any one thing I can say to my children. And even without them present, I did not panic; I did not hesitate to do what I needed to do. I kept my cool and acted befitting a parental role model.

I engaged the nasty troll of the marina owner and challenged him when he was being not-at-all-helpful with his quips and criticism in an attempt to boost his own littleness. Without even raising my voice (which I do all too often to my children), I simply stated things like: I don’t think that is very helpful. We are not attempting to inflict more damage than we have already caused. I think arguing over whether or not the siphon will work is not helpful. I don’t think being an asshole is very helpful right now. And I am happy to listen to some suggestions you might have about how we might remedy this situation and be on our merry way. He said, “I like being an asshole.” I assured him he had a very large set of manly balls and he can relay our silly plight to many a captive audience once we leave, but “may we please have a bucket?” Even though I fought one brief moment of emotional tears, I found myself quite amused by the situation.  And offered several apologies to Nathan who was quite helpful, sincere and not at all antagonizing as he so poignantly made a point of not being.

As soon as he realized we were being towed out of there, the marina owner wanted to know what we planned to do with all the gas and insisted we pay for the supplies needed to clean up the spill. Fair enough, it was our mistake. We paid the tab and guaranteed our swift return to collect the buckets containing gallons of gas. (Even though Nathan assured us to leave it there.) And interestingly, when G did return to accept his responsibility an hour and a half later, Mr. Asshole was attempting to sell the supposed inconvenient waste. What a snake! Good thing, being the responsible parent that I am with Jiminy serenely perched on my shoulder, I remembered to call the Coast Guard and report the rainbow slick spreading on the skim of the bay.

Ordinary Moments

You know that voice in your head? Your inner Jiminy Cricket; the one that says, take your cell phone, make sure it’s charged. I did not listen to Jiminy’s insistence chirping and found myself instead bobbing the waters of the Puget Sound in a gas flooded jet ski.

MORE TO COME