one plus one plus one

I think this turned out to be less interesting than I planned--updated

I really need to write about my hellish trip home but I'm still a little fragile. (Joking.) Mostly.

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Of all the little mom-to-mom digs I read online (I was formula fed and I'm ok! Formula kills! Why should I have to watch you feed your kid with your boob, gross! I only feed my precious growing baby organic!) the one that is the most puzzling is when someone says they're proud of using disposible diapers.

Don't get me wrong. I don't think you're bad if you use sposies. I used them for a year exclusively, and since the laundry didn't get done last night (I, uh, fell asleep quicker than Jamie, I think) my kid went to daycare with some in his diaper bag. Using disposible diapers is the norm. It is what most of us are comfortable with, and if we think of cloth diapers at all, it's to shake our heads and wonder why you'd be so crazy to add to the day to day complexities of raising children by using them. That was me, anyway, until the day I thought about how many putrid little balls of plastic we had contributed to our landfills and how many more we had left to go and it was so depressing we switched to cloth.

So no, it's not the slight shake of the head and thinking I'm crazy. That's fine. It's the "I use Pampers and I'm PROUD!" Why? Why is it something to be proud of unless you're just trying to prove your superiority by swimming with the mainstream? While I may be crazy for running cloth stained with human excrement through my washing machine a few times a week, I'm not doing it to make a statement. I'm doing it because I'm worried about the environment. I'm worried about the chemicals we use and that are all around us. I worry about pesticides, global warming, overfishing and the rain forest.  Using cloth doesn't affect those particular issues of course and maybe I'm just whistling out my ass because I haven't made plans to stop eating fish or to by a hybrid car. We've been saying we're going to start recycling for years. But then, I don't walk around saying how proud I am for not having done so.

You know what it is, it's like someone on the FCD board at BBC said once when talking about blinkies. About how most of them simply state the obvious in an overly obnoxious, in your face way. And that she was going to have blinkies that say, "I sleep laying down," and other equally funny things that I can't recall at the moment. It would be like me having a blinky that said, "Proud to be contributing our fair share to the landfills!" or, "Proud be a part of our throw-away culture!" Because, I could say the same about using throw-away plastic containers or paper towels, but the point is, I don't.

Speaking of the FCD at the BBC, I haven't been there much lately. I've been here instead. It's members' only but I'd be happy to vouch for you if you want to create an account.

Trip so far

Here are my photos from the weekend, arranged so that the juxtaposition between the various elements of North Adams are evident. The Porches Inn is a lovely, artsy B&B. MASS MoCA came out of an innovative use of a former manufacturing company site once the owners pulled out. There's a great documentary called Downside UP about the site - and the town's - transformation. And yet, I think the transformation was oversold a little. The main street is bustling, but the view from Porches shows a different place, in my opinion. And that's ok I think. I think if the whole town was made over it would be a different place, a "starbuckified" version of its former self. And in the end I think the point the film tries to make is that it is just as much about the spirit of the place and of the townspeople as it is about making N Adams a glossy tourist attraction. I'm guessing they're striking the right balance. So I'm not really griping, just observing.

Ooh, tomorrow, I finally get to meet Karrie in person!

Get off your ass and vote

This is from two years ago. I spent that night crying in front of the tv, bitterly wondering what the hell kind of world had I brought my son into.

GO VOTE. Your vote matters. I don't care if you're feeling cynical or let down or like there is no one to truly represent you. I don't care if you're choosing the worst of two evils or voting against something rather than for someone. It doesn't matter. You don't vote, you don't get the right to complain. You don't vote, you let yourself and your fellow Americans down. Go do it. Now.

You never know (knock on wood)

I was talking the other day to someone about how you should never assume how you know someone is going to react to something or what decisions they'll make. It was work-related and we were talking about kids and contemporary art, but I've had this opinion about the American public for most of my life.  When Bush won the first time this belief was shaken but when he won the second time I spent a lot of energy being depressed at the generall decline of the collective American intelligence - maybe that's the wrong word. How about the ability to think critically? To question and analyze and come up with your own opinion.

But I'm feeling optimistic once again. We in Ohio will most likely elect a Democratic governor tomorrow. And not only would we be electing a Democratic governor, we would finally be rejecting a State Republican party that puts the "rupt" in corrupt. A Republican party that has until now seemed invicible and I can only hope that this signals a change nationally.

No, I'm not anti-Republican. I hate voting straight ticket anything. I'm registered as an Independent and bristle at the idea of taking orders from any organization. But I can't see how anyone in good conscience could vote Republican right now in this particular race. Or in many races around the country. I have family members that do and that will and I love them all the same. I have friends that do and that will and I will remain friends with them. But I believe they are sorely misguided.

It's really incomprehensible to me

I like to bury my head in the sand sometimes, and just try not to think about the awful things that happen every day in every corner of the world. So when I see pictures on the front page of the newspaper of children in the MIddle East that have been caught in the current conflict, bandaged, crying, alone, I look at their faces, wish I could hold them and take away their pain, and then I place the paper face-down and walk away. I retreat back into my safe, white, middle-class bubble and I go on with my day.

But then, then I read about a 17-month-old toddler, who was raped and suffocated by his mother's boyfriend. Here, locally, a few miles from where MD and I used to live. A 17-month-old, 20 pound, baby. How do you look at a body that small and see it as something to stick your dick into? Really, how does that work??

Back when I had faith I would take my anger and give it to God. He, after all, as I was taught, could handle it. That is what He was there for. I don't know where to put it now.

That thing everyone is talking about

When I was born, my mom received a shot to dry up her milk. It was standard operating procedure in that particular hospital at the time (1970) and she doesn't recall anyone asking her if she wanted the shot or mentioning breastfeeding at all. It was assumed she would formula feed and they just gave it to her. When Jamie was born, my mom loved to watch me nurse him and even would watch me pump. (I asked her not too, I felt like a moo-cow already, and besides, we're not that close. Really.) She was fascinated by the whole process, loves how comforting it is for Jamie, and as a nurse, is completely on board with the health benefits. The fact that her very first decision as a mother, of how to feed her child, was taken away from her makes me seethe. Not for my own lost health benefits, not even for hers, and our family history is such that we both could have used whatever percentage points we could gain. No, what makes me angry is that the medical establishment decided that science could create a better source of nourishment than a woman's body and imposed its will upon so many mothers.

For me, breastfeeding advocacy is about empowering the mother. It's about women having the information, resources, and support to breastfeed successfully, to use our bodies to their fullest potential. If a woman doesn't want to breastfeed, that is her choice. That doesn't mean that exposure to the benefits of breastmilk and advantages of breastfeeding might not change her mind, but for me, it's the women that want to breastfeed and fail because no one told them it might take a week for their milk to come in or that it might come in so fast and so hard that their baby might have problems latching. Or because their pediatrician told them their milk was too thin, or they didn't have enough, or that a perfectly safe medication meant they had to wean. Or because their husband thought it was icky, or their workplace refused to let them pump. The denial of the desire to breastfeed, the emotional fallout it causes, that's what pisses me off.

And when women turn on each other instead of demanding their doctors and insurance companies and workplaces give them the support and respect they deserve, well, that makes me sick to my stomach. Because the only ones who are benefiting by the crap we sling at each other from both sides of this debate are the formula companies. And that's just bullshit.

Gore

This is a really great article. And I can't believe how different Gore looks - in a good way, I think. But older, weathered.

White, not white

This article (a few months old now) struck a few chords with me. I grew up in a 99.99% white environment. It was the 70s, our neighborhood was white and my Catholic school was white. I think the only exposure I had to people of color was a friend of my grandfather's and I only saw him occasionally.

My grandma has a complicated relationship with race. She doesn't believe in "mixing" and once referred to the apartment complex my mother was living in at the time (with her black boyfriend) as a "zebra colony." Oh yes, she meant it to sound just that derogatory too. But she's always had black friends. And she herself is one-quarter native american, which only complicates things further. Her legs, beautiful, shapely, and hairless, are her "indian legs."

I guess you could say I grew up with mixed messages in regard to race. I was taught that we were all equal, and that I was to respect everyone, no matter what their skin looked like, but people of other races were, for the most part, "other." I remember when I was in maybe 2nd or 3rd grade, the one black girl in my class and I were friends. We got in to an argument, and in the heat of the moment, I yelled at her, "You just think you're cool because you're black!" She burst into tears, and the teacher, who overheard this exchange, was appalled. I was told to appologize immediately, and I did. The thing was, with my blond hair and blue eyes, I always felt so ordinary. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, those were all exotic, and when combined, well, that was the most exotic and exciting of all, right?

My shame at my teacher's reaction festered in me all day, and finally that night, after laying awake in my bed for some time, I got up and confessed to my grandparents. It was excruciating, but they were kind about it and tried to explain a little more calmly than the teacher why things like that were not nice and not to be said. My memory is a little fuzzy, but I believe the girl moved or changed schools not too long after that. I do know that we weren't friends any longer.

This early ignorance became general awkwardness as I grew older, still ensconced within my all-white, all-Catholic school world. I remember as a squad leader in high school marching band, the other four girls, all black, all freshmen, gave me major lip and attitude and hassled me for my whiteness. I remember feeling shut out and insignificant in certain college classes, unable to interact with certain black classmates because I knew that they knew. I was a whitey-white, white bread, white girl.

I'm not sure how or when I worked through all that, but now, as an adult, I've gotten past it. One of the things that attracted me to MD is that he can talk to anyone, no matter their race, age, sexual orientation or the state of their bank account. I saw that easygoing manner, how likeable he is, and knew I wanted my children to be like that.

There are a lot of reasons why I will not send my child to Catholic schools, and this is one. When reading about Celeste's transformation in the article above, it hit home for me that there is no school, really, like that in our city. And definitely not one like that in any of the suburbs. We're a very segregated community, and even the urban areas I'd be interested in living in are white, white, white.

So what's a parent to do? Although I did not choose our daycare provider on this criteria alone, she is black, her assistant is black, and her kids are black, white, and asian, and a few are a mixture of some or all of these. But we still dont' have very many friends of color. Gay friends, sure, black or asian or hispanic, not really.

Attitude will have a lot to do with how Jamie perceives "other" people, and I know he at least won't receive the bizarrely mixed messages that I do. But it's not the same as actually living with, talking with, and playing with kids that don't all look exactly like you.

Save Ro...oh, yawn, never mind

I've been getting emails recently from groups like moveon.org telling my why I should be upset about the Samuel Alito nomination, and what I can do to protest, or as in the email from Planned Parenthood today, how I can "Save Roe v. Wade."

The first I let linger in my inbox, along with my digests from Mother Jones, thinking I'll get to them eventually. Now I'm just deleting them. Not because I'm not upset, or because I don't want to protest or save Row v. Wade. No, because nothing I can do will make a difference. Nothing.

Either the Democrats will grow some balls and step up, or they won't. And really, the man is qualified. Should his nomination be dismissed on ideological grounds?

In the end, I can dress it up any way I want, but really, I'm too tired to fight. We're stuck with our moron-in-chief for three more years because a bunch of people, espcially those in my state, Ohio, bought his lies hook, line, and sinker. And a few months ago there was a story on NPR (damn liberal media!) on how, gee, surprise, surprise, Ohioans are still losing jobs. And yes, they were talking to actual surprised Ohioans.

Just. Too. Tired.

Thanks to NPR, you really brought me down this morning

Now for a 180 degree change in mood from the previous, "charming anecdote about my offspring," post. I was listening to the radio on the way to work this morning, and NPR was doing a story about this Supreme Court case. The prisoner in question spends his days in his cell, trapped in his wheelchair, often sitting in his own waste for days, or sleeping in his wheelchair for months, because the fucking state of Georgia can't be bothered to install grab bars in his cell. He once went TWO YEARS without a shower. Let's all contemplate that for a moment, shall we?*

This uplifting story was followed by Frank Deford, one of my favorite commenters on anything, ever. The fact that I am at best indifferent to sports at best should tell you how much I like this guy. "Ah!" I thought, "Frank will end the commute on a high note."

Uh, no. Frank decides that this is the morning to let us all know about former race horses who are slaughtered and sold as meat to other countries. And not only are they "put out to pasture" in the worst meaning of the phrase possible, apparently, the method of slaughter, the same stun gun used to slaughter cattle, isn't as effective because of their long necks-

I turned the radio off. And contemplated becoming a vegetarian again. Really, Frank, how could you let me down like that?

*I want to note that the newscaster, with just a touch of incredulity in his voice, made note of the fact that, in this case, the Bush administration sides with the prisoner, and I thought, "Boy, you're really fucked if Dubya's telling you you're treating your prisoners too harshly."