This week we signed the papers to initiate an evaluation. "For autism," said the special educator, making an X near the signature line on one particular form. As we signed I wondered how many parents hear that word so baldly stated and want to correct him. No, no, I think you made a mistake. You don't mean autism. You mean Asperger's. Or "something on the spectrum." Or...I know what: quirky. How about you just write quirky? And put in "delightfully" if there's room.
This is not a new idea, that something's going on with Charlie more complex than "doesn't feel like listening" or "harmless goofballing" or "overindulgent parents, Jesus, did you hear them?" even though any of those might be concomitant. Autism? ADHD? ODD? NVLD? OMGSRSLY? Yeah, sure, maybe, I guess. Throw 'em on the stack, whatever consonants you have, and let's just please find out.
And "Let's just please find out" is not a new request. He's seen his pediatrician, two OTs, and a neurologist; the school counselor, the support specialist, the special educators. In fact, for the last six months the school has been doing its due diligence to determine whether the lower-level interventions they provide as a matter of course might be sufficient. While it could have been stopped at any point if the smile charts and sensory breaks and social coaching had shown much promise, the process has been in motion for some time now. This is simply its culmination.
So we are accustomed to the idea that there's something, whatever it'll ultimately be called. (I call it "I just want my kid to make it through the school day in the company of his classmates having learned something without an outburst." The eventual DSM-VI is going to be all over that shit.) We know we need some help.
And yet there's something about signing, about taking the pen in hand and making that mechanical squiggle, saying, "Yes, please classify my child," that feels like standing over Pandora's Box, reading the packing list carefully, and then asking for a crowbar. Like we're setting something big and possibly dangerous in motion without knowing how it works. Simultaneously like we're doing absolutely the right thing for our child, and like we're selling him down the river.
If you're not kind of totally freaked out, you haven't been paying attention
A brief selection of images from the bookshelves of my children:
"Wait, wait, Ben, why are you crying? I thought you liked dogs."
"Shhh. Shhhhhhh. Don't cry, bunny. Does this one make you feel better?"
Criteria to consider when selecting a children's book:
Does it make me think of cat nipples?
...or that? (Still, it could be worse. It could be scratch 'n' sniff.)
Can you look at that picture without thinking of Boogie Nights?
...Bet you can't now.
To exorcise that vision, please enjoy...a piglet...hungrily eyeing...the meat case. Yes. That's much, much better.
An update as quick as the call was
I saw the principal again at pickup yesterday. From down the block he saw me coming and made that "telephone" hand gesture. I shrugged extravagantly, palms up, in the universal signal for, "Dude. WHAT." As I got nearer he nodded ruefully, the very picture of regret. I widened my eyes all crazy-like, and may have bared a fang. "I'll call you," he said, as I moved into earshot. "Please," I said, and passed.
And he called, beginning with a litany of reasons he hadn't called sooner. I listened, hoping any of those reasons would seem relevant -- pertaining directly to my child -- or urgent -- involving a hungry live tiger on the loose during school hours. But no; I think he was trying to placate me.
In fact, the entire call was about placating me, but in the briefest, ten-foot-pole-est of ways -- so maybe not about placating me, but in fact about shutting me up, presumably so he could go ward off an outbreak of ebola or quash a rising junta or something. I hear he is a very busy man.
The takeaway from the conversation is that Charlie is back on the bus; I made it known that Paul and I are not happy with the way the situation was handled; and that velociraptors must have been tearing through the corridor eating children, library books, and test scores left and right, because, damn, did that principal get off the phone fast.
(I kid because I love...being put off for days.)
Deeply unsatisfying, but not the end of this particular conversation. We have the luxury of a planned conference next week, during which I'll bring this up, maybe even without crying. Thank you so much for all your suggestions and encouragement. I'm learning a lot -- some of it depressing, but all of it useful, and every bit gratefully received.
In an abrupt change of subject, because I do occasionally look up from my navel for a minute, if only to say, "Oooh, linty," I want to point out Keiko Zoll's fantastic multipart rant about PETA, which is giving away a free vasectomy...to encourage people to spay or neuter their pets..."in honor of National Infertility Awareness Week."
In case that pissed you off, why not channel your anger into action? Consider this your yearly reminder about RESOLVE's Advocacy Day, when we formally ask our congressional representatives to -- stay with me, this is crazy -- represent us with meaningful action. Either in Washington or in your home state, you can officially make your voice heard about infertility, and RESOLVE will help.
I've been perseverating on this for what feels like a week now but has only been two days, wearing away at it like the metal-gnawing rodents we discussed at breakfast this morning. (Rodents came after monkeys; monkeys came after horses. "I like to eat horses," Ben cheerfully said. Hush and finish your Wilbur.)
I've told everyone I normally talk to, and when I ran out of people I unloaded on the cat. (He eyed the flecks of spittle in the corners of my mouth, judged my mood to a nicety, and backed away slowly from my crazy-eyed self.) Having talked all my friends into catatonia, I still need to say it some more. It's all I can think about so I'll post it here: Charlie's been banned from the school bus.
About three weeks ago, we were called to pick him up from school. He'd had some classroom outbursts and hit a couple of other kids. (Oh, the sinking in my stomach as I type that — not only that he did it, but at what it means to say on the Internet, Sometimes my kid hits.) As a bonus, apparently there'd been an issue with a kid on the bus.
So we picked him up, brought him home, and attempted to talk it all out. The classroom behavior was of much greater concern, particularly since he was in agreement that things had gone badly there. The bus incident, on the other hand, seemed to be a question of roughhousing gone too far. "M. and I like to sit together and punch ourselves" — not each other — "and pretend to knock ourselves out." M., it seems, amid this play had hit her head on the window pretty hard.
With larger matters to worry about — oh, God, sometimes my kid hits — we resolved the bus situation, we thought, by warning Charlie that he needed to avoid the appearance of violence as well as the violence itself, that that kind of play was likely to lead to trouble, and that he shouldn't sit with M. anymore.
This Monday, a few weeks later now, Paul took a call from the principal. Something had happened on the bus. M.'s mother had gone to the school, incensed. The upshot was that Charlie was not to ride the bus anymore "until we work out a solution."
On hearing this after school hours, I had a million questions: Did something new happen that we didn't know about? What? Why was this the first solution the school proposed? Did it occur to the school to simply separate the kids, have them sit in different seats? Did no one ask Charlie his side of the story?
Sort of seems like not.
Without telling Charlie what was up, I asked him casually about the bus. He seemed entirely unaware that anything alarming might have happened; his only perception that something was out of the ordinary was that when he tried to sit with M. on Monday morning, she told him, "My mom will get mad if I sit with you." As far as he understands it, M. is his friend and they like to goof around together.
For a variety of reasons I believe him, that he didn't do anything mean-spirited or out of anger. He is always perfectly willing to cop to it when that's been the case, "I didn't mean to" being his version of an iron-clad defense, like, whoa, there, Clarence Darrow, your legal kung fu confounds me. I acknowledge Charlie's difficulties in that area, but I think this is a different matter entirely: this is pretty much the definition of everything being all fun and games until someone loses an eye.
(Oh, God, y'all, no: she still has both of her eyes.)
Now, one thing I need you to know about the principal is that at our last meeting, I really felt he heard our concern that Charlie's enthusiasm for school is fast diminishing. He instructed the team — the classroom teacher, the counselor, the support specialist, the occupational therapist — to do what they could to set him up for success, to make school fun for him. He didn't come right out and say, "Go easy on him," but he might as well have, as that was the implication. He did say, "Let's make it our project to keep that light shining."
So the most urgent question I had for the principal was whether it had occurred to anyone to attempt a resolution that didn't summarily take away one of the very few things my kid enjoys about his school experience.
I left a message for the principal at 8:30 yesterday morning. I left another at 1:30. And when I went to pick Charlie up yesterday afternoon, I found him on the steps of the school, presiding over pickup. "I'll call you," he said.
So this is me, perseverating. I cannot let this go. I'm anxious and furious and, on and off, kind of teary. I'm a little twitchy right now, truth be told, keyed up and angry and all too ready to say things I'll surely regret. (As mad as I am that no one has called, I wouldn't want to talk to me, either. I appreciate that the school's first priority is to guarantee the safety of students. But having acknowledged that, I'm still feeling pretty snarly.)
It's only a bus, I tell myself. (The cat agrees from his hiding place, wishing I'd stop hyperventilating. It's harshing his nut-licking mellow.) But it's also something more. It's the suggestion that my kid may be seen as a problem to be solved instead of a child to be understood and met where he is right now. It's the worry that, huh, maybe the school isn't going to go to bat for him when he needs it. And it's the dawning awareness that there may be lots of battles just like this one, simultaneously small and big, to be fought and, God help me, won.
Awkward to tack this on, I know, but I wanted to let you know that among about 60 donors, you gave $2130 for relief efforts in Japan. That's…a lot of money, y'all. The winner of the quilt is Susan, from comment number 33. Susan, it's on its way.
It feels weird to thank you, because I know you didn't do it for me — you do so much for me already, just by being here — but I do want to let you know how grateful I am to you for being part of something big with me. Thank you.
Two minutes' self-indulgence
Happens every time: I can take bad news with great aplomb, as long as no one is kind. Tell me hard facts, and I sit up straighter, but use that tone and I crumple. That was me on Thursday, sitting in a meeting about Charlie — not the hitting meeting, which was five minutes in the principal's office, only long enough for me to think, I wore my Confederate flag bikini for this? but another, an hour and a half, all about our boy and the trouble he's having in school.
I was fine as long as we stuck to plans and procedures. I nodded intelligently through percentiles and programs. I remained detached during a recitation of Charlie's less amusing idiosyncrasies. (I won't reduce him to a list of behaviors, so let's just say he has some.) I was fine until I brought up my most urgent concern, that the problems Charlie's having in the classroom are dampening his enthusiasm for being there and reducing what little engagement he has. I was fine until the principal agreed, saying, "Some of Charlie's light is going out."
Said so kindly it made me cry, silently like I do, but still. If you're going to say shit like that, Mr. Awesome Empathic Principal, ditch the tone of concern and hire a robot to do it for you. Or maybe a Speak and Spell. Because I cannot be a badass with tears dripping off my nose.
The upshot, the short version — because typing even that much has a tear wobbling on the edge of my eyelid — is that Charlie is being evaluated to see if he qualifies for special education. I will be shocked if he doesn't.
Don't mistake me: That's not the problem. I mean, we all have something, right? Getting picked last for sports teams or not having dates in high school or needing Xanax to get on an airplane or looking in the mirror and not liking what we see: Whatever it is, we are all, in some way, irregular. I've known too many families of every stripe — happy families, successful families, regardless of their challenges — to assign it any stigma.
The problem for me is me. I am finding it really hard to shake an ugly idea: that we should somehow be exempt. That because we had it hard early on, now we're due for unremarkable-ever-after. That, Jesus, hasn't that all been enough?
Through our years of infertility, I was never really inclined to feel especially hard done by. Oh, I hated it, but never did it feel like we were unjustly singled out by Fate, the universe, or God. Where some would say, "Why me?" I was content with "Why not me?" If infertility was the worst thing that had happened to me — and at the time, it was — I didn't have much to complain about.
The same is true now. I haven't lost perspective entirely; this is not the worst thing that's happened, not by a long shot. Charlie having trouble is, after all and more importantly, still Charlie, and, my God, how lucky am I? And it's real, what he's experiencing, and it's hard for him and us, but I know it could be worse, so drop the melodrama, Julie. Cut the crap and get on with it. I know it's not that bad. Nevertheless, I am furious, with the kind of anger that's made more frustrating by the fact that it has no target. There is no one to be mad at.
It's the same old anger, I guess, but this time it's being fueled by a feeling that embarrasses me (which is why I'm sharing it here in the quiet with only two or three of my most intimate friends who can be counted on not to judge me for it). That feeling is entitlement. Oh, come on, I think, listening to the neurologist muse, or seeing the school's number on the caller ID. Come on. Do we really deserve this?
And I hate that feeling in myself, because of course the answer is no; of course it is. Deserving's got nothing to do with it. Better people than I have it worse than we ever will. No one ever deserves this kind of difficulty. Therefore, kind of, if you think about it, well, we all do.
What not to wear
...to a meeting concerning your kindergarten son's hitting at school:
- Two words: Catholic schoolgirl.
- Two other words: Beer hat. (Via Twitter.)
- Arm in a sling, heavy eye makeup -- I favor Urban Decay eyeshadow in the Weeping Bruise palette -- and a few fake teeth to spit out casually during conversation.
- "The answer is nun. Nun more black."
- "I'm with Stupid --->" shirt, no matter how strategically you seat yourself in the principal's office.
(What I did wear: a matronly sweater and a shellshocked look, because oh em effing gee.)
Due to an untimely move during high school, the second semester of my senior year found me in a health class designed for freshmen, necessary for graduation. The curriculum purported to address general topics in health and hygiene, but in reality it was about eleven solid weeks of sex ed -- let us relive the magic -- and one solid week of The-Wonder-of-Me bullshit. ("Make an album cover that sums up your personality!" "...The answer is none. None more black.")
Now, by that time I had a good working knowledge of contraception, so it was with purest teenage scorn that I received an assignment intended to terrify my fourteen-year-old classmates into celibacy. We were each issued a five-pound sack of potatoes and told to treat it as we would a real baby: to take it with us wherever we went unless we could find a babysitter; to budget for its care and feeding; and never, under any circumstances, to mash it with cream and butter.
At eighteen, I was pretty sure that anything I found stupid was worth doing very badly. I subverted the assignment in every way I could think of. Instead of pricing cribs at Sears, I insisted I'd empty a laundry basket. While my classmates borrowed strollers and wheeled their babies to English, I toted mine like a football, a hold that appalled my teacher, but one my real babies loved. I unsacked my baby and stuffed its tuberous parts into the sleeves and legs of a dingy romper from Goodwill. I named it Headless. I got a low grade. And that was my training for parenthood.
Today outside the grocery store I saw a girl lugging a baby carrier. She was young, thirteen or fourteen. The sight of her alarmed me, and I looked around for her mother. The carrier was too heavy for her; as she lurched, it jerked and swayed, but she didn't seem to care.
As I passed her I looked at the baby, expecting to see a freaked-out face gone green. But of course it wasn't a baby, but a life-sized plastic doll. My first reaction was relief: I'd been thirty seconds away from rushing right over and telling her to stop shaking that baby; demanding to know if she was breastfeeding; and making some inconsequential small talk about circumcision -- you know, just pleasant social chit-chat. Oh, and cover that baby up! It's 30 degrees out here!
My second reaction was laughter. Because from the neck down the baby was covered…with a bag of Cheetos, a box of Hot Pockets, and a package of Rainbow Twizzlers, all tucked in very neatly next to her ersatz child.
But I still wanted to tell her she was doing it wrong. For the sake of authenticity, she should have swapped the Twizzlers for Xanax.
Posted by Julie at 09:54 PM | Comments (35)
In the midst
I didn't have what you'd call a religious upbringing, but for a while when I was a kid I did go to church every Sunday. My older brother and I sang in the children's choir.
Think about that for a second.
Yup. It all just goes to show you...something...about...okay, I don't know what it goes to show, except that it's kind of a brilliant idea, really, for parents who want Sunday morning child care.
What, you don't think my parents actually attended that church, right?
Anyway, we'd get dropped off, and amid the sound of squealing tires as my parents made their getaway, we'd be there all bleating like snow white little lambs -- the snippets of hymns come back to me all the time -- and then we'd settle into our pews and pretend to listen to the rector as he conducted the talky parts of the service. I have no recollection of those interludes, although since this was an Episcopalian church, it is safe to assume he was exhorting us all to commit adultery, overthrow the papacy, and have a gin and tonic, in that order. What I do remember is that when the time came for us to read along from the Book of Common Prayer, I would flip to the appropriate section along with my choirmates, and as the rector droned I would drift.
Pretending to be casual, I'd flip the book's thin pages. Naturally -- come on, like you wouldn't have -- I'd end up at the Order for the Burial of the Dead. I never attended a funeral in childhood, never heard these words read aloud, but now, much later in life when I know more about what dying means, those phrases come back just like the hymns. In the midst of life we are in death is what I keep hearing these days.
Last week my cousin died, 40 years old, in apparent good health, a slim, athletic man. He left a wife and son, and I have been having flashes several times a day of what this must be like for them. Even the poorest imaginings make me cry: how many horrible months lie ahead before everything stops feeling wrong? And, my God, what will they have to go through until they're finally there?
I'm not writing this because I want condolences. This isn't about me, and that's the point. I have this indelible picture in my mind, and it's crazy but it persists. I am thinking about Japan as one of those giant photo collages -- choose a view of the devastation; it doesn't matter which. Now think of that picture as being composed of a billion smaller pictures: zoom out and you see a town swept away, a family scanning a notice board for news of lost loved ones. Or a young man alone in his home, fallen over suddenly, while the phone rings and rings, unanswered -- his wife, to ask what the doctor said. This is happening every day, to those we'll always love and those we'll never know. Japan is a reminder, on a scale that's hard to assimilate.
So I do things with my children, and I think helplessly and gratefully, Life is going on. Even my cousin's wife since that day has washed her five-year-old's hair, fixed him some sort of meal, comforted him or tried. We go on, and it feels both wrong and right, simultaneously obscene and sacred. Shouldn't the world stop turning? I think when I look at the pictures out of Japan. No, and thank God it doesn't, I think when I check on Ben as he's sleeping, or soothe a crying Charlie when he swallows his first lost tooth.
If I were a better person, I might be feeling, I don't know, different. A surge of renewed gratitude for what I have. The drive to make the world a better place in some practical, tangible way. Or even a respectful solemnity. I don't know. None of that's really happening for me. What I'm experiencing instead is a strengthening of my conviction that we're all connected, we're all in this together, and while nothing solves the problem, exactly -- you can't wish a town back into existence, or ease the loss of a husband and father -- doing something helps. I know it helps the giver, and I hope it helps the recipients.
It's made from a pattern by Elizabeth Hartmann and features a print called Bad Kitty:
...and it's made of cotton fabric and batting, with a backing of soft polyester plush:
To enter, just donate $10 or more to the American Red Cross's designated fund. After donating, come back here and leave a comment with your tracking number. For every $10 given you'll get one entry into the drawing, so please make it clear in your comment if you've donated more than that. Please also leave a valid e-mail address in the appointed space so I can contact you if you win. Next week I'll choose a winner.
Posted by Julie at 02:36 PM | Comments (62)
Ribbed...for her pleasure
We have a winner!
With this comment...
I wish I could come up with a witty response, but I'm so busy panicking about my wretched infertile loins and the state of Georgia trying to make effing miscarriages a crime (as if having the damn things isn't awful enough) that my brain is flatlining...
...Danielle has won the Let's Panic About Babies! book and gift basket. For no reason at all, I am now wondering if the gift basket's "back" massager bears any resemblance at all to the pink fairy armadillo so many of you correctly identified. (If you can look at the drawing above without wondering where you'd insert the batteries, you're a better person than I in pretty much every way.)
But panic no more, Danielle, about the Georgia miscarriage thing, which proposes the death penalty -- Ha, made you snort your coffee! Wait, oh, God, you're choking! Shit, y'all, what do I do? -- in cases where women cannot prove there was "no human involvement whatsoever in the causation" of their loss.
As monstrous as that idea is, it doesn't appear to be an immediate threat to our inalienable right to lie on the bathroom floor crying, whispering, "This just can't be happening." According to RESOLVE, which mounts particularly strong and effective advocacy efforts in Georgia, "[Republican state representative Bobby Franklin] introduces this same legislation every year[...] The Bill has not been assigned to committee and is unlikely to receive a hearing." (Which isn't to say there's nothing to panic about: For crying out loud, Georgia, personhood again?)
So just relax, Danielle, with your nice basket of stuff! Get it? Just relax? Just...rel...oh, never mind. Or at least don't panic about that particular measure, although I admit it might keep me up at night if my state had kept re-electing that creep since 1996.
At any rate, I'm a little too cheerful today to get ranty, so let me direct you to Keiko Zoll's post at Hannah Wept, Sarah Laughed about why this stuff is important even if you can't get pregnant.
I'm in a good mood. Our cat is home after a few weeks of cancer treatment, and spent all night sneezing gently on my face, and while it doesn't sound nice to get periodically sprayed out of a sound sleep by a burst of atomized cat snot, I assure you it was wonderful. My tooth extraction went well and the oral surgeon pronounced himself pleased; although I'm saving the offending molars in case I want them made bionic and reinstalled someday, I believe I can put it behind me now and save my remaining Vicodin for my next fancy dinner party.
And the stories you told in the comments -- I really did laugh at some of them, because, egad, what else can you do? (Answer: Get a little teary, which is what I did with the others. I am sorry someone said those things to you, and awed that you didn't go all rabid fairy murder armadillo on their ass, because, damn.)
Thanks so much for reading, entering, and sharing. Do read all the comments if you can, but in case you're feeling fragile, I'll just highlight some of the funniest.
My husband's grandmother, spry for her 82 years, was playing with my 6-month-old son last Thanksgiving when she (quite loudly) asked him: "How did you get so cute when your parents are so ugly?"
Yeah, standing right here, Grandma. -- Adria
I once started a family feud by not allowing my dad to take my then-newborn daughter for a ride. On his HARLEY. IN A SNUGLI. -- Meim
After three failed IUIs, a failed IVF and the subsequent adoption of our beautiful son, my best male friend from college quipped (on my Facebook wall), "Why didn't you guys just try the old fashioned way?" -- Jess H
Waiting for a bus with Kid 1, less than 4 months old, tucked napping neatly out of sight in a Maya Wrap. He woke up and shifted himself up from his curled up position and grabbed the wrap, pulling it down so he could see out of it and check out where we were.
Old lady nearby: "Oh my gosh! It's a baby! I thought it was just an ugly purse!" -- deezydubya
I delivered my daughter by emergency C-section. Later that day, I was telling my mother, who had also delivered her children by C-section, how disappointed I was that I did not have the dreamy no-intervention birth I had planned. My sweet and well-intentioned mother began listing of the benefits of having had a C-section rather than a vaginal birth, beginning with, "You'll still be a snug fit." -- Julia
I don't know if this counts because it was something I said to a friend who posted on Facebook announcing her first pregnancy. She asked all of her BTDT friends what she would need upon the baby's birth. Asshole that I am (thinking I was being hilarious), I responded, "Miracle blanket, marriage counseling, and Zoloft."
It was her FIRST BABY. -- Kate
Worst comment a terrified 22-year-old could ever hear, from a friend of a friend (so, an old-lady stranger), no less: "Gawd, you're carryin' low. I hope your bladder innin't wrecked. Thanks to Jimmy I cain't laugh, walk or breathe without peein' my pants day and night. Ah mean it." -- AdirondackJen
I was about 25 weeks pregnant and ran to our local walmart to get groceries. Standing in line to check out, a man gets in line behind me. I make eye contact by accident and thus the "encounter" begins. Oh hi. Are you pregnant? (I am fat-ish, and this is my first child, so in the beginning I am kind of excited. This quickly goes downhill.) So I answer the questions. Yes, I am pregnant. 25 weeks. It's my fist. I'm having a boy. Then Creepy McStalker asks if I am HAPPILY married. I answer yes, very much so. And he says, "Oh, yeah, yeah. Me, too. You know, you just get tired of chicken all the time, and want a little steak now and again," and winks. So apparently fat-ish knocked up girls = steak. Obviously. Well this freaks me out, so I turn my back and unload my cart at the register. I turn around again and he tells me not to take offense. Sometimes it's just nice to put your dipstick somewhere else. I left ASAP and called my husband. He asked what I was wearing. I told him a hoodie and maternity jeans. He told me I was asking for it. -- Kristen Wiley
My friend was excitedly telling her mother than she was expecting her third child. Her mother replies "What do you want THREE children for?" My friend is HER third child. -- Jill
As my first child was, uh, crowning during labor, my husband (my. HUSBAND.) took a peek and declared, "No way is that going to fit." -- shriek house
Oh, there are so many stupid things it's hard to narrow down one, but my favorite "advice" was from my large, loud stepfather to my husband.
DON'T LOOK DOWN THERE! YOU MAY BE TEMPTED TO LOOK DOWN, YOU KNOW, WHEN THE BABY COMES OUT, BUT THEY HAVE MIRRORS AND IT'S GROSS! AND HER HOOHA WILL BE STRETCHED AROUND THE BABY'S HEAD -- WHO WANTS TO SEE THEIR WIFE'S HOOHA ALL STRETCHED OUT LIKE THAT?
And then the waiter asked him to please be quiet. -- Krystyn
And finally this one, which is a special kind of awful, but also a special kind of did-you-just-do-that? hilarious:
When hearing of our seventh miscarriage, someone said to me, "Maybe the babies aren't sticking because you guys are 'mixed,'" complete with a "stirring a bowl" hand gesture.
My husband is brown and I am white. -- Angela
Akeeyu sums it all up perfectly: "It's a veritable cornucrapia."
And finally, a special bonus shout-out to Jessica, whose evil genius impresses and inspires me:
That animal looks a lot like the anteater Beanie Baby my husband found in some old stuff the other day. For some reason it scares the crap out of my two-year-old -- it's a tiny stuffed animal! -- so now when we don't want her to touch something we put the anteater on it. -- Jessica
May that serve as a warning to us all.
Posted by Julie at 11:54 AM | Comments (22)
Giveaway: Let's Panic About Babies!
If writing on the Internet has taught me nothing else — and it has not — I thought it had taught me that panic shared is panic eased. Alice Bradley and Eden M. Kennedy, of Finslippy and Fussy respectively, have definitively shattered my hypothesis with their new book, Let's Panic About Babies! (Thanks, shatterer...erer...esses.) It turns out that panic shared is actually panic mocked, mercilessly and hilariously, complete with helpful line drawings:
(I know. Iiiii know, infertile friends. Your embryologists went commando.)
No matter how you find yourself with child — do I hear "Both hands and a flashlight"? — Alice and Eden will guide you through the bewildering first months of pregnancy, the harrowing hours of labor and delivery, and the what-the-fucking-Christing? of the newborn phase with gentle womanly wisdom, a bottomless wellspring of sympathy, lots and lots of dick jokes, and a creature that looks sort of like an armadillo, but could not possibly be:
Sorry if that was a spoiler. (Wait a minute. No, I'm not. ROSEBUD WAS HIS SLED.)
"Through absurd anecdotes, charts and pictures," their publisher primly claims, "the authors satirize typical pregnancy handbooks in a comically ironic and often bawdy manner." (Bawdy! Often bawdy! My stars! Is nothing sacred?) The book also features useful tables, quizzes, and lists with titles like OBSERVATIONS SOME ASSHOLES WILL SHARE WITH YOU, AND APPROPRIATE RESPONSES and BIG FAT GODDAMN LIES YOUR FRIENDS WILL TELL YOU. It also includes this bold and fearless indictment of that darkest denizen of...well, basically just darkness, I guess: the mommyblogger.
Alice, Eden, I flutter my tarp in salute. (If that grommet hits me in the eye, I'm going to feel reeeeally stupid.)
If you would like to win not only a copy of this groundbreaking work of annotated Elizabethan allegorical poetry but a "Panic Break" gift basket, including...
- an electric "back" massager, not for use on unexplained calf pain, ladies;
- a stress ball, for gagging annoying advice-givers;
- an anti-stress bath soak, for reviving your victims when remorse eventually steals over you;
- a meditation CD, so that you can contemplate your own unworthiness to shepherd an innocent newborn soul through this our world of wickedness and despair;
- Anne Taintor shot glasses, which might even be something like this; and
- a Panic-themed Subversive Cross Stitch kit!
...please leave a comment here, telling us either what animal that is in the picture above — it's almost like it's a travel-sized accordion/armadillo hybrid, one that doubles as a collapsible cup, and yes, I am only including that link to mess up Let's Panic's "Customers who bought this item also bought..." on Amazon — or the worst thing anyone's ever said to you about pregnancy, childbirth or parenting.
I'll pick a winner on Wednesday, March 9. Contest open to residents of the US and Canada only, please, and if you enter more than once, I'll see to it that your calf pain is no longer unexplained.
Posted by Julie at 10:27 PM | Comments (219)