Saint Valentine was an arse

As a small child, I loved Valentine's day. I still fondly recall in school that halfway through the day, we'd stop our studies and get out shoeboxes, doilies, glitter, and colored paper and craft our own Valentine's day card boxes. We then would display the boxes on our desk and walk about the classroom, placing a valentine card into every box. Some cards included candy, and often a few mothers would come in bearing cupcakes for the classroom. It was a sugar and crafts filled fiesta of great awesomeness. On a sad side note, few schools do this anymore, what with NCLB, testing, healthy school initiatives...

Once the opposite sex became part of the marvel of Valentine's Day, coincidentally around the time Valentine's Day class parties became simpler, this special day became anything but.

I had my first crush in 4th grade; I was head over heels in child-like love with a boy named Kevin. He was the popular and "hunky" boy of the class, not my usual forte, but he seemed to like me back..something that was unheard of for dorky old me. He chose to sit next to me, me of all people! So when Valentine's rolled around, I decided to say goodbye to painfully shy me and into his Valentine I slipped a candy heart which read, "Date me".

I remember watching him open it up as I held my breath, the envelope seemed like it took forever to open. Slowly, a smile began to creep across his face when, lightning fast, his jerkwad friend ripped the card from his hand and laughed deviously,"Kevin has a girlfriend". The class went quiet and I did my best to find composure and stay unnoticed. A whisper began to fill the room, as the jerk whispered to the person to his left who then whispered to the person to their left...a game of telephone sped towards me. I then heard the words in my ear, something about a date me candy inside the card, ha ha, how funny, pass it on. I shuffled my feet nervously, bit my lip, and pretended to pass it on. I could feel a heat rise in me, could feel tears swell up behind my eyes, could feel my body expand like it would explode in a wail of pain. I sat frozen, in agony, looking at the door. To leave the class to say, use the restroom, "cost" 200 points, something that could take weeks or months to earn. I did not have 200 points. I could not get out of jail free, but I had to. I had to let this pain and sorrow, this humiliation, this hatred of myself and my stupid stupid lovestruck decisions, out. I did it. I ran for the door and collapsed in the hallway, racked with sobs. A few minutes later, my teacher walked out to find me sitting in the hall, sniffling, trying to calm myself. She had to know, I thought, but no one can know. This was my secret. I mumbled a pathetic lie, that I had to use the restroom but was short points and that was why I was in tears. My teacher, not the consoling type, said whatever points I had would be used, and at least to tell her next time in such an emergency. I walked back into class, numb, and do not remember the rest of the day.


After this day of doom, I began to hate Valentine's day, yet still romantically held onto hope. I would see girls get extra lovey dovey cards from a cute boy, flowers, chocolates...boys would strut around with teddy bears and chocolate heart boxes. As classes no longer had everyone give Valentine's, my figurative card box went empty. Like my sad little soul. I would hear announcements over the PA system in high school, about candy grams and Valentine's dances and hold on for hope, yet knowing I would just be lonely. No one wanted me, and I sure as hell wasn't going to take the initiative again and give a boy a candy gram or ask him to a dance. I had learned from my mistake. And I had come to conclusion that Valentine's day exists to torture the less fortunate. That Saint Valentine's guy (and the Hallmark card industry) was a giant arse.


(As a happy ending, I am married, loved, and yet still harbor a resentment for Valentine's Day. But duh, I of course gorge myself on a huge heart shaped box of candy. It is Valentine's Day after all.)

Disbelief

I took a test yesterday.

To be more accurate, I took three. When you get the same results from all three, it should be believable. And then I took another.

I was just talking to my husband this weekend about expanding our family, but that we would not purposely try and instead leave it up to God or nature or date or whatever.

So I took a pregnancy test two days ago being that I was late. I spent $12 on the box of two and nervously urinated on one. No pink line or blue plus mark or happy unicorns or anything. Just plain blank. For hours. So I urinated on the second one and same thing. I didn't want to spend $12 for duds again, but sure as hell wasn't going to wait till I could feel kicks to confirm anything. So I dashed over to the 99 cent store and searched and searched. They weren't by tampons or feminine wash. They weren't by pain killers, shampoo, or diapers. Where were they? Then I got into the zen of 99. I envisioned cheap cigarettes an Jerry Springer, malt liquor and knock off stale Cheerios made by enslaved Chinese toddlers. My couch and decency gone, it came to me. Check out stand! I mean, a pregnancy test is totally an impulse buy- gum, candy lighters, stickers, and pregnancy tests. Got it.

So the next morning (morning pee is super concentrated and thus more "valid") I did the potty dance again. And I got a faint result. And more disbelief.

So like the obsessed crazy lady that I am, I did it two more times. They all showed a "yes" but the last was super faint. I didn't believe it. In statistics there are false positives and these lines took longer to appear and were fainter than when I was pregnant with my son. Again, I had disbelief.

But being a mother, I was also excited so I put my news on Facebook and called my parents and the in laws. My parents were doubtful and worried that "this is the wrong time", and my in laws...keep gleaming and asking me if I feel okay like I am a f€%^ing invalid.

So in my confusion, disbelief, and indifference, I went to the hospital for the blood test version, fool proof.

So...? I find out for sure today after 1:395. Or tomorrow, with people of or the holiday. I have from two and a half to twenty six and a half hours to did out and time can't go by any slower. I barely slept and dreamed I was pregnant and didn't know it till I have birth (like that tv show) and I was all panicked about prenatal care. Them they wanted to do a c-section and I had twins with complications. Not a fun dream.

I awoke before dawn and have since been counting down the minutes.

Tick tick.

The votes are in

I didn't really care about politics until my mid twenties. Before that, I'd vote for who my friends liked or for what hot issue was the topic of conversation on campus. I would never really put thought into it.

2004 came about and, well, I still didn't really care about politics. I had started my first job , a teacher in an inner city school, and I was busy. Who cares about politics when you have three hours of work after the kids leave?

I remember election night well. I had dispassionately sent in my absentee ballot and flopped on the couch to relax. On a school break that had just started, I wanted to just sit there like a bowl of jello and do nothing. No housework, no intellectual stimulation, no politics or anything. Just me and my ice cold beer.

My husband had different thought and was glued to CNN. I tried to find a distraction and came up short. I slowly peeled the label off mybbeer, too lazy to do anything more exciting. I tried to let the tv turn into white noise as I melted into the suede and tried to craft beer-label paper airplanes.

Suddenly, my plane was half made and I was sitting upright. Numbers flashed on the screen, maps turned red, and the real excitement began. It looked like a winner would be announced. In all the hoopla and excitement, I got intrigued. Or maybe i like sparkly things, cheers and jeers, and info graphics complete with musak. Or maybe I had too much beer. Either way, I was drawn in. Who would win? Who did Delaware, a state I knew nothing about, vote for? What is proposition- whatever about and why is everyone cheering? Wait, if he wins, what does that mean? Why didn't I pay attention before, dammit! This moment would determine my future. My future was at stake!

My husband and I watched the results on the screen as the President accepted a second term. We lifted our beers and toasted to the future.

We toasted to OUR future, symbolized by Election Day. Sure we had the same president again (for better or for wprse) but to us, we had new beginnings. We celebrated not a second term, but a second night together as a married couple. On that honeymoon, I really grew up. I became a wife and an adult who cared about politics. I had our future at stake.

And suddenly, a baby was born

This post is about giving birth so if you are not quite interested, look at the end for the "you might like" and read a different post by me .

I had, in a week's time, done my exit interview, final exam, and thesis for my Master's degree; I had completed my entire Christmas shopping one rainy night, finished working (as in, last day before maternity leave); and baked, frosted, and delivered something like ten dozen cookies. I was stressed about the holidays and my always disappointing birthday coming in the next few days, and I just wanted to give birth, get through the holidays, and be done.

I told my mom to fly down by Dec 21, no later, to be there for the birth. She complained that she'd just be waiting around "forever" because "first babies come late so you will certainly deliver in early January". I kept telling her, I know I am not due till after Christmas and my birthday but be here no later than the 21st.

She didn't listen but after much nagging on my part, in a "okay, fine have it your way" moment, booked her flight for the evening of the 22nd. I told her, mom, make it the 21st, but mothers never listen.

The morning of the 21st came and I was bored stiff. I did the dishes and decide to take a bath (in a crappy but humorous attempt to shave the hairy legs I could not see or reach) and then go to the library, since the county was under a state of emergency (rain, flooding, mud slides) and I needed a book before we lost power/got flooded/Armageddon or whatever.

My mom rang and told me, "one more day till I see you! Now don't have your baby till I get there. And promise that to your father; last night he dreamed you had your baby. You know he never dreams. Do you feel any contractions?" I told her I felt fine, bored, no baby in sight. I hung up, filled the bath, and gave up on shaving without even trying. I yearned for a hot bah on this cold day, but pregnant ladies can't have scalding hot baths. I basked in the lukewarm water, trying to waste time until the library opened at ten. I casually stepped out once I looked like a pink prune, toweled off, and began to put on panties when I realized, crap, my pants were in the laundry room. And then it happened.

Everyone I knew well enough kept warning me about incontinence your third trimester, so I was like, eww I just peed in my panties, but yes! Finally I know what they are talking about! So I waddled over and got new panties and called for my hubby to get my pants. Except it went, "honey? I need my pants. (Dramatic pause). And umm I might have peed myself or umm my water broke? I don't know. Quick. Help."

He dashed in, tripping over the dog who disgustingly was nosing my wet panties. I stood there now naked again, second pair of panties wet, looking confused. I was confused, not the panties but if they were sentient they'd look confused too. That would be creepy.

"I think my water broke?" I queried, as I mean peeing myself or my water breaking were both new experiences. I expected, if it were my water, to have felt contractions. So I put on my pants and my mouth went agape. Again I was wet. I ran around, digging for period pads that were long forgotten, and ended up with a hand towel between my legs. I giggled to myself, remembering how the pads in the nurse's office at school were that thick. And how now I waddled even more.

I called my Bradley Birthing Coach, even though I had dropped out two weeks prior(cause I drop out of everything) because I figured she was the most experienced, being that my mother and mother in law hadn't given birth in decades, and my sis in law had done scheduled c-section. We chatted for a moment, where she asked about contractions (none) and said to delay the hospital as long as possible -a Bradley trademark, and besides, I wasn't eager for the hospital either. Then I called my BFF and left her a message. Then I had one small contraction. Then I noticed my towel-pad was sopping wet and kind of tea-colored. Meconium, meaning baby poop, meaning doctors freak out and induce you or do a c-section or whatever. Crap. Literally. In just a bit over half an hour I had gone from "is it pee?" To "dammit, let's go to the hospital". My contractions came again, and I called my mom as I headed to the car. "Told you, be here today. My water broke. Hospital. Bye."

The contractions worsened on the 15 minute drive to the hospital, quickening, feeling like food poisoning cramps. Hubby dropped me off by the door while he went to find parking. I had a bad contraction right there in the parking lot, in pouring rain, and had no option but to head inside in hope I could find a seat to wait out the pain.

I walked into some not-labor room and for a moment, forgot what I learned on the hospital tour. Then I remembered, and headed towards the elevator.

Another, worst-yet contraction hit in the elevator, and I recalled a seating area right outside the elevator on the second floor. I can do it, I can make it to a seat where I can sit down, the pain so bad I could barely stand.

After an eternity going up just one floor, I dashed to the chair just in time for the contraction to stop. I figured, might as well check myself in, and headed towards the labor area.

There were those hospital double doors, locked so you cannot get in and steal babies or anything, and I remembered there was some admittance button to open the doors. Somewhere. In a panic, I looked everywhere, to no avail. I definitely did not want to give birth outside the elevator and I also didn't want to be the stupid wife who couldn't find the damned button. I was in tears. Where the f**k was the button? Why can't they have some button, big as a steering wheel, bright red and blinking, all Vegas-style, "baby, ouch, open"? Where the f**k was the giant red (or, soon to find out, doorbell sized wall colored button) when I needed it?

Hubby found me pacing the hall, crying, and he asked why I didn't push the button. "I....can't....find....it" I whimpered in defeat. He found it like that and in we went.

I signed an X for my name on the admittance papers. I was in too much pain to even remember how to sign my own name of 30 years. We got ushered into a steel room with a bathroom where I was handed a paper gown and a cup.

Luckily, I was able to pee. I exited and just stood there, in a cold paper gown, with an open cup of urine, biting my lip in pain. Ten painful minutes later, I was directed to a steel table. The same table at the veterinarians. Bark. They hooked me up to crap and left. I watched the contraction monitor make cool Himalayan style graphs and I saw some blood pool on the table, and I chucked my steel water bottle across the room, some weird pain-dealing issue. The contractions were 3 minutes apart and so bad I nearly vomited from the pain. Deer-eyed, I asked hubby to find a damned nurse.

She walked in all casually, slowly gloved up as I writhed in pain, as went to feel my cervix. " hmm, don't feel it" she said', making me expect her to say next, "so you are not in labor, go home" at which point I'd go postal and knock her down. But she felt again and was all, " Oh my! 6 or 7 cm, you are in labor (told you, b1tch, I may have thought out loud) "lets hurry and get you into a labor room" (no sh1t Sherlock). Bloody towels and pants swept away, put in a bag, you know, in case I wanted my bloody panties towel back. Ha.

New less metallic table, and a new set of monitors. It was about 11:30, I had waited in that stupid steel room for an hour. The pain increased and was nearly constant. The nurses kept asking for me to rate my pain, which confused me. Was a 1 no pain or hangnail level pain? Was ten labor, or I was just skinned alive while passing a kidney stone level pain? They were not happy I could not answer, and were unable to provide me with a pain rubric. I may have even told them it was bad data/statistics to not have a pain rubric to accompany their stupid scale. They kept suggesting an epidural which I was vehemently against.

Hubby went at about noon to get my iPod, his laptop, you know, entertainment stuff. The few I had known to give birth naturally had their first labors from 14-55 hours and here it was a bit past hour two, I was here for the long haul.

Hubby told me I was in transition, ready to actually give birth, this was the short lived but most painful part. Apparently he paid attention before we dropped out of birthing class, and apparently I didn't hear him. All I heard was "epidural now? How about now? Stop squirming!" While I thought, animals in pain squirm and scream so f**k you that is what I will do.

Hubby gone, pain constant, I weakly mumbled "yes" to the epidural. I had figured I had what, 12-53 more hours of this pain. Sure it was the worst pain EVER but if it was an hour more, I would live, but ten, twenty, or more? F**k no. Epidural please. As the epidural guy was paged, the nurse tried to get me to do the huh hug Lamaze breathing. I refused and may have said something to the effect of, how the hell is breathing like a freaking idiot going to help? I was unable to breathe like an idiot because I was laughing. Okay no, I was in too much pain to laugh but I was laughing in my head, that a nurse thought breathing like a dragon who chain smoked would magically ease the pain. Let me tell you, it's bullsh1t.

I forgot to remind them to check my dilation before the epidural. Well, really I was in too much pain to properly communicate, and besides it is their job, protocol, to do that. Which they didn't.

The needle went in and ahhhhh the pain diminished. Then the nurse checked my dilation as my hubby came back in. "Umm you're at ten inches and I see the head. There are two ER c-sections, waiting for the doctor to get here, with all these road closures. Don't push. Just wait." My body wanted to push and I did a bit until the epidural made me so damn numb I couldn't even feel my boobs.

At two o'clock, I could actually reach down there and feel the head, but not see it. The doctor rushed in, gloving up while running, and I was relieved. Not only was a doctor here ( I could finally push!) but he was my obgyn. Of all the probably 50 or so L&D doctors, I had. my doctor. He was supposed to start vacation that day but was called in, other doctors were flooded in or whatever. I was so relieved.

No one told me the stupid epidural had an on, off, high, low button so I had been in taking the high dose for two hours. I'm surprised I could feel my face. So by now, I had no clue if I was pushing, pulling, resting, or anything. So the actual birth took a bit, because by now if you looked at me from the view of the doctor, you could see the head. But one has to push to get the bulky shoulders out. So I tried.

At 2:44pm, just 5 hours after my water broke, I gave birth.

I saw a blue-red-yellow slimy baby figure in the nurses arms, and the doctor said with shock, "meconium. Not breathing". The longest three seconds of my life, until the other nurse aspirated him and you heard a sweet cry. Tears began to run down my face as they moved my child over for weight, length, and apgar score which they argued over, "8, no, 9, no, 8...." Then they asked, "what name shall we wrote down?" I let them know,, I need to know the gender first (see, everyone knows nowadays, with modern technology but I went old school, something no one understood but I wanted a surprise!). "It's a boy" they said, handing this wrinkly pink thing of perfection to me. I cried. I snuggled. They stood there waiting to write his name, but I didn't have one yet. Sure, I had a few picked out but. I had to see him first. So on his hospital bracelet and crib it just says "baby boy".

It took the 24 crappy hours of stay in the hospital ( seriously, people like staying here? Wtf? I wanted out at like... 3:00!) to name him, and I did.

But his name here is Baby Boy. Can't give away too much information. But he is the cutest guy in the world.

The Quiet Voice

I cannot yell. I cannot even raise my voice, it crackles and squeaks at a decibel above speaking and that is it.

I don't need to yell. Where does yelling get you? No where; well, unless up are being kidnapped or need to scare away wild animals in which case I am screwed.

Yesterday, one of my students says to me, "you are too nice. The class won't listen cause you don't get mad and yell". Should I (assuming I were able) need to yell in a classroom and get all vocally violent? No.

But I am silently screaming. I have 33-39 high school students per class. I had 45 yesterday because a few came from another class to use my computers and a few got locked out of class. 45 inner-city at risk youth, taking exams, on a Friday, hooped up on leftover Halloween candy. And they refuse to all shut the bleep up when I give instructions or a lecture. Their rudeness makes me silently scream am then I end up silently scolding myself. If only I could yell to be heard, maybe they would listen. If I could yell and scold them they would listen.

I feel like a little mouse stuck in a wildebeest stampede.

I have engaging lessons I worked hard on that just go to waste.

I feel like they don't care. Most don't and it is in part the education system and in part, their "at risk" home life.

I care about each and every one of them but they won't let me show it. Many pass with a D- at 20% by doing, well, 20% so why give their all? Why listen to me?

I feel like it is a disservice to them, to pass them at 20% because in the real world, that is failing.

I feel like I am giving 120% for them to pay attention to 20%. And it is incredibly exhausting.

Maybe, I tell myself, if I could just yell like every other teacher, they might listen.