What Are You Waiting For?

So I just read another article about the painful and costly issues of trying to conceive a child. Well, as the four-year-old great niece has been taught – You should have thought of that sooner.

Women today are delaying childbearing until infinity. They have things to do and places to go and people to see. Life is to live. Then they get to be 45 and they start to panic and they need to find a husband and conceive. And amazingly enough, this isn't all that simple.

Let's be kind and not dwell too much on the fact that all that free sex that just felt good twenty years ago has left you with Chlamydia and scarred Fallopian tubes. Let us also ignore the fact that you are old enough to be a grandmother, at least for a moment.

When you delay making babies until you are 45 or older, let's look at life from the kid's perspective. You are old and have less energy and less stamina. I know this because I am exhausted after a day with the grandchildren. It is much different than when I had small children of my own. I'm older now. My knees hurt.

I was devastated when my own mother died. I was already a grandmother myself and I was over 50 and I still miss my mother. How incredibly selfish to notice when you are 45-50 that you have a biological clock and NOW you want a baby. How old will this child be when you kick the bucket or buy the farm or however you want to say die?

When you wait until you are 45-50 to get pregnant, who is going to teach that child to drive? You are going to be 62-67 years old when that child is signing up for a learner's permit. You have to get on the road with a child who is hugging one side of the lane or the other. I was only 38 the first time I was in the car with my son, the new driver, and it nearly gave me a heart attack. How is the child going to feel when Mom drops over while teaching him or her to drive? What sort of legacy is that?

Grandparenting is much more fun than parenting. You get all the perks without any of the non-perks. If you are 45-50 when you begin to think about reproducing and if your offspring does the same, you aren't ever going to get to be a grandparent, you will be 90-100 at the time.

Women are making babies at a later age, often with the help of medical science and at great financial cost. They want to be fulfilled. What about the baby who will turn into a child and then a teenager. Teenaged children are NOT for sissies or old coots.

Old men have been fathering children long after it makes any sense to me. Larry King was in his 70s and starting a new family. How cruel for those kids. Their mother is very pretty and apparently will inherit Larry's money, so hopefully she will get a new Daddy for the children without much trouble. But let's say Larry lives for another 20 years. Let's pretend that old age doesn't come with infirmities and limitations. Let's assume he isn't getting in the cars with his children when they learn to drive or it will surely kill him. What was he thinking? Why did this seem like a fair thing to do to the kids? Is it fair to make kids spend their teen years visiting a parent in the nursing home?

If these old farts think that they are making such good parenting choices, can they explain to me what they think the teenage years are going to be like? How do they plan to cope, if they are still alive, with teens, high school proms, college applications, and Social Security?

I'm very sorry for women who waited so long that they cannot get pregnant without very costly medical intervention. I do not want my insurance or tax money spent on their treatments because they are totally elective and should not be covered, any more than a nose job should be. And I want them to have to explain what their plans are for driver's education and who is taking care of the kids if they are incapacitated by age related afflictions or should they die.

And I want them to write down all these things so the kids know that they thought them through. The kids have a right to know that self-fulfillment issues caused the mother to delay childbearing and also to shunt aside best interests for the child in order for the woman to be totally fulfilled.

Now, just remember to breathe while junior puts the car into Drive.

Life in the Fast Lane

I woke up at 5 AM on Friday really sick. I was only slightly better on Saturday. My husband was out of town until late Saturday night. Sunday I was better, enough that I could get dressed. I’m still feeling the after effects of being sick. I did not go to exercise this morning.

I was almost out of milk and completely out of eggs and English muffins. I also had no dog food left. I live very close to a Wal-Mart Super Center. I went to pick up these few items. Today is a holiday and there is no school. Wal-Mart was very crowded.

I’m getting into line when some young girl buzzes in front of me and stands there. Eventually, Grandpa or maybe even Great-Grandpa pushes his cart up to her. He only had a cart because he wanted it to lean on while he walked. His hands were deformed by arthritis and his gate was unsteady and very slow. I picked up more than the above mentioned items and wasn’t qualified to be in the express checkout late. Grandpa had one (1) item and it looked like some sort of strap. He picked up a flashlight while we waited in line and the granddaughter threw in some snack item.

I try to be nice. I try to not be impatient. I try not to lose my temper. I did not lose my temper and I remained nice. Not so good on the patience front. The granddaughter stood far back in the line reading the National Enquirer while the people in front checked out and while Grandpa was shuffling forward. Apparently she was highly interested in Anna Nicole Smith. Although I would have liked to be a better angle to read all the headlines myself, I was still doing okay.

Finally it is Grandpa’s turn and Chickie Girl scoots in front of his cart and stands there. All of a sudden, with no warning whatsoever, the checkout girl needed money to complete the sale. Who in God’s name would ever have seen that coming? We were all stunned. Grandpa began to try to get his wallet out of his back pocket. I don’t know if Grandpa is left handed, if his arthritis is worse in his right hand or what decision factor led to his placing his wallet in his left pocket, but there it was. Grandpa tried valiantly to get the wallet out. His pants were very baggy for any number or reasons and the wallet was not willing to make an appearance. Chickie Girl who brought Grandpa to Wal-Mart wasn’t paying any attention whatsoever and Grandpa continued to struggle, for more than a minute. Just as Chickie Girl realized that there was an issue, pop – out came the wallet.

Ta da

Grandpa pulled a ten from his wallet and handed it over. The checkout girl made change. Grandpa’s hands were deformed, as I mentioned. He did not grab for the change. Instead, in an act that defies any logic, he asked how much soda was. The check out person was nice and answered that it was around a dollar, thirty and Grandpa wanted to know how much change he was getting. She had already said it was a dollar, forty-seven but she repeated herself being kind and patient. So, Grandpa perused his receipt. And then he told the check out person to give Chickie Girl the change. Then he shuffled forward and took his bag and began to head for the door.

I realize that old people with infirmities are slow. My mother slowed down terribly in the last year she was alive. Would it have been so difficult for the granddaughter to have actually helped Grandpa? Was paying for goods at a checkout counter really that surprising? Am I just a crotchety old coot who is still feeling less than 100% after days of the flu?

Who knew that going to the local Wal-Mart could be so exciting. BTW, I beat Grandpa out of the store and Chickie Girl was no where to be seen.

Rework

I hate to redo something. I hate to think that I'm finished with something and know, deep in my heart, that there is still more to be done.

This is the whole problem with housework. When doing laundry, unless you are naked, there are already dirty clothes piling up. As you vacuum or dust, more stuff is being affected by gravity and settling on the floors and furniture. It is never ending.

Even as we get up from a satisfying meal, the food is beginning to digest and make way for the next satisfying meal – or bowl of ice cream with Velvet Fudge Sauce.

More than just housework needs a second round of spiffing up.

I've written, rewritten, edited, had a second person look at, edited again, and now am reworking and reediting a manuscript.

Ick.

But it needs doing. I hadn't really realized how much my writing grew into itself over the course of 366 essays. Hopefully, as I near the end of the essays, my writing will be more even throughout. However, since I'm still in the first quarter of the essays, I can truthfully say that they need work.

And so I am working.

I'm not particularly liking it, but I'm doing it. Like dusting. Or laundry.

I would be embarrassed to have this original work, the early stuff, see print without being touched up. So I touch up. I've been spending so much time reworking that I've not had much time to work.

I guess that reworking is just part of the work. I hope that as I continue with the reworking portion, I can see how to make it much easier the next time I go over 366 essays. I can see that the format I've set for myself will be maintained throughout the work. That will be a big help.

There is nothing quite like changing your mind halfway through something to make a lot of extra work later. I know that now. I think I even knew that then, but staying "wrong" wouldn't have helped me feel better about he overall quality.

So, I work on making the whole thing "right" and rework some more.

I don't like this.

It's like laundry.

Waiting

Because I wish to become a published writer who is actually paid, rather than someone working in the blogosphere alone, I took my writing to a place that could possibly pay me.

I figured I had a better chance by storming the bastion of ink and paper than if I just emailed it in. That worked for Isaac Asimov. Not so much for me. At least, not yet.

I screwed up my courage and took samples of my writing to the local newspaper. They are a small twice-a-week publication that mails the papers out to our homes. I’m not sure exactly how this all works because they were running presses yesterday and the paper appeared in my mailbox today. The USPS isn’t known for that kind of turnaround. Perhaps they were running Friday’s paper.

Anyway, I took my stuff in and the women in the front office were very friendly. I left my printouts there and was told that the newspaper owner/publisher would look at them. I was also told that he was at lunch and I should try calling back later.

I did. He was not back from lunch yet. I was told to try again later.

I did. He was “away from his desk or on another line” so could I please leave a message. I did. I said my name, spelled my name, and gave my phone number twice s-l-o-w-l-y.

I’ve not heard back from him. I would love to hear from him. Even if he says “No, thank you” I would love to hear from him. I would like to know that while my writing was unsolicited, a local person would care enough about a local writer to acknowledge the work and the courage involved in putting one’s writing and ego out there.

However, in reality, this man owes me absolutely nothing. I walked through his business’s door without an invitation and requested something of him without knowing what would happen next. He owes me nothing. Southern charm and chivalry aside, he really didn’t ask for me to barge into his life and demand an audience.

I still wish he would call back. I would love to hear that he would enjoy including my pieces in his newspaper. I would love even more hearing that he would enjoy putting my writing into the other two newspapers he owns. I can handle that he may not have a venue for my writing at all.

I just wish he would call. Just to let me know that although it was unsolicited, it was daring and courageous and mighty ballsy to take the initiative. Perhaps, as a publisher and local businessman, he could, just maybe, say something kind to a person hoping and wishing to create a voice in the wilderness and light a lamp to information.

Maybe.

So, do you like my writing?

What is History?

What exactly do I mean by Little Bits of History? First, let’s examine the word “history.” According to the Random House Unabridged Dictionary it is “the branch of knowledge dealing with past events.” That’s pretty sweeping.

Harvard University has an entire History Department with 53 regular faculty and close to 200 individual history courses. They offer classes to both undergraduate and graduate students and there are actual Doctors of History. There are lecture classes, seminars, and conference courses offered at the prestigious school. There are ancient history classes as well as more recent and regional classes for portions of the earth. Core courses deal primarily with wars.

All this seems daunting. But it isn’t. Really. We all have a history. What happened to us as children is our history. We carry the stories of our youth into our old age and miraculously, those stories can change with the passage of time. We are not always accurate historians even of our history.

That means that many of the things that we “know” about history may be just a little teeny tiny bit off. What we assume, from our position in the 21st century may be just a little teeny tiny bit skewed. How we live today is decidedly not the way our ancestors lived.

There is also a lot of history to cover. The history of mankind covers tens of thousands of years while the history of the entire world covers millions of years and the history of the universe goes back to the beginnings of eternity.

It is not surprising, then, that our standard education in grade school and high school along with college classes if we are fortunate enough to have been able to attend college, do not cover all of history. They can’t. They shouldn’t.

Long ago I was told that information comes in three forms: 1) need to know; 2) nice to know; and 3) nuts to know. We need to know that far-reaching changes across the globe have been happening since time immemorial and are often brought about during acts of war. War, conquering, and questing after new lands have been focal points for classroom history lore.

But that only covers the first kind of information. There are two more types of knowledge or facts or even legends that make history the fun and interesting landscape of discovery and amazing awe.

How simple is it to light a candle today. But when were matches invented? How easy it is to pencil in a date on a calendar and then erase it when we change our plans. But when were erasers added to pencils? When do you suppose the table setting we all know and love came into use?

Some items in history are so astounding that they are talked about in history classes and they can’t be ignored. But each large story is made up smaller pieces. The great wars are large chunks of history lasting years. These huge events are made up of smaller bits. Battles won or lost, men and even in history’s dim past there were women who made a decided difference in the way the world continued on. These are the interesting pieces of history that give the tapestry woven by time the beautiful and rich color. These are the things that make history worthwhile.

Yes, we should be able to learn lessons from history. However, we are voyeurs. We know that because we watch “reality TV” and we love seeing what goes on behind the scenes.

Little bits of history are the small, sometimes inconsequential, often lost or mostly ignored, and usually surrounded by a hardy “hmmm” stories. We all have a history. Little stories about the past. Interesting stuff!

Groundhog’s Day

Twenty-eight years ago I spent the night in labor. I was practicing my Lamaze breathing and running my husband ragged with “move here” and “go there” directives. My own doctor was signed out to his partner. I had never met the partner.

This baby was ill prepared for leaving his nice, warm, comfortable home. What I had assumed for months was his butt poking me in the ribs turned out to be his head that was poking me in the ribs. This isn’t too problematic at the middle point of a pregnancy, but at the end … well, it makes problems.

I had this adorable, almost four-year-old at home. He had asked me how the baby would get out of my tummy. In a moment of panic, I had nearly passed out. But, as luck would have it, I asked another question before I answered the question posed by this innocent toddler. I asked, “What do you want to know, honey?” And honey wanted to know if my tummy would pop open. I answered in the negative and shooed him out of my bedroom. Dodged another one there.

Fast forward to this labor room scene with the baby wedged in there sideways. The doctor I had never before met strolls calmly into the room and announces like he a god from on high, that I will have a Caesarian section.

I was a registered nurse at the time and not particularly in awe of all doctors. I was also in labor and had been for nearly 13 hours. I was not amused at this pronouncement and I calmly – well maybe hysterically – yelled at the man. “Just go get some fucking forceps” I told him. Shouted at him. Screamed at the top of my lungs.

I was wheeled into the delivery room, at the time, there were lots of rooms in an obstetrics departments, and prepped for a normal delivery. The doctor, having seen a raging lunatic just moments before had opted to try it my way first. His first attempt was unsuccessful. His second try was worse. On the third try, and with a special handle on the instrument so as not to crush the skull of the child who needed a map to find his way out and while a nurse pushed on my stomach with her entire 250 pounds of bulk – the baby emerged.

This might seem like all was going fine. But the baby, hereafter known as Joey, wasn’t breathing much or well. His Apgar score was not in the “that’s great” or even the “this is okay” range. The room was fairly quiet and buzzing with industrious activity. Joey was already doing poorly on his first test. An omen? Well, when push comes to shove and the heat is on, Joey always could pull the right answers from thin air. Within five minutes, when he was again rated with the Apgar stuff, his score was now at “that’s great” levels.

And so, the big brother came to visit the new baby and found Matchbox cars waiting that his baby brother had brought for him. What a nice baby. What a bonding experience. What fun to have this whole family together.

The only other difficulties came when I had to spend the next few days apologizing for swearing at a complete stranger and when Attila the Nurse chastised me for picking up my baby. They brought Joey to his Mommy right after his circumcision was completed. He was not a happy baby and was crying or maybe howling. And I picked him up and cooed that mother coo thing. And this horrible nurse took him out of my arms and said, “Mother, you cannot pick him up every time he cries.” And I scooped him back out of the bassinet, glared at the bitch, and explained, “I’m going to pick him up every time he is circumcised.” And I did.

And from these humble beginnings, he has grown into the man I had always hoped he would be. What a treat. Happy Birthday Joe(y).