The COVID-Telework Diary: Day 29, Beginning of Week 5, Utterly Unimportant Numbers

I'm doing better than last Monday.

In fact, all last week, I did better than I was doing last Monday.  Nadir Monday.  I think . . . .

The thing about this historical event we are all living through is that it will change us.  It has to change us.  We have to change in response to it.  And change is hard.  And forced change made rapidly out of fear and necessity is harder.  Psychologically, we aren't built for that.  It's bound to take it toll.

I've been thinking a lot about what's not so important and what is.  In the "not" column are a lot of numbers:  weight on the scale, size of my clothing, number of York Peppermint Patties I consume in a day, number of screen minutes my kid gets in a day after he's finished all his schoolwork, number of projects actually completed.  These are utterly unimportant to whether we live healthily and happily.

What is important sometimes does sometimes involve numbers too.  Regarding health, for instance, I'm just not worrying about weight and size numbers anymore, but I am going to continue to worry about numbers related bloodwork, blood pressure and cardiovascular health.  Those numbers bear no real relation to the size of my clothing and the force of gravity on my body on this early.  At best, the relationship between the two is marginal.  (How do I know:  I've been "overweight" a large portion of my adult life and I can assure you that my bloodwork and blood pressure have been good-to-excellent for decades.) But bloodwork, blood pressure and whether I can walk a mile or more with relative ease are measures of health that seem to matter with regard to how I feel and how I function.  So those are what I will pay attention to henceforth.

The number of hugs given and gotten is a happy number.  The number of laughs with your family . . . the number of times your child's eyes light up . . . the number of chin licks from the dog . . . the number of York Peppermint Patties to give you joy of them . . . .  These are also good numbers.

But number of blog posts about a scary event . . . not so much.

I noticed last week that when I stopped writing so much about this event, I stopped thinking so much about it.  When I'm not physically writing, I'm still writing.  I put together ideas, words and phrases, sentences, even whole paragraphs, in my head before I even put fingers to keyboard.  Because I have a good memory, I can do that and then come back to the keyboard and unload it all.  Then I edit.  It's how my work-writing works too.  Letting ideas form and reform, marinating in my brain, before I ever commit them to paper or the digital screen just works for me.  But it also means that my brain is marinating in whatever it is I am writing or intending to write.  It's why sometimes my work is so exhausting . . . because I don't just quit at quitting time, when I'm writing something.  I can't.  That's not how my writing brain works.  It keeps working.  So any brief I've written for work, for instance, has been written over many days and many moments of so-called free time.

Last week, after my Monday post, I decided not to write any further posts that week.  Shutting off that self-imposed task allowed me shut off my brain about the pandemic.  I mean, I still thought about it. But I didn't ruminate, marinate, write and rewrite in my head.  And that was good for me, very, very good for me.

So I've decided to cut back writing this disjointed history for my own well-being.  I'll check in once a week, maybe.  Check in, as well, if I have a good story to tell, like The Frog.  But I am taking the pressure off myself to write and, really, to perform here in this blog.

I do think, sometimes, in hubris, that maybe this blog would be a useful document in 50 or 100 years to study the effects of the pandemic on regular folks.  Maybe it will.  And maybe it won't.  But if it will, a few fewer blog posts to save my sanity will not hobble any future historian's work.  (Hello there, future historian. Creepy, huh?) Mine will be but one drop in a sea of personal narratives about the novel coronavirus/COVID-19 pandemic of 2020.  I'm sure that their dissertation or historical extract will not suffer from my writing less, and less often.  In fact, maybe the fact of it will be just the anecdote they need for their chapter on mental health.  (You're welcome, future historian.)

Stay safe, friends.

Tiny Things Matter

A little over three weeks ago, I broke the pinkie toe on my right foot. I did it in the usual way (if there is a usual way to do such things):  I clumsily walked into a chair leg while barefoot.

Incidentally, I typically don't walk around barefoot because I've done this sort of thing before. So I, at a minimum, wear socks. But often I'm wearing house shoes or Crocs around the house so I do not, e.g., catch my toe on a chair leg.  I actually feel nervous with bare feet, worried that I will once again break a toe in a moment of carelessness.  And, well . . . so I'm not wrong to worry, it turns out.

Often, it's the littlest things that make the difference. You barely think of them, but little things matter.  The missed moment three and a half weeks ago when I did not slip my feet into the Crocs at my bedside mattered.  It was, probably, the moment that meant I would hobble around in Bass Oxfords for six to eighth weeks instead of, you know, not doing that. Tiny moment. A tiny slip of the mind, a tiny distraction, set the series of events in motion that led to a careless swing of my leg as I walked, which led to a popping sound as toe hit chair leg, and, finally, which led to a me flowing to my seat on the floor in pain saying, "Ow, ow, ow, ow" (or possibly some slightly stronger vocabulary), tears welling into my eyes.

By the next morning, my foot had turned blue across the top from beneath the little toe to just beneath the middle toe.  This seemed worse bruising than in prior years when I'd broken a toe. (Indeed, it looked worse than my husband's foot looked a few months ago when he broke his toe.)  And I was in considerable pain. It nearly made me sick to put weight on it, most shoes were intolerable, and walking was a farcical series of limps and hops. 

Nevertheless, that Monday, that morning, was my son's first day of kindergarten. I couldn't miss that. So I painfully slipped an Oxford onto my foot, took the maximum amount of Advil advisable, and hobbled the two-tenths of a mile from our house to the school while he rode his bike up ahead with his dad walking next to him.  Little thing, the first day of school, maybe, but a milestone, and I wasn't going to miss escorting my boy in for his first big day.

Later that morning, I went to the doctor to get the foot checked out. No physician could see me, but the PA could. She examined my foot and X-rayed it. Initially, she didn't see a fracture, told me it was probably a weird sprain or strain -- hence, the weird bruising. Two to three weeks to heal, she said.  Take Advil and stay off of it for a couple of weeks.

A few days later, however, she called and left me a voice message to call her back.  So I did:  my internist had read the X-Ray and saw a tiny hairline fracture in the second phalange in my pinkie toe.  The tiny break would take 6 to 8 weeks to heal. And meanwhile, I should treat it with care -- tape it to the next toe, if I wanted -- and take Advil for the pain, or they could prescribe something stronger.

So here I am three weeks from the minuscule break and, still, the only shoes I can really tolerate are the Oxfords, a pair of Keen hiking shoes, and a pair of running shoes.  For someone who likes crazy (if sensible) shoes, this is not an ideal set of circumstances.  You can imagine, then, how I have tired of working variations on the theme of this look . . . .

 Starting the fourth week of my broken toe-ness, I thought I'd try some block heeled Mary Janes.  They have a fairly ample toe box, and aren't THAT, high.  They're sensible shoes!  These should be fine, I thought.  I could ditch the Oxfords.

I felt fine in them until about half way between my parking garage and the office. That's when my not-yet-healed toe started to throb a bit.  By the end of the day I was discreetly hobbling, and cursing my shoe maven vanity.  So it was back to the Oxfords for the rest of my recovery.  Small thing, maybe, the choice of shoe, except when it's not. 

And that brings me to yoga.  The broken toe had kept me from attending yoga class for two weeks.  Too painful for a down dog!  But this past weekend, I thought I'd give it a go.  I missed going to yoga:  good for the body, good for the mind, good for the spirit.  I missed the stretch and the strength and the balance.

It was great to be back.  I felt refreshed.  I could painlessly do almost every pose and move I was asked to do, except I couldn't balance on my right side.  The first time I tried to balance on the right, pain shot up the right side of my leg from my pinkie toe to my knee.

See?  You use your pinkie toe to balance.  Even in your shoes, you grip down with that toe (and the other toes too) to give you a more secure balancing surface.  This is why in yoga you sometimes hear the instructor tell you to lift your toes up and spread them back down before you attempt a balancing pose.  It's meant to really activate those toes to help you balance.  And when I did that very thing this past Saturday, I learned that I could not grip the floor with my broken toe.  So, without the participation of that one small part of my body, I could not keep the rest of my body from tipping to one side or the other.  Balancing on the left, I was all grace and zen.  Balancing on the right, I was a little like Jerry Lewis doing a pratfall.

The tiniest things matter.  Tiny mistakes, tiny decisions, tiny moments, tiny bones.  It's hard to remember sometimes that, as the trite old saying goes, "The little things mean a lot."  But they do.  Sometimes the littlest things mean the difference between standing tall and gracefully, or falling flat on your face.

I'll be glad when I can balance on the right side again.

But, for now, as my toe continues to heal, I will appreciate the small consolation that I can at least balance on the left.  And I will draw what good I can from a painful and annoying bone break that has limited my sartorial choices:  This broken toe has taught me to be a little more mindful of all of the small things in my world and, I hope, made me a better person by hobbling me first.

My Boobs, My Choice

Why is it that, in some circles, when it comes to abortion, women's bodies are sacrosanct?  She's granted complete sovereignty over her person when it comes to the embryo or fetus within her.  She alone gets to choose.

But when it comes to breastfeeding, those same people who trumpet a woman's right to choose on the front end of the pregnancy also act as if, once the baby's drawn breath, there's no choice, no sovereignty of the body anymore. 

Lady, if you brought that child to term, you must breastfeed.  You don't have the right to choose what you do with your boobs.

Let me tell you a little bit about my experience:  I was 40 years old, fresh off a month of bedrest.  My breasts have always been plenty "full," but they were not -- they were never -- full of milk.  I starved my son for the first five days of his life trying to offer him a nearly dry teat.

And then, AND THEN, the lactation consultant came.  She made remarks about my nipples, their quality and type, even their ethnicity.

Seriously.

She encouraged me to use the breast pump to stimulate milk production when my child was not feeding instead of, you know, holding and bonding with my baby or taking a nap.

She even suggested that I use some weird contraption involving a catheter threaded from a bottle with formula or, preferably, expressed milk, alongside my own breast down to my nipple and into my son's mouth so that, even if he was not getting milk from the actual boob, he was still sucking it through the effing catheter.  (You should imagine me typing really hard on that last bit there.)

Because the only way to bond with your child is if he's sucking your teat.

Seriously?

I went along with the pumping-all-the-damned-time-thing, but the catheter was a bridge too far.

I'm sure the lactation consultant felt I was an utter failure for having rejected the ridiculous catheter trick.

What not a single professional said to me -- not the pediatrician, not the lactation consultant, not the OB/GYNs -- was that it was okay to let go.

No, the breastfeeding was too important:  More important than me getting rest.  More important than me sitting and holding my baby.  The agenda was more important than me.

And I bought into it.  I pumped incessantly.  I worried about there not being enough milk.  I gloried in the mere six ounces a day of anemic breast milk that I brought home from work each day.  (Until, at age six months, my son rejected both boob and breast-milky-like substance, mercifully freeing me from that sucking machine.)

If I had to do it all over again, I'd tell that consultant to walk on by so fast.  I would enjoy my maternity leave.  I would actually sleep when the baby sleeps.  I would allow that having a newborn is stressful enough without adding to the stress by trying to make happen what was clearly not going to happen.

I would relieve myself of the daily humiliation of half-disrobing in my office four times a day to pump while I worked.  I would also relieve my co-workers of the awkwardness of finding my bag of sterilized pump parts in the microwave where I'd forgotten them after a harried pumping session.

I would give myself a break, even when no one else would.  And in so doing, I think, I think, I would have been a more present and better rested mommy of a new human.  (But who knows, right?  Because newborns are challenging even when no breast pumps are present.)

One thing I know for sure:  I wouldn't feel betrayed and bullied by a system that means too well.  Breastfeeding is not so important to the bonding process that we need to pretend that we're doing it by means of a catheter.  That's just nuts.  I know the intentions are good, but someone needs to say, "Enough is enough, if it's not working, use the formula, lady.  It will be okay.  You'll still love your kid and your kid will be fine."

Because new mothers are as vulnerable as newborn babies.  We want to do everything just right.  We don't want to screw up.  We're terrified we'll accidentally harm this precious gift we've been given, our baby girls and boys.  Someone in the breastfeeding establishment needs to say, "You tried.  It's okay to quit."

Hey, if your boobs work well, and breastfeeding your child is a breeze, more power to you.  I am envious.  It wasn't easy for me.  I wanted it to be, but it wasn't.

But if you're having trouble, if you're feeling wrung out, if you feel like a slave to the breast pump, if you just don't want to do it anymore or at all (even though your boobs work fine), it's okay to let go.  I give you permission.  They're your boobs.  It's your choice.

Where's my AARP card?

So.

I'll be 44 this year. 

I've written before about certain sometimes age-related issues:  infertility in my late 30s; bifocals; ill-advised 40-something cartwheels; my skin on my face feeling loose sometimes; being middle aged.

I've written ad nauseum about struggling to lose weight. 

So want to hear some more TMI?

Lately, I've been having other weird symptoms....general irritability, hot flashes, trouble sleeping, bloating, moderate to severe cramping....oh, and a period that's been absent for going on three months (which followed years of an irregular menstrual cycle).   And some other symptoms that I won't go into great detail about that involve dryness. 

Are you feeling uncomfortable by my over-sharing yet?

This is kind of worse than when I owned my stress incontinence, I admit.  (Which is totally gone, by the way.  Whoop!)

The problem is that these symptoms can indicate a lot of different health issues and the only way to figure out what's wrong is to go to the doctor.  You could have thyroid disease. You could have a food or chemical sensitivity. You could have a hormonal imbalance.

So when you do go to the doctor, you need to be clear about your symptoms and your suspicions about your condition.

So that's what I did a few weeks ago.

And he talked to me for a long time about my symptoms and my distress about them.  He told me his suspicion, but didn't immediately diagnose, because only blood work could tell us for sure what was going on.  So he took lots of blood (lots of blood) for lots of blood work.  And he ordered what turned out to be the most grueling sonogram I've ever had in my life to ensure all the internal girl structures were sound...no tumors, etc.

And in the end, I got a diagnosis:  everything about me is normal...for a  perimenopausal woman.

My estrogen level was extremely low.  My lutenizing hormone and follicle stimulating hormone levels were quite high.

This is my reproductive system doing the job of dumping the remaining eggs from my ovaries in preparation for my senescence, in which I will buy a comfortable rocker, place it on my front porch and wave my cane at those darned kids that keep getting on my lawn. 

Oh, wait. I have a three year old. So none of that's happening before at least 2040.  (I hope.)

But this is the beginning of the end of my fertile (I use that term loosely given my history) years.

That's all. 

Perimenopause can last for years, the doctor said.  A decade, sometimes.

Yippee.

You can still get pregnant during perimenopause. 

:-/

Perimenopause isn't menopause. It's the slow and annoying approach to menopause.

But there are treatments.

Oh yeah, I'm talking about hormone replacement therapy.

Sure, I'm worried about the increased risk of breast cancer if I take hormones.

But when you're constantly irritable and in moderate to severe pain from the cramping more often than not....

When you have to check with your husband whether the room is really hot or you're just having your own personal summer....

When you're pissed off all the time....

Well, you think you might give HRT a whirl . . . at least in the beginning.

Fortunately, for me, for now, all that means is that I now take a low dose birth control pill.

And it has made all the difference in my well-being:  more energy, less cranky, no hot flashes, no more cramps.  Everything has improved.  So, for now, I'm happy as a middle-aged clam to be back on the pill.  (Hey, and thanks to the Affordable Care Act, it's absolutely free!  Bonus.)

The one thing I can tell you for certain about my reaction to this new stage of life that I'm entering is that I'm not sad about being perimenopausal. This is a normal part of aging.  And I'm fine with aging. 

Hey, some people go gray or bald before they're 30 or 40.  So I'm heading into "the change" a tad earlier than others.  Big deal.

I don't feel less female.

I don't feel less valuable.

I don't feel less attractive.

I'm just getting older.

And that's okay.

 I'm still me, and I like that. 

Resolved.

Yeah, I know it's only December 2nd, but today's the day, really, the Monday after Thanksgiving, on which all New Year's resolutions are born.

The Monday after you've indulged, constipatingly, on crappy or wonderful or somewhere in between food for four days and you realize you've got back fat (or whatever) spilling over your bra strap (or whatever)....

Because, as much as we give lip-service to giving thanks on Thanksgiving, the holiday has become, culturally, about food, and indulgent food at that. (And that's a sad statement on our American culture, but it's a topic for another post when I'm feeling surly, which isn't now.)

So today, the Monday after four days' indulgence, you sit in your slightly tighter pants and you say to yourself that, after Christmas, it will be different. You will eat right and exercise.  And I believe you!  I believe me too, every year.

But there's no sense in starting a diet now:  Christmas is coming, and New Years, and cookies and candies and breads and egg nog and burbon soaked fruitcake.

Can't possibly diet now. 

And you're right. You can't, really. You can continue to exercise regularly, and eat healthy meals when you're not festivalling, but to start a weight loss regime at this time of year is hard, hard, hard. Not impossible. But hard.  Very hard.

I am so with you on that. 

But here's my Post-Thanksgiving Resolution:  I will not engage in self-loathing when I consume holiday goodies. Because it's going to happen....  No sense in ruining the holiday mood by spending the next four weeks hating myself for Rotel Dip and gingerbread cookies. (Not eaten together -- unless that's your thing.  Then rock on, weirdly.)

So I will be of good cheer!  I'll have my healthy black bean soup today. And on the weekend, if a cookie slips past my lips, I shall rejoice in the season...for it is bright and magical and delicious.  Merry Christmas!

Scenes From A Stroll

Who could deny candy to the Frankenboy?

The circle in the center is my wedding band.

Better in person....

Pow!  Yellow daisy!

Cute!  Want.

Looks like biscuits, but not good with gravy. 

His head turns, which is startling even in the morning.

Wild oyster mushrooms or certain death?

Pow!  Yellow Rose!

Cute!  Maybe I want this.

Except harder to store than blow up thing . . . .

If I had this, I might have to put Santa hats on them and do a Nightmare Before Christmas themed display.

Hey.....

Reproductive Justice

A few months back, I heard a speech about reproductive justice.

What's that?

It sounds like it's about abortion, right?

And it is, partly.  Partly, it is.

And, in fact, people often end up talking a lot about abortion -- justifying it -- when it comes to the topic  of reproductive justice.  And that's pretty much where most of this speech I heard sat.

But that's not all it is, and it is a shame that the conversation always seems to have to settle on the topic of abortion where there are a lot of other issues on which intelligent, well-meaning people should be able to agree.

And to me (and I'm going to go ahead and say that it should be for you to) reproductive justice is a lot bigger, a lot more important, and a lot more sweeping than determining the status of a fertilized egg.

(And for the sake of clearing the air on that topic, here's my position on that particular issue:  a fertilized egg may or may not have the potential to become a human.  A fertilized egg may lack the necessary genetic cell lines to even form a baby.  These are known as blighted ovums and they are the source of many miscarriages.  Such a fertilized egg was never going to be a baby, even though all the pregnancy tests tested positive.  A fertilized egg, even if it does have the necessary genetic cell lines to form a baby must attach to the uterine wall and grow there.  Many of them never do.  Many of them fail to reach the uterus, resulting in ectopic pregnancies that end in miscarriage. Many of them just sweep away as part of a woman's monthly menstruation.  So my opinion, in fact what appears to be scientific fact, is that "life" does not begin at conception.  It does begin sometime in utero, but it's not at conception.  Because I do not wish this post to be about abortion, I'm stoping right there on this topic.)

“Reproductive Justice is the complete physical, mental, spiritual, political, economic, and social well-being of women and girls, and will be achieved when women and girls have the economic, social, and political power and resources to make healthy decisions about our bodies, sexuality, and reproduction for ourselves, our families, and our communities in all areas of our lives.”  Source here.

That's pretty broad, isn't it?  That's not just abortion.  It's not even mostly abortion.

To me, reproductive justice is really about economics and social well-being.  It's not about women like me:  I'm upper middle class and white.  I can afford birth control -- whether it's the pill or condoms or what have you.  I can afford to have a baby.  I have a job, a loving husband, a nice house, and a good, stable income.  If I wanted, and found myself with an unwanted pregnancy, I could also easily have an abortion.  I could easily find a clinic and I could easily pay for the procedure.  I am, as much as I can be, in control of my reproductive well-being because of my social class and relative wealth.

But before I was a lawyer in the suburbs married to another lawyer in the suburbs, I was well educated about my reproductive system and my reproductive health.  I was taught by my mother, and a little bit by my public school, about my sexuality and what causes pregnancy and disease.

It's the 16 year old impoverished girl whose home life is unstable that should be the focus of our concern.  She's not getting the same breaks that I have gotten my whole life.  And so when she reaches the age of 21 and already has 3 kids, she's 1,000 steps behind where I was at 21 and there is no catching up to that.

Reproductive justice is about her.  It is about finding ways to educate her about her sexual health -- her reproductive system, how to prevent her pregnancy, how she can avoid disease.  And it is also about finding ways to help her leave her impoverished situation to make a better life for herself.  And she cannot do that if she's had three babies before she is of legal drinking age.

It's not just about the teen mom in the US, though. Globally, there are women who are literally besieged by their own bodies in an endless cycle of pregnancy and birth.  They are victims of their husbands and of societies that see them as property and second class citizens.  These women need compassion.  They need birth control, they need education, they need options, and they need support systems that will free them from social tyranny.

Reproductive justice means so much more than abortion.  We all, pro-life or pro-choice, can find something to get behind under the category of reproductive justice.  And we women -- and as many men as we can recruit -- need to start fighting for it.  For ourselves, but especially for the women and girls in this nation and world who, by dint of circumstance, cannot fight for themselves.

Oh yeah, it's another post about my weight.

If you read me with any regularity, I'm sure you are tiring of this:

I'm still about 20 pounds overweight.

But here's the good news:  I recently had all my lady parts and other parts checked out and, apart from the weight (which no doctor even batted an eye at), everything checks out great.  Blood pressure:  great!  Total cholesterol:  great!  LDL:  great!  HDL:  great!  Triglycerides:  Great!  LDL/HDL ratio:  great!  Mammo:  great!  Even my skin, at forty-two-years-three-hundred-sixty-three days old is remarkably unlined.

I'm just kinda chubby.  Kinda jiggly in places.  Kinda two jeans sizes larger than what I'd want to be.  (Okay, three.)  Kinda biggish-boobed.  Kinda biggish.

But, I'm healthy, quite healthy.  And that is a blessing.  I am thankful.  I know that there are lots of people my age on medications to have blood pressure like mine or cholesterol like mine.  And I'm chugging away just fine on my own, even if I'm a bit overweight.

So I'm thankful.

But I'd still like to weigh less and be smaller and look better naked and not be embarrassed to wear shorts because of my thunder thighs.

I'm exercising and I'm eating mostly right.  Maybe I could skip the chocolate cake I had last night with my son or the nearly nightly glass of wine.  Or bread.  Or chocolate.  Or cheese.

But that's no fun.

And I don't deal with deprivation well.

So I've just decided not to worry too much about the number right now, and just be thankful for being healthy.  And keep doing what I'm doing.

It doesn't mean that I don't still want to lose the weight.  And it doesn't even mean that I won't try, but I'm just not going to worry about it anymore like I have done.  I'm just going to enjoy being healthy and understand that I'm blessed to have my health.  And I'm going to keep having fun, which includes occasional indulgences in chocolate icing with the little person.

Now, though, it's time for red wine and chocolate.  The Working Mom worked it pretty hard today doing a deposition and she's going to unwind.  And not feel guilty about it.  Night-night.

Okay, she's probably too old.

Jimmy Fallon and his wife just welcomed a baby girl!

Felicitations to them!

Seriously, they are in for some really fun times as new parents. 

By the way, Fallon's wife, Nancy Juvoven, is 46. News articles don't really make reference to whether Juvoven gave birth to the girl, although Wikipedia does use that phrase. And it really doesn't matter except for one thing that, since going through infertility treatments from ages 37 to 39, really bugs me. 

Over-forty celebrity women seem more fecund than the general population. My reproductive endocrinologists (yes, plural) all indicated, either explicitly or implicitly, that if you see a 45+ pregnant woman, she is probably using donor eggs, eggs donated to her for the purpose of in vitro fertilization so the 45+ woman can carry the child and give birth. And donor egg procedures are expensive.

I just wish that just one of these famous ladies would say, "Yes, I used donor eggs, so what?"  I mean, sure, it's none of our business whether they did or didn't.

But I think the over-aged high-profile pregnancies without explanation lead the rest of us normal people to think that over-40 healthy pregnancies are easy and not that rare. While not outside the realm of possibilities, they are not easy or common. Bringing a healthy baby to full term using middle aged eggs is, in fact, quite rare.  Statistics show that women over 45 have a less than 1% chance of getting pregnant with their own   eggs. Google it. The statistic is everywhere. 

Infertility is painful.  The treatments are arduous, the results uncertain and subject as much to chance as to science. I would applaud a celebrity who acknowledged those facts to the public.  I think it would help a lot of suffering people to have it acknowledged by a public figure.

That being said, maybe Nancy Juvoven's and Jimmy Fallon's girl is one of those fluky rare over-40 pregnancies that is the result of no medical intervention. In any event, no matter how she got here, the baby's darned cute and kudos to her soon-to-be-exhausted parents.  I'll climb down off of my pet peeve, now, and just gaze at the cute baby pictures. :-)

I don't like what's going on with women's and children's healthcare in Texas.

So.  Yeah.  This may be a bit incoherent, because every discussion about abortion inevitably becomes incoherent.  With that caveat, here we go:

I doubt that there are many people who read this blog who are unaware that I live in Texas.  But just in case someone doesn't know that, I do.  I live in Texas.

You, friends and readers, may have heard or read about State Senator Wendy Davis's filibuster of a bill that would, in effect, close many women's clinics that provide abortions by requiring that they conform to the standards of ambulatory surgery centers.

The bill would also provide for, I think, a far less controversial (though still objectionable to many people) 20 week limitation on abortions in Texas.  (The current limit, as of the writing of this post, is 24 weeks.)  The bill has been reintroduced in a special session of the legislature, and it will pass.  People predict with some level of certainty that the passage of this bill will close down all but five abortion clinics in the state (one in Dallas, one in Austin, one in San Antonio, and two in Houston).

Texas women are already required to have a sonogram and wait 24 hours before an abortion procedure may be performed.

So here's the problem:  availability of abortions will, probably, be vastly diminished for vast swaths of lower income and rural women in the state.

And here's my fear:  that's not going to stop these women wanting to terminate their pregnancies.  They will seek other means that are far less safe than the non-ambulatory surgical centers that they currently visit today.

This is scary.

My personal feelings on the subject shouldn't matter that much, but for the sake of clarity, I return to former President Bill Clinton's comment that abortion should be "safe, legal and rare."  That is and always has been my position. (Also, I should note a fact:  I have been inside a Texas abortion clinic.  For the sake of the privacy of all parties concerned, I am not going to describe the circumstances of the visit.  But I want to say this:  It was fine.  It was not a happy place.  The protestors did not help and, were, in fact, ineffective.  People do not merrily skip up to a clinic to end a pregnancy.  People do this in great anxiety and sobriety.)

But back to the bill.  I said that abortions should be "safe."

So, yes, the bill is aimed, at some level, at safety, but I fear that the safety measures sought to be imposed are attempting to force the "rare" part of Mr. Clinton's equation by making abortions harder to get.  Making them harder to get does not mean that they won't happen.  It means that there will be far less safe abortions performed in the shadows.  They just will be.  Deal with it.  And women will be harmed; some may die.

So let's talk about how to make abortions more rare:  prevent the pregnancies from happening in the first place.  This means:  (a) better sex education for the people of Texas (including adults, through their doctors) and (b) more widely available contraceptives.  But Texas doesn't want to do that either.  (By the way, the sex education that I think should be provided really ought to contain a component of what pregnancy is and its awesome life-altering-ness.  Honestly, I never knew until I was 39 years old and pregnant for the first time.  That's awfully late in life to learn a fundamental fact about my sexuality.  Maybe the only way to learn it is to go through it, but I think maybe we could do a little better in trying to get that message across prior to the actual pregnancy.)

But I mentioned children's healthcare too in my title.  Right.  What did I mean?

I meant that Texas does not want to provide adequate healthcare for the children of poverty.  Indeed, the sponsor of the Texas House of Representatives version of the bill, Jodie Laubenberg, cannot maintain a coherent position on the status of that entity that grows in a woman's womb.

For the purposes of her present abortion restrictions bill, that entity is a human child deserving of protection.  For the purposes of funding prenatal care for expectant mothers under Texas's version of the CHIP program, Ms. Laubenberg argued that the mothers of in utero humans were undeserving of economic support for prenatal and perinatal care in the first three months of pregnancy under CHIP because their children "were not born yet."

So for the purposes of the abortion bill, these pre-born humans are deserving of utmost protection, but for the purposes of the CHIP program, they're not deserving of vital healthcare until the fourth month.  All of our Ob/Gyns tell us that we need to be getting prenatal care ASAP as it ensures the best outcomes for the pregnancy and the child it will produce.  So why deny it until the fourth month?  It's bizarre.

But it's not, if you think about how most people view abortion, which is through the lens of viability.  Most people hold their nose and turn the other way when you're talking about an abortion in the first three months of pregnancy.  Ms. Laubenberg was just betraying her own prejudices in that regard when she made that statement that they "were not born yet."  She holds her nose and turns the other way too in the first trimester.

And that's because we all understand at least that part of the science:  no embryo or fetus is viable at twelve weeks gestation.  At twelve weeks gestation or earlier, pregnancies are still potential.  But at 24 weeks?  Well, I know of at least two babies born that early who have lived.  So, yeah, at 24 weeks we're talking about at least a fighting chance at life outside the womb.

So, indeed, the 20 weeks limit proposed in the bill, while perhaps not based in sound science, is based in the sort of hunch we all have:  that somewhere between 12 and 24 weeks, potential becomes probability.  For me, it was when I felt my baby move for the first time -- 17 to 18 weeks -- that's when I began to see the future with a real baby.  But that, I admit, is purely arbitrary and should not be utilized as a standard by which one should pass a law.  (Still, it informs my opinions and personal prejudices.)

But the fundamental hypocrisy of wanting to prevent abortions, but not wanting to provide prenatal healthcare for the pregnant women, or provide contraceptive and gynecological services to the poor persists.

So to end my little tirade here's my prescription for a compromise:

1. Safe, legal, and rare abortions.
2. Adequate healthcare for the indigent women and children, including in utero children, of the State of Texas.
3. Comprehensive sex education for the people of Texas.
4. Affordable contraception so as to prevent unwanted pregnancies.

And what I do not want, but fear I may see in the near future:  Women being injured or, God forbid, dying in "back alley" clinics in poor and rural areas of Texas.  Babies being born into a system that will not ensure that they and their mothers have adequate healthcare and support.  It's not enough to prevent the abortion.  If you prevent the abortion and a child is born, we must ensure not just that she lives, but that she has the opportunity to thrive.

I think Texas is smart enough, I think Texas is good enough, to do that.

Veggie Barley Risotto

We've made Chicken Barley Risotto for years. I adapted from a recipe Mark Bittman created for Thanksgiving Turkey left overs, which I'd run across in the New York Times.

In an effort to reduce the amount of animal products we eat, I decided to see if our barley risotto could go vegan.

Oh yeah, it sure can!

I actually love this recipe better than the chicken version, so much so that I'm planning to put it into weekly rotation. And, The Working Dad went back for thirds. Whoop!

Here's the recipe:

First, a note: except for the barley, broth and water, I just eye-ball the measurements.

1 cup pearled barley
1.5 cup vegetable broth
1.5 cup water
2 table spoons canola or olive oil
2 shallots chopped
1.5 cup mushrooms (I used portobellos this time, but whatever you've got.)
1.5 cup chopped veggies (Here, you can experiment or just use what's in your fridge. I used asparagus and carrots because that's what I had on hand.)
3 handfuls baby spinach
1/3 cup soy parmesan (optional)
1 to 2 tablespoons of the herbs of your choice (You'll need less if you use dried. I just grabbed the Italian blend from my pantry, but dill or tarragon are lovely in the chicken version and would probably be great in this too.)

In a skillet, sauté (in the oil) the shallots, mushrooms, and chopped veggies until the veggies start to look bright whatever-color-they-are. Throw in the spinach and allow to wilt. Toss in the barley and toast it for a minute to a minute and a half. Pour in the broth and water. Add the herbs. Simmer on low until the barley cooks, 30 to 45 minutes. The barley and mushrooms make a nice sauce, so you can skip the soy cheese, if you like. But for a little added richness and flavor, toss in your soy cheese at the last minute and allow to melt. Serve by itself or with a salad and toast.

I can't wait to experiment with various farmers market veggies with this recipe this spring! Yummers!

5.5!

Pounds!

Yes! Less than 5 pounds until my first reward pedi.

I haven't been so great about keeping to my exercise and non-diet plan. No excuses, just haven't been doing what I need to be doing as often as I need to be doing it. (Remember how Richard Simmons used to call it a "live-it?")

Anyway, it's enough to renew my resolve and keep me from, say, having a hamburger for lunch today. So...hooray!

Food Journals

Remember how I said I hate New Years Resolutions?

I also hate food journals or diaries. They make me feel confined.

Yeah, I know, they're supposed to do that: impose a little structure on your health chaos. But that doesn't mean I can't not like it.

But I know that they work. They make me account for my own gastronomic sins.

(And these toenails aren't painting themselves. I need my 10 pound weight loss pedicure.)

And so I find myself turning to the dreaded food journal in order to help me attack the dreaded New Years Eve Eve Resolution. After three weeks of not doing so well without much structure (still only down 2.5 pounds), I have broken down and will do a food journal .... Starting tomorrow. Maybe seeing it written down will force me into giving up my one true drug: sugar.

And I'm serious about calling sugar a drug. I'll get real cravings and an instant serotonin rush when I finally have some. I guess it's better than being addicted to cocaine (but not for my waistline). Anyway, I need to break the sugar habit in a serious, serious way.

Because I'm doing okay on every other of my health goals...exercising more, eating more veggies, generally sleeping better....but the sugar's hard to shake. Hopefully, the journal will help.

My tummy gets in the way

Thanks to nearly two decades of ballet, I perpetually hold my tummy in, so it gives the illusion of relative flatness, even if there is fatness there.

But ever since I had The Boy, there's this odd pouch there that wasn't there before, just below the belly button. When I lay on my side, it kind of hangs there...like a third boob. A very squishy third boob....

I wonder, will it go away with weight loss, or do I need to get it a little bra?

So my tummy gets in the way when I bend over or, you know, try to put on pants. It also gets in the way when I eat. For instance, last night, it got in the way and convinced me to have a Bass ale with a bowl of animal crackers, a surprisingly good pairing, after dinner. Oh well....

Status update: lost a half pound. Down 2.5 since the first of the year. Next week will be better. Happy Friday, y'all!

One Step Back

Alas, The Boy caught the flu last week. Then The Working Dad caught a stomach virus over the weekend. And now, The Working Mom finds herself down with a sore throat and general exhaustion. (The Working Mom, therefore, is not working today, but taking a rest.)

All this is to say that the New Years Eve Eve Resolution sort of went out the window last week as quickly as it had flown in a week before. Gained back two pounds...sigh...and feel generally bloaty.

Still, set backs happen. This is not failure. And tomorrow, I will climb back up on that exercise bike and recommence. I've got sparkley, new nail polish that Santa left in my stocking that is destined to become my 10 pound milestone pedi. Onward and upward, friends.

Getting Your Girl

Several months ago, I read an article on Slate.com about parents who were visiting reproductive endocrinologists in order to do genetic testing, and other manipulations, to ensure they would get a girl baby.

I have more than one friend who has confessed initial disappointment that their baby-to-come would be a boy. So I know there's the possibility for sex preference out there. For me, I was just so relieved to hear that the amniocentesis report said that the baby was healthy I honestly did not care whether he was a boy or a girl. But I know that lots of people do care, at least initially. As the character, Brian, on The New Normal said in a recent episode, "Everyone has a preference."

But I know that the preference is typically fleeting because those friends who have confessed initial disappointment at finding out that they were having a boy also disclosed that they soon came to love the idea of a son. And, this is even true for a friend with multiple sons and no daughters. She may have hoped for a girl, but she is content with, and happy with, boys.

The Slate article describes that these women dream of sharing their girl-stuff -- like shopping and clothes and crafts and dolls -- with daughters, so much so that they consider aborting male fetuses. First, I reject the notion that boys can't go shopping or do crafts or play with dolls. (Just asked my brother who played a lot of Barbies with me 30+ years ago.)

And second, honestly, at times, it seems like a reporter in search of a trend piece, and not a real trend. But then the tales have wafted across the Pacific for decades of the Chinese preference for boys and selective abortion of female fetuses that the story sounds a note of truth. And I wonder about the psychology of someone who would reject a child based upon gender.

I love that reproductive endocrinology exists. Without this miracle science, we would not have The Boy. I also love that genetic screens like amniocentesis and preimplantation genetic diagnosis exist. They give parents peace of mind, or at least allow them to prepare in advance for problems if they are detected. (And yes, the opportunity for early termination, if that is their choice.)

But there is something very unsettling about using these technologies just so mommy can have a tea party with her little girl. I mean, honestly, grow up. To the extent people are really even doing this, they are manipulating nature for the trivial opportunity to put bows in their children's hair. In reading the article, I silently wished tomboys on the lot of them.

Now, excuse me, I have to go play race cars, now, and feed crackers to the teddy bears.

The MILF Project Redux Status Report

So MILF, you may recall, I redefined as "Muscle Isn't Like Fat" back in July, when all was new and hopeful and I'd just started working out with a trainer and had not yet attempted a middle-aged cartwheel.... The MILF Project is my ongoing attempt to lose the baby and reproductive endocrinology weight. (Of course, the American Pie definition of the acronym might also be apt, but this is a PG-13 operation.)

I'm on Day 5 of my New Years Eve Eve Resolution and I thought it might be helpful to my progress if I did occasional status reports of my successes, failures and general progress. Keeps me accountable to make an occasional public confession.

So exercise-wise, I've done pretty well: I've done 30 minutes on the stationary bike and 15 minutes of weights and abs Monday through Thursday of this week. My goal was five days of at least 30 minutes of exercise a week, so I'm on my way to making that happen.

Sleep: check. We've been getting to bed before 10:30 every night this week. (Heck, last night, we were in bed just after 9!) Some nights, we read or play Words With Friends past 10:30 (totally old married coupledom), but at least we're in bed and can just lay the iPad down and go to sleep when we start getting drowsy.

Now, the food thing...yes, there have been downfalls...chicken fried steak, ice cream, a few other sweets, champagne...a beer (with lemon, yum!).... But I'm doing better making generally healthier choices. And I've also been eating less meat. I have flirted with vegetarianism at many times during my life, mainly because if I think about what the meat used to be, it makes me sad. (Except for fish and shellfish...they're just not cuddly enough to draw my sympathy. Sorry, tunas, clams and lobsters of the world!) Plus, any observation of what goes on in the meat industry is enough to turn anyone's stomach. I probably will never be completely meatless, but I would like my diet to be "meat less." And I feel good (physically, but ethically too) this week having consumed less flesh than last week.

So the net result so far: I've lost 4 pounds! I know it's "water weight," but weight is weight and, heck!, that means I'm 40% of the way to my first pedicure! Woo hoo! Happy weekend, friends!

New Year's Resolutions

I dislike New Year's Resolutions.

On the one hand, they seem like a good idea:  out with the old, in with the new . . . full of hope for a better and brighter year.  But they end in guilt and self-recrimination when they inevitably go unfulfilled.

Nevertheless, after starting on my MILF Project at the beginning of the summer . . . and being derailed from it by an ill-advised cartwheel at the end of the summer, nowish is coincidentally a good time to pick up fresh again.

So call it my New Year's Eve Eve resolution:  I am back on the wagon to lose the baby weight and get my 37 year old figure back before I turn 43!  (Thirty-seven = the age I was when I married The Working Dad . . . plus, it's a workable goal, you know?  Not like trying to look like I'm 18 again.)

New plan, friends, starting tomorrow (because why not start on a Monday):

• Stop eating crap.  That means less white stuff, especially sugary stuff, but starchy stuff too.  (So I'd better get to eating up the rest of it before midnight tonight!)
• But no strict dieting.  I rebel against prohibition and end up eating a whole bag of Funyuns or something if I tell myself I cannot have it.  (But saying to myself, "you ought not to have it," is a lot easier.  It presents an element of choice, kind of . . . .)
• Exercise at least 30 minutes at least five days a week.  (This means getting up early to do that, and that's okay, if I do the next thing, which is . . . .)
• Go to bed by 10:30 p.m. (I fall asleep on the sofa anyway by that time, so I might as well be in my bed when that happens.)

And, too, I have set rewards for myself for when I have met certain weight loss goals:

• 10 pounds:  Congratulations, Working Mom, you've earned yourself a pedicure!
• 5 more pounds:  Woo-hoo!  Looks like it's time for another pedicure!  (Also, Working Mom, by this time, you might want to consider starting to run again, but don't push it if your cartwheeling injury to your tushy is still bothering you.)
• 5 more pounds:  Twenty pounds?!!!  Wow, you get to go shopping for a couple of nice new items of clothes for your slimmed down self.  Give your good friend and CAbi Rep a call, and buy something pretty!  (Oh and, hey, go ahead and have another pedicure, you've earned it!)
• 5 more pounds:  Is it pedicure time again?  I think so!  Plus, you've met your goal, have a manicure too!

Yes, pedicures . . . an infrequent treat for me, and something that I can definitely hang out there as a carrot.

So that's 25 pounds that I want to lose.  Losing exactly that much weight would get me to the weight I was when I married The Working Dad.  And I mean, exactly the weight that showed up on the scales on our wedding day . . . weird, huh?  (There are some things that you just will always remember....)  Those 25 pounds are 10 pounds of baby weight and 15 pounds of reproductive endocrinology weight.  And today, on New Years Eve Eve, it seems totally possible.

Happy New Year, Friends!

P.S.  Another resolution, of sorts, that I have made, is to write more frequently on this blog.  There have been a lot of things happening in the news and the world that affect parents, working women, and women in general, and I would love to explore them through writing.  I will try to do that more in the new year.  Good for the soul to examine one's heart through words.  In public . . .  Anyway, they have a Blogger iPhone app that I'm going to try out as a tool to use for more frequent posting.  Cheers, everybody!  Stay safe in the New Year!

The Power of Authority

It is a near universal truth that all women who have had a baby embark, almost immediately, on an odyssey to retrieve (or re-achieve) their pre-baby bodies.  And because this is a near universal truth, I proceeded on that same quest.  This summer, in furtherance of that goal, I engaged a personal trainer.  For about eight weeks, things were going great!  I had gone down a size in jeans and I had lost 11 pounds.  I felt strong and proud of myself.  I was running two to three miles 4 to 5 times a week, with a decent time.  It was fantastic!

Then one day, inspired by the summer Olympics, my trainer made up an Olympics themed workout for us.  One of the things she asked me to do was a cartwheel.

Okay, yes, I am forty-two years old.  But I remember how it feels to do a cartwheel.  And I've done them in my adulthood:  my young adulthood, sure . . . in college . . . at the intramural fields . . . and once at the Sigma Chi house, I think . . . and possibly slightly inebriated (either on life or libations or both) . . . but still, I've done a couple of cartwheels as a grown-up.  But I'm middle aged, now.  And the sad truth is that I have not cartwheeled in decades.

So, I demurred at first.  I even told my trainer that I was a little scared to do a cartwheel.  But she encouraged me, and she was enthusiastic, and I wanted to show her that I was game and a "good," motivated exerciser.  So, I attempted the cartwheel.

Bad idea.

I sprained my booty.  And I don't just mean that I was a little sore the next day.  I mean that the cartwheel happened on August 8th and I'm still suffering from its effects today, November 19th.  I strained -- or, it seems more likely at this point, slightly tore -- a small muscle underneath my gluteus.  It even hurts to drive the car because the movement of the leg from the gas to the brake and back aggravates the injury.  (And P.S., I drive a lot with my job.)  I have tried to run a few times since then, but I still have trouble.  Even walking too vigorously or for a long distance can be painful.  It takes a long time for the middle aged butt to heal.  Maybe in a few more weeks I'll be able to run again.

Did I mention that I have a 26 pound toddler boy who still likes to be picked up by his mommy?  Did you know that you need that tiny muscle beneath the gluteus maximus to do that lifting?  Oh yes.

It has not been a good experience.

In the weeks and months (!) since the Cartwheeling Incident, I've thought a lot about why this happened.  Why did I agree to do something that my first instinct was to reject?  It's easy to just blame my personal trainer, but it's not her fault.  Yes, perhaps she should have thought twice about asking a forty-two year old, out of shape lawyer to do a cartwheel.  But I am, after all, a forty-two year old, out of shape lawyer.  I am not without agency.  I could have flatly refused to do it.  But I didn't.  Why?

You know, I tried to breastfeed my son after he was born.  (Hang with me, here; you'll see the connection, anon.)  The pediatric and neonatal communities -- the doctors, the nurses, the lactation consultants -- speak so strongly about the clear benefits to the mother and child that result from breastfeeding that it is almost implied that if you do not breastfeed your baby, you are guilty of a form of child neglect.  Like a "good" expectant mom, I had every intention of breastfeeding The Boy exclusively for at least the first six months.

What actually happened was this:  I starved my son for the first five days of his life and he ended up losing almost 10% of his birth weight.  So we started him on formula.  Nevertheless, I continued to attempt to breastfeed him.  During my entire maternity leave I would play with him when he was awake, then attempt to feed him with the breast, then I would bottle feed him, change him, put him down for a nap . . . and then, rather than sleep myself (which is what everyone says you should do, "sleep when baby sleeps"), I would hook up to the breast pump to try to stimulate more milk production.  It made maternity leave exhausting and miserable.  I became resentful of the pump and the lactation consultant/breastfeeding community.  Nevertheless, I kept doing it.  And, even after I went back to work -- even when I would bring home a scant 6 to 12 ounces of expressed milk from my 3 to 4 pumping sessions at the office -- I continued to do this to myself until, finally, my son, at the age of six months rejected both the breast and the anemic expressed breast milk that I offered to him.  Had he not been a wise infant and seen the futility of this endeavor, I probably would have continued with the pump until there was a mere trickle.  Why did I do this?

When I was in private law practice, it was not unusual for me to work 10 to 12 hour days.  I was rarely home before 8:00 p.m.  But I had learned quickly in law school and after that if I wanted to make partner, if I wanted to be a successful lawyer, working like that was what was required.  Here's what working like that also did:  it isolated me socially, it took me away from physical activity, it made it less likely that I would cook for myself and more likely that I would eat take out.  It made me fat, lonely and miserable.  And I knew that not exercising was bad for me, that eating fatty food was bad for me, and that having little social life was bad for me.  But I went ahead and worked the hours and gained the weight because conventional wisdom said that these were the personal sacrifices that are required to be a law firm partner, to be a "good" lawyer.

At the root of all of these adventures in self-destruction is the power of authority to cause you -- to cause me -- to ignore your better instincts.  If I had it to do over again, I would certainly take back that cartwheel.  I'd still be running.  Maybe I'd be down to a nine minute mile by now.  I would also hang up the breast feeding immediately. The emotional toll -- including the massive guilt trip that I could not give my son all of the magical whoosie-whatsits that come only from my boobies -- was just not worth it.  Instead, I would happily feed him formula and enjoy my maternity leave rather than wearily slog through it, a slave to the boob vacuum.  And I certainly would not have worked myself into serious unhealth at the law firm.  I would have left early more often to go exercise, to cook for myself, and to have a little fun.  Knowing, as I do now, that few people actually make law firm partner -- and, in fact, I took myself out of the running for partner precisely because that misery was not worth the prize -- I would have given myself a break.

In every instance, I knew that the better choice was to reject the thing that would make me seem, in the eyes of some real or perceived authority figure, to be a "good" exerciser, a "good" mother, a "good" lawyer.  But the authority of the chick with 6% body fat, or the doctors and the nurses, or the legal community bent my will away from my better instincts.

And I'm not the only one . . . we humans have a knack for closing our ears to our own guiding voices when authority tells us to take another path.  Think how wrongly white people behaved in the early-to-mid-20th century to people of color.  These white people were not all monsters.  They were not mostly monsters.  But they were so strongly influenced by the power of authority in their lives -- the authority that said that black people should drink from different water fountains, use different toilets, and go to different schools -- that they switched off that little voice of reason in their heads that asked them whether it was the right thing to do.

Of course, I'm not saying that all authority is wrong.  But I am saying that authority is incredibly powerful, and we should check it and question it.  You are not a slovenly mess because you question the wisdom of throwing your forty-two year old body upside down as if you were a ten-year-old.  And you are not unpatriotic to question government when it sends young men to war for a cause you do not understand. Nor do you commit blasphemy when you question your pastor's words when those words sound a dull tone in your ear.  There is a reason that your brain draws a question mark in your mind.  Rather than erase it and blindly accept the word of authority, examine it.  Rather than accept authority, take a moment to think -- and sometimes that thinking requires serious research, examination, and exploration -- about whether this authority really deserves your acquiescence.

So what about parents, right?  I'm a mom of a 20 month old, now.  And he is bright, cheerful, and strong-willed.  Conventional wisdom says that I and The Working Dad are in charge and that he, as our son, should obey us.  For now, this is true.  Twenty-month-old boys are not renowned for their sound decision-making acumen.

But one day in the not too distant future, he will rightly question my authority.  And I should be ready to have a conversation with him about that.  It is not acceptable to tell him, "because I said so."  No, my boy deserves a reasoned and honest answer from me as to why I exercise my parental authority as I do.  (P.S., to the extent that he can understand such reasoning now, he gets it now.)  And, I, as his parent must be acutely aware of the awesome power my authority has in shaping him as a person.  In large measure, he will do and believe as I and The Working Dad teach him.  So in everything that I do and in everything that I say, I am quietly exercising my authority over him and teaching him how to behave in the world.  So I must always remember that his little eyes are watching and his little ears are listening.  They are picking up every opinion, every behavior, every prejudice I carry and they are lodging it in his little brain-sponge.  I do not want to lead him astray.  And I do not want him to feel that he can never question me if the little voice in his head might say to him "this seems wrong."  He should ask why, and I, as the authority figure, should be able to tell him.  Indeed, I, as the authority figure, should also be ready to say, "yes, you're right, this does seem wrong."

So the Cartwheeling Incident turns out to have been a very painful and very good life lesson:  When your internal voice asks "but why?," before you take another step, take the time to answer the question.

In defense of the running skirt

The ladies on one of my favorite podcasts, this week, quizzically mused about the running skirt/skort.  They seemed, at a minimum, bemused by the prospect of running in a skirt:

"When did skirts become work out gear?"

"I don't know, and it doesn't seem comfortable."

"Is it somehow an offshoot of tennis?"

"What's the point?"

"I ran a road race recently, and every time a woman passed me in a skirt I was like, 'Fuck, I can't let that girl pass me.  She's wearing a skirt!  That's not okay!' "

Oh, ye, of little chub-rub . . . .

So, here, my dear weekly Double X Gabfest friends, let me elucidate "the point" of running skirts.  Here's the one that I wear running, five to seven days a week:

This is the Brooks PR Mesh Skort II.  It is available in black, gray, pink and light blue.  I have it in all four colors.  It features little stretchy-pant shorts underneath.  There is a little pocket on the side of the right short leg and a little zipper pocket at the small of the back.  It is, in fact, incredibly comfortable to run in -- far more comfortable than your normal running shorts.

And why is that?

Well, for many of us who are not so blessed that we can stand with our feet together and see daylight between our thighs, regular running shorts bunch up in the crotch.  This phenomenon of running gear is the opposite of comfortable.  Your thighs end up rubbing together, and they get chafed.  You spend time you should be just running tugging your running shorts out of your crotch.  It's not fun to run this way.  It's not easy to run this way.  It's a little embarrassing to be constantly pulling at your crotch as you skip down the road.  Digging your shorts out of your crotch does nothing for your minute/mile time.  It is way more comfortable to run in this skirt because the little stretchy-pant under-shorts do none of this annoying crotch-bunching.  They stay in place half-way down your thigh throughout your run.  I have run farther and faster this summer because I've been running in this skirt.  (And I have lost more weight on account of it -- some running bodies are not yet perfect, but are actually chasing perfection.)

So why not just wear the little stretchy-pant shorts without the skirt apparatus over it?

Oh, slim-thighed friend, if you've got chub-rub enough to make crotch-bunching a problem, then you've also likely got a couple of little saddlebags hanging around your posterior too.  Nobody wants to show off those jiggly bits while they're running.  (And I'm going to guess that nobody wants to see those jiggly bits bouncing past them either.)  So the skirt gives you a little modesty when wearing your stretchy-pant shorts.

Plus, yes, they're pretty darned cute, especially when worn with a long-sleeved (yes, even in the summer, even in Texas -- it saves your skin) running shirt like this:

Running shoes like these:

And a running hat like this:

So lay off the running skirt, ladies!  I've lost 12 pounds and two jeans sizes while running in this skirt.  Sure, maybe I look like a middle aged mom as I run down the street in my skort, but, well, that's what I am.  But there is no denying that I am a happier runner because of this skirt.  See you at the 5K!  Catch me if you can!