My God is Better than Your God, or What the Hobby Lobby Ruling Could Mean For You

Today the Supreme Court decided that Hobby Lobby doesn't have to provide birth control to its employees, despite federal laws that dictate otherwise.

Hobby Lobby claimed that provided contraception violated their religious beliefs. Now, religious institutions... churches, non profits... they were already exempt from these federal laws. But Hobby Lobby is a for-profit corporation. Legally, as Mitt Romney reminded us, a person.

To give you an idea of why this is such a terrible precedent, I present myself. The married mother of three. The accomplished crafter. The SAIC educated artist. The DIYer. I am exactly who Hobby Lobby wants shopping at their store. And I am also who they want to work for them.

Most of the people behind the anti-abortion movement consider themselves religious. And the anti-abortion movement and the anti-contraception movement are closely linked. It seems like madness, but it's true. Because in both of these cases, the philosophical center of the debate is women, daring to have sex for pleasure. If they get pregnant and need an abortion, they're evil, selfish, sinning harlots. If they don't get pregnant because they successfully use contraception, they're evil, selfish, sinning harlots.

That's the common ground. That's where it starts.

Now Hobby Lobby, who claims deep religious beliefs, says it's an infringement on their freedom of religion to support those evil, selfish, sinning harlots if it provides them with a third party insurance plan that includes birth control*.

The fact is that about 99% of women in the US have used contraceptives. Married women are among the most reliable users of the pill*. Working women rely on contraceptives.

And NOT just to keep from getting pregnant.

Birth control regulates periods, letting you control what day it begins, how long it lasts, or even if you have one at all. And with all the side effects of menstruation (cramps, headaches, insomnia, etc.), being in control of when or if these symptoms occur INCREASES your productivity at work.

So if I worked at Hobby Lobby, they would have the right to ensure that I am minimally productive for at least one week out of each month.

Hobby Lobby, which says its deep religious beliefs are behind this legal action, wants to make sure women follow its Christian values. But I don't have Christian values. In fact, as a Jew, it is essentially to me that I take contraception.

The most important law in all of Judaism is to do what you must "in order to preserve life." You can eat any non-kosher food, break the Sabbath, anything- IF it preserves life.

If I get pregnant, I get melanoma. If I get pregnant, I get cancer and a uterus ready to explode. If I get pregnant, I run extremely high odds of death. For me, contraceptives preserve life.

Now that Hobby Lobby has the right to deny me my legal protections because of their religion, I might be fired for taking off my Jewish holidays. Or if I skipped shul and went to work on Yom Kippur, I could be fired for refusing to take my lunch break, what with my fasting and all.

Now Hobby Lobby has opened a door that MUST be closed, to the elevation of one religion over another.

Now that the Supreme Court has ruled that Hobby Lobby has the right to ignore federal laws under the guise of religious persecution, it's open season on non-Christians in the workplace.

Because as much as these right-wing conservative blowhards claim there is a war against Christians in this country, it's a lie. What's happening is that our country, founded with the understanding that there must be no state instituted religion, founded by men of faith but not CHRISTIAN faith, by theists and deists and Quakers, has reached a point where the "other" religions are visible. Where once in a while, a Christian might assume that everyone around them is also Christian and be wrong.

Jews, Hindus, native peoples, Sikhs, and horror of horrors, Muslims are all around us. Living in peace, administering to their faith in peace, and generally going about their lives.

This so-called War on Christians, it's the realization that Christians don't have the absolute majority anymore. That there is enough of a voice of "others" out there that when a statue of Jesus or the Ten Commandments appears on a state house, somebody is going to complain. Not just to whine for the sake of whining, but because this great country was founded on something important.

"All men."

Not Christian men. Not white men. And not even all male "men." All people. They all have the right to their religious beliefs or to none at all. And no company is above that.

At least, not until today.

It's a dark day in American History. A day when all the non-Christians stood slack jawed and shocked, amazed that now their employer could dictate their lives beyond work, based on some idea that their moral authority is better, that their faith is more important, that their God is better than your God. Or even that their personal idea of God is somehow superior to another person's.

I'll leave you with this, rather than my own furious ramblings.

“I am for freedom of religion and against all maneuvers to bring about a legal ascendancy of one sect over another.”
~Thomas Jefferson


“We have abundant reason to rejoice that in this Land the light of truth and reason has triumphed over the power of bigotry and superstition… In this enlightened Age and in this Land of equal liberty it is our boast, that a man’s religious tenets will not forfeit the protection of the Laws...”
~George Washington




---
*Yes, I know the ruling specifically covers a subset of contraceptive methods. And despite what you may have heard, these methods (IUD, morning after pill) are NOT abortifacients. This still sets a tremendously dangerous precedent. The precedent that YOUR BOSS gets to decide what medication is or is not covered by your plan, based only on your boss's own perceived religiously moral superiority. If YOUR BOSS says that blood transfusions are against his religion, or that mammograms are against his religion, should he have the power to remove those options from your third party insurance? I think not. And I am not alone.

Taking a Tour on the Blogosphere Bus

I met the fabulous Lisa Petty, of Petty Thoughts, at Blog U, dancing like a maniac. Or maybe it was me dancing like a maniac. At any rate, she's fantastic. And she invited me to be part of an ongoing blog tour! I've had a ton of fun at every stop, getting to know different bloggers and their writing styles and processes. It's a been a helluva digital vacation! And now the planes, trains, and automobiles have brought us here- to my stop. So while you take in the lovely Chicago scenery, maybe visit the Field Museum and eat a veggie dog on the back steps, I'll tell you all about what I do.



What Am I Working On?
I'm still fiddling with my memoir (excerpt here), and increasingly desperately trying to get a literary agent. The fact is, selling a memoir is hard, unless you're a celebrity. And sadly, having a few enormously viral blog posts does not a celebrity make. Aside from that, I'm writing here, on the blog, and I'm working on a super secret project I can't talk about right now, but that will no doubt make me wealthy beyond my wildest dreams.

How Does My Work Differ From Others Of Its Genre?
The memoir? It differs from others of its genres by somewhat defying genres. It's a story of the many ways our brains can try to destroy themselves, with tumors or poisons or chemical imbalances. But more, it's a true story about the power of love bold enough to stand defiant in the face of death. It's a love story, and an offer of comfort to anyone suffering from mental illness who ignores their own pain as immaterial or unreal. It's about surviving a death sentence, and collapsing under the weight of freedom. I'm not sure I've ever read a memoir with those particular themes.


Why Do I Write/Create What I Do?
I can't not write. I moved to Chicago for art school twelve years ago. And when the dean of the Art Institute welcomed us to the school, he said most of us would never work making art. Very nearly none. "So if you can do anything else, do that," he said. And it stuck with me, because I could. I dropped out of the Art Institute because I knew I could do something else. But there is one thing I can't stop doing. Since I wrote my first poem at age five, I cannot stop writing. Haiku, novellas, short stories, slam poems, fiction, and nonfiction... whatever is happening in my life, I am compelled to continue writing. Lucky me, the blogosphere is welcoming to folks with my particular writing handicap- namely, an addiction to an audience.

How Does Your Writing Process Work?
I'm a follower of Earnest Hemingway's methodology. "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." I sit down to write, and I write until it's done. I ignore my children, I don't eat, I don't get up to use the bathroom. I just sit and write and write and write. Sometimes, I get an idea for a post or a chapter or a poem when I'm not at my computer. I turn it over in my head a while, coming up with phrases I like, examining the sides of the issue, or my perspectives on it, and then when I sit down to write I jump around a bit, make sure I hit all the salient points. But for the most part, I just sit and write.


...and that was the Becoming SuperMommy stop on the Blogosphere Express!



Let me introduce you to your next stops!

Celeste McLean is the writer behind the widely unread blog Running Nekkid, where she writes about grief, mental health, and her Pacific Islander ancestry. She left her tropical paradise island home twenty years ago and has been trying to figure out how to go back ever since. She currently lives in Seattle with her husband where they raise two children and tolerate one very demanding cat.

Get a feel for her by reading a few posts before you get to her station. Big Hair No Pants is a heartbreaking and beautiful tribute to her father. Then read For Ian, a Memory, which is an equally beautiful love letter written back before her husband was her husband. They are utterly marvelous posts, and your day will be inexpressibly richer for having read them.

Tamara Woods was raised (fairly happily) in West Virginia, where she began writing poetry at the age of 12. Her first poetry collection is available at Sakura Publishing and Amazon. She has previous experience as a newspaper journalist, an event organizer, volunteer with AmeriCorps and VISTA, in addition to work with people with disabilities. She has used her writing background to capture emotions and moments in time for anthologies such as Empirical Magazine, her blog PenPaperPad, as a contributing writer for the online ‘zine Lefty Pop, and writing articles as a full-time freelance writer. She is a hillbilly hermit in Honolulu living with her Mathmagician.

Get acquainted with her by reading her dystopian fiction, and watch her read a poem from her book- Hot Comb Self-Deception. It's wonderful.

Melanie is a recovering nerd who has always considered herself a writer, but barely considers herself at all anymore because three kids. She is mom to Moo, Slim and The Geel and is proud to say that so far the kids have fared much better in her house than the houseplants have. The NotsoSuper blog was born out of frustration and the not-so-thrilled feeling she got when she found out she was pregnant with The Geel.

She calls herself the NotsoSuperMom because she does not want to give anyone the false impression that she is trying to "do it all." She's not even trying to do it right. She'd just like to get something--ANYTHING--done. She writes to escape the laundry and to pretend that someone is listening to her. She was recently featured on In The Powder Room and you can find her on facebook and the twitter.

Get to know her delightfully self-depreciating humor in her post, Annie Get Your Gun (or the Night I Almost Shot My Yoga Pants). Then read her beautifully vulnerably post about the day she lost her first grader, Little Moo Lost.

Karyn is a lapsed social worker, work-at-home mom, and one-quarter of Team Pickles. Along with Ben (the thinker), Molly (the doer), and Ian (the Brit), she battles for truth, justice, and the Canadian way in a world where parenting and puns go hand-in-hand. Follow their adventures at PicklesINK and get short bursts of funny on Facebook and Twitter.

To give you an idea of why I'm crazy about Karyn (and it's not just her rock awesome moves to the Spice Girls), start out with her brilliant post- Are You Elsa or Anna? What Frozen Says About Depression. It's beyond insightful. Then for some more parenting depth and conversation on kindness, check out A Passion for Compassion.

Holding On

This month, Chicago has been experiencing a traffic problem.

Let's be honest. Chicago is always experiencing epic traffic problems.

But this one is pretty significant. They're rebuilding a number of the on and off ramps of the freeway that runs straight through downtown.

This isn't the best idea in the world. Honestly, having a giant freeway run through the middle of your downtown isn't the best idea to begin with. (Says the Urban Planner who's never used her degree.) But I was relieved, and secretly hoped the ramp from 55 South to 90/94 West was one of them. Even though it is the ramp I rely on the most to get almost anywhere. I use that ramp to get to Costco, to get to my friends' homes up north. To get to the kids' swim school.

I use it constantly, and to have it under construction would be an enormous pain in my ass.

But I want it changed.

Almost exactly a year ago, I found a woman there. She had appeared, face down and unconscious on the road, and I stayed with her until I could get her into an ambulance. She was old, and she didn't speak English, or Spanish, or any other language me and a young doctor who also stopped knew to ask.

And I think of her every time I pull onto that ramp.

Every time I go to Costco, or swim lessons, or pick somebody up from the train station. Every time I go to the chiropractor. Every time I take the kids to a friend's house. Every time we go to the deli for dinner. Every time I take RH to her neurologist. Every time I go to the movies.

Almost everywhere I go, I have to take that ramp. And every time I do it, I think of that woman.

I cannot think of her without worrying.

What happened to her? What brought her there? Does she have family, who are keeping an eye on her? Has she since wandered off again? Is she still alive?

I just don't know. And I have no way of ever knowing.

That freeway ramp and that woman haunt me.

I picture her teeth- so strong and white- with grit from the road stuck in them. And I picture her eyes, pupils contracted to pinpricks, darting around in the blaring sun. I picture her stiff white hair. The odd texture on the heavy sweater she wore, despite the blazing heat.

She is part of me now, in some ways, I suppose.

I know nothing about her, except that one day in the heat of last summer, she appeared on the freeway and she went to the hospital, giving me a thumbs up. Even though I knew she was frightened and alone.

Did her family find her?

Where did she come from?

I wish I knew who she was. I wish I could bring her a bouquet of flowers and squeeze her hands and give her a thumbs up.

She is a stranger to me. She will always be a stranger to me. But I feel responsible for her. And I feel sorry for her. And I feel protective of her.

I am struck that there are seven billion people on this planet, most of whom I will never meet. Most of the people on this earth don't speak my language, don't share my culture. Most of the people on this planet are as different from me as that woman. What do I have in common with an eighty year old woman, probably from somewhere in the far east of Asia, who doesn't speak English and finds herself, as if by magic, collapsed in a heap on the pavement of the freeway? But I care about her. I care about her so much it hurts me.

For the past year, every time I've seen a strange face on the news, crying over a tragedy in a faraway place, I've pictured her face, pressed into the road, her papery hand gripping mine.

We have more in common than I thought, me and her. We were both there. We were both here, on this earth, together. And if for no other reason than that, I left my car running and the air conditioning blaring while my confused children sat on the side of the road for half an hour and I held her hand.

I care about that frightened old woman. And while she might not have worried about my well being, she held my hand. She didn't want to let go. She wanted me to be with her, near her. She trusted me. Even if I've been long forgotten, for half an hour, that woman cared about me, too.

All it takes to understand another person, to sacrifice for them or empathize with them, to carry them with you in your heart, is a moment. A moment where their humanity is exposed to you, and yours to them. I try to keep mine on my sleeve. To remember always that we are all lost and in need.

To see in everybody the fear and confusion that asks only for a hand to hold. And I try to be there to offer that hand.

I would like to be there with a hand to hold.

And every time I drive up the ramp from 55 to 90/94, I am overwhelmed with the guilt that I just let her go, and I never found out if she was going to be okay.

I hope she is.

And while I hope they do demolish that ramp and build a new one, I also hope they don't. To be reminded so often how frail life is, and how important it is to be there for other human beings... it's humbling. And I'm grateful to be humbled so often.

I just wish I could see her face again.

Sex Positive Parenting, or We Don't Touch Our Vulvas At The Table

It happened yet again. As I was sitting at the table for dinner with my children, I noticed my daughter's hand fishing around under her skirt.

"We don't play with our vulvas at the table. Go wash your hands and finish your food," I scolded. She nodded, ran off to wash her hands, and resumed picking at her dinner instead.

Small children, they touch themselves. A lot. It's fascinating to them. And when you're a small child, you have no sense of shame or disgust or fear of your body. Your body is what it is. It does what it does. And everything that it does is kind of amazing, because you're not old enough for lower back pain. It's not sexual, it's just... fact.

The first time I caught one of my kids playing with their genitals, I said absolutely nothing. I was momentarily paralyzed with indecision. One thing I knew for a fact I did not want to do was to shout, "No!" or "Stop!" What good could that possibly do? Sure, I would be spared the awkwardness of catching my child playing with her genitals on the living room floor, but what kind of lesson is that? To fear or ignore your own vagina?

I thought about it almost constantly for two days, and of course she gave me a second chance to react.

"Sweetie, we don't play with our vulvas in the living room," I said. Which sounded ridiculous and strange, but nonetheless true. Why is everything with little kids "we" statements? "It's okay to touch your vulva, but people are private, and it's a private thing. The only places where you should touch your vulva are in the bathroom or in your bedroom. If you want to play with your vulva, please go to the bedroom."

And she smiled and did, without question, because compartmentalizing where you do certain activities makes sense to little kids.

"We don't eat in the bathroom, and we don't touch our vulvas in the living room," became the new mantra. And yes, eventually it became, "We don't touch our vulvas at the table."

I'm what some people call "sex positive." That doesn't mean I talk with my four year olds about how great sex is and how good it feels. It means I don't pretend it's something other than it is.

As parents, we lie all the time. About the Easter Bunny or Santa or the Tooth Fairy, about how long ten minutes is, about whether or not we remembered they wanted to have grilled cheese for dinner again, we lie a lot. But one thing I never lie about is sex.

I don't want them to grow up ashamed of their bodies or confused about what they do. I don't tell them about cabbage patches or storks, I make an effort, always, to be honest about human reproduction. Every aspect of it.

I've had talks with lots of other moms about having "the talk." I don't think my kids and I will ever have that particular talk, because they already know. And we talk about it often- kids are obsessive creatures. We read "Where Did I Come From?" and "What Makes A Baby" which together cover every aspect of the subject. We can talk about IVF and c-sections, because both of those are part of the story of their births, and we can talk about the fact that yes, mommy and daddy still have sex regardless. And when they're older, we'll start talking about contraception.

Because lying to your kids about sex helps nobody. Telling them that sex is "only between mommies and daddies" is a lie that leads to confused, hormone charged teenagers. Telling them that sex is "only something that happens when two people love each other very much" is a lie that causes hormone charged teenagers to confuse "love" with "lust," or "obsession." It leads to leaps of logic like, "If I have sex with them, we must be in love." Or worse- "If I love them, I have to have sex with them." And how many teenage tragedies are based on that misconception?

The truth is that human beings, almost universally, like sex. It feels good. And it's supposed to feel good. If it didn't, the human race would die out. The truth is that sex isn't special and magical just because it's sex. The truth is that you can have spectacular sex with strangers who's names you don't even know. The truth is that just because you can, that doesn't necessarily mean you should.

And that's what sex positive parenting really is. Not telling my kids lies about sex to keep them from behaviors I don't think are healthy. It's telling them the truth, the whole truth, and letting it sink in so they can make their own good choices.

It's telling them that sex is good, but that it's dangerous if you're not careful. It's teaching them to require their partners to use condoms, to buy their own condoms if they're planning on having sex. It's teaching them that while sex feels good, they can feel good on their own too. (Just not at the table.) That while sex combined with love is often the best sex- transcendent sex- that grows the bond of love and builds a closeness that is almost impossible to find otherwise, sex isn't always like that- even with people you love. That sex can lead to pregnancy, even with protection, so engaging in it is a commitment to deal with any consequences.

It's telling them they're not wrong, or sinful, or bad, if they have sexual feelings. Or even if they have sex. It's teaching them that sex happens, whether people always make good choices or not. And it's giving them the tools to ensure that when they're ready, they're smart and cautious and conscientious.

There's a lot of black and white comparisons when it comes to sex education. Some people think that once kids hit puberty, if they don't have a strong fear of sex they'll have as much as they can, as often as they can. There's a lot of abstinence-only sex education, based on telling kids, "SEX IS SCARY! DON'T DO IT!" and it's about the least successful program anyone has ever invented. In states with abstinence-only sex ed, teen pregnancy rates only go up and up and up.

Telling children the truth about sex isn't giving permission for them to have it- and this is the most important part- because nobody has the right to deny them permission for sex but themselves.

And that's the thing I try to keep in mind when I say things like, "We don't touch our vulvas at the table." Sex is something that ONLY happens when both people WANT it to happen. And that means that the only people in the entire world with any kind of say over whether or not my daughters have sex is them.

I don't get to tell my daughters they have to have sex, but I also don't get to tell them they can't. They're in charge. Your body, your decision.

I never want to be responsible for setting the precedent that another person gets to tell them what to do with their bodies, and especially with their sexuality. I don't want to be the gateway for a manipulative, potentially abusive boyfriend.

So I teach boundaries. Appropriate places. Hygiene. I teach my children that nobody is allowed to touch their bodies without permission. When we get in tickle fights and they say, "Stop!" I stop.

And when we talk about pregnant friends, we talk about uteruses and sperm and eggs.

And most of the time, it's not uncomfortable. Most of the time, I'm verifying information and the conversation lasts fifteen seconds.

And someday the conversation is going to be a lot uglier. Someday, we'll have to actually talk about rape, and explicit and enthusiastic consent, and contraception. Someday we'll have to talk about healthy masturbation and pornography and realistic expectations of sex and sex partners and body image and a lack of shame for their bodies. And those conversations are not going to be as brief or straightforward.

But I'm ready. Whenever that day comes, I'm prepared. Because the groundwork is there.

"We don't touch our vulvas at the table." It's absurd, but it's got all the important pieces. It's a micro-lesson in safety and consent and social propriety. I don't think I'll be able to say, "We don't lose our virginity in the back seat of a car after a Prom party," with a straight face, but I will be able to say, "We don't have sex without thinking long and hard about it first, and we certainly don't do it without being careful, and being safe, and being totally confident in the maturity of our partner and our ability to handle the repercussions if we get a disease or get pregnant."

Because it's true. We don't.

But I like that when that time comes, I'm part of the "we." Because if I can tell my girls, "we" have to be careful, they'll know that no matter what happens, I'm still in their corner. I've still got their backs. Even if "we" make bad choices, I'll still be there to help make things right again.

Three at Two

The cheerfullest birthday girl on the block

Today, my littlest little turns two years old.

I could tell you how time has flown, how much she's grown, but I don't want to focus for one second on the past. Right now, it's all about now.

On Saturday, we had her birthday party. It was planned and essentially thrown by DD and SI. One day, about two months ago, we had this conversation:

Me: "I should figure out what kind of party to throw RH!"
DD: "I know! It should be a Care Bears party!"
Me: "You guys had a Care Bears party. This is RH's party. It should have to do with what she likes. What does RH like?"
SI: "Green!"
Me: "Yup. What else?"
SI: "Green! It should be a green party!"
Me: "That's it? Green? How do you throw a green party?"
DD: "With green food and a green cake and green decorations!"
SI: "Green ICE CREAM cake!"
Me: "...that sounds like a pretty good party, actually."
DD: "Me and SI will throw the party, Mommy. You just make sure RH's diaper isn't stinky."

I could handle that.

And plan the party they did. I tried to tell them that people would rather eat apples and grapes than broccoli, but they proved me wrong.

I taught them to make bunting, and they made enough to decorate a full half the yard. And I tended to my job- sending invitations, and making sure all the food was to SI and DD's specifications.

Honeydew, grapes, apples, mini cucumbers, celery, broccoli, guacamole, green tortilla chips, green juice
And green flowers. I was told that was important.
Plus more of SI and DD's bunting!

Of course, no matter how clean her butt, RH was a bit of a pill. I'd just come home from five days away- and she was punishing me for it.

The first day back was a dream, she lay back in her chair and just stared at me, occasionally whispering, "Kiss!" or "Hug!" Mostly just looking at me like I was an angel who had descended from heaven to rescue her from the torments of going to the aquarium daily to see jellyfish with my parents.

She spent the next four days attached to me at the hip, screaming for no reason and demanding amounts of my attention she hasn't commanded since she weaned. She spent a lot of her party crying, as despite DD and SI's planning, I was still essentially on hostess duty.

But like I said, I want to focus on now.

I want to remember what she's like right now.

I want to remember the way she says, "I yike a hair! I yike a face! I yike a pwetty dwess!" every morning when I change her diaper, regardless of what I'm wearing or how I look. I want to remember the way she flails her legs while she's running, but keeps her head steady.

I want to remember how fearless she is. How she crawls under bushes or through the mud without blinking an eye. How she tries every new food. How she jumps into the water without hesitating, much to my terror, or how she leaps off chairs, or stairs, now that she's finally mastered the art of getting both feet off the ground at once.



I want to remember how she puckers her lips into a full on fish face whenever she wants to give a kiss, and how sweet and soft her little kisses are. I want to remember how despite being a monster truck, rolling over everything in her path, she is still gentle with animals, other children, and her toys. Most of the time.

I want to remember how she participates in conversations without having a clue what's happening. How she shouts, "Me too!" about anything and everything, and will not be distracted from being included. How she insists on what she wants, when she wants it, and I find myself acquiescing because I have no real reason not to in the face of her determination.

I want to remember how until two weeks ago, whenever she said, "I lub you!" she followed it immediately by saying, "Good night!"

I want to remember the way she sings, "Shoo fly, don't bother me," or the alphabet song, or "Ring Around the Rosie," with better pitch and timing than her older sisters, even if half the words are incoherent.

I want to remember how sassy she is. How much attitude she's got. How sure of herself, and determined to do whatever her sisters do, and to be part of any joke the adults are enjoying. I want to remember the way she laughs a sound like clinking china and announces, "I laughing!" as though it weren't impossible to notice.

I want to remember the unbearable softness of her skin, and the way her hair smells, and the way that her curls flatten against the top of her head when she's filthy. I want to remember how tidy she is, and how she refuses to eat with her hands if they might get messy. I want to remember being perplexed by how she could get scrambled eggs in her nose, and at the same time how she can finish a bowl of ice cream without spilling a drop.

I want to remember how she asks for something indirectly, like, "Mommy, ponies?" And you try to fill in the blanks, "You want to watch ponies?" And she acts like it was your idea. "Okay!"

I want to remember the way she counts. "One, two, fee, four, five, six, seben, eight, nine, tan, eleben, twelf, fourteen, fourteen, fourteen, fourteen, eighteen, twenny fee!"

I want to remember how if you sing, "Na na na na na," she yells, "Batman!"

I want to remember how serious she often is, focusing on on a task until it is complete to her satisfaction. I want to remember how she seems to study the world with fierceness and determination, cataloging causes and effects and storing them away. I want to remember how much she cares.

I want to remember how unfathomably cheerful she can be.

I want to remember how she sings the theme song to "My Little Ponies," how she dances happily, distracting herself from all else in the world for ages, spinning in circles and hopping, gesturing wildly. I want to remember how she sings, "Tomorrow." I want to remember that she'll go around the room, approaching everybody one at a time, saying, "I gonna eat choo!" until they say, "Oh no! Please don't eat me!" and moves on to the next person.

I want to remember that her favorite movie is "Wreck It Ralph," and I love that sometimes she tells me, "Mommy, I a bad guy!" with an angelic grin and dimples for miles.

I want to remember how her smile lights up like sun when she's happy, even if she's covered head to toe in green frosting and ice cream. Even if five minutes earlier she was sobbing her eyes out.

I want to remember how she curls up on my lap, how she pulls me to the floor to sit on me for no reason. How she calls out, "I lub you, Mommy!" from the back seat of the car, for no reason. How she wants to help me brush my hair, and my teeth, and god help me, how she wants to tear off toilet paper for me in the bathroom.

I want to remember the way her little hand feels in mine.

But I know I'm going to forget.

I look at her big sisters, not that much bigger, and no matter how I wrack my brain it feels as though their nearly-two-ness is already gone. I can't remember them. I've forgotten my own children.

Of course, I know if the two year old version of DD or SI ran up to me, I would know them. But it's not the same.

It wasn't intentional. I was just so busy, and so tired. When DD and SI had their second birthday party, I was already pregnant with RH. When they were two years old I was finishing my degree and running through the day with M gone from before dawn until late an night.

I can watch a video and go, "Oh, yeah, that's how it was." But it's still just not the same.

I didn't have the energy to really hold onto all the moments with my twins. And knowing that, running through milestones and chubby legs and baby curls a second time... it makes it so much harder to know how soon it's gone. And so much sweeter to see it happening.

I truly am enjoying things more this time around.

I don't ever want to forget this little girl.

Happy Birthday, my littlest favorite person.

Let's not get to the next one too fast.

Six Down, Twenty To Go

I am allergic to metal.

I used to couch that in parenthetical exceptions, but about ten months ago I had to stop. When M and I got married, we were very careful in our ring selection. We went to the trouble of making sure not only that we got rhodium plated rings, but that we returned to the store every six months without fail to have them re-plated.

Sadly, no amount of re-plating could stop the inevitable. After five years of wearing my wedding band, never taking it off save for MRIs or those weird days we'd take to visit the 'burbs and replate the sucker, the hives began coming.

Skin allergies suck. First comes the vague itching. Then comes the blotchy redness. Then comes the open, festering, pussy wounds on your skin. Not pleasant, I know.

So after five years of marriage, I took off my wedding ring.

I hated it. I hated not wearing it. For the first few months if I went to an occasional wedding or special event, I'd put it back on. But even that became unbearable.

And so, M and I planned to replace it with something I could wear. Lucky us, we live in a city filled with brilliant artists and craftsmen, and we located a local shop, less than a mile from our first home together and only two miles from the site of our wedding. In the converted warehouse, a small group of brilliant odd-balls make beautiful rings from reclaimed wood.

For our sixth anniversary, we got new wedding rings. They're made from old xylophone tiles, and mine has a band of crushed lapis lazuli, which makes it resemble my old wedding and engagement rings, stacked together.

Created by Simply Wood Rings

We didn't have a dedication ceremony, or officially renew our vows, or anything like that. But it seemed odd to just pick up a new wedding ring, put it on, and say, "That's that!" So when we picked up the rings, we took a moment to commit ourselves all over again to our marriage.

M smiled his awkward, off kilter smile, and slid the ring onto my finger. "I love you more today than every day before. I can't imagine loving you more, but I know tomorrow I will, and I want to do that for the rest of our lives."

I'd rehearsed in my head exactly what I would say, knowing that one of the few times M never jokes is when he's telling me how much he loves me. So I cleared my throat, grinned at him, and slid the ring onto his finger.

"Six down, twenty to go."

He laughed and we kissed, and the lady behind the counter smiled and said we were adorable, but didn't ask for an explanation about that vow.

When M and I were engaged, we only really got to enjoy the experience for about sixteen hours. The rest of our engagement was totally eclipsed by M's health.

As our wedding date neared, M and I were driving home one afternoon when he said something that I will never forget.

"I have a new goal. I want to spend more of my life married to you than not. I want to live long enough that more of my life was as your husband than before."

He was 25 and a half years old.

For our anniversary, we put on our new rings, and flew to Santa Barbara for a friend's wedding. We extended our trip a few days, so we could spend our anniversary languidly driving up Highway 1, admiring the views of the mountains and the ocean, eating at surfer dives and buying strawberries at the side of the road. I hardly took any pictures. I was too busy feeling overwhelmed by joy, and love.

While we lounged around, without agenda or worry in beautiful Santa Barbara, life was very much as it was for us on our two week honeymoon in New Zealand. We took long walks. We ate local food. I bought some clothes. I made California Benedicts for breakfast.

At the wedding, we danced until our legs gave out, and the next day we came home to our three beautiful children.

It wasn't quite a second honeymoon. It wasn't quite a vow renewal. It was us, together, as we always are.

When I was young, I was certain I'd never marry. I didn't have boyfriends- though I sometimes referred to my beaus that way for my parents' sake. I thought the whole idea of monogamy and sexual fidelity was hogwash. I thought that committing yourself to feel the same way about the same person for the rest of your life was insane. I thought true love was something they fed you in fairy tales to keep you eager, but the reality was you do what you do to be happy, that being happy is what's most important in life, and that marriage didn't have anything to do with that.

Then I met M. And I fell in love. The idea of agreeing to be "boyfriend and girlfriend" didn't bother me. The idea of complacency and simplicity in terms and arrangements seemed soothing, and easy.

And with M, it is.

I've been married to the love of my life for more than six years, and in many ways they have just flown by.

But I read occasional blog posts about how marriage is work, how marriage is supposed to be work, how marriage isn't based on love. I hear my friends' tales of domestic discord and frustrations, of divorce and disillusionment, and I listen.

I sympathize.

But I do not understand. I do not understand why anyone would put themselves through it, deny themselves more opportunities for love and joy by staying in a relationship that brings them neither. I understand that for some people, marriage is work. But it's not for us. It never has been for us.

I know, in many ways, we are a unique couple. For most people, anniversaries and birthdays don't come with a looming counter. "Six down, twenty to go," is not a thought that accompanies these happy occasions. Each time M has a birthday, we don't just celebrate his birth, we celebrate his survival. Each time we have an anniversary, we're not just celebrating our marriage, we're celebrating the perseverance of life itself.

It's not that our lives have been easy. Far from it. Cancer is hard. Unemployment is hard. Newborn twins are hard. Going to college with two toddlers and pregnant with baby number three is hard. Hell, twin toddlers while pregnant is hard enough by itself. Three under three is hard.

Life is hard. And parenting is hard.

First day as parents

And we didn't have much experience with marriage before kids. On our first anniversary we were already 16weeks pregnant with our twins. And that was hard. But our marriage has always been easy.

I don't know that I'd recommend doing things our way, but I do know that I have long since stopped giving marriage advice. Relationship advice, sure, but marriage? Never.

Are we perversely blessed in our perspective? I don't think so. I honestly don't think that the love we consistently share, that constantly grows, that effortlessly brings us immeasurable joy and laughter and happiness is based on a fear of death. That only sharpens it around the edges a little.

I know that our love has never faltered. That the only real strain our marriage has ever suffered was depression, which was less a strain to our marriage than one of us battling a disease. And neither of us have ever faulted the other for their illnesses.

The last six years have gone past so quickly I still think of us as newlyweds. When I think of our relationship, it's in the giddy, excited, heart pounding terms of never wanting to stop touching his skin, or melting into his arms while he kisses me, or laughing as we run like teenagers down the hall to the bedroom. When I think of my love for M, it still comes with a hint of fear that one day he'll realize I'm not good enough for him, that I'm lazy and fat and unshowered and he deserves so much more than me- and rather than feeling depressed by such thoughts I feel inspired to impress him, to show him how competent I can be, how beautiful I can be, how brilliant I can be, until I surprise myself by becoming better than I ever knew I could.

He surprises me and inspires me. He makes me want to be more than I am. He makes me want not just to drop that extra twenty or thirty pounds, but to embrace myself and my body as I am, and love myself as much as he loves me.

He makes me feel like maybe I do deserve somebody so wonderful.

And that has never faltered. That has always been effortless. That has always been simply M- simply the way of the world- simply us.

The Captain Hammer Yin to my Ani Yang

Since getting married, we have grown together. I know more of his flaws and his faults, but my love only grows.

When people tell me that marriage is work, I nod. But secretly I wonder if maybe they're not doing it... wrong.

When people tell me that marriage is hard, I shrug. But secretly I wonder if maybe M and I are just... soul mates. Perfectly matched. Bound by the bonds of "True Love" in the Princess Bride sense of the words.

Maybe we're not. At six years married, with three children, I still feel like a newbie. I still feel like a newlywed. I still feel young and invigorated by our marriage.

I hope to still feel that way when we've been married for sixty years.

And I still believe what I thought before was true- marriage isn't the best idea we as a human race have ever concocted. Forever is a long time to work on something hard. And maybe, for some people, that's the point. Maybe, for some people, the hard work is what gives it meaning.

For me, the meaning is the constant joy and love. The effortless happiness we bring each other. The sharing of burdens until they're lessened almost to nothing, and the sharing of joy until it's multiplied to infinity.

We've been married longer than I've lived in any home. We've been married longer than many of my friendships have lasted. We've been married longer than I had any right to hope on our wedding day. I don't know how I'll feel then, but now I believe another twenty years won't be nearly long enough.

Six down.

Forever to go.

How to Humiliate The Most Important Person In Your Life, or, Happy Father's Day

I melt.

My husband is a committed father, a loving husband, and I'd wager a pretty decent son. He is everything I ever wanted in a partner, even when I didn't know I wanted it.

He is my everything, as far as humans are concerned, and he inspires me constantly to be the best version of myself.

That said, one of my favorite of his many endearing qualities is how willing he is to be made to look silly.

That's why when I found this extra awesome sale in April- yes, April- I knew I had located a perfect Father's Day gift.

It tread that line between hilariously wonderful and mortifyingly horrific.

Like I said, perfect.

And so the children and I ambushed M before he could get dressed, to give him a Father's Day present.

The blurry look on his face clearly says, "W.T.F."

His reaction was all I could have hoped for. Shock and hilarity, followed by dread at the revelation that all his children now had identical t-shirts. And all of them were thrilled to put them on, just like Daddy's!, to go out in public for the entire day. (I confess, I neglected to include myself in the purchase of family magical unicorn tees. Mommy's prerogative.)

My unicorn family

At first he was a little self conscious. I can't blame him. After all, he was a six and a half foot tall adult man wearing a purple magical unicorn t-shirt.

But embodying the very qualities I've always loved about him, he quickly embraced his role as a dedicated father and consummate joker.

Thank you, M, for teaching our children yet another way to postpone eating

As we do every year, we went on an outing for Father's Day- this year to The Field Museum. M is a bit obsessed with the Columbian Exposition of 1893, and the girls have caught a bit of his fervor. After all, we live practically on the grounds of the original fair, so the kids are familiar with a few important World Fair landmarks. They were utterly rapt when presented with an entire animated display of the Spirit of the Republic- known 'round these parts as "Big Mary."

He's indoctrinating his children with a lifelong love of all things Chicago

We had a spectacular day, M getting more and more confident that he was completely rocking the unicorn tee- as stranger after stranger grinned at him and his kids, wishing them, "Happy Father's Day!"

So many smiles

As for me, I can't help myself. There might be no more knee-weakening sight than the handsome rogue you married, confidently striding among a sea of neo-ravers on their way to SAMF with Skrillex blaring through the air, displaying a watercolor-y, rainbowed, castle bound unicorn across his chest.

He is much beloved

I'd marry that man over again every couple of months, if we could afford the parties.

Happy Father's Day, M.

A Non-Stop Lovefest - Highlights from Blog U

Me with Science of Parenthood, From Meredith to Mommy, Urban Moo Cow,  Momopolize, Not So Super Mom,
Pickles Ink, My Dishwasher's Possessed, Ava Chin, Mommy Needs a Martini, and Her Royal Thighness, among others!

This past weekend, I was fortunate enough to attend Blog U- a Blog Con in Baltimore. The whole two days were a nonstop lovefest, sharing hugs and selfies and stories and laughter and tears with nearly all my favorite women of the internet.

They're real people! Not just avatars and cartoons and logos! And not only are they actual human beings, and awesome ones at that, but getting to know them has completely changed my internet experience. Now, when I go around reading blogs... I hear them in the voices of the brilliant people behind the keyboard.

And that is pretty freakin' sweet.

For me, there were a few moments that stand out more than any other.

1. Hearing some of my favorite bloggers read some of their best work at the impromptu post-cocktail party open mic.

Sharing our best

This was, in a word, amazing. Sitting back drunkenly with thirty of your new friends, sharing your work and your words, all of that is incredible. But seeing people you've admired from a distance for years speak their own words in their own voices? AMAZING. AMAZING AMAZING AMAZING.

I'm sure you remember last year when I bugged you a million times to vote for me for Blogger Idol, and you read all the posts and got to know a couple really incredible bloggers? Well, one of those in the top three with me was Real Life Parenting. And you know what? That lady is a class act. And utterly hilarious.

This lady is hilarious.

Seeing her read was truly a thrill.

It was such a great way to start the con. Every time I met somebody, a lightbulb clicked on over my head. "You read about your son pooping in the car! It was so funny!" "Your bit about the pumpkin crap... brilliant!"

And the thrill of the occasional person coming up to me and saying, "Was that true? Is M okay now?" was also kind of awesome.

It's hard not to be instant friends with somebody when you already love each other's writing.


2. Getting inappropriately drunk and dancing like a maniac with some of the funniest ladies on the internet.

Who's that drunken blogger in the stripes? Oh... wait...

Seriously, Pickles Ink and Something Clever 2.0 are lunatics on the dance floor, and I love it. I conga-ed like an oncoming train wreck, one hand flailing a camera around, and managed not to concuss anyone. Jenn and I did the Thriller dance, because why the hell not? And Karyn and I shared an entirely awkward moment that may or may not have been intimately related to the Spice Girls. Because that's what happens when children of the nineties drink half a dozen margaritas and put a million pounds of product in their hair.


3. The way strangers on the internet can come together to help other strangers.

The Blog U faculty- they are a fun loving bunch.

I'm not just talking about putting together an entire conference, for strangers, for free. Because that is astounding to say the least. I'm not just talking about two dozen women from across the country working tirelessly from a distance to create a spectacular, immersive experience for hundreds of other women (and one very brave dude). I'm talking about everybody, all the time.

I'm also not just talking about the half a dozen women who happily opened their doors to share AquaNet with me. Because no 80's prom is complete without it.

The day before Blog U started, one of the local commuters had to cancel her plans. So in the course of a day, she and I transferred her ticket to Old School/New School Mom. Some other bloggers helped me get her a bus ticket, and some of her friends back home- writers as well and contributors to her Stigma Fighters project, helped her find childcare so she could come to the conference.

Once there, people helped her with last minute things- including a bed to sleep in after the prom, and a ride back to the bus station in the morning. That lady deserved a break, and now she's better prepared to help Stigma Fighters thrive as an NFP. And that?

Old School/New School Mom, me, and my spectacular roomie- Woof Tweet Waah

That makes me cry happy, happy, happy tears.




...there was one other thing. A little thing. I can't help but get a little glow every time I think about it.

During the keynote panel about writing for others, HuffPo Parents put up examples on the big screen of what to do- what notes to aim for, what subjects to address- in order to get a successful post.

What's that on the big screen?

Do you see what her example is over there?

Who is that attractive blogger?

Yes! It's me!

I would say I didn't learn anything, because OBVIOUSLY I've got this whole thing figured out... but that's a lie. I learned tons. I learned so much, and I'm taking it all and putting it to good use.

Look out, world, I'm coming to take you by the horns.

I'm a Blog U graduate, hear me roar!

Waiting

Our sixth anniversary, and I love this man more than the day I told him if he didn't propose to me I would do it first.

A few weeks ago, M and I celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary. We flew to Santa Barbara for a friend's wedding, and romanced and danced and laughed and had so much fun I can't imagine cramming it into a single blog post. But I'm not writing about that today.

Celebrating love in a corner of paradise

Well, I am. Tangentially, anyway.

This past weekend, I went to Blog U- a crazy awesomesauce smorgasbord of networking, education, parties, constant mutual appreciation, and more alcohol than your average frat party. But I'm not writing about that today.

Getting to know some of my favorite bloggers

Or maybe only a little.

And when the whole thing was over, I went to an amazing lunch with my sister, who's friend's car was broken into and robbed of all my luggage- all my nice jewelry (anniversary presents, birthday presents, Christmas presents...), the shoes I wore on my wedding day, half my bras... But I'm not really writing about that today either.

Oh wedding Fluvogs... how I'll miss you.

This weekend was an insane high followed by an insane low, and that's what the wonderful people sending me photos they'd snapped of the jewelry that might appear in a Baltimore pawn shop kept saying.

Because yes, it feels very much like we don't do the middle in our family. Me and M, we only do highs and lows. We only do blacks and whites. We have no shades of grey.

At least, not usually.

The truth is, I thought that Blog U was my high after the awful low. For me, the terrible low was Wednesday through Friday, so of COURSE the weekend would be amazing, wouldn't it?

On Wednesday, as those of you who check in on me so often on Facebook know, M had his every-six-monthly MRI.

For the last seven years, we've been watching the pictures of M's brain change. Cloudy areas becoming clearer, contrasting areas shrinking, bright white shapes in a sea of gray fading away to a quietly benign nothing. At first the MRIs were every eight weeks, then every three months, and now- only twice a year.

And so on Wednesday we had our summer scan. And as M's doctor, who has only been with us for three of these, began describing the scans, we heard something we had never heard before.

Such a useless word, she used. "Something."

"Something" that probably meant "probably nothing." "Something" that meant "who the fuck knows what this means but it's there."

"Something" small enough that we weren't talking about getting back on chemo, we were talking about looking at the big picture in a new way.

M and I have talked many times about "when." This doctor, she likes "when." She thinks it's realistic. She says "when" the tumors start to grow again, not like it's some kind of death sentence, but as though it's an inevitability. And I respect that. Inevitable doesn't mean it's coming at you like a freight train, it means that someday, it WILL happen. The way that someday, you WILL get food poisoning. Or you WILL get trapped in the rain with no umbrella. Or you WILL put your foot in your mouth in front of somebody you respect and admire.

And I guess whenever we talked about "when," we assumed it would be nice and clear cut. "Oh look at that, the cancer is growing again. Time to get you back into radiation."

But it turns out this was utterly naive.

"When" means something different every day.

The doctor told us that, frankly, brain surgery is a whole different world now than it was seven years ago. Seven years ago, when M's brain surgeon decided not to remove his tumors, because it was just too dangerous.

"Now they've made these huge advances in mapping, and the techniques for brain surgery have completely changed," she said. "And so on Friday morning I'll be talking to the hospital tumor board about returning to surgery, to remove those tumors."

"Tumors beget tumors," she said. "And I'd like to get their opinion on whether or not it's time to go in and get them out."

So I stopped eating, at least when I was alone, and as much as I lied to my husband and to Grandma and to my parents, I worried.

Of course I fucking worried. And I deserve to worry. I am a human being, and it doesn't matter if it's my job to be somebody's emotional rock. My whole family's emotional rock. It doesn't matter if I know intellectually that this meant nothing and that there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it for days anyway. Of course I worried.

So I stood in the airport at the gate, calling and calling and calling M's doctor's office, asking if the tumor board had made a decision. Because I had to make a decision. If M was having brain surgery, I wasn't boarding that plane. I was turning around and going home to lock it down and take care of things until everything was better again.

And finally, the doctor's office called me back. "The tumor board agrees this is probably nothing, so we're going to hold off on surgery. Instead we're going to get him back for an MRI in eight weeks. Does that sound good?"

No, it does not sound good. What sounds good is somebody dropping confetti from the ceiling and a man with a giant check coming out and announcing that I've been victim to some sort of prank and now they're going to reimburse us the cost of the MRI, my plane ticket, the food I didn't eat, and half a million for my mental anguish. THAT sounds good.

But this didn't sound exactly bad, either. What it sounded like to me was... we wait.

Because that's exactly what it means. It means we're back to waiting.

And the reality is we're not "back to waiting," because we never STOPPED waiting. We just forgot we were doing it for a while. We got so used to checking in with our friends at the hospital, our neurooncology team, and asking about their kids and joking about their pregnancies and reminiscing about old times... that was our routine.

Not actually waiting for another shoe to drop. We were so happy and confident and comfortable that we forgot that's what we were supposed to be doing all along.

So I got on the plane and I went to Blog U, and I drank more than I have in the past five years, because I needed to fucking celebrate, damn it.

"He's going to be just fine."

I deserved to celebrate.

M was just fine, thank you very much, and I could stop worrying.

Only I can't, because that's how it goes. When you're waiting, you can't stop worrying. Waiting is always the worst part. Waiting lets all the fears grow, lets them take over if you give them the space.

And so at Blog U, I reminded myself what it's like to wait. REALLY wait. I read an excerpt from my book at an open mic, about waiting. And when I got to the end, I felt myself tearing up.

Not because, as so many people came up to me and asked, worried whether he would make it.

I cried because I needed to hear the words I spoke then, seven years ago, and I needed to say them to myself.

"He's going to be just fine."

We decided to get married, to have kids, because you can't live if you're just waiting. A holding pattern isn't a life.

We could all die at any minute. A plane could crash, a car could spin out of control, a meteor could fall from the sky. Anytime, any one of us, anywhere, could have an aneurysm and collapse on the street.

We are all living on borrowed time, every minute of every day.

So waiting? It changes nothing.

If somebody told me when I fell in love with M that he would die in five years, I wouldn't have walked away. If somebody told me on our wedding day that we'd have seven years of pure bliss, and then he'd be shot in a mugging gone wrong, I wouldn't have taken off my ring. If somebody told me when we were thinking about getting pregnant that our children would lose their father before they could reach elementary school...

Yes, I would cry my fucking eyes out.

But I wouldn't have changed my mind.

Six years, eight months, one week, two days ago

So I hope M will excuse me if over the next months and maybe years I get a little more misty eyed when I snap a few more photos than in months previous. I hope my friends will excuse me if I prioritize date nights a little higher than girls nights. I hope my family will excuse me if I cry a little more for absolutely no reason.

Nothing has changed.

It was just really easy to forget that when waiting was so easy.

Everything with us is highs and lows. Waiting- that's a low. But celebrating six years of marriage- and exactly one month after his doctor decided we needed to talk about "something," seven years of survival. Those are highs. Those are enormous highs.

The way he nuzzles my neck or teases me for screaming when he walks through door and says, "Hello," the way he dances like a maniac through the night... those are highs.

Those are the same highs we've had every day for six years, eleven months, and four days.

We just forgot that in those six years, eleven months, and four days there was all this waiting. All this exhausting awareness of the unknown. It's been there all along.

Nothing has changed.

He's going to be just fine.