My Beetle & Me

I love my car. If you know me well, you know that. It was a college graduation gift that I nearly worshipped from the start. Cute, perky, purple, a lot of get up and go. I thought it defined me pretty well.
At the start, we were a good team for the long drives between OC and Valencia. It flipped easily through its 6CD changer while we sat in traffic on the 405, memorizing lyrics to the Black Crows and Celine Dion alike. I washed it every weekend, lovingly polishing every surface. When I was spending nearly every waking moment with my first little boy, it provided a backseat safe haven and with flashing headlights, gave entertainment and smiles.
Later, it happily chugged across the country with Dave and I, listening sagely as we laughed, shared our deepest thoughts, and built the foundation for the relationship we have now. At a roadside stop in Utah, I'm sure it felt proud to watch me leap around like a mountain goat while Dave trailed nervously behind. It saw me through med school, mostly hunkered down in a freezing underground garage while I shunned it for the convenience of bus travel, but bearing no grudge, it would purr to life to carry me to the grocery store, the mall, or out with friends. It stoically sat out under sun and stars while I worked my 30 hour residency shifts, waking, rain or shine, to take me back to the cozy repose of my bed. And in the last few months it has had the opportunity to provide conveyance to a new generation. Nathan looks happily out the window as the scenery rolls by.
A few days ago, it tried to kill me. There I was, on my way home from working all night when all the dashboard indicator lights started to flash, the radio turned off, and the car simply stopped. Of course it did this at the only point along my route at which there was no shoulder to coast on to. The point just around a curve where two lanes merge and commuters go 60mph in an area meant for 35, trying to pass each other and gain that extra 10 feet before the red light just ahead.
There was a lot of squealing of brakes and tires, and honking, as if I was somehow unaware that I was sitting in traffic, terrified, with my hazards on, praying one of those aggressive yahoos didn't kill me. If only they alerted me to this fact, I would just move my car out of the way. Mmmm hmmmm. One little problem . . .
Over the 2 days it took to diagnose the problem, Dave and I discussed with mounting anxiety the likely catastrophic nature of the issue and expense to fix, and even discussed a new car. I was torn. After all, who doesn't want something new and shiny? It had tried to kill me and the sin of doing such a thing with Nate in the car would have been unforgivable. But, it would have truly been the ending of an era for me. I used to say my grandkids would use the frame as a playground after the car finally gave up, and a little bit of that early awe and love still resonates in my heart.
It's a 2-door. An impractical family car. But it's still cute and perky and fun and young and I still want those things to define me even if "me" has changed.

Southern Comfort

They do things different 'round these parts.

Even Nathan knows they're funny, He was cracking up (pun definitely intended) at a mini mart listening to Dave say pork cracklin's over and over. Funny words those, and he doesn't even know what they mean. Also desperately entertaining? Piggly Wiggly. I mean, come on. That's funny even to a grown up. Try it. Wait for a quiet moment and just say "Piggly Wiggly". It'll make you giggly.

Go ahead. Groan. I'll wait.

The one that got me, though, was an anecdote I heard over lunch at Mrs. Wilkes' Dining Room, a family style comfort food restaurant. A 5 million pound behemoth of a man was trying to convince Dave and I to give Nathan a bite of potato or a bean. Anything. Couldn't we see that the poor boy was wasting away. Shoveling in fried chicken and collard greens, he brushed off my objections that Nathan was a little young to try the mac and cheese. "My wife's daddy gave her little sister a french fry on the way home from the hospital after she was born." Pregnant pause (there go those puns again) while Dave and I stared, dripping sweet tea from gaping jaws. "Just to gnaw on, ya know."

Um, no. We didn't know.

I guess Nate was on his side though, because he managed, with Spidey-speed, to get a handful of blueberry cobbler. Sadly for him, Mommy reflexes caught up and intervened before he made it to his mouth.

Little Fish

First time in the pool and he loved it. Whole bein' wet thing. Drove him nuts.

Yesterday, May 26, was my four year wedding anniversary. It was also the day the California supreme court ruled to uphold the ban on same-sex marriage. This coincidence led me to a reflection on marriage, mine and the general concept, that I'd like to share with you.

Dave is my husband. He is also my best friend. No one in the world knows more about what goes on in my heart and mind than he does. We share values, hopes and dreams. He knows my sense of humor and I know his, even if all we can sometimes manage is a pained groan at the other's jokes. We often finish each other's sentences or give voice to the same thought at the same time. We are not the same person but we complement each other well. We make the other want to be better. I can't imagine the way my life would look without him in it.

This was true the day before our wedding. Getting married didn't make it any more true. Looking around my life before I got married, I didn't have any great role models for marriage. I knew a fair number of people who probably would have been happier out of their current state of wedlock but stuck around for various practical reasons - none of those reasons related to the fact that they had taken a vow to stay with the other person. In fact, the happiest, longest lasting, most functional couple I knew were not and still are not married. A fact that does not diminish their commitment to each other or the care they give to each other. Dave and I were an inseparable pair - the Lambsters - before we exchanged rings, and for me, at least, the wedding didn't make me any less likely to walk away when things got hard. I love him no matter what is recorded in the annals of the Keystone state.

So why get married at all? For one, it is the gateway to a host of social benefits and responsibilities. But Dave didn't marry me to assume responsibility for half of my six figure education loan debt and I wasn't trying to get my hooks into his 401K. For me, marriage is a kind of choosing. It sets a boundary around yourself and your partner that the world sees as more inviolate than simply dating. It is a public way of saying "This is my family. This is forever. What you do to one is done to the other." It is a public declaration of what is already true in our hearts. For me, marriage is about commitment and bringing two lives into one.

Maybe I'm naive, but I don't understand why anyone would want to deny a fellow person the right to that public declaration. Is the world so perfect that we would demean and belittle any offered expression of love? Why does anyone care who wants to marry who? I would certainly be protesting in the street if someone told me I couldn't marry Dave. Why does the government care who I love? The thing that really blows my mind, though, is the vocal outcry of religious groups against gay marriage. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why? It seems to me that do unto others . . . and love thy neighbor . . . are supposed to convey acceptance and love not hatred and exclusion. (Of course, it is that evident hypocrisy that always turned me off to organized Christianity, but that is a subject for another post.) In any event, with a rising unwed teen pregnancy rate, a whole segment of the population choosing to practice serial monogamy, and the divorce rate around 50%, it doesn't seem to me that the heterosexual population is doing so well with marriage and lifelong commitment. I say that anyone who's brave enough get on the scary roller coaster of matrimony deserves a chance.

Of course, the legal system doesn't care about love and the joining of souls. Proponents of gay marriage get a foothold in the courts by arguing matters of equal rights and fairness. ie. If heterosexual couples can assume certain social rights and responsibilities, denying them to homosexual couples is discrimination. And it is. I do not see another way to answer that issue. If one pair of people have the right to throw theirs lots in together and take on the world as one, then ANY two people should have that right. Period. In America, these days, we all get to sit wherever we want on the bus, and while I know there are people who wish that wasn't the case, who fondly yearn for the days of Jim Crow, at least those views have been soundly rejected by those who make our laws. I can only hope that when Nathan is old enough to discuss such things, he will be shocked and appalled to learn that this discrimination against gays stands in our history. . . and not in his present.

Every Rose Has Its Thorn

It comes as a set this week. A rose that may draw blood if you're not careful.

I just put away the co-sleeper. This feels monumental to me, as it means our little boy will now have no choice to sleep in his "big boy" crib. It's actually a little ridiculous, because it should have been done weeks ago. He is so big now, that the newborn sized co-sleeper runs a serious risk if turning him into a cube shape, like those funky watermelons grown in boxes. (Hey, he'd stack and store easily!) We had every intention of doing this last week, and he actually spent one night in his crib, but then the day care bug struck and he had a fever and was fussy and restless and it was jsut easier to have him in our room, so back he went.

This is even more bittersweet for me because the co-sleeper was his one true hand-me-down. It traveled across the US from California, on loan from Elizabeth, a good friend who had outgrown it, to be his bed and now needs to travel back to them to provide sweet repose for little Apple.

Dave pointed out that when he came home from the hospital he looked so tiny in the co-sleeper, and now he looks so tiny in the crib. It's true. He's outgrown the co-sleeper (If the manufacturers instructions don't include a warning about not letting your baby sleep in it when he can dangle his legs over the edge while laying on his back, they should.) but he's still dwarfed by the crib. Nonetheless, this step means our boy is growing up. And that's one thorny rose.

Postscript: I am embarrassed to point out this week's thorniest feature - I took only two pictures of Nate this week. (Did I mention the fever and the screaming? The lack of smiles, absence of playfulness, and generalized desire to lay limp and sleepy in my arms?) Anyway, here it is. I promise to make up for it next week and in South Carolina!

Unequal Partnership

Dave and I used to have it all figured out.
He cleaned the bathroom and took out the trash. I did most of the cooking and kept the kitchen clean. We sort of shared the laundry. The maids vacuumed and mopped and dusted. We went to the market together. Dave made the coffee. I drank the coffee. It worked. It was fairly effortless. We positively reveled in the fact that we could have almost as much fun and laughter during a trip to Whole Foods as we could at a baseball game.
Then Nathan was born. Things shifted. Dave cleaned the bathroom, took out the trash, did our laundry, and struggled to keep the kitchen clean. I nursed and kept the baby (and myself) clean and did most of Nate's laundry. Family or restaurants did most of the cooking. Dave did the shopping. Trying to be frugal, we fired the maids, so no one vacuumed or mopped or dusted - unless Dave got so fed up that he did that too.
At some point, I became capable of helping with the cooking, doing some of the mopping and vacuuming, and took over more of the laundry. I even tried going to the market alone. Dave got a little more time for himself.
Then I went back to work.
Nights.
And Nathan still wakes up every 2-4 hours to eat.
So now Dave cleans the bathroom, mops, vacuums, dusts, takes out the trash, cleans the kitchen, does some of the cooking, makes the coffee, does most of the laundry, does some of the shopping, mows the lawn, does all the heavy lifting, AND stays up 2-3 nights a week with our hungry monster. A hungry monster that has been a feverish, sick, screaming, inconsolable, snotty, hungry monster for the last few nights.
Why he puts up with us, I'm not exactly sure. I mean, Nate's got a killer smile, but all my best assets seem to belong to the baby at present.
Soooooooo, I just wanted it clearly on the record. I want everyone to know that I love him, I appreciate him, and I couldn't make it without him.

Trouble With Technology - part deux

There has been a roll out of the electronic medical record at the hospital where I work. A disproportionate amount of the learning curve has been shunted onto the nurses. The vocal and powerful MD's did not want to do anymore than read the computer screen like they would have read a patient chart. Meanwhile, the nurses have had to learn how to enter orders, retrieve lab data, print charts, print labels, communicate with the lab, and do billing. They are understandably overwhelmed and cranky. Three nights ago I sat with a sick baby in the NICU and composed haiku in an attempt to keep from screaming as the computer system kept us from doing anything to make the child better.

Sorry printer froze
Can't assess your blood today
Guess you'll get no meds

Patient turning blue
Nurse scowls at computer screen
Alarm beeps ignored

Tube please now please tube
Wristband wristband where is it
Soon there'll be no need

Baby needs bolus
Computer needs compressions
Soon I'll need a wig

Culture can't be sent
Group B Strep, E. coli, more?
Now we'll never know

In the long run this e-Record will prevent medical errors, save time and money, etc. In the short term, it's frustrating, impeding care, and making us all old before our time.