Jonah

This is going to be a tough week for my little guy.

On Wednesday, I have to call the Ambulatory Surgery department at the hospital to find out a time. At some point on Thursday, most likely early in the morning, Jeremy and I will take Jonah to the hospital with his favorite toy and his favorite blanket. They will escort Jeremy and I into a special waiting room and wheel Jonah away. He will be put under a general anesthetic, to make him go to sleep completely. Once it kicks in, Dr. Topley, the pediatric urologist, will finally fix the botched job that the substitute pediatrician did circumcising him when he was two days old.

The surgery will take approximately a half-hour. After it's done, they will take Jonah to recovery, where Jeremy and I will be allowed to be with him. We will stay there for an hour before we are allowed to take him home.

This is something that is necessary. Sadly, Dr. McGeath had the day off when Jonah was circumcised, and the pediatrician who was covering for him did a horrible job. She took off the wrong amount of skin - not enough to make it look like she'd done anything at all. Not enough to prevent further issues. It's starting to form penile adhesions. Too much longer and his foreskin will begin to grow shut over his glans. It has to be done. Had she taken any less, we could have let it go, and let him decide when he was older if he wanted to be re-circumcised or not.

We noticed, the first time we changed the dressing on it, that it didn't look like he'd been circumcised at all. Considering that we were charged for the procedure, we were mildly irritated over the fact. Once we were able to take the dressing off for good, we noticed that it looked like it was going to start binding.

We scheduled Jonah's two-week well-baby appointment. Dr. McGeath wasn't available for us to see that day, so we were forced to see the other physician in his practice, Dr. Decker. Again, we weren't happy over this - Dr. McGeath had been our pediatrician since the day after Matthew was born. He is a phenomenal doctor - very patient, loves children, respects parents and their opinions. He was more than willing to work with us and our requests to have Matthew on a delayed immunization schedule (as recommended by Jeremy's sister Lisa - the evidence linking vaccinations to autism may be anecdotal, but when the anecdotes are from your own family, they tend to hit a little closer to home. Matthew and Jonah both get all their vaccines, we just waited to start giving them to them until they were four months old, rather than at birth.), and takes great delight in the way we encourage our boys to be adventurous eaters - he's told me that he's even used us (without naming us, of course) as examples to other parents in his practice. He's never made us feel stupid or inferior, even when I've asked questions like "I had a severe allergic reaction to the DTP vaccine when I was a baby. What are the odds my boys are allergic?"

So we had to see the other physician, whom I will refer to as Dr. Ick. Dr. Ick ignored any input Jeremy tried to give. When I mentioned that we wanted to defer Jonah's vaccines till he was four months old like we did with Matthew, she proceeded to attempt to give me - again, ignoring Jeremy - a stern lecture about how there could be no possible link between vaccines and autism, and implied that I was a fool to consider it. When she pulled down Jonah's diaper to check and see how his circumcision was healing, I mentioned that it didn't look right, and asked about having it redone, due to the possibility of penile adhesions. She proceeded to define penile adhesions for me - even though I was fed up with her enough at this point to interrupt and tell her that I knew what they were (to which she responded by ignoring me and talking over top of me), and that a re-do wasn't necessary, all I had to do was force the skin back. Then she demonstrated. She made my two week old infant scream in pain. Then he started bleeding. I saw red. I lost it. Jeremy may have had to hold me back, I don't remember. I grayed out completely for a moment. She hurt my child, deliberately. What's more, according to the AAP, you are NOT supposed to forcibly retract the foreskin on an infant, as it can cause...ding ding ding, you guessed it, bleeding.

We both left that day in a state of rage. We stopped off at the receptionist's office to set up Jonah's one-month well-baby. We specifically requested Dr. McGeath. The receptionist nodded and set up the appointment. I took Jonah in for it, and they, yet again, shunted us over to Dr. Ick. I had had to take Jonah by myself - I think Jeremy stayed home with Matthew that day. I answered her questions as coldly and simply as I could, and when she attempted to force his foreskin back again, I snapped "Please refrain from making his penis bleed again!" She mentioned that she was sending the nurse in to give him *whatever* shot she thought he needed, and I stated that he was NOT going to be vaccinated until he was four months old. She left, and I left right behind her, thinking that perhaps she'd try to send the nurse in with the prepared injection anyway, and try to bill us for the wasted medicine. I stopped off at the reception desk to set up his two-month appointment, and mentioned that we did NOT want our children seeing anyone but Dr. McGeath. The receptionist gave me a cold glare and said "Dr. McGeath is no longer treating Medicaid patients. All children with Medicaid are to see Dr. Ick, or no one else." I was stunned. I scheduled the appointment, took, my son, and left.

The rage started to hit about halfway home. I had to pull over at 7/11 and have a smoke. My hands were shaking too badly to drive, I was so angry. I got home and vented to Jeremy.

Matthew had his 18-month checkup a week before Jonah's two-month appointment. Jeremy and I both went this time. We waited to see if we were going to be passed off to Dr. Ick again. Nope, we were lucky enough to see Dr. McGeath. Once the nurse came and left, and Dr. McGeath came in, he examined Matthew, gave his usual complimentary report about how well Matthew was growing and developing, and then asked us if we had any questions. This was Jeremy's cue. He's much better at staying cool, calm, collected, and rational than I am - I either get cold and blunt or red-hot-angry and spew profanity. Jeremy simply stated that he couldn't understand why Dr. McGeath would see one of our children, a Medicaid patient, and not the other one, and that if we couldn't have them both see him, then we'd find another practice where we wouldn't be discriminated against based on the fact that our children were Medicaid babies.

Dr. McGeath looked floored. He asked us to tell him exactly what happened. We did. I described the receptionist who had - twice - passed us off to Dr. Ick. I even mentioned that we DID NOT like her, that we didn't agree with her tactics, that she had been rude to Jeremy and had manhandled Jonah in a potentially dangerous manner, and that, in short, we much preferred him, if we were able to have both our children see him.

He hastened to explain that there had been a mix-up, of course he'd see Jonah, he'd been wondering why he hadn't seen him yet, and then excused himself momentarily. I heard his footsteps go down the hall like the tread of Doom, and snickered in mean-spirited glee at my hope that he would ream the receptionist out. When he came back, he told us that he'd switched Jonah's next appointment so that he would be seeing him, not Dr. Ick, and that he would always see our boys. We were satisfied.

When we left, we stopped at the receptionist's desk to set up Matthew's two-year well-baby. I couldn't resist, I had to do it. I said, "And we'd prefer to see Dr. McGeath again." The receptionist mean-mugged me, and I replied with my best angelic, beatific smile. Heh heh heh.

So Jonah finally got to see Dr. McGeath. Dr. McGeath took one look at his poor peep, and said that of course it could be redone, that it SHOULD be redone, but that we'd have to wait till he was a year old, as he'd need general anesthesia, and it would be too dangerous to do so before then.

At Jonah's one year well-baby, Dr. McGeath said that he was calling over to P-town Urology to make the referral. He warned us that there was a possibility that they wouldn't be able to do the surgery up here, that we may need to take him downstate. He followed that up by asking us if there was a downstate hospital that we preferred. We said that Hurley Hospital, down in Flint, would be good - plenty of family to stay with down there, easy babysitting for Matthew while surgery was going on - and he said that if NMH wasn't able to do it, he would personally call Hurley to make the referral. Have I mentioned how much I love Dr. McGeath?

Petoskey Urology called me a few hours after we got home. (This was a Friday.) They set the appoinment up for early Monday morning.

We took Jonah in on Monday. Filled out the preliminary paperwork. And then...the receptionist calls us up to tell us that Jonah's Medicaid has been cancelled. From 3 pm Friday to 10 am Monday, they'd terminated his coverage. Something about income limits.

It took twelve applications and nine months, but we finally got him covered again. We took Jonah in for his 18 month appointment, two months late, and we got the urology appointment re-scheduled. Dr. Topley examined him, said they could do it up here, and gave us a general idea of how long it would take.

And so, my baby boy is going in for surgery on Thursday.

I know it needs to be done. We had a hell of a fight getting to the point where we could have it done. It's medically necessary. And yet, I'm a little scared. General anesthesia is frightening enough when it's being done on an adult. This is my 22 month old son.



NMH has a great pediatric department, and a great ICU. I'm not overly concerned about malpractice. What has me scared is more on a visceral level.

I know my baby boy, my little Jonah Lee. He's a chubby, happy, affectionate and loving little guy. Everyone is his best friend, the first time they meet him. He tries to hug strangers. He loves everyone. He flirts and cuddles. When he gives hugs and kisses, which is often, he will pat your back as he holds you. He'd be perfectly content to be carried on my hip all day long, just so that he could hug me and kiss me with ease. He's a chatterbox, a cuddly love. But, despite the fact that he is so friendly, he is, deep down (and on the surface) a mama's boy to the max. Perhaps it's because I went two and a half weeks overdue with him. Perhaps it's the fact that they had to resort to surgical intervention so that he could be born. Perhaps it's the fact that I had to carry him more than I had to carry Matthew. Jonah was colicky, and Matthew wasn't, and one of the very few things that would give him comfort was for me to hold him and walk the room. Jonah never got into the "daddy nap" the way Matthew did. Also, Matthew was at the phase where he was fairly new to walking, and wanting to poke eyes and pull hair, and Jonah was only safe from Matthew's typical toddler exploration in my arms. Whatever the case may be, Jonah has always been "my" boy, the mama's boy, the balance to Matthew's obvious and life-long preference for Daddy over Mommy.

What scares me is the thought of my little snuggle-butt waking up and becoming terrified of strange men over him and no mommy in sight. It terrifies the control freak and primal mother in me that they will not allow me to stand by his bed or even in the same room as him while they operate. And the fact that I am the instrument to the pain he will most surely suffer as he recovers, necessary or no, breaks my heart into a million tiny shards.

So my Jonah will be having surgery. And yes, it is necessary, and yes, I am happy that it is finally going to be done. But am I happy about it in general? No. I would love to catch the pediatrician that botched the original job. I'd love to beat the holy shit out of her for being the cause of this (although I probably wouldn't, when it comes down to it - Mommy in jail for assault would be much more painful for both my boys than Mommy not allowed in the OR). I'd love to make her sit and listen while I unleashed a torrent of invective against her that would make a harpy blush, that would make her ears bleed and her knees buckle under the assault of my righteous wrath. I would love to have her license to mutilate little boys revoked permanently. But instead, I will pack the flannel blanket that my mother made for Jonah when he was born. I will pack the stuffed baby snowman that Jonah appropriated from Matthew's collection, that he calls "bahbah." I will make sure that Jonah doesn't eat or drink after 11:59 pm Wednesday night. I will kiss Matthew goodbye, take Jonah to the hospital, sign him in, and wait in agony until he is returned to me. I will take him home after his time in recovery is done. I will keep him dosed with children's Tylenol and Motrin. And every time I give him a dose, I will curse the name of the substitute physician who made this ordeal necessary.

Is it a kind and forgiving thing to do? No. Is is a sign that I am a big person? No. But I am a mother. My child will be in pain. And rather than blame myself, turn the guilt inward as I typically do, I will lay the fault for his hurt at her doorstep, and may she carry that burden, unwillingly or no, till the day she dies.

Because, above all else that I am, daughter, sister, friend, lover, cook, writer, smoker, ally, liberal - I am a mother.

My favorite pics from Mat and Betina's wedding

me and the happy couple

the beautiful bride

me and Betina, a beautiful strong lady and one of my truest friends

the beautiful couple - and baby Lily - during the receiving line

After the Weddings

So here I sit, in my home, on my porch steps with a tall cool glass of water, my cigarettes next to me and my netbook on my lap. I've swapped my dress and my wedge sandals for a tanktop and cutoffs, and peeled off most of my jewelry, although I've yet to wash the makeup from my face.

Today was indeed a day of love. Jeremy and I loaded our boys in the van and headed for Traverse City today to see two of my best friends, Mat and Betina, be joined in wedded bliss, an event four years and a couple tragedies in the making. Their love for each other is so strong it would put titanium to shame. They've been down hard paths, both of them, but it's served to strengthen the depth of their feeling for each other, I think. They glowed with it. They shone with a radiance that hurt my eyes, in a good way. Their wedding was small, and the fact that we were privileged enough to be there made my heart swell nearly to the bursting point.

We left immediately after their ceremony and drove to Elk Pointe Beach, to watch my sister and her then-fiance, now-husband get married. The traffic was crazy, and we were a few minutes late, but we made it, tired sticky toddler and hyper sticky pre-schooler in tow, in time to see the last half of the ceremony. My niece, my sister's daughter, stood up with the bride and groom, and was equally as beautiful as my sister the bride. Again, the love shone out over all in attendance like a blessing, a benediction. We had to leave the reception early - I was getting a headache from the heat and the driving, and from the stale air that the fan forced into our van - but I posted what would have been my toast on my blog here. Hopefully Jeni gets to read it.

And now, I'm at home and comfortable, and my mind's been going over what I was so lucky to have witnessed today. Two entirely different ceremonies, both in participants and in style - my sister's was a rather larger, more formal affair - and yet so similar in the love that glowed from the eyes of the two newly wedded couples.

Recently, I signed on with the marriage boycott group at this site. I did this as a matter of choice - until marriage becomes legal for a couple, regardless of their sexuality, in all fifty states, it will never be an option for me. My adopted brother is gay, as is one of my dear friends, so this is a matter that is very close to my heart.

While I was on that site, I read about the marriage alternatives. There are a few: simply staying single, living together without marriage, or commitment ceremonies, which can be anything from a marriage without the legal paperwork to a big party to celebrate your couplehood.

Jeremy and I have been living together for four years now. He moved in with me about two or three weeks after we became a couple. Some might view that as rushing, but to make a long story short and sweet, we were spending every night together anyway, he was behind on the rent for his place, and it just made more sense for him to go ahead and move in with me, rather than keep paying an outrageous sum of money for what had basically turned into a five-room storage unit. The other, less practical and more emotional reason that I asked him to move in with me was simple: Despite the fact that we worked together five days a week and got drunk together six nights a week, I missed him when he wasn't around. I couldn't sleep without him lying next to me. A week into the relationship, I couldn't picture my life without him.

We have two kids together, two wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, happy, active, loving little boys. We've been through more than our share of hard times, and we've had our good times too. He nursed me through recovery from a hard labor and delivery with Matthew, and through the recovery from my C-section with Jonah and my tubal ligation. He held me as I cried when I found out my grandma had passed away. I held him as he cried when his uncle Bob died. We held each other when Corey passed on. He was by my side, holding my hand as I pushed Matthew into this world, and when the surgeon lifted Jonah out of my womb.

While it is an intrinsic and undeniable part of my nature to question everything, I have never questioned his love for me, or mine for him. I am positive that we will be together for the rest of our lives.

And yet, for some reason, although the thought of marriage fills me with cold dread, and though I've signed on with the boycott, the thought of a commitment ceremony has me intrigued. In fact, it's something I'd like to do.

Why?

While I'm not jealous of Mat and Betina or Jeni and Andrew - I feel nothing but joy for them - I want a little bit of that joy that they had today for myself. While I know that Jeremy and I will be together for a very very long time - the rest of our lives, I think - I want to promise that to him in front of our family and friends.

My dad's asked me a few times why we don't get married. His mom has said the same. Neither one of us believe that it's necessary, but it seems to me a commitment ceremony would be a nice compromise.

My marriage to the ex was a joke. It was a rushed affair at the courthouse - I wore an old blue sundress and yellow work boots, for God's sake, and I knew going into it that it wouldn't last. There was a part of my brain screaming "run!" the entire time, and yet, I didn't. I couldn't. He did an excellent job of separating me from my family, my friends, everyone that could have talked me out of it. He kept the gas in the car too low for me to go to my parents' house to tell them - perhaps because he knew they'd talk me out of it. Who knows? It's all water under the bridge now, another sordid scuzzy memory I keep locked in my deep dark past that I do my best not to remember.

I guess, what I want, is to erase that memory. To replace it with something bright and beautiful. I want to walk towards Jeremy in a dress, with that joy on my face, and tell him in front of our loved ones that I'll stay with him until he doesn't want me any more.

Not a marriage, no. For one thing, divorces are nasty, messy affairs, and should there come a time when he decides he doesn't want to be with me any more, I want him to be able to step out of my life as easily as he entered it, with no court involvement and no monetary cost.

Just a simple announcement of the love we've grown together over the past four years, and the love we'll keep growing till we're old and gray. To erase the bad memory and replace it with a good one, with the man I've loved since I was young, skinny, and immortal, and that I still love.

Of course, that's just what I want. I mentioned it to him once, about a year ago. He never replied to me with his thoughts on the matter, and so I take that as my answer that it's simply something he's not interested in. Maybe it's too close to an actual wedding for him - I don't know. Maybe he's simply not interested. Like I said, I don't know. And I don't have the nerve to bring it up to him again. I don't know that I ever will. I dropped a comment about it today without thinking - that if we ever did have a commitment ceremony, that I'd want Betina to stand up with me.

Again, no response.

So I'll take that for his answer, that it's a no. Which is fine. I wouldn't want to push him into doing something he didn't want to, and something we couldn't afford to do anyway. It's a silly thought, I suppose - I'm still looking for a job, and we're having a hard enough time paying for our bills anyway. But I'll save the thought, I guess, for daydream material.

After all, a girl can dream, right? And while mine may not be the standard dream of white dress and tux, a last name swapped out for a new one, the carried-across-the-threshold and the white picket fence and all that, well, then, I've never been the standard sort of girl either.

The Toast

Sis, this is the toast I would have given if we'd been able to stay longer.

For those of you who don't know me, I'm Jeni's older sister Megan. For those of you who do, everything I'm about to say will be old news, so my apologies for boring you.

Jeni is younger than me by 19 months. That means I'm not old enough to remember the day she was born, or even what life was like before she made her early entrance into this world. She's a part of my earliest memories.

Like all sisters, we've had our fights and our fallings-out over the years. We've swapped clothes, make-up tips, and so on. She got me my nose piercing for one birthday. I designed her tattoo as a belated Mother's Day gift after Jessie-bug was born. We've had late night talks till we laughed in giddiness from sleep deprivation. We've had fights till we both cried. We've seen each other through bad boyfriends and good boyfriends, through the joys and trials of raising our children. We've swapped notes, music, and recipes. In short, we are sisters.

Jeni, do you remember what you said shortly after I began dating Jeremy? You said, "I'm not surprised. When you brought him over to meet me and Jessica, I just knew you two would end up together."

Well, I didn't get to meet Andrew before you guys started dating. I have a hard time remembering when I met him, to be honest - your relationship with him seemed so easy, so organic, that it seems to my frazzled mind that you two have always been together. I know that that's horrible of me - that I can't remember the first time I met your husband - but to be honest, you two seem to work so well together that it's hard for me to picture you apart.

When I learned that he'd popped the question, after the excitement died down, my reaction was identical to yours upon learning that Jeremy and I were a couple: I wasn't surprised.

You two complement each other. You fit together so perfectly. You're a beautiful couple, and the love you share with each other and your daughter is tangible.

Dear sister, you know me, you know my cynicism all too well. But looking at you and Andrew, and the way you look at each other, it all seems to melt away. You are beautiful, Andrew is beautiful, and when I see you together, it's magnified until it nearly hurts my eyes to see.

I love you both. I'm not psychic, but I've seen your future, and I know that, while you may have your ups and downs like any married couple does, that you will have a happy and blessed future.

Congratulations, baby sis. I love you. And welcome to the family, Andrew.

My Friends

Dear Mat and Betina,

I felt so blessed and honored to be invited to your special day today. When I said I wouldn't have missed it for the world, I truly meant it. I would have gotten a sitter somehow for the kids and hitch-hiked down there, if that's what it had taken.

Today was beautiful. It was love. You both glowed with it.

I remember the beginning months of your relationship, the bloom of new romance fresh on you both, as it was for Jeremy and I. Betina, I sometimes wonder if that was another thing that brought us closer together, being two women in love, surrounded by our men and our men-friends.

Every relationship goes through its ups and downs. Yours has had more trials and tribulations thrown at it than most; it's a hallmark of the depth of your devotion to each other that you found each other, lost each other, then found each other again. You've each had a hard path you've walked, both in your time together, and in your time apart. I view this as a blessing - that long, hard road brought you back to each other.

I wanted to cry throughout your ceremony. The way you looked at each other, the emotion in your voices, the way that warmth seemed to spread like a golden glow over everyone attending when you, Betina, arrived and started your slow walk toward your husband. Magic like that can't be found anywhere else.

I feel blessed that I was there to witness your special day, and I feel blessed that I was there to witness the start of your relationships. You two are two of my best friends, and I know that while there may be some minor ups and downs in the course of your married life together, that the Creator has nothing in store for you but an ever-deepening love and joy, as your little family grows.

I love you both.

love,
Megan

No Motivation

I wanted to post an update tonight, but words seem to be failing me. I'm tired and feeling supremely burned out, and more than a little apathetic for some reason. Maybe it's the job-hunt. I've never had this much trouble finding employment before. I've applied for three different jobs at Meijer's, a couple other places...tomorrow I'm going to go down and fill out an app at the Italian restaurant a few blocks away. And one at Garfield's, and one at Southwoods.

I need a job, before I completely forget how to work.

Face It

You don't know me.

You see me pushing my cart through the grocery store, with one of my sons in the cart's seat, and all you see is someone who doesn't look old enough to have a child. You see the too-short, too-dark hair, the nose ring and multiple earrings, possibly one or more of the tattoos. You see a child too dark-complected to be anything but multi-racial. You see the absence of a wedding ring or an engagement ring on my finger.

You don't see who I am. You don't see who we are.

We live on the border here, my cohorts and I. We cook your fancy restaurant food, serve your drinks, clean your houses, pump your gas, mow your lawn. We struggle through the winters in a town designed for summer people. We live without health insurance, 401K's, the new car every few years, the home and summer home, the prep schools for our children.

We were lucky if we got to go to college. Most of us either had to quit high school to go to work, started working while we were in high school, or immediately thereafter. Our lack of higher education is not a lack of motivation - it's a lack of opportunity. It is not a lack of intelligence - we have families to feed.

We don't have the platinum cards in our wallet, the cocktail rings. When we drink, we drink hard, and we laugh harder, not knowing when we'll be able to afford the next outing. We do nothing half-heartedly. Love, live, mourn, cry, we feel it all full-tilt.

We sleep on secondhand mattresses under thrift-store sheets, and our sex goes unaided by the pharmaceuticals the doctors prescribe the wealthy.

We're the Medicaid mothers, the fathers that work two jobs to put food on the table and diapers on their babies. We're a class of our own. The working destitute. The ones who struggle to make the best lives for their children that they can.

Your summer getaway rests squarely on our shoulders. I see your sneer, your attempts to freeze me with your cold looks of disdain from under your teased and borrowed-blonde hair. You try to envelop me in a cloud of scorn rivaled only by your reek of coconut tanning oil and trust-fund money.

Be warned. It takes fire in the spirit to survive the way we do, and the flames from these hazel eyes will melt any icy hauteur you aim at me in a cloud of greenish-brown steam.

We have that fire. The passion it takes, the way we take every snub and dirty look and condescending sneer thrown our way. It fuels our rage and scorn. It gives us stories to tell at the pub after we've finished taking your money. We walk home after a long day of work with a satisfaction you'll never know, the glow of a pittance earned and maybe a drink or two. We smoke our low-class cigarettes and mock you, behind your backs and to your faces. While we might depend on your business to pay our bills, we also hold you hostage. If you were to succeed in driving out the ruffians, the hooligans, those tattooed unwed parents you hold in such low regard, your vacation paradise would vanish. You need us more than we need you, and so we come out ahead.

Do I expect you to see this? No. Does it bother me? Occasionally, for my children's sake, rather than my own. But, here's the thing.

I have that passion. The fire that burns inside me will not be checked or abated. It may consume me in the end. But it gives me the will and the nerve and the courage I need to live my life the way I live it, on my own terms. I'll bend it to my own whims and be taken and accepted for who I am. Pity me, mock me, revile me. Tell me I'm going to hell for whatever petty stupid reason you concoct in your stuffed-shirt brain. I could care less. I have the light of friendship, family, love. The people who care for me do so for me, not for my assets, and that's something you'll never know.

And that's why, dear heinous bitches in the grocery store, I answer your sweeping glares of contempt with my glance of condescension and pity. You'll never be me. You'll never have the life experience, the golden memories, or the hard-knock wisdom I've spent the last 28 years battling to attain. You'll never have the fight or the fire that I have. You'll never have spirit, just a  pale imitation. I have everything you've tried to replace with possessions and monetary wealth, and I'm not going anywhere.

You know what? I feel sorry for you.

Been a Minute

I know I haven't updated in a while. I'm truly sorry. Sometimes life just gets away from you.

I'm starting to wonder if I need to go see the doctor. (This may be TMI, but it's my blog, so oh well, lol.)

Since my C-section and tubal ligation, I've been having some period-related issues. I get really combative - more so than usual - for the week before. When it starts, the cramps are much more intense. It's like someone using a jagged piece of glass to cut through the surgery scar, slowly, over and over again, for four days. My left leg goes numb. My back aches where the epidural needle went in. My right hip throbs and sends pain shooting down through my leg into my toes. About the only thing that remains the same is the hormone-related migraine. Beyond the efforts of Midol or Pamprin. I can't take ibuprofen; when I was in eighth grade, I broke my elbow, the ER doctor prescribed me Motrin 800 (take one every four hours), and considering that in 8'th grade I was 4'10" and 100 lbs, you can understand the effect that had on my stomach. Ever since, I haven't been able to take ibuprofen without vomiting. Aleve and aspirin have the same effect.

I have PlanFirst through the state. That covers any birth-control medication (which I do not react well to at all - I tend to gain 30-40 lbs and have incredible mood swings), and a yearly exam. I'm overdue for the exam, so I'm thinking that after Jonah's had his surgery and recovered, I'll see about calling Dr. Wilder and scheduling an appointment - after I check to see exactly what's covered. I just want to know if this is normal following a cesarean, and if so, how long can I expect it to last.

In other news....

My new dress for the weddings came in the mail today. I'm in love. It's beautiful. It's purple and yellow, with a tattoo-style screenprint on the front and back. Spaghetti-strap, knee-length, lace trim. I'm in love.

I quit at the shop. The boss still owes me money from last September. I'd had enough. So now, I'm temporarily unemployed, and really hoping I can make a couple bucks off this blog while I file job apps around town. I put three in today. The one I'm really hoping for is cake decorating. It would be nice to add to my resume. And it looks fun. Plus it's a union job, and comes with benefits and a nice discount. To facilitate the interview process, I finally bid goodbye to my multicolored hair, and went with a nice blue-black. I'll post pictures later.

I have a few good rants saved up, but I'm turning them over in my head before I post them. Watch for them next week.

I'm truly looking forward to seeing my friends Mat and Betina, and my sister Jen and her fiance exchange vows next week.

Matthew's down in Flint till Sunday, having a visit with his Shamma. I miss him greatly, but I know he's having fun. Jonah seems to be enjoying having his parents all to himself too, but he keeps looking for Matthew and saying "bubba? bubba?" He bullies the hell out of Matthew, but he idolizes his big brother too. In turn, Matthew gets very upset if anyone but him bothers Jonah. He's told me I'm "bad mumma" when I put Jonah in timeout for biting, for example. I know they'll have some epic battles, but I hope the love remains.

That's all I've got for tonight.

Eminem - Not Afraid

Money

I hate it. It's a tool used by those who have it to keep those who don't down. It divides the masses, the social classes. It's the root of evil, divides family and friends, rules the world.

That being said, it's necessary in this world. Fair work expects fair pay in return. However, fair pay is hard to come by, so you accept what you're making and learn to budget. You figure out how to feed a family of four on $30 a month. You learn to juggle bills, to live without your phone for a few days a month because you're late paying on it and it gets shut off. You figure out that freezerburned vanilla ice cream actually tastes pretty decent in a hot cup of coffee, if you run out of sugar and powdered generic creamer. You scrimp and you juggle and you balance, dependent on getting the money for your work on time. If it doesn't come in, it throws off the whole precarious balance and it all comes crashing down.

 What's the value of a dollar? I could take it and buy Matthew and Jonah each an apple and a banana at Meijer's from the Healthy Snacks stand. I could get a cold Faygo Orange. I could slide it into the donation jar at Tom and Dick's Convenience Store for whatever local cause they're fundraising for this week. I could get an order of fries from Wendy's. I could buy a Bug Juice or a piece of string cheese for the kids.

Five dollars gets me an eighth of a tank of gas, enough for Jeremy to get back and forth to work for two days. Six dollars for a pack of smokes. Eleven dollars and fifty cents buys the ingredients for cheesy baked potato soup and a loaf of bread, which feeds us for three or four days. Twenty bucks for jeans. Five bucks for makeup to hide the fact that I've been up late with the kids before I go submit the latest round of applications. A dollar and twenty-nine cents to get a large coffee from the gas station to help keep me going. Ten dollars in wasted gas between Thursday and yesterday, going down to the shop to pick up my pay, only to see that it's closed and locked, then going over to the owner's house, seeing his car parked, and knocking on his door, only for it to go unanswered.

Five hundred fifty dollars for the week of twelve to fourteen hour long days I put in helping to move the store from its old location to the new one. Subtract $250 for the laptop computer I took in trade, and $90 in merchandise for Christmas presents, and for a pair of shoes for me since my old ones had holes in them.

So what's left owed to me? $260.

$260 could buy Matthew his string cheese and bananas, could turn my phone back on, could renew the tags on my van. It could pay off a couple of the parking tickets accumulated this winter when we literally had no money to feed the meter. It could pay for Jeremy and I to have dinner at a fast food restaurant for my birthday and our anniversary. It could get Jeremy the new shoes he needs desperately. It could buy food and litter for his cats. It could get all sorts of treats for the kids.

$260 for time lost with my children, for days spent at the store by myself, waiting to see if anyone showed up to help, moving heavy boxes and crates and pouring my heart and soul into a venture that was never mine at all, something I believed in and wanted to succeed, only to find out that I was being laid off for lack of business, due to the way this tourist town operates. $260 could buy a few bottles of Tylenol for my aching back, that's messed up from doing manual labor for the whole of my working career. $260 would pay for me to go to the doctor and get my migraine prescriptions renewed. It would cover the cost of gas for us to go downstate if need be for Jonah's upcoming surgery. $260 may sound like a drop in the bucket, but when you're living in that shadowland of paycheck to paycheck, it's a windfall.

If you're reading this, and you're the one responsible, I hope you feel about as big as an ant. It takes a big person to keep a family hanging, waiting for money that will probably never come. You can't tell me you're just as broke as we are - you're a single person, you've got a fairly new vehicle, you're keeping gas in it so you can drive around and do what you need to. You can't sit there and claim friendship with your mouth and not mean it with your heart - it doesn't work that way. And if you truly felt it in your heart, things wouldn't have gotten to this point. You come over here. You look me in the eyes, look my man and my kids in the eyes, and explain to them why you drop off the face of the earth on payday.

Letter

I've known you nearly my whole life.

The years have seen us through so many ups and downs, fights and silences, and moments where we nearly seemed to have some sort of telepathic bond. We've shared friends and coffees, clothes, late nights, heartaches over boys who were never worth it in the first place. For what it's worth, I love you.

I know I give you grief sometimes. It's part of our bond, I think - you've broken my heart on numerous occasions. Yet somehow, the scars left behind always seem to heal up fainter and faster than the other scars it bears.

In the large family I've come to have through friendships, relationships, life or death moments, and childbirth, you've been there in it all along. There have been times when I wanted to shake you silly, but I know that at the same time, you were wanting to do the same to me.

We are strong, independent. We were given wings to fly where so many others were cursed - or blessed - to remain grounded. There are those in the gutter who see only the gutter. There are those who see the stars. And there are those like us who burn with some sort of inner fire so fierce that we are often mistaken for the stars themselves. We streak through the atmosphere of this small town, our pasts and tracks behind us clear for all to see, and legendary in some places. We know who we are, and we make our own way for ourselves and for our children.

There are times when I wished I could give you some of the strength, the refusal to back down, the fearlessness and confidence that I have in overabundance. Dear person, I give them to you now. Own them. Make them yours. You have the same flame within your spirit that I do. Allow it to burn bright. Stoke your fire, let it burn till it blinds those who would cause you grief.

Know that you are my family.

Know that I've got your back, no matter what.

Know that if you lack the strength to fight the battles necessary, that you can draw on mine.

Know that I love you.

Know that you are right.

No Title To Speak Of

Just a few quick notes.

As you can see, I've added a PayPal button. If you're reading this and you enjoy it, and you can afford it, feel free to donate whatever amount of money you can/will. We all know that money's tight these days. However, despite my constant level of "brokeitude," I am going to donate one dollar for every five that I make to Indy Great Pyrenees Rescue. Great Pyrenees are my favorite breed of dogs, and I believe in their mission. I'm a dog lover. Everyone who knows me knows that.

If you have children, if you don't have children, if you live alone or with your partner, you couldn't ask for a better dog than a Great Pyrenees. I grew up blessed enough and lucky enough to have had two of them in my life, Blizzard and Buck. They are noble, loving, protective of their family, dignified...the list goes on. Pyrenees are the only breed of dog I would trust around my children. My son Matthew is very excitable and loves dogs. The Pyrenees is the only breed I feel would be able to stand up to his fierce hugs and kisses and reciprocate. I cannot say enough good things about them.

Too many people see a Pyrenees puppy and adopt because they are cute little white balls of fur. They do not research the breed like they should. They are LARGE dogs. They bark. They shed. They are as stubborn as they are intelligent. And so, these marvelous canines get dumped, get abandoned, and end up in a "shelter" that euthanizes them.


Secondly, if you have a Google account, whether for Blogger, Gmail, or YouTube, and you're a regular reader, you can use Google Connect to follow my blog that way. Then it'll show up on your My Google page. Just a thought.


And if you're one of the "haters," well, I'm not gonna laugh in your face, because that wouldn't be mature. But.....







go ahead and kiss it, there's plenty there to go around.


Mad love,
Megan

Warriors - come out to play

Everything "HOOCH" Live

My Words Are Dangerous

It has recently come to my attention that one or two of my past blog entries have been somewhat, um, inflammatory. People have read them, perhaps recognized themselves in the words they saw on the screen, and got a little upset.

Hilarious.

Honestly. In the first place, it's the internet. If you don't like it, click that little red "x" in the upper right-hand corner. It's that simple.

In the second place, let's think about this for a minute. Are you upset because maybe something hit a little close to home? That words, spoken in a general context, maybe meant something a little more personal than what you were comfortable with?

Cry me a river. Seriously. As far as I'm concerned, if I'm ranting about it, it's probably pretty despicable. I've got a very high tolerance for bullshit. I've worked with saints and sinners, people from every end of every possible spectrum of human behavior, creeds, colors, races, and nations. My sense of humor is as broad as my tastes in music.

I rant against hypocrisy, against racism, sexism, and homophobia. I rant against blatant bullshit in any form.

If you read something on here, there are a few actions you can take:
1: leave me a comment, I'll be more than happy to debate with you. Who knows, you might change my mind, as long as your words are thoughtful, your position is sound, and you're not clogging my space with impotent whining.
2: leave my site. I'll never notice you're gone. Promise.
3: stop and think about what you're doing. If something you've read here is something you recognize in yourself, and you're angry, is it possible that your conscience is trying to rail against your sheisty behavior? Is it possible you're not wanting to face the fact that you're doing something you're not proud of? That your behavior is such that you'd be angered or disgusted by it if someone else was doing it?

Everything I say on here I'll say directly to someone's face if it comes up. Or if I feel like picking a fight. I have my faults and virtues, and I own them all. They're mine, they're what make me me. I'm confrontational and aggressive at times, but I'm blunt and honest to a fault, and I use truth as a hammer, as one of the few weapons that are available to such as me.

So grow up or GTFO.


/end rant

Today's To-Do List

*pick up the living room
*vacuum
*drag the five full garbage bags of clean laundry upstairs
  -fold them
  -put them away
*dirty laundry downstairs
*pick up the kids' room
*strip my bed
*wash the bedding
*remake the bed

It's Who I Am

I listen to Dashboard Confessional, Clutch, The Dissociatives, and all sorts of other music. At high volume. In my minivan.

I dye my hair repeatedly, and usually a color not found on any natural human hair.


I'm the worst kind of bitch in the world: The stubborn type who turns bulldog when backed into a corner, and won't back down if I know I'm right. If you're someone I love, I will bend over backward to accommodate you, often to my own detriment.

My friends are my family. Enough said.

My politics are liberal. I believe in right to choice, gay marriage, and all that other stuff that would make any true right-winger go ballistic. I'm very against Arizona's new immigration law, and not just because I don't live in Arizona.

Like baby brother's mom phrased it once I may be white, "but not white enough to be white."

I laugh at dirty jokes. I get drunk twice a year. I don't believe that tattoos, blue/red/purple/green hair and piercings affect my ability to parent my two little boys.

I co-slept and breastfed and let my kids set their own schedules.

I'm short and poor and Irish and I usually have a fine layer of rage against the rich conservative town I live in bubbling just below the surface.

I'm loyal to those who deserve it.

I work hard at whatever job I have. I'd rather live in my small house and drive my thirteen year old car and know I worked for it than have a mansion and a Maserati handed to me.

I still talk occasionally to my two best friends from high school, J & J, and I love them both like they were my older brothers (which, in fact, was one of my favorite freshman year daydreams, that they were my older brothers).

I base my opinions around my own personal experiences, and I refuse to give advice on something I've never experienced.

That's who I am, and I make no apologies.

Weddings And Heartbreaks

I'm anti-marriage on an intensely personal level. That is to say, I have no problems with other people getting married - if it's what feels right, then do it. By intensely personal, I mean that I don't believe it's right for me. Back when I was young and stupid, I entered into an extremely ill-advised, short-lived marriage. Those 10 months were some of the worst of my life. I was pressured into accepting the proposal, and things basically went downhill from there. I lost one of my best friends, and nearly lost my identity as "me," as Megan. Thankfully, I got hired on at City Park, met Jeremy, and began regaining my self. I had told the guy in the beginning that I wasn't the marriage type, that I thought it was an outmoded and outdated institution, and that I'd seen far too many marriages fail. However, like I said, I was pressured into it, and was beyond thankful when I was finally able to make my escape.

That being said, like I said, I have no problems with other people getting married. If it's what you want to do, then do it. Just don't expect me to. What I have with Jeremy works for us, and I see no sense in fixing something that isn't already broken. I really don't need a piece of paper to reassure me that what we have is something we'll have for a while. Also, should the day come in the future where what we have isn't working, I'd like him to be able to seek his happiness elsewhere, with as little hassle as possible.

Related to this: The topic of prenups crossed my mind today. Now, granted, they are something I'll never have to deal with. However, to me, they represent everything that's wrong with the entire institution of marriage today.

Let's think about it for a minute. A prenuptial agreement, simply, is a piece of paper that both parties sign that basically states how joint properties are to be divided in the event of a divorce. They are designed to protect the involved parties' premarital assets.

If you enter into a venture with the idea that it's going to fail, it most likely will. And isn't that basically what a prenup is? "So, I'm vowing to be with you till one of us dies, but just in case, I'd like to keep the Corvette and the summer home."

I'm sorry, and maybe I'm looking at this from an erroneous perspective, being that I grew up poor and am still poor, but doesn't that go against all the ideals with which you are supposed to enter a marriage?

Marriage is supposed to be something entered into in a spirit of love and trust. You're vowing to be with your partner through thick and thin, sickness  and health, rich or broke, blah blah blah. Drawing up something as cold and heartless and factual as a prenup speaks to me of a lack of trust. They call marriage "taking the plunge," but I don't remember ever hearing anything about taking a lifejacket along.

If you don't trust your partner, if you don't think the marriage will survive, if you think there's a possibility they're just in it for the money, the house, the car, etc, then why get married in the first place?

Here's another thing. Marriage, as I've said, is between two people. They join together to create a family. If you aren't enough of an adult to stand on your own, to make your own decisions, you probably shouldn't get married. If you can't give over the biggest portion of your heart to your intended, can't take your wallet and your bank account out of the equation, are too concerned with making sure you come out ahead to daydream wholeheartedly about the life you intend to create with your affianced, and if you constantly mix up "fiance" with "finance," you probably shouldn't get married.

Why do I think marriage is unnecessary? Because it's supposed to be about love. Love between two people. This country has not only made it so that only heterosexual couples can get married (despite the fact that homosexuals have just as much right to a life of wedded bliss or misery as any straight people do), and beyond that, they've turned it from a symbol of love to a cold-blooded business transaction, and it makes me sick.

I might be headed straight for hell for living in sin, but at least I'll know when I get there that my sin was lived in an environment of love, and not one of tax write-offs.

Baileys Cheesecake

Crust:

4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1/2 tsp fresh-grated cinnamon

1/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup cocoa
1 package graham crackers, beat to crumbs with a rolling pin

Combine butter, sugar and cocoa powder. Stir in crumbs. Press evenly over bottom of greased 9-inch pan and blind-bake at 350 for 10 minutes. Cool pan and grease sides.

Filling:

3 8-ounce packages cream cheese, softened
3/4 cup powdered sugar
3 eggs
3/4 cup Bailey's Irish Cream
2 squares (2 ounces) semi-sweet chocolate, melted

Beat cream cheese until smooth. Gradually beat in sugar. Beat in eggs, one at a time. Blend in Bailey's. Pour about 1/3 mixture into a bowl and stir in melted chocolate.Pour half of plain mixture into prepared pan. Drizzle with half the chocolate mixture. Repeat layers. Make a marbled design by gently swirling batter with a knife.
Bake 10 minutes at 450°F, then 55 minutes at 250°F or until cake tests done.