Making Babies

After conducting comprehensive and  exhaustive research--google searches, reading my John Hopkins's Family Health Book, hands on activities--this writer  has come to accept the following as an irrefutable fact:

SPERM --> EGG = BABY

Without the sperm entering the egg, there is no possibility of making a baby.*

So I asked myself: Why is it such a controversial and mysterious thing? Am I the first to realize this? Why hasn't this been addressed? Why is this the most pressing issue for my country's presidential candidates and my Catholic Church/Pope--both of which are very patriarchal and overly concerned about the bodies of women? Isn't this just biology?

According to my research, boys are the makers, carriers, and the deliverers of sperm. They carry and control the key that unlocks the door to making a life.** When this sperm is inside of the bodies of boys, the eggs of girls are safe from being fertilized. The girl is taken out of the equation and our patriarchs can rest easy. It is once these persistent little buggers get sent out into the world like a frenzied mob and sniff out a girl that our eggs become the prey of the sperm's prime directive to propagate the species. If they are kept away, biological mutations won't occur.

THE ANSWER: MALE AND/OR SPERM QUARANTINE

Think of it this way. Mary Mallon, AKA Typhoid Mary, is thought to have infected at least 53 people with typhoid. It is safe to say, some of those 53 people were men.  For public safety, she was forcibly quarantined--twice.***

Or this way. During the Black Plague, religiously frenzied men self-flagellated****  their way through the streets spraying their blood, saliva, sweat and skin all over the walls, streets and people. One man could be responsible for the death of an entire city. Entire cities.*****

Now let's apply this to baby making:

SPERM-->EGG = FERTILIZATION WHICH LEADS TO CELL MUTATION AND EVENTUALLY A BABY INSIDE OF A WOMAN

INCUBATING WOMAN= 9 monthes--about 270 days--of egg mutation. Therefore, one womb of baby output, one incubator out of commision.

 MAN=270 days of sperm shooting. Therefore, a man is capable of epidemic proportions of egg fertilizing: at least 270 eggs; more if he makes it an hourly profession. Even more if he is young, virile, and willing.

WHICH SHOULD WE BE CONCERNED ABOUT?

Therefore, if we quarantined men--like we did Mary Mallon--our public would be much safer. But how do we quarantine men? They're everywhere and have a very vocal and powerful lobby--including but not limited to those mentioned in paragraph two. I don't think they will go for it. But they can do the following:

FIND A WAY TO KEEP THEIR SPERMS FROM MEETING AN EGG.

My research--which included field trips to Target, Kroger, and CVS--found these things called condoms which come in all sizes, shapes, colors and flavors. Go online, and order them delivered right to your door. No embarassment at checkout. You can put them discretely in your pocket, wallet, glove compartment, nightstand, or shoe. I think a boy/man can handle this.

Therefore, if sperm is quarantined, men won't have to be quarantined.

If sperm is quarantined, women won't have to take the pill or any other form of contraception.

If women do not have to use contraception, presidential candidates and the Pope will not have to worry about it.

AND

IF THE SPERM MEETS AN EGG AND FERTILIZES THE EGG, THE SPERM DELIVERER NEEDS TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE ACTIONS OF HIS SPERM.

Kind of like when your dog bites someone or your car is involved in an accident or your kid punches someone or you yell FIRE! in a crowded theatre.

Therefore, if  the sperm does not fertilize the egg, girls and women will not become incubators.

When girls and women do not become incubators, they will not seek out abortions.

If women do not have abortions, presidential candidates and the Pope will have nothing to worry about.

With these out of the way, we would be able to concentrate on more important issues; those that a presidential hopeful or Pope could/should address. We won't have to fixate on the parts of women hidden from male view. We will realize these parts are not unruly children to be controlled by laws or demons to be expelled by priests. We would be able to look a little higher: our eyes and our brains are up here and we are able to think for ourselves.

 And our society as a whole can stop getting distracted by the next sound bite and quit convincing ourselves that a candidate or religious leader can control or do any of the stuff they say they can control or do. And as men--which the majority of them are--they would do best to control themselves which would make all of this a moot point.

ASTERICKED THINGS

*Cloning and anything else that you may think of that is either science fiction or otherwise does not count. Even in a petry dish, the sperm gets inside the egg.

**Sometimes this sperm is expiated without the need of another living human being and, to quote David Bowie, "Falls wanking to the floor."

***She died after nearly three decades altogether in isolation.

****Flagellate: to whip or beat with whips, rods, or any other item one wishes. To self-flagellate, you do it to yourself. Akin to asterick**

*****Granted, they didn't know at the time that this was part of the problem, however, someone had to have thought it wasn't a good idea. That, improper sewage removal and overall icky living conditions.

Grade School

I recently decided to try to find at least one memory for each of my grade-school years. I was surprised to find I had alot more than I thought. Please travel with me as I relive the parts of my grade school youth that I can remember.

Kindergarten That's my Kindergarten picture I use for my blog
I went to Roxbury for Kindergarten. I was in the morning class and the girl who became my bestest friend--Linda Gries-- was in the afternoon class. We got to know each other because we shared the same cubby. What serendipity!

In Kindergarten, we got milk--chocolate milk--in little cardboard milk cartons. We used laddie pencils--blue, fat pencils made for chubby and inexperienced hands.

I read Dr. Seuss's Are you my Mother for the class. I remember this distinctly because I am pretty sure I was faking it.

One day we pretended to take a train ride. I brought my shiny, red suitcase with the black straps and metal corners to school. I had to remove all the dolls that lived in there for this occasion. The days before this, we had colored a large backdrop to look like the inside of a train and made rows with the chairs. We got on the train with our luggage and went for a ride. I remember us bumping along to our trip to nowhere.

On Halloween, our teacher went into a room and never came back. Instead, a witch came out. She did something to our teacher and I cried.

First Grade
I went to St. Rita Catholic School for grades one through eight. There were about 40 kids in each grade and they were the nucleus of my grade school experience. Linda went to St. Rita too, but we were very rarely in the same home room. We wore uniforms: jumper, white shirt, saddle shoes, and knee socks for the girls; blue shirts and blue pants for the boys. Girls who cared also wore shorts under their skirts for the obvious reasons. I wore rubber bands to hold up my socks.

My teacher was Sister Mary Elizabeth Seton and she was young, sweet and pretty. I found out that she left the convent and got married. She had beautiful handwriting and in my report card she wrote that I needed to read and talk more (be careful what you ask for).

There was this girl in my class named Dawn. She had a hat with ear flaps; I thought--and still think--this was cool. One day, as we ate our lunches at our desks, she fell backwards--desk and all--and began laughing. She laughed so hard, milk came out her nose.

Second Grade
Second grade is where I began to notice I was the younger sister of either Michael or Paula. I say either because the one-sided conversation between the teacher and me went like this:
           "Oh! You're Paula's sister!"
           "Oh....you're Michael's sister."

I don't think Ms. Meck was my homeroom teacher, but she belonged to team Michael. In Michael's defense, I was glad she didn't like him; she was mean.

This was the year we began penmanship. Linda was in my homeroom. We were the only lefties and were made to sit in the back of the class to teach ourselves. Linda had that curvy-wristed style many lefties have: the kind where the arm and hand eclipse the words from above. I had the whatever-I-felt-like-that-day style; the kind that usually smeared my printing.

I think this was the year Mike Sedlak tripped me during a very violent yet satisfying game of dodge ball. I landed eyebrow first into a voting machine (they were stored where we had gym class). After being told I was bleeding all over the place, I was sent to the "nurse". the room had a framed collection of butterflies on the wall; I felt bad for those pinned-butterflies. It was decided no stitches were necessary, just a butterfly bandage. I still have the scar.

Third Grade
Third grade moved us to the top floor of the building. There were only four classrooms for each floor--two for each grade level. Mrs. Swansiger was my teacher. I think she belonged to team Paula. It was a good year.

We would play the Catholic version of "Mother may I" on the steps: the top step was heaven, followed by purgatory, limbo, and hell. If God/Mother got you down to hell, you would be chased. If caught, you stayed in hell.

One morning, while waiting in line outside, Jim Leffel put a big, fat worm in my hair.

On the last day of school, Mrs. Swansiger performed witchcraft and told us our futures. She told me I would become a third grade teacher (I did eventually teach music to third graders).

I think this was the year I broke Linda's front tooth when I tagged her way too hard and pushed her into the building.

Fourth Grade
My teacher that year was a nun with a man's name. She kept mint melt-aways on her desk that she let us help ourselves to.

That year, we learned the Blue Danube Waltz. My mom made me a dress that I think was the same dress I wore for the bi-centennial; it eventually got shortened into a regular dress. It had a light blue long skirt and a white and blue eyelet bodice. I had to dance with Richard Toth. This meant his hands would be on my hips and my hands on his shoulders with enough room for God to fit between us comfortably. We went to someplace and danced on a stage.

One day, someone stole something from somebody's desk. We were made to stand outside in the hallway and take turns going into the classroom. If we were the thief, we were to put that item on the teacher's desk. This was all done to maintain annonymity. I don't remember if the item was returned, but whenever someone came out of the classroom we would ask if there was anything on the teacher's desk.

This was our last year in the "small building." For grades five through eight we would go to the building across the street. We were all afraid because we were told to beware of Sister Mary Monster.

Fifth Grade
We were now in the "big building", which was about the same size as the "small building" only newer. We were on the top floor. I think these four years were not good for me and I have blotted most of it out. I think these were four years of hell.

The metric system was pushed hard by Sister Mary Monster because we were told that in ten years the country would be converting to it.

Mark Korkowski kept hitting me on the head with books. Bob Graham told me that it was because he liked me. I liked Herb Giesler. One day we got in trouble for talking during the Pledge of Allegiance. Our punishment was to write out the pledge one billion times. I couldn't remember the words and had  to place my hand over my hear to recite it. That was the first time in my life being left handed played in my favor. In high school I saw Herb waiting for the bus that would take him to Channel, the all-boy Catholic school. He was beautiful.

Sixth Grade
In English class, we made our own magazines. I remember having a cartoon/joke section that contained things related to college football such as the orange bowl and cotton bowl. These had oranges and cotton balls bowling.

We got measured for new uniforms that year. These consisted of a skirt and vest instead of the jumper. I remember the nuns having girls kneel to make sure the hems reached the floor (some girls rolled up the waistbands of their skirts to shorten their hems).

It was at this time that my friend Mary got her period. She, Linda and I were in the bathroom when Mary's head popped up from behind a stall door and she told us she got her period. Mary was very tall and this image has been burned into my memory. I stayed with her while Linda went to get help from a teacher. A very long time later she finally came back. She had gone to a nun who told her she had to go to the convent to get a pad. Linda walked to the convent only to be told she need a dime/quarter to pay for the pad. Linda walked back from the convent and told a lay teacher. She gave Linda the money. Linda walked back to the convent, got the pad, and came back. We got in trouble for being late to class.

Seventh Grade
I think this was the year Rita Ternai, Carol Gendre and I began playing guitar for our school masses. Yes, my first playing gig. We went to church at least one a week. I remember waiting in line for confession and noticing how long kids were taking in the confessional. Feeling bad that I thought I was too good to sin, I made up sins for the priest. Yes, I lied in the confessional, but was probably absolved by saying my ten Our Father's and five Hail Mary's.

Shawn and Kathy were seen committing PDA: holding hands in the hall. They separated us by boys and girls and gave us "The Talk". That year we also went to the Health Museum to get more of "The Talk". I say we were pretty progressive.


Eight Grade
Last year before high school. Many of us would be going to Solon High school. To prepare us, we did alot of sentence diagramming on butcher paper, and alot of math. Mrs. Benlak was the math teacher. I blame her for all my high school problems with math.

Sister Mary Monster died that year after suffering--and I do mean suffering--from liver cancer. In life, she had been a very large woman. In death, she was nothing more than skin and bones. They had a school funeral service for her. I later went to confession and told the priest all the bad thoughts I had about her. He was kind; I think there were any of us confessing the same thimg that day.

We had a picnic at the end of the year at a park. We got to wear regular clothes. I had no regular clothes only play or church clothes. It was not fun for me. I was to get some kind of award--awards chosen by the alpha members of our grade-- but it must have been mean-spirited because Linda found out and obliterated the words.


I recently went through my grade school yearbook from eight grade. I had cut out the pictures and name of some boy that I no longer remember. I had to ask Linda; she remembered. She told me he was mean to me during those years. I already forgot his name. I also asked Linda what was written on that award and she of the steel memory told me she forgot. That is why Linda was--and will always be--my bestest friend.

Things I have Observed while Working Retail

As some of you may know, I work at a bookstore and what I like the most about my job is that I work with some really great people and I get to meet some really great people. It's like a family with a whole bunch of dysfunctional people. I LOVE IT! AND HATE IT! Some days I'm bookside and other days I'm at the cafe serving up froo-froo beverages to the masses. Each has its own set of advantages/dis-advantages and good points/bad points. And if I was asked to give examples, there is only one thing that fits all of the above mentioned categories: people.

So what have I observed while working retail?

1. Alot of people shop while drunk or high and  then buy weird things

• There seems to be a transportation system out there that takes "discharged" patients from area hospitals and drop them off at the bookstore. These people have little money--mostly change-- and must call their mom/girlfriend to pick them up. So you let them use the phone, and you watch them push a whole bunch of random numbers. And they say to you "Dude, there's something wrong with your phone." So you say let me try and you dial the number for them and they talk to said mom/girlfriend and when they hang up, they tell you that said mom/girlfriend will be picking them up and to let them know when they get there. They then wander around and find weird things to buy like a globe, a bargain book about crocheting (for their mom/girlfriend) and a porno magazine. They make their purchase and continue to wander the store before going into the bathroom and then passing out in a chair (WARNING:NEVER SIT IN AN UPHOLSTERED CHAIR AT YOUR LOCAL BOOKSTORE).
• Some get the munchies so they make their way to the cafe where they try to order a beverage and a whole bunch of things from the bake case. As they go through their pockets for change--never any bills--they explain their drink: "Dude (I am always a dude), I want one of those drinks with that coffee stuff and milk. I like it when it's hot and has some flavor that is kinda sweet. But I don't like really sweet." As he tries to talk and search his pockets for money, he gets distracted. "Dude, I just got out of the hospital--I was in an accident at work. They gave me some wicked meds and they're making me sick. I'll be right back." He leaves his change there on the counter, which you move to the side. About 20 minutes later he comes back and, searching his pockets for change, he tries to explain his drink: "Dude, I want one of those drinks with that coffee stuff and milk. I like it..." At this point he frantically turn his pockets inside-out. "Dude! Someone stole my money!"
• Some come in with gift cards. They hand you their books and gift cards. They are unable to look at you, their eyes are all weird and bloodshot. This one makes you nervous. He's buying a couple math books, not math workbooks but books about math; deep, multi-syllabic math. He hands you his gift cards. There is money remaining on the second gift card so you hand it back to him. You ask him if he wants a bag (Yes, we have to ask that). "Dude, I don't need a bag. I'm really smart." O-kay.  I'll put your receipt in the front of this book. "Dude, I don't need a receipt. I'm really smart." He then takes his gift card and with the dexterity of the palsied, he begins swiping his gift card along the spine of one of his books. Eventually he puts the card in his pocket and begins to walk away. He stops, turns, and walks back. He removes the receipt, crumples it and throws it at you.

2.  Some self-involved parents are way too uninvolved as parents

• You are hanging out at the information desk like you're not supposed to, when a little boy ( I mean little, like 4 or 5-years-old) comes up to you and hands you a book. He says, "I left the store with this and my mommy told me to bring it back." You look all over for said parent and find both parents outside smoking. Beyond a reason of  doubt you are 100% sure these are the parents and that you have not handed this child to any stranger (although you begin to think the child may be better off with a different set of parents). You relay this story through the bookstore gossip chain and a co-worker comes up and tells you that those parents were out there smoking when he went out to take a smoke during his break OVER AN HOUR AGO. They had sent the child in the store while they stayed outside to smoke and they had never come into the store.
• You look at the schedule and find out you have the dreaded store-recovery task: the kid's department. It is 10:45 pm and the manager has announced that the store will be closing in 15 glorious minutes. So you go to begin your recovery. You hate this because it is Saturday, and although you have been going back there all night, it is a pigsty. The kind that makes you cry in despair for the decline of humanity.You see a little boy (different little boy than the previous story) this one obviously no older than 2; he's playing at the Thomas the Train table. You look around for the parent, but there are no adults. In fact the only adults are those regulars who have to hang out in the cafe until the very last minute. You don't want to leave the child, so you stay close by and straighten around him. After five minutes (yes, I looked at my watch) you call your manager (maybe I should have done this sooner; leave me alone. I was flabbergasted). That is when the mother comes out of the restroom with another child. You give her your evil-eye-death-stare which has no impact. You say, "Ma'am, the store is about to close and I kept an eye on your son for you." With a huff she explains "My daughter had to use the restroom. What do you expect me to do? Take him with me?" Yes, lady, that is exactly what I expect you to do.
• It is Sunday, the day when some families go to church and then to the bookstore, leaving everything they learned back at church. They take their children, drinks, and baked goods back to the kid's section. Mom and dad take turns going to the sections they like: mom to romance or cooking (sorry, this may sound sexist but when I clean up after them, those are the books I have to re-shelf) and dad to the magazines (Porn included. This really bothers me: you just came from church and your family is with you! Take a day off!). As they sip their fancy coffee beverages, their soy-milked and sugared-up wee ones tear apart the section, and I mean tear apart. They rip up books, empty boxed games, and climb displays (ALERT/DISCLAIMER: NOT ALL KIDS, JUST A NOTICEABLE MAJORITY). And then they leave.

3.  People like to complain As I write what appears to be complaining, I choose this as my last category. What do people like to complain about?

• Waiting in line. They are the third person in line and you see them doing the impatient dance (shifting weight, looking at watch/cell phone, harrumphing, etc). The people in front of them did the same thing. And just like the people in front of them, the third person in line will complain about waiting while we all wait for them to find their money/credit card/checkbook, change their mind, and ask you to look up a book for them. Which will then cause the third person in line behind them to do the impatient dance.
• The price of coffee. Really? The prices are on the wall. If you don't like it, don't buy it. Make your own or go to Speedway.
• The temperature of their beverage. THIS IS OE OF MY ALL TIME FAVORITES. They order and then walk away. Maybe they even ordered it extra-hot. You call for them, they do not come. You call again a few minutes later, and still they do not come. Eventually, they come and they complain their beverage is not hot enough or the milk has separated and their extra-dry cappuccino is no longer extra-dry or cappuccino-like. They demand, DEMAND! a new beverage. You have to make it for them. And this is one of the reasons for a high priced beverage (also corporate greed).
• You. They want to talk to the manager. Why? Because I couldn't help them Help them what? Find a book. Why couldn't you help them? Because this was their question: "Dude, I'm looking for this book I read like 15 years ago. The cover was yellow and I think the author was a woman. She was that woman, you know the one I'm talking about?" No ma'am/sir, but let's see what I can do. Was it fiction or non-fiction. "Dude, I don't even know what that means. It's a book. It had a yellow cover and was written by that lady." Okay, what was it about? "It was about this lady that had this thing happen to her and, you know, she went crazy. It was the best book I ever read." Can you remember what made her crazy? Maybe that was in the title or it may help me narrow it down. "Look, dude, I just want the book. It's your job to find it. Where's the manager?"

AUTHOR'S DISCLAIMER  I want to let you know I am also a person. And as such, I am often a consumer. This puts me on the other side of the counter. Because of this, I understand both sides. I have encountered rude and unhelpful retail people and it makes me mad.

So in closing, here are some examples of things I have said--or almost said--when I have functioned as a consumer:

1. I realize that I have come into your line right in the middle of your conversation with the bagger, but can you please just focus on the job at hand?
2. Please do not read each-and-every card I am buying. That is why I put them in upside down and under the envelope flap. So you can just swipe the bar-code.
3. (This one I have yet to say out loud, but I do make a point of leading by example when it is my turn). While you are waiting for the price check, why don't you start bagging the 50 items that you have already scanned? That way, all the people behind me--including me--will stop doing the impatient dance.
4. Yes the guy behind me is hot. But please, I'm trying to hand you my money. Take it.

OOPS! One last story.

A mother comes in with her teenage son. She is exasperated and he is doing his best I-don't-care-and -my-cellphone-is-more-interesting-than-you routine. It is the end of August and they are about the 5 billionth customer coming in to buy the book that was their child's Summer reading project (I give this mom credit. Usually it is just the parent running their child's errands). She hands me the list and we both try to get some input from him to see if any of the titles interest him. He says things like: "That sounds like a chick book...Are there alot of pictures...I only need a book with 200 pages." We--we being the mom and I--are able to find three that are sports related and in the store. Before walking over to the section, the teenager finally looks up from his phone and asks: "Dude, is this a library?"

Write what you Know

Write what you know.

That is the advice you may get from a teacher or a well-meaning person trying to encourage you. Some writers cringe at this, stating if we only wrote what we knew, there would be no fiction. The argument is that a writer creates a new world populated with people, places and events she has not experienced. She uses language and imagination and becomes an expert of manipulation; luring us into her world. She--or he--never travelled to that previously undiscovered planet; mutilated and murdered people with red hair; had her loins burn with desire over a ruggedly handsome cowboy; or single-handily saved the world from zombies without building up a sweat. If  writers wrote what they knew, there would be no fiction.

I have read and heard writers argue each side of this advice and have to say, I thought writers had more imagination and ability to think divergently. Because to write what you know is to write about the human condition. That story of travelling to a new world is about a quest, to explore and conquer. The murder story is about fear and survival, man's ability to control. Burning loins? Right! The zombie story? Our need to feel invincible, strong, and pretty.

The human condition. When I get stuck for an idea, I read a fairy tale or an Aesop Fable. I take that story and find the themes of that story and I steal them (really, people; there are no new ideas). That fable with the moral about revenge becoming your undoing becomes MY story about betrayal and abandonment. Why? Because as I added MY language and imagination, the story took a new direction. I used what I know to fashion a new story.

My story is going slowly, because I am using it as a writing exercise from the book The 3 A.M. Epiphany: Uncommon Writing Exercises that Transform your Fiction by Brian Kiteley.  Exercise 1 is called "The Reluctant I." I am to write a 600 word first-person narrative with only 2 uses of first-person pronouns. Not so easy. But it is fun..and challenging.

I have about 8 unfinished blog entries saved. I look back at each one and I wonder why I can't finish them. Each one is a unique story and I am stumped. I can't seem to find my voice and complete them. Last night I finally figured out why. I was not writing what I knew and I wasn't saying what I wanted to say. Or to put it better, I wasn't writing or saying what I NEEDED to write and say. I have been self-editing.

So the question is: What do I need to know so I can write what I know?  Fearlessness, confidence, and arrogance.

To quote some guy I found on a quotation page:

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.

Cyril Connolly
(1903 - 1974)

Yes, Cyril. That is it. I need to find my self.
 

Congratulations, You're Having aTeenager!

My husband and I had been married seven years before we decided it was the right time to start a family. We were both working on our master's degrees and I had seen too many women juggling family, a career, and graduate school. I was not about to join that club, although they took great pride in their tribulations. We decided that we would take one year to recuperate from school and then we would earnestly attack the chore of making a new life.

I was afraid to be a mother; I had no experience with the little buggers at all. Unlike most women, I have never been enthralled with babies. They are cute and they often smell good, but you never really know what it is that will make them happy, stop crying or go to sleep. To me, that was what it meant to have a baby; that plus sleep deprivation.

Another reason I held back was I knew that they do not remain babies all their life; they become teenagers. To me, teenagers were like babies only bigger and stronger. Most parents-to-be say "We're having a baby" whereas all I could say is "We're having a teenager." What if my daughters wanted to be exotic dancers or my sons became drug dealing, motorcycle gang members? The pressure was enormous; it would take extra-special mothering from me to steer them towards more long-term--but possibly less lucrative--career and life choices.

And then there was the inevitable pregnancy and birthing part.When you're pregnant, you become public property. People--total strangers!--touch your belly, tell you you're fat and tell you the sex of the baby. "You're carrying high, it's a girl/boy"; "You're carrying low, it's a girl/boy." And I don't care what anybody says, it hurts and can sometimes be a little undignifying. (After my C-section for my first daughter, they left me uncovered on the table as they went about with taking care of Leanne and cleaning up. The door was swinging open and by looking over the partition that stopped me from seeing my procedure, I could see people walking by and looking in. I felt a little cold and I asked my husband if I was naked. And yes, I was; in all my glory for all to see. Hello, can someone give me back my dignity? Blanket please.)

I was a music teacher in the Dayton City School District when I became pregnant. I decided-- and my husband Dan rightly agreed-- that I would take at least one year of maternity leave and be a stay-at-home mom. There has never been a decision that I have made in life that gave me more grief than this. I became the poster mother-to-be who was tearing apart women's liberation single handily. Teaching is a very female dominated career and many of these women felt it necessary to tell me what a mistake this was:

• What kind of a role model will you be to your children and other women?
• You'll get bored.
• What a waste of your education.

Although I couldn't care less about their opinions, it did affect me. I was astounded at their vehemence, their need to put me and my decision down. These were women, teachers. We saw children who lacked caring mothers, children we mothered. I also listened to these women in the faculty lounge talking about their issues: day care; meals; extra-curricular car pools; absent fathers; etc. I also heard them talk about their own children like they were a nuisance, many of whom seemed to have behavioral or learning issues.

So all I could/would say is, if I am going to go through all the trouble to have one, I might as well spend some time with her. And I am so glad I did.

It was extremely hard at first. My life had always been geared toward the school calendar and now I had no calendar at all. Leanne was born in August and usually that was the time I was finding out what buildings I'd be in and preparing my curriculum and classrooms. That hit me hard. And I was lonely and depressed. Poor Dan, I'd be standing at our front window anxiously waiting for him to come home. And I vacuumed alot; Leanne was soothed by that vacuum.

It took a few months, but  Leanne and I eventually got into our groove. I took this mommy stuff seriously. I breastfed exclusively and made my own baby food. We read, we talked, we went places. I'd mow the lawn with her in a carrier, we'd go on bike rides. She'd make up elaborate adventures for her Barbies and stuffed animals. We colored, we played, she swung forever in her bucket swing attached to our front porch ceiling. There we would make up songs and stories and on one occasion I got dizzy and almost passed out from watching her going back-and-forth. We spent almost every minute together. People would tell me she would become too dependent on me.

Soon it was time to do it again. So Dan and I earnestly attacked the chore, and three years later, we had Abigail. We were now a threesome. I again breastfed exclusively and made my own baby food. And we read, talked, built things, mowed, played, sang, and told stories. She especially liked to make up stories with ducks in them. Abigail never liked to color much and I had to color on my own while she napped. We spent almost every minute together and people would tell me she would become too dependent on me.

Leanne is now 19 and in a few days, Abigail will be 16. And I think the three of us did pretty good. Just like anything we choose to do in life, we do reap what we sow. Being a stay-at-home mom is not a cop out nor is it easy and cushy. If you really give it your best effort, it is very emotionally and physically draining, but also wonderfully fulfilling. I know moms who stay at home and do nothing, just like I know people who go to their jobs and do nothing and get paid for it. Everybody, just do what you do and do it the best that you can.

Leanne is a sophomore in a college about 300 miles from here. She will be staying there this summer to work, prepare for soccer season, and most importantly to hang out with her friends. She gets fantastic grades and takes care of herself. I trust her and I am so very proud. Abigail is a sophomore in high school. She is involved in school activities, has a group of fantastic and loyal friends, does well at school, and is preparing to take her driving test. She has a big heart and I am so very proud.

So I think we made a couple of good adults-to-be, and neither one is showing any inclination to being an exotic dancer. But if they did, I'd still love them to pieces.