Radical Mama

John sent me this news article via email, subject line “oh dear FSM.” That just about sums it up.

Well, we decided. I have accumulated a ton of vegetable, herb, and flower seeds and we have access to my dad’s 11 acre property, only 30 minutes away, so why not jump right in and start growing for the market?

We will be heading out there this weekend to get a good chunk of the weedy ex-cornfield tilled up and ready for my seeds and seedlings. I have 5 flats of seedlings (broccoli, tomato, tomatillo, hot pepper, onion, & leek) plus a shoe box full of seeds.

I have applications for two local farmers markets ready to go. I am so nervous. I have to admit, I am not a fantastic vegetable grower. I never get overrun with tomatoes like most people. (Zucchini? That’s another story.) But if nothing else, I am confident I can get back whatever money I need to put in and we’ll have a little extra cash to claim on our taxes, proving to banks that we have some experience (and hopefully success) in growing commercially. That will really come in handy when we try to buy a farm in the next couple of years.

Note to self: Do NOT tell people my due date. Or rather, lie and say that my due date is a week further than it truly is.

It’s an amazing phenonomen. As soon as your due dates comes, you suddenly have a barage of well-meaning family and friends calling and stopping by to drill you about your “progress.”

Everyone wants to know if I am dilated yet. (How the hell should I know? Oh, I’ll just go into the bathroom real quick and check for you…yeah…)

Everyone wants to know if I am having contractions. (Yup. For the last three weeks. Obviously, that doesn’t mean much at this point. If I was having those contractions, I wouldn’t have picked up the phone or answered the door!)

Everyone asks when I think it is coming. (Really? Am I actually expected to answer that? If I knew, I wouldn’t have told you May 6 in the first place! I would have said, May 10th at 6:53 pm…)

The other day, I mentioned to my childless friend that I was uncomfortable and that walking hurt. She looked at me and said, “What hurts exactly?”  The dumbfounded look on my face clearly said something like “Are you fucking kidding me, woman? What do you mean what exactly? Everything fucking hurts!” But I didn’t say that. I said, “Oh, I dunno, the fact that it feels like something is poking my cervix with sharp little knives and the fact that when I walk, I feel like I am trying to hold a cantaloupe between my legs. That’s what hurts.” (Duh!)

It is very unwise to pester an overdue, frustrated mother about the fact that she is overdue and frustrated as though she doesn’t already know that she is overdue and as though you want her to have the baby more than she herself wants it. Very unwise.

I am going to be working towards my doula certification this summer.

Obviously, I am passionate about childbirth, particularly in empowering women to make the decisions that are right for them as opposed to being pressured to make decisions that are most convenient for their doctors.

But I have to say, I am disturbed by how little doulas charge for their services. I can’t charge what I think my time is worth if no one else is charging a fair wage.

I never expected to get rich doing this sort of work. And I would really like to offer a sliding scale so that no one is excluded from my services because of income.

But…

I am not looking for a volunteer position.

I found one doula who only charges $100. That’s right. $100. For what could likely be 20 hours of service between the prenatal and postnatal visits and the birth itself. Minus gas mileage and other job expenses, she is making well under minimum wage. I hope her husband has health insurance for her.

Yes, you could argue that this is a job that you should only do because you are passionate about helping women blah blah blah.

Certainly that’s true. But isn’t that what we say about teaching, childcare, social work, and other careers that are stereotypically female? Just because it’s “women’s work” doesn’t mean that it doesn’t have value.

I intend to charge a fair wage for my services, even if it means fewer clients. I have no interest in reinforcing ideas about the worthlessness of the jobs we do as women for other women and children. Frankly, it’s bullshit.

What’s that saying about how many times you have to do something before it becomes a habit? I forget, but I know that statistic exists somewhere. It must. We have numbers for everything.

Every morning, before I even use the bathroom (and this says a lot for a woman who is exactly 40 weeks pregnant today), I make my bed. I put our four standard pillows and three throw pillows in their place (which occasionally makes me think of that scene in Along Came Polly with all the ridiculous throw pillows that never get used and no one ever sees…)

Then I come downstairs and pour a cup of coffee. By the time I can take a drink without scalding myself, I have unloaded the dishwasher, changed a diaper, loaded breakfast dishes, cleared the sink, and wiped things down.

I have my coffee while I check my email.

Then I start a load of laundry and wait 20 minutes for the rinse cycle to finish before taking my shower. That usually gets me a shower at about 9:00. And then I hit the rest of to-do list, which may or may not be very long. Recently, it consists of walking around the yard and inspecting my gardens for weeds.

Every once in a while, I don’t do the first thing and then I can’t do the second thing and it snowballs into a very unproductive day in which I am still in pjs with my hair sticking out all over the place, watching What Not to Wear at noon.

Today I poured my coffee and had to go upstairs for some reason. My bed was unmade. It really caught me off guard and I thought, Shoot. It’s going to be one of those days. But I have a to-do list I need to work through! Yet, here I am at 9:45, unshowered, no laundry started, breakfast dishes on the table, and blogging. Bugger.

I drive John crazy. But at least I wait until the movie is over, likely the next day, to start nitpicking all of the details that annoyed me.

We watched I Am Legend this week. (First, thanks a lot to all of the people who told me it wasn’t scary. It was scary, and I had to keep finding excuses to leave the room until those scenes were over.) It was pretty good (except for the scariness). But… I still don’t really understand where that girl came from. How did she survive? How does she know about the colony? Why does he yell at her for taking him home in the dark when he himself drove home in the dark the night before, and why didn’t they follow him home that night, too? I didn’t see any dark-seeking children. Do they not breed? ‘Cuz it looked like that one dude was pretty pissed when Will yanked his girlfriend out of the dark. Why did he fall for the dummy in the street trick? Grrr… I know it’s one of the plots best left as a novel so that you can really get into the nitty gritty details, but still… I was unsatisfied. John wants to know why I can’t just watch and enjoy a movie as entertainment and then go on with my life. Because I just can’t. That’s all. (He doesn’t understand that I can actually enjoy a movie and still pick it apart but my favorite movies are movies that are perfect in my opinion.)

Last night, I was doing dishes and could hear a familiar voice. It was Will Ferrill in Stranger Than Fiction. I really like that movie. I sat down to watch it with John. “I like this movie,” I said. “Except for that scene when he makes the phone call from the pay phone and the omniscient narrator doesn’t know that he is going to call her. That just doesn’t make sense.” I think he just sighed.

Last weekend I had contractions for two straight days. They even kept me up a good chunk of the night.

And then Monday came and nothin’.

And then yesterday, for a couple of hours, I had them. And then nothin’.

And then last night they started again, lasted all night, are still happening, but by now I am so incredibly discouraged I just expect that they will go away again.

Last weekend, I was at the point where I thought, “A month ago, I was really excited about this homebirth thing and all, and GO NATURAL CHILDBIRTH, DUDES! But now I might actually have to push this kid out and OUCH and I DON’T WANT TO.”

I am beyond that point now. I am at the Let’s get this damn thing over with already, I don’t care how much it hurts! point. Perhaps this is nature’s way of getting us mentally ready. Damn you, nature!

I am not ready to try the castor oil yet. After all, I am only 39.5 weeks. (Only. Right. Only a freaking lifetime.) But I am going to be trying some gentle ways of encouraging this kid to get moving.

But first, I need to transplant some lilies. And make the buttercream frosting for Em’s vanilla cupcakes since she is FOUR today. Four! And clean my bathroom. And…

No, this isn’t going to be a post about the fact that I am still pregnant, although I am completely irratated by that point.

But what is more irritating is the fact that A’s teacher keeps sending her home with worksheets that are completely age-inappropriate.

Granted, A is in a mixed-age classroom, but I fail to see why she needs to be bringing home 3rd grade level work as a 1st grader.

Today, we sat down with a stack of homework which became more an exercise in frustration than an exercise in math. Subtracting a 3-digit number from a 3-digit number that required borrowing several times? Are you effing kidding me? After 2 problems, I couldn’t take it anymore and moved on to the worksheet with nickels and dimes. That is concept a not-quite seven-year-old can grasp.

And then I thought, maybe I am just being grumpy and demanding too little of her. So I looked up our state’s expectation for 1st grade math. It’s not just me:

List number facts for 2 through 10.
Example:
Here are different facts to make 5.
1+4 =5 2+3 =5 3+2=5 4+1=5 5+0=5
Compare the difference of objects in two groups.
Add and subtract numbers less than 20. Be able to solve and explain story problems using objects, pictures and/or numerals.
Understand that subtraction is connected to addition.
Example: Because 3+5=8, we know that 8 - 3=5.
Know all the addition facts up to 10+10 and solve the related subtraction facts.
Find the missing numbers for addition and subtraction facts.
Example: 2 +___= 6 6 -____= 2
Add three one-digit numbers. Example: 1 + 2 + 4 =___
Add and subtract in his/her head (mental math) when the problem involves a 2-digit number and a 1-digit number without regrouping or carrying.
Example: 22 + 2=__

All that first grade stuff? She can do that, piece of cake. From now on, the 3rd grade stuff goes straight to the recycle bin.

I don’t know what it is about being pregnant, but suddenly there are complete strangers in the world who feel that they can disclose information that I don’t want to know or ask incredibly personal questions that I don’t want to answer.

One cashier asked me when I was due. I said, May 6. I was due May 15, she said. Was? I stood there awkwardly, having no idea what to say to her. I miscarried in November, she finally explained. A) I am genuinely sorry for her loss and know what that experience means but B) Not really something you should be telling a complete stranger. A very uncomfortable silence followed while she finished checking me out and then I booked. Seriously, what was I supposed to say?

The other day, an old woman asked me when I was due and then said, “You’re having a c-section?” Um, quite the opposite, thanks. What kind of weird assumption is that to make? Do I look like I am carrying sextuplets?

And today, I decided to treat the girls to McDonalds on our way home from grocery shopping. (And yes, I do see the oddity of using the words “treat” and “McDonalds” in the same sentence. ;)) The woman at the pay window noticed I was pregnant and asked when I was due. (Okay, I am soooo tired of that question.) “Oh, my daughter is due on May 21st. She’s dilated to 3. What are you dilated to? (I have no idea. Is that really important or any of her business?) I hope she goes early. She’s so uncomfortable. Blah blah blah…” What are you dilated to? Good lord. Oh, yes, complete stranger, let me tell you what the results were after my provider stuck their fingers waaaay up my vagina and poked around for a bit. Dinner conversation, really! (And for the record, my midwife has not checked me. I am not in labor, so why would she? I could be dilated to 2-3 for weeks before anything happens!)

Perhaps it’s the late pregnancy exhaustion and hormones that is making me so grumpy. But I know that I would never be so bold (ie: RUDE) as to ask those sorts of invasive questions. How is my business how a complete stranger plans to give birth? Or whether they have any signs of labor?

Note to random people that don’t know me from Eve: Leave me the hell alone. And NO, you CAN’T touch my stomach.