Me type. Me no write.

The only reason I wear my pajamas to work is because my
ruffly dress is at the cleaners!

About a year ago, I took a promotion.  I'm a medical transcriptionist, and technically I'm an independent subcontractor, so there's this relationship thing where the woman who assigns me my work is not actually my employer, but we interact in some ways as if she is, and it's all good.  I've been typing for a living for almost eight years now, and it's been a perfect type of work for me for several reasons:

1.  I types real fast, y'all.  *shakes her money makers*
2.  I get to work at home.  Mixed blessing, but a blessing, no question, especially with kids.
3.  I have a great memory, and memorization is a huge part of my job - I don't have to stop to look shit up.  Well, of course I do, but less and less often.  

So each day I'm assigned 1500 lines of work, which is a full-time load and probably eight solid hours of work for me.  My other job is running my household.  My husband helps out, but the bulk of all things domestic still falls on me.  About a year ago I got a raise because I started proofing my own work. I worked for this raise and it felt good, because I have a certain higher level of responsibility now, which didn't scare me as much as I thought it would.  I also started making more money, but it came with longer hours.  I started getting up earlier. 

When we got back to Montana four months ago, my husband got a job right away and began working long hours.  I kept up my long hours, usually 12 hours in my office, taking necessary breaks to take children places, prepare meals, and sometimes just goof off with my kids.  Then I had the opportunity to begin proofing other transcriptionists' work, which meant another small raise on top of a per line rate for the documents I proofread.  It adds at least an hour to my work day and adds about $300 to my check each month, $150 every paycheck.  Oh, and did I mention I took a big chunk of non-medical transcription as well, with no definite deadline but which is totally looming over me?

Meanwhile, my husband is working hella long hours at the restaurant.  All this is to say that we're now making enough money to get by.  We're able to pay our bills and buy some healthier groceries.  We've been able to take the kids to the local water park and for the first time in years (maybe ever) I bought my husband a father's day gift.  I'm still working on a budget, but I think we're doing all right now.  I hope to be able to get insurance for myself soon (my kids and husband are able to get health care on the Crow reservation nearby, though I do plan to sign my kids up for Healthy Montana Kids)

Working these long hours at home is different than working long hours on my feet like my husband does.  Today we had a mild disagreement about how much time he was allowed to relax on a day off.  I was a little bitchy.  I do love working at home, and I am lucky.  Every day I get up around 6, make coffee, and either shower or get right to work.  One by one as my kids wake up they come upstairs and push open the door, eyes squinty and chins crusted with drool.  They'll come close for hugs, and sometimes curl up on my lap or on the floor while they wake up for the day.  I pretty much treasure those moments.  But it breaks my heart when my four year-old says "Why do you always have to work a long day!" or when my eight year-old brings up the fact that we need to have some time alone together.  And so sometimes I take a break from work and have a picnic under the tree in our front yard, or watch a program with my kids.  Once in a while if I feel I can't make it through the day without, I'll ask one of my younger kids if they want to nap with me. They always say yes, and my favorite way to fall asleep is with my hand across their narrow bodies. 

So I make time for my kids, and I make time for my husband.  Even though I'm exhausted by 10 p.m., some weeknights and most weekends I'll stay up until he gets home at 11, 12, or 1, just so I can sit with him and hear about his day, and so I can tell him all the stories of what happened around the house.  We've still managed to have sex a couple of times a week through all this, and I'm so glad we still have the passion we've always had for each other.  Even being exhausted I can be quickly convinced by my extremely amorous hubby to participate in some bowchickawowow.


I work hard to make sure my relationships don't suffer, and of course I have tremendous guilt.  But something has to give, and so lately what gives is my writing time, and my reading time.  I'm trying to turn a thesis into a book, and I have no time and not much motivation to work on it.  When I finally get the kids to bed at night, I gotta do some cleaning.  I can't relax in the living room unless I pick up and sweep, and the dishes are my personal chore, so I have to keep up with that.  So around 10 p.m. I collapse on the couch (which we just got FREE from our neighbors at a garage sale) and ponder if I should read one of three books I'm in the middle of, or maybe do some writing, or if instead I should maybe watch one episode of Reno 911 and then take my sleeping pill and hit the sack or doze on the couch till High Hawk the hubby gets home.  Sadly, the latter's been winning almost all the time. 




Over a year's worth of notes! And
why yes, that IS Anchorman there
in the corner!

I'm so grateful to be able to move up in my work, to have this particular kind of work, and to be making enough money to get by.  But. 

 I started to borrow Anne Lamott's idea about writing words, ideas, sentences, etc., down on index cards.  I started with white, but then I got a stack of different colored ones, and when I'm typing away at medical records, if I have an idea for a blog post, I write it on a green index card.  Pink is for ideas for my manuscript, and orange is for a different book idea I have.  So I've got a stack of neon reminders that alternately inspire and taunt me, tease me and tempt me. 


Mostly, they just get scattered all over the floor.

Um, that's not feminism

Do what you wanna do, girl.  I got your back.

January Jones and Alicia Silverstone have made news recently.  Jones talked openly about encapsulating her placenta and taking it like a vitamin.  Silverstone practices kiss-feeding, or chewing up her kids’ food before feeding it to them. 

Now I haven’t done either of these things.  I’m interested in placenta encapsulation and if I have another baby, I will see if I can do it.  I’ve read about it and found absolutely nothing negative about it.  The only negativity comes from assholey Judgy McJudgertons.  I woke up the other day when my radio alarm went off.  I laid in bed and listened to my (former) favorite station, MOJO 92.5.  They play 70s and 80s music, and I dig it.  The two male and one female DJ then started in on some news—yep, they started in on January Jones.  It was sort of like this:

 

“Did you know January Jones ate her placenta?” 

“Ewwww.  That’s sick and wrong.”

“Totally.  She said other mammals do it, so she wanted to try it, and she said it gave her lots of energy.” 

“Hasn’t she ever heard of coffee?”  (insert jack-ass laughter)

“Well, you know, humans do a lot of things other mammals don’t.  Like wear clothes.” 

“Have you driven around this country?  There’s a reason for a lot of people to wear clothes!”  (insert more jack-ass laughter) 

So basically they judged something they know nothing about, and then participated in a quick bout of fat-shaming.  I got up and turned the station.  

Now, my opinion on both Jones and Silverstone is this:  I do not give a rip if Jones eats her placenta, and I don’t give a shit if Silverstone feeds her kid by chewing up his or her food first.  Because I’m pro-choice.   Want to breastfeed because it’s good for the baby?  Fine.  Want to breastfeed because it’ll help you lose weight faster?  Cool.  Don’t want to breastfeed because you have to go back to work and won’t have time or resources to pump?  All right.  Don’t want to breastfeed because you just don’t want to?  Fine by me, lady.  Want to fully follow the vaccination schedule?  Go ahead.  Want to selectively vaccinate or not at all?  I’ll support you.  Want to have the baby?  Cool. I’ll babysit.  Want an abortion?  I’ll go with you. 

I bet her placenta is DELICIOUS!

What I’m saying is that being pro-choice should cover more than just abortion.  Feminism should cover more than the false dichotomy of mothering versus being a good feminist. 

 

I’ve written before about how much it pisses me off when folks say they’re pro-choice.  So I wasn’t too shocked to hear that supposed feminist Amanda Marcotte wrote this article, because I already know she’s anti-choice when it comes to vaccination.  I was sort of surprised at how laughable the short piece was.  Marcotte’s argument boils down to her being grossed out, but she veils it as concern for the already beleaguered modern mother: 

That the burdens of getting "natural" fall nearly exclusively on the shoulders of women---especially when babies come---is reason enough to take a step back and wonder if this isn't the same old oppression of women repackaged in shiny new organic wrapping.

That’s a good one.  Yes, it’s all about oppressing the women.   Because nothing says “I trust and respect women” like saying “Your birth and parenting choices are nasty.  EWWW.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.  There are plenty of *OPSWAM in this country trying to send women back down to chattel status, Marcotte.  Saying that the “crunchy mom mafia” is degrading and oppressive to women is just ANTI-FEMINIST.    

I’m calling it.  The fourthwave of feminism is here, and we have open arms.  We accept that motherhood looks different for every single woman.  We support women even if their choices don’t feel to us like looking in a mirror.  And if Marcotte can’t say that, I’m not sure the Fourth Wave wants or needs “feminists” like her.

*Over-Privileged Straight White American Male (stolen from my friend Sam Edmonds and his eat-a-bag-of-dicks attitude).

Which Way Will WIC go?

I loved being on WIC from 2000-2005. I loved the cooking classes, free recipe books and never having to worry about food for my son. My ex-husband and I were very poor college students back then so knowing there would be cereal, milk and other food for our son in constant supply was a blessing indeed.

For me, WIC was pretty consistent. You went in about once a month, had your child weighed, measured and sometime a finger prick to check iron levels (a child can be on WIC until the age of 5 or until your income increases over poverty mark for the family size). Then, you got your folder of checks. These checks were good for specific items and varied in selection with the child’s age.

Once in a while they had me sign up for a class. One was on how to make macaroni and cheese from scratch (white base, add cheese, boil macaroni, put in oven) and another on the number of fruits and vegetables your child was to eat per day and how to make eating them fun and interesting (ants on a log!). Most classes came with government-printed recipe books and handouts. I thought it was fun, and honestly, a bit like junior high home-ec class, which I also liked quite a bit.

But I was surprised to hear that many women have had different experiences with WIC than I have. Reports of “pushy staff” and mundane visits have been ringing in my ears. Some even quit. I think it would take a lot for me to quit a free food program but when you hear that a mother “didn’t feel respected as a parent” that is definitely hard to take. I think that would push me over the edge.

WIC tried to pressure me into breastfeeding but in no way with a heavy hand. In the office, I succumbed to pressure to join a class just to learn about it but then cancelled. I was 19 and pregnant. All my brothers and sisters had been bottle-fed and I wanted my husband to be able to help. I worried about breastfeeding not working out. I could go on and on but I don’t want to make this a breastfeeding post. Suffice it to say, I just wasn’t ready to breastfeed. I was young, scared and had no frame of reference. I gave a sigh of relief when I got my first formula checks without hassle.

So, upon reading that WIC is actually trying to recruit low income families to join, I started to wonder why this would be needed. Isn’t the Right always saying we “poor people” want our free cheese? Guess we don’t if they are all up in our parenting business.

I hope WIC is taking surveys to see why people leave or refuse to join. WIC doesn’t seem to be as well-known as it used to be. Has it overstayed its welcome? I don’t think so. Perhaps there is pressure from higher up Government folks for WIC to produce impressive numbers to report back to those who elected to support and fund the program. I’ve learned in my past few months of grant writing that grantors (government or not) REALLY want to see what you do with THEIR money. Perhaps that’s it…WIC is pressuring parents to churn out super babies so they can keep their funding.

What’s your WIC story? I’d love to hear it.

Every Child a Wanted Child

Today is the 39^th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, and it’s Blog for Choice day.  I thought this was the appropriate time to share my second abortion story, because my second abortion didn’t involve complications or drawn-out denial or an abusive partner—it was a more typical experience, I think, and I think it’s just as important to share this story.   

After my first abortion, I didn’t go on birth control because I wasn’t seeing anyone and I didn’t see the point.  A couple of years later I started seeing someone, and became pregnant again (no condom.  Yes, stupid.)  I told the father and he told me he was supportive of whatever decision I made.  I didn’t hesitate.  It is still amazing to me that through the years, though I’ve been willing to sacrifice a lot of things for a man, and though I’ve avoided confrontation with others by being passive-aggressive, I’ve always, always been able to stand firm when it came to my reproductive choices.  It’s not even difficult for me. 

The father accompanied me and I went and got my abortion, by the same wonderful woman, Dr. Susan Wicklund.  And this time when the nurse asked me at my follow-up visit if I was interested in a birth control pill, I said yes. 

I don’t regret either of my abortions.  I couldn’t imagine being tied to either of those men in any way.  I grew up positive I didn’t want to have kids, which probably fueled my pro-choice slant from early on, and I only changed my mind when I met someone who somehow made me believe I could be a mother, who just took it for granted I could be a good mother, when I’d always seen myself as someone who’d be terrible at and who would also hate it.   

Molly's Mom's Toaster

When my sixteen year old daughter told me she had invited Molly’s mom into our apartment while I was napping, my stomach clinched so tight I nearly puked. Molly was my daughter’s new best friend in high school marching band. My family and I (me and my hubby, our four kids, and our dog) had just moved to the area so I could finish up grad school, and I was looking upon our tiny, two bedroom single level apartment as temporary. I did not plan on ever entertaining company – at least not without an extensive explanation. Making buddies with a fellow parent wasn’t really a workable plan – unless the parents were more than a little free-spirited, nontraditionally young (I had my first three kids all before I was 21), and struggling (I mean food stamp approval level struggles) for time and money. THEN maybe I could relate a little.

Molly’s mom seemed to me, an alien, over a decade older, a city woman, a future helicopter parent, two car garage and tiny yappy dog owner, a God Complex attender, likely conservative. Molly’s mother seemed more organized, more involved and connected, more flexibly employed, more traditionally married, more housewifey, and so fit to the given plastic-mold in her concern for her daughter’s education. She had a two story on the outskirts of town, where all the houses were brick and the townspeople cruised to the grocery store in golf carts. Her and her kids were always dressed in name-brand clothing. She had afforded BOTH kids clear braces. She wore decorative sweatshirts appropriate to season. She worked part time in some office. Her husband kept the money flowing but was rarely home because he was always “off on business.” They had four dogs and a fat black cat that would all peer down their noses at me from her bay window whenever I pulled into her driveway to drop off or pick up my daughter.

I was overwhelmed by things like squeezing our money through a sieve, pulling together a work schedule, attending late night classes, and getting my writing done. I didn’t clean house much, and my husband kept up with it well enough. I sort of felt cozy in the muck and muddle. I was good enough if I was giving my children – the youngest 6 and the oldest 20 – a warm meal and some sort of minutely positive attention daily. I had to hope that the public school system was doing well enough and, occasionally, I tried to reverse any disreputable damages. I imagined myself stepping up later. I thought the older I became, the better I’d fit in with those “traditional” type parents like Molly’s mother, but I was beginning to realize I wasn’t catching up with anyone.

I had nearly puked because I realize Molly’s mom had seen my apartment in an outright wreck. She saw the piles of shoes and coats which beaver damned the flow of traffic from the front door. She saw my gritty carpet after my kindergartener had been chopping up one hundred tiny paper triangles to prove her newfound counting skills. Molly’s mom saw our family dog, sick and coughing and weepy eyed, in need of a vet’s attention, if only we could have afforded it. She saw a twin bed as it sat unmade on the floor without a frame in the space traditionally reserved for a dining table. There had been toys and papers everywhere. She saw stacks of half-filled cups on the end table and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts and discarded chewing gum. She saw my sink full of dirty dishes, the leftovers of supper, and, of course, it had been spaghetti. The worst was she saw my husband napping half-naked on the couch in his Darth Vader-esque sleep apnea mask. Surely, she bore witness to his hairy belly button.

My daughter had tried to wake me so us two mothers could meet, and I, being exhausted from staying up über late the night before, brushed it off in a sleepy mumble. I told her – perhaps half aware of what I was avoiding – I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Later, when I learned of Molly’s mom’s invasion, I beheld visions of the woman running a manicured finger over the top of my television to calculate the depth of the dust. I envisioned her kicking coats and shoes aside, fighting the urge to organize them herself or perhaps thinking she should graciously loan me one of her organizational cubbyhole systems (like a good fellow mother would). I saw her sniffing the air and lifting her chin in an attempt to raise her head out of the scent of dirty dog and cigarette smoke. I saw her gazing caringly at my sixteen year old daughter, wishing the Lord had given her a more suitable set of parents.

After learning of my exposure, I snapped. I assured my family they were a group of totally careless people, not concerning themselves with the appearance of the apartment in the face of new company, and the worst kind of company – a “traditional,” older, conservative mother. I started tossing shoes into the shoe basket, started rinsing dishes and shoving them in the dishwasher. It is a given, I insisted, that when anyone – not just another woman – looks upon the interior of a living space and it’s messy, it’s immediately blamed upon the mental state and ability of the woman. Among mothers, there can be a brutal competiveness, a tendency to sneer, judge, and share gossip. Mothers can seek to show up one another. Society sets this up the regulative order of things. When I was very young, I witnessed my own poor, single mother as she was practically tortured by fellow female church goers. Having had my first three kids before I was 21, I have had nightmares about such castings and have always felt like I had a wider tail to cover.

After my mini-explosion upon being exposed as incompetent, my husband stared at me like I was crazy. He raised his eyebrows and stepped away from me as though I was contagious. But all this falls on me! I cried. Can’t you see? Molly’s mom thinks I’m awful. His stare sunk deep. What had I just said? I was thinking crazy. I stopped and laughed at myself and convinced myself to brush it all off. Why should I care what Molly’s mom thinks of me? She’s so freakin’ plastic.

Not long after all this, Molly’s mom let me in her ranch to make a quick phone call. As I walked up to her house, I realized I had never noticed her grass was dry and tan unlock the other lush green lawns on the block, nor had I noticed that there sat a rusting Bronco in the driveway that never moved. “Just kick the dogs away,” Molly’s mom had told me. The dogs had yapped and jumped and sniffed over all of my lower half. There sat a tiny pink bow on the head of the Pomeranian, and when I saw this I thought I had been spot on in my assumptions. But then I noticed the fur on its belly and the underside of its tail was so grungy it was twisted into dredlocks. As her big black cat nuzzled my calves, I saw it had bald spots. Something was off. After Molly’s mom pointed me to the phone, she ran to the bathroom to ponytail her flaming red hair which suddenly seemed insanely frizzy and unruly.

Molly’s mom’s house was disgusting. I stepped over pets and pillows and dirty clothes in the living room to get to the phone in the kitchen. With all of those pets and that overfilled trashcan, her house was so odorous it was tangy. Stringy dust bunnies waved from her heating vents. Her front bay window was cloudy and had a line of slimy dog saliva. Her sofa was ripped open in places, exposing chunks of yellowed foam. Her carpet was stained – pee? tea? Her houseplants were all brown and slumping, neglected. Her family portraits were all goofy, off-center, and hanged crooked. She had a large kitchen table, but I couldn’t see the top of it for the stacks of junk mail, magazines, and cookie packages. She had a plastic basket on her kitchen counter overflowing with little orange bottles of prescription pills. Then I saw her toaster which sat there by the phone. It was covered with caked-on crumbs and burnt crud. It was a repeated tool of the easy breakfast, littered with PopTart pieces, a symbol of neglect, overuse, and exhaustion.

TheToaster - FA+, by Ingrid Falk & Gustavo Aguerre. 

Buenos Aires, 2000 - installation

2500 slices of bread on foamboard. 500 x 450 cm.

I would come to learn that when Molly’s mom’s husband was “off on business” he was trekking across the country as an OTR truck driver – and she hated his guts. He never helped her with anything, being stout to follow the “proper” rules of gender expectation. They were in massive debt, she was suffering from multiple health problems all multiplied by depression, and she ran herself ragged every day. The only relief she ever found was in the occasional bottle of wine, and, on that day, she hinted to me I should have some with her some time. I told her maybe, but doubted myself, knowing she was indeed a conservative Christian and, when I drink wine, I can get testy. I did hug her after making the phone call that day, but I was unsure of whether I liked her better or worse having discovered she wasn’t so Disney. I had left her driveway sporting a half-smile, and even as irony waited to punch me in the face, I patted myself on the back knowing I would never let my toaster get that nasty.

Brighid's Reveal

To open, some background on my namesake Goddess:

Brighid is a Celtic triple goddess ruling healing, poetry, and smithcraft. She is one of the great mothers of the Celts. Her modern name is Brigit or Bridget as derived from her Christianization into St. Bridget. Her name, Brighid, thought to be derived from Bhrati in Sanskrit, is originally an epithet meaning "exalted one".

Brighid is best known for her associations with healing, poetry, and smithcraft. As a healing goddess, she governs childbirth and the birthing time. Brighid was highly regarded as a healing goddess as can be seen from the numerous healing wells dedicated to her all over Ireland. As a goddess of poetry, she governs not only the inspiration and writing of poetry, but also divination and prophecy. As a goddess of smithcraft, she governs the forge's fire. It is for these reasons that she is considered the "Bright Goddess" and is associated with the element of fire. In all her forms, she brings to one inspiration (a fire quality) and provides the spark for motivation. Her fire associations are so strong that a perpetual fire was set at Kildare in her honor. The fire still burns there today. She also became the goddess of the hearth-fire, the fire of the home, since she contains the mother and fire aspects.

I chose Brighid because of her aspects of motherhood (especially giving birth), her connections to the hearth and home, and poetry as divination.

Now, some things you should know about me: I moved out my parent’s house at 18, was pregnant, married and gave birth at 19 (yes, in that order), dropped out of a state school after two quarters because I got pregnant. I proceeded to go back to college part-time at twenty-two, got my A.A. at twenty-five, my B.A. at twenty-eight and my MFA at thirty…so, essentially I have been in school, minus 2.5 years, since I was in Kindergarten. My divorce to said husband was final last month.

I have been on cash assistance, food assistance, medical assistance, WIC and SNAP at different points in my life. I am pretty liberal in my political stances. I feel the government cannot leave the poor behind, especially the poor who are mentally-ill. Mental healthcare in this country is a huge problem that contributes to homelessness and poverty, but more on that another day. To be brief: I feel that those who are fortunate to make a lot of money should help those less fortunate and that those who are less fortunate should use the services they have and make the most of them so they can get ahead.

I have been a stay-at-home mom (while going to college) and am now a working mom. The stay-at-home mom was the model I had growing up. So charting the waters of working and raising my son is very new to me. I always felt that what I did in the home was indeed work. The best example was thinking of what my then-husband would have to do to replace me if I died: hire a maid, cook, driver, babysitter and personal accountant. I feel all moms are working moms.

In the writing world, I am a poet. I feel my poems border on the metaphorical and rely heavily on metaphors grounded in the relationships between human beings and between human beings and the natural world. I adore the poetry of Michael Heffernan, Laura Kasischke and Sylvia Plath, to name a few.

To pay the bills, I teach on the college-level and do some marketing for a small nonprofit.

My child is the most important part of my life. I plan to have more children in the future, with or without a man by my side.

So, to put it mildly, I love education, being a mother and writing. I love my fellow blog goddesses and am honored to have been asked to be a part of it. Alala!!