Explanation

Mm. I guess I should have mentioned this before, but the "The Cat" is a revamped short story that I wrote at the end of my freshman year of high school. 
We were given the short story assignment and I wrote it then read  it before my class. It was extremely gratifying. Everyone loved it. 
I never got my story back. I went to my teacher and she told me that she wasn't through grading them. I went back on the last day of school and couldn't find her. The next year, I went to my sophomore English teacher and asked if it was in my file and she ranted about being an overwhelmed new teacher and that I'd just have to come back to her later.
My somewhat-paranoid mother says that someone stole my story and kept it for him or herself. I'm not sure it was that good, but I'll never know, because I never read it again.
People, this was in the age of handwriting and typewriters. I'm not sure it was even ever on a floppy disk. 
For twenty years this story stayed in my mind and finally, I rewrote it. The premise is the same but I'm sure that it is significantly different than the first version. Longer, for one.
I wrote it with my oldest son in mind. I thought that it might have been the story that I would have liked to have read when I was his age, coming up on ten. It is written in a sort of old-timey, affected way but that is because I imagined it this way (all those years ago) in my head. I even have a mental movie of the whole thing, a short film that I would have loved in 1986.
Not a real blog entry, just an old story and then a brief explanation for the existence thereof. 
Have an explosive Fourth of July.

The Cat

             Our Girl was sick. She had been sick for as long as she could remember. She had been born early, fragile, but to the delight of her parents, the midwife and the entirety of the household, she lived. The pride that her mother and father felt at watching their tiny daughter struggle to stay alive slowly turned to sadness as they came to realize that she would always be ill, that she would never become strong enough to live a normal life. Her father was a very successful businessman, wealthy and a well-known influence for miles around. Over time he grew bitter and embarrassed about having just one sickly child, and a girl, on top of that! And because he was a decent man he was often overwhelmed by the guilt he felt because of his resentment. After a number of years her mother – a very young and beautiful woman of high class – felt something frighteningly close to hatred for this child who had robbed her of the life she felt that she so clearly should have led.

            And so this girl was very alone. She was attended to by her nurse, as well as by some of the household help. Though they were respectful and tried to be kind, they were no replacement for the parents who so skillfully avoided her room, visiting only out of obligation or necessity. She would have surely been less unhappy had she not been an only child. Since she was very young she’d dreamed about having sisters and brothers, even a cousin or a friend who might visit and play.

            On several occasions her parents had tried to take her out – to a garden party, to have lunch at the hotel in town, or to pay a visit to a relative - but each trip out had provoked an episode of illness, each more serious than the last. It seemed like there was always something wrong. Sometimes she’d have fevers or a stomach so sour she’d go days without keeping any food down. She suffered terrible headaches brought on by sensitivity to light or sound. She was always weak, always tired. Sometimes it seemed to her like the very air was poisoning her.

            She read. She stayed in her room and sat in her chair piled high with blankets that never quite lost that clinging odor of sickness no matter how many times they were washed in scalding water and hung out in the bright, fresh air. In between books, she looked out the window and that is where she is today.

            She sat reading a fantastic book about a blindingly beautiful princess who was sent overboard her royal yacht during a violent storm and washed up barely alive on the pristine shore of a wild island only to be discovered (thank goodness!) by a brave and handsome explorer who happened upon the island during his travels. She’d read this book so many times that she nearly had it memorized. She got lost in it. She was transported, in fact, by any deftly spun tale not having to do with illness, cold climates, or lonely people. Burning sunshine and salt water and coconut milk were just what she needed.

            Though she had never felt the radiant heat of sunburn, the sting of seawater in her eyes, or even seen a real coconut, she had a vivid imagination and she imagined that they were all good things, certainly better than the situation in which she found herself, at present.

            Today she was as far away from all that as it seemed possible. There was a blazing fire crackling in the fireplace and outside the series of French doors that made up one wall of her room was enough snow that if she were to stand in it she would be covered up to her neck. The thought amused her. She imagined her little red wool hat popping out above the great plane of snow that covered the lawn like a cherry sitting atop a dish of custard. She wondered what it would feel like to walk through all that snow, to dig in it and make tunnels and throw snowballs. As she wondered, her face fell and she was again infused with a sort of mute anger that seemed to occupy her all the time when she wasn’t reading.

            “All the things I can’t do, mustn’t do…so many things I won’t see!” she groaned. To make matters worse, through the window she spotted the one other child who lived on this great estate of her father’s – the gardener’s son. Just seeing him blackened her mood, simply because he was outside and she wasn’t. He could run and she couldn’t. He laughed, and she didn’t. She knew that it wasn’t his fault that she was sick. She knew that it was silly to be angry with him, to envy him his strength and freedom. It occurred to her, suddenly, the she had no proof that he knew that she existed. Wasn’t that a strange idea? she wondered, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes as the thought grew sharper, If someone who I can see and know to be real isn’t aware that I am alive, much less observing him, does this mean that I’m not real? The very thought set her head to spinning and wore her out, however intriguing the question might be.

Underneath the weariness, though, was a deeper emotion – sadness. It didn’t seem so far-fetched to her that she might not be real but instead imaginary, like some of her best-loved characters in her favorite books. The thought was not unpleasant: What if she could become part of that cherished group of pretty princesses and glimmering fairies? In a way, they were her only and best friends.

The gardener’s son now shouted so loudly that she heard him through the great, glass doors along her far wall. She started, embarrassed to realize that her chin had slid slowly into her collarbone, her eyes gently closing, as she pondered the uncertainty of her existence. Then, she felt herself flush, as her embarrassment at nodding off before it was even dusk embarrassed her further. What point to being embarrassed having done something that no one has seen? she thought darkly. 

The boy and his father shared a small cottage that had been built for them several years before, when the two came to live on the estate. She found it strange that her father would be so generous as to build the little house just for the gardener and his son. One day, not long after their arrival, she had overheard the help gossiping about the two of them, and if their idle chatter was to be believed, the story of the boy and his father was just as interesting as some of her books.

The day that she overheard the maids talking had been a day like any other. She was laying in her bed, dozing but unable to sleep because of a dull ache in her bones and eyes that burned even when they were closed. The maids were cleaning the sitting room just off of her own room and one of them had left the door between the two rooms open. They probably believed her to be asleep and made no effort to keep their voices down, nor to censor themselves. They probably thought her too young to understand, even if they did suspect her to be listening. 

Melinda, the younger of the two, asked the other, “Did you hear for who that clever little house is being built, Lizzie?”

Lizzie, the fat one, replied, “Oh, the new gardener and his son, is it?”

“That’d be true,” Melinda answered, “and don’t you wish you’d had a nice cottage built for you when you started up here, emptying their fire grates and washing their dainties?”

Melinda was a girl who did not hide her jealous nature well, though she recognized that she might profit from making an effort to that end every so often. She sounded bitter as she explained that the boy’s mother had recently died after a long sickness (which of course was a pity, “the poor little fellow!” she clucked) and that before she’d died, she had instructed her husband to come here, to Our Girl’s estate, where she was sure he’d be helped.

Our Girl was quite awake by this point in the conversation, wondering who this woman was, how she knew her father, and why she had sent her widower and son this way.

Melinda continued, “Well, seems our fair mistress ain’t the only pretty face that ever turned Mr. Carrington’s head.”

“What are you getting at?” asked Lizzie, though it was unclear to Our Girl whether she was asking out of irony or whether she truly misunderstood the implication. She didn’t care – she was waiting for what came next.

“Oh, no…” Melinda went on, “I heard tell that the dear departed Mama of that little boy was once quite a special lady to our Mr. Carrington. Knew each other well, seems to be…” She trailed off, chuckling. “Can you imagine the shame, poor gardener fellow showing up at this grand house, begging for work from his wife’s old beau? Ha!”

“Ah, you’ve got an idle, evil mind, Melinda,” Lizzie said. “And what if the mother was Mr. Carrington’s sister, or cousin? That would explain him caring after the man and his boy.”

Melinda hooted, though it was not a joyful sound. “And you think it was for jealousy of her dead sister-in-law that the missus threw her antique crystal into the dressing room mirror when she learned of the boy and his Dad coming on? Don’t be a dolt! Angry about finding out that her daughter’s got a half-brother, more like!”

This electrified Our Girl. This eavesdropped conversation (though it couldn’t very well be eavesdropping when she was stuck in her bed, the sitting room door left wide open and those two yapping away at top volume, now could it?) had possessed her for days. She played and replayed the exchange over in her head, embellishing, adding details and new characters until she wasn’t sure that she quite correctly remembered the original story.

Still, she was fascinated by the idea: Who was this boy’s mother? How did she know her father? And how could he possibly be her brother? She remembered very well, however, the night that a great crash had resounded through the house, followed by a high-pitched, incomprehensible rant – her mother, screaming. It had woken her up but at first she thought that she'd dreamt it. But the hysterics continued even after she was very awake and they confused and scared her. She was so little when it happened, not more than six years old, and even after hearing the maids talk about it she preferred to think - and even halfway believed - that it had been a dream. Her memory was muddled - she'd been so small at the time that she couldn't be sure now exactly what was true. 

And now, years later, this boy who might be her brother (and over time, Our Girl had come to understand how that might be so) was far across the lawn, playing near the cottage that he had lived in with his father since his mother died and his father came to the house asking for work. He was so bundled up against the cold that he was having trouble walking, his limbs stiff and his movements lumbering. It didn’t seem to bother him, though, and he ran through the snow throwing great handfuls of it into the air and then falling backwards into the drifts, knocked flat by the enthusiasm of his play.

            She could have cried, she was so jealous, but anger dried her tears before they fell and left her eyes hot and stinging. She turned her gaze away from the gardener’s son and his simple, joyful play and returned to her book, relieved to find that she was nearing one of her preferred passages.

After spending several days being nursed back to health the princess realizes that her gratitude towards this intrepid sailor is more profound than she first thought and that she has indeed fallen in love with him. She professes her love for him and is astounded when he reveals to her that he, too, is of noble blood and that he has been sailing the world looking for just the perfect lady to be his princess bride.

            She closed her eyes and smiled, but her face fell when she heard footsteps in the corridor outside her room. She watched the handle of the door lower and the door opened quietly, her afternoon nurse’s head coming into view. She caught the nurse’s eye and the nurse smiled at her.

            “Ah, miss! You’re awake,” she said, “and feeling well, I hope?”

            The girl lowered her gaze and said nothing. There was a brief, awkward silence and then the nurse said, “Well. I’ve just come down to tell you that Dr. McDougal will be arriving shortly and he intends to give you a thorough going-over. We’ve all been worried about you these last weeks, you know.”

            The girl nodded her head as she closed her eyes. A wave of fatigue and nausea made her head heavy and it wobbled slightly as she sat there. This must be what it’s like to be very, very old, she thought, and the idea of herself as a tiny, frail old woman caught in the body of a girl almost made her smile.

            When she opened her eyes again it was because the doctor was lifting her gently from her chair.

            “Well, hello, missus!” he smiled at her.

            She didn’t dislike Dr. McDougal; he had warm hands and kind eyes and he didn’t talk to her as though she were stupid, which was more than she could say for her mother. It was simply that he was almost nearly always the bearer of bad news. No fault of his own, of course, but how pleased can one be to meet again with someone who is duty-bound to give ever-worsening status updates? She tried for a genuine smile but produced an expression closer to neutrality.

            “Ah, my beauty,” he smiled, placing her on the bed. “Let’s have a listen to those lungs, give you a good once-over, do you say?”

            Our Girl looked at him blandly. There really was no point in protesting, after all.

            “All right, then!” he persisted, the forced cheer becoming more annoying. “We’ll begin with a look in those eyes.”

            He looked into her eyes, felt her throat, peered into her mouth, and took her pulse at the wrist.

            He didn’t say much, set her back against the pillows, and then said, “Darling girl, I need to listen to your heart and your breathing. I’m going to lift up your nightshirt – is that all right?”

            She nodded, and he braced his arm across her upper chest and tilted her forward, lifting her beautiful satin bed jacket up beyond her shoulder blades. She heard him gasp softly and then he cleared his throat.

            “Okay, then. Breathe in for three then out for three, once for each time I move the stethoscope. Good?” he instructed.

            She complied. After several repetitions – in for three, out for three – he settled her back down, gently.

            “Ahem,” he looked nervous. “Dear child, have you fallen recently, say, in the last few weeks?”

            Our Girl’s interest was piqued by the question, though she didn’t know whether to be curious, frightened, or both.

            “No, doctor,” she answered, “not as I remember.”

            “Well,” the doctor ventured, “I’m concerned, love, because you have some impressive bruising along your ribcage. No one has…”

            The doctor swallowed, audibly.

            “No one has taken a hand to you, have they now?” he said softly.

            Our Girl was taken aback and asked, “Hit me, have they? No, no. No.”

            The doctor looked sideways, eyes moving under his small, round glasses.

            “Child? You have my confidence. I must know how you became bruised this way,” he whispered.

            Our Girl couldn’t think of it. It was true that no one in her short life had raised a hand to her. She hadn’t fallen.

            She faltered, “People lift me in and out of my chair, or the bed. That’s it, really. Nothing else…harder.”

            He looked at her, perhaps convinced, and then busied himself in feeling the temperature of her fingers, her feet, and testing the muscle tone in her legs and arms.

            It was at that moment when she heard her mother’s high, lilting voice. She was talking quickly, and in response came her father’s slower baritone. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the doctor, like she had, heard that they were on their way. He stood suddenly, then looked down at her.

            “Sweet child,” he started to say, before there were two sharp raps at the door and then it opened, her mother not waiting for anyone inside the room to grant her entrance.
     “Ducky!” her mother exclaimed.

Our Girl’s mother was most certainly not quite yet thirty, and her fine features and smooth skin made her appear more youthful, still. Her voice was too high and she was dressed for the outdoors, in fur, a hat, and heavy gloves. She looked uncomfortable in the warmth of her daughter’s room.

“Ducky,” she began again, gathering her force, “Your father and I," (This, with a deferential nod to her father.) "have only just discovered that we were unintentionally left off of the guest list for Lord and Lady Rushmere’s Winter Ball! (And this, with a strained, beaming smile.) Well, it just absolutely made no sense whatsoever that we wouldn’t have been included and so when I was sent a note this morning excusing the terrible error, why, you can imagine that I made extraordinary efforts to respond immediately and prepare our affairs for the voyage. You must understand that it’s of paramount importance that your father, and I as well, of course, both be present at such an estimable social function….”

It was at this point that the Lady noticed that her daughter, Our Girl, was not listening with rapt attention but rather staring at the wall next to her bed, listlessly.

Her father remained silent, contemplating the world through the darkening windows.

Her mother regrouped.

“Oh, kitten,” she said, breathing somewhat heavily, “Here you are just tired out and on I go, boring you with the silly details of our agenda. Suffice it to say that we’ll be off through the weekend and perhaps even into next week.” Her brow creased. “The trip is quite long.”

Here, the doctor found himself.

“Madam,” he broke in, “If you do have several minutes? I’d like to share with you the results of my examination.”

Visibly frustrated, her mother glanced upwards towards her father, who betrayed nothing. She twisted the gloved fingertips of one hand into the grooved V's between the fingers of the other hand.

“Yes, yes. Of course,” she said, already moving to the side room. “Why don’t we step into the library and let the darling catch some rest?”

The doctor gave Our Girl one last smile before turning and following her mother. Her father was last to leave her room but he made no concerted attempt to close the door. Because of it, she heard the entire conversation. Well, up until the point when she interrupted.

The doctor began: “Madam, I am most concerned with the girl’s condition. I might even caution you against leaving your estate this weekend.”

At this, Our Girl heard her mother emit a noisy and contemptuous sigh. And then, “Oh, yes! Haven’t we heard this before! Since that child was born I’ve been on pins and needles waiting for some dreadful outcome that we only just manage to avoid!”

And here, her father spoke. Or shouted.

“Olivia!” His voice was angry. “Perhaps you were too generous with your afternoon libation, my dear. Perhaps we can let the doctor finish?” His voice softened toward the end, but whether it was because of a self-consciousness being in view of the doctor or because he softened toward her mother, Our Girl would never know.

The doctor began again: “Madam, as you know, your daughter was not born a robust child and recently, her health has begun deteriorating at a rate that alarms even me.”

Our Girl felt as if she might start choking and realized only after several seconds that it was because she had forgotten to breathe. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and focused her attention on the forbidden conversation in the next room.

“It’s her liver,” he stated. “As sure as I’m born, it’s her liver. She’s got eyes more yellow than blue, terrible bruising around the torso…the help tells me that she hardly eats, they can’t tempt her with anything, and that she spends more hours asleep than awake.”

There was silence, and then, “I can’t do anything for her except try to make her comfortable. I’m so sorry.”

More silence, and then her father’s rich voice. “How long, then, doc?”

“Could be days, could be weeks,” the doctor replied. “I’d not easily make an accurate prediction.”

Our Girl could hear her own breathing and feel her own heart in the pause that followed. She wished – how she wished! – that she could see the faces on the three – her patient doctor, her shamed father, and her querulous, lovely mother.

There was harsh murmuring, and then her mother: “I’ll not have my life truncated by the ever-present threat of nothing, or something that might even be a relief!”

With that, she was back through the door. By the time she pushed it open, Our Girl had pushed herself up, with no small effort, to a seated position. Her mother stopped abruptly when she saw her sitting there, her cheeks aflame with two red spots. Her mother’s beautifully shaped mouth opened and closed several times, no sound escaping her lips.

Our Girl laughed, though it was more of a sneer, out loud.

“You thought me asleep, did you? Don’t worry yourself, mother. Nothing I’ve heard tonight has been much of a surprise to me.” She winced as a pain bolted through her right side. “Don’t worry, I say. Don’t worry…I’m even more eager than you are for the disappointing finale of this failed experiment!” At this last, Our Girl flung her arms out to her sides and fell back into the bedclothes, gasping for breath, lightheaded and nauseous.

What could her mother say? How could she turn it, back peddle, twist it round to make it okay? Knowing at least that this much was impossible, the Lady turned and fled the room. Her father stood with one hand on the foot of her bed, looking in the direction of his fleeing wife. Our Girl was touched to see that when he turned his head back to her, one tear glistened on his cheek, just above his beard.

“Good bye, love,” was all he said.

Beyond fatigue, she leaned to the side and vomited onto the lush carpet below.

When she stirred, it wasn't because the room stank nor even, remarkably, because she was uncomfortable. She awoke because there was a sound she hadn't heard before except in her dreams.

In her dreams, this sound that she heard was of a captive man, a lovely man, chained under decks of a magnificent sailing ship. He was chained about the wrists to a metal post and the sound that she heard was much like the clatter of metal upon metal. This man was her savior, voyaging intrepidly towards her coast despite the shackles that held him bound.

But the air was different - it wasn't saline, nor humid, as it should have been in the South Pacific. The air was glacial and bracing and the combination of frigid air and the clack of metal against metal roused her. Our Girl was here, at home. She had no idea of what time it was; she remembered being angry, her mother and father leaving, and with a frisson of disgust, she remembered being sick.

She didn't really want to look down. She remembered that it was just over this bedside that she had heaved, just hours before. But look down she did, and happily, her eyes were met with the same fine wool rug that she had seen daily for most of her life. Someone had cleaned up after her.

She went to feeling guilty and embarrassed about this, for a moment, until she heard the sound of her dreams but awake, and in greater detail. It was metal upon metal!

Now fully awake, she narrowed her eyes and took in the confines of her room. There was the end of her bed, draped in silks so that a draft might not disturb her. There was the heavy wooden door across from her, walls of bookcases, and rounding the corner, the beautiful stone hearth that still glowed with a vibrant orange. She looked into the large, gilt mirror that hung above the mantle and caught her dim, gaunt outline staring back at her.

She swallowed, and continued her examination of her quarters. Everything was still. Nothing was moving, until she heard it again, a rhythmic 'tunk tunk' that drew her eyes to the bank of windows on the far side of the room. One of the French doors was moving against its latch, she was certain.

She should have been terrified, she would have been terrified, had this not been the most invigorating, exciting thing to happen to her since she could remember. She fixed her eyes, now clear and acute, on the angled iron latch of one of the doors.

The doors were normally protected by a heavy brocade curtain which kept in the heat and out the cold, but this afternoon they must have been forgotten after the heated exchange between her parents and the doctor. Her eyes adjusting to the dim, Our Girl could make out the tops of the heavy hedges that lined her wall of windows. The moon was most nearly full, and shone brightly off the surface of the snow.

She heard again the dull clank of metal on metal and then a thunk. The latch gave and the window opened, at first just a hesitation. A gesture.

Our Girl held her breath. She should have been terrified and yet everything in her told her that this something was not something to be feared, but welcomed.

She stared avidly into the gloom at the base of the doors, scarcely breathing. And yet her chest seized, frozen, when she saw first the head - tentative - and then the sinuous body of a cat coming into the warm room.

It was the gardener's cat. She had often seen the boy playing with the cat, holding it in his arms or setting a bowl out on the stoop. She could only imagine that this cat was his pet. He was allowed to feed it leftovers. He was allowed to sleep with it!

She felt the icy air that came through the opening that the cat had created but rather than chill her, the cold smelled like life. This cold air smelled like snow and wood smoke and damp earth. Our Girl breathed in deeply, eyes closed. And for his part, the cat continued slowly into the room. He seemed alert, but relaxed, she decided. She lay there against her peach satin pillows and she made for herself a declaration: I will touch this cat.

Our Girl began to feel slightly anxious, just having made this vow to herself. She watched as the cat moved slowly, poking his nose towards each piece of furniture or decoration he encountered. He stopped, stood still, and in one movement, his head turned to consider her. Her breath caught in her throat and she marveled at the iridescence and beauty of his eyes caught, as they were, in this angle of mingled moon and firelight.

Her resolve thickened. She began to concoct a plan. Food. Where was her bedside table? With silent effort, she slowly thrust herself forward and then turned her head to look around behind her. Ah, yes! Her bedside table had been moved slightly behind her, just out of her reach, when the doctor arrived, she remembered. The table had been moved so that the doctor could sit beside her and examine her. And what was this? She squinted in the broad moonlight...salmon on toast.

She could hardly believe her luck. Someone had brought for her salmon on toast, a meal that she hadn't eaten because she was sleeping, and then there was Dr. McDougal, and then the ruckus, and then sleep, again. The help must have truly been distracted that afternoon, to forget not only closing the heavy draperies over the windows but also a plate of food that Our Girl had not eaten.

She thought back, quickly, to a story she had read about a pirate who had a cat for a pet. The pirate had fed the cat fresh fish. Could this be true? she wondered, because she was not so silly as to believe that everything that she read in her books was true. Do cats like fish?

Breathing shallowly, she leaned back on her pillows, both eyes on the cat. She extended her arm behind her as far back as she could, sure that it would touch the tray, but it met only empty air. She took her eyes from the cat for just a moment and was dismayed to see that the salmon toast was further away than she had thought. In a split moment, she decided to risk it, gripped the lower bed rail, grunting, and stretched her fingers behind her, far as they could reach, for the toast. Her fingers met the edge of the table and held. She breathed in sharply, lifting up on the edge of the table. The cat continued exploring the room, seemingly unperturbed by Our Girl's desperate quest for salmon toast.

She gripped the edge of the table so tightly that her fingertips went cold and white. She was twisted back in an unnatural expression, her breath ragged, both eyes on the cat. Ever so slowly, she pulled the table towards her. It shuddered against the rug and she gasped, fear surging in her veins, icy at the thought of failing before she had begun. She closed her eyes briefly and began again, pulling the table gently, bringing the salmon toast within her reach.

So carefully, she set the two elevated legs of the table soundlessly and felt for the toasts, still focusing on the cat, at this point walking closely around a high-backed chair, rubbing his spine against the leg. Her fingers met the moist fish and it felt like promise. She dug her fingertips into the salmon and scooped up as much as she could hold and then pressing her other hand into the bed rail, pulled back into her bed.

She was amazed at how this exercise had exerted her. It could have been the excitement, the late hour, the sheer demands on her small body - not accustomed to such intensity - but she felt nearly spent, wasted by this simple movement. Despair loomed dark in front of her and she shook her head, shook it soundly, determined.

"Tch tch tch..." it was a sound she made that was almost instinctive. In any case, it was a sound that got the cat's attention, and so rapidly that she forgot herself. She took in a sharp breath and then, staring brazenly into the cat's eyes and cradling her handful of salmon, "tch tch tch." More calmly, then, with what might have been a smile, leaning forward, "tch tch tch!" Seeing that she held the cat's gaze and that, if anything, it didn't seem frightened, she hazarded a purr. It came out thick and rusty, but picked up speed and melody as she pinched a good bit of salmon in her fingertips and leaned down, holding the treat out towards the cat, an offering.

For just a moment, it stiffened and so did Our Girl, so frightened that this might end. She forced herself to smile, to breathe, to 'tch tch tch' as naturally as if she did it every day. Amazingly, the cat began to walk towards her, intrigued.
She held her breath, tingling. She had never so much as touched a cat and yet here was the very animal, almost wild, slinking towards her bed in the quiet as if it were just meant to be. She was elated when the cat came close enough that she could see his flanks rising and falling with every breath he took. She could see that he was dirty, dust clinging to his fur and even bits of dead leaf, in patches. Her own thin chest rose and fell with unaccustomed speed, the air hot as it left her body, her mouth dry.

The cat hadn't moved in several minutes. She extended her hand, baited with salmon, as far as she could and so quietly, uttered a tiny 'tsk tsk'. She felt her head swell huge and her body, weightless, as the cat silently stepped to her hand and poked his nose into her fingers.

Her brain felt like music and with this victory, the stakes grew higher. I must have this cat in my bed, she thought. She was almost delirious with excitement; she'd not noticed that the air had become much colder nor that the fire had died down considerably in the last moments. She let the cat taste the salmon in her hand, wondering, So, they do enjoy eating fish! and planning her next move. Careful to keep a good bit of fish in her hand, she pulled her hand up and rested it just on the edge of the bed, still visible to the cat. Nervous, eyes closed, she rubbed her fingers together and whispered, 'tch tch tch!'

It seemed an eternity, so slow that time turned to sludge around her, and then the cat jumped up. Our Girl was ecstatic. This was new. This was another world. This was a life so simple, but a life that had been denied her. A cat, warm and heavy, in the bedclothes next to her.

The cat kept poking his nose into her hand, searching for the chunks of salmon, removing every trace of her lunch with his rough tongue. She thought that she might laugh out loud, not only from the joy of it but from the absurdity. She didn't feel at all like herself. She felt giddy.

She worried somewhat, as the salmon disappeared. I mustn't disturb him, she thought. She was terrified that the cat might understand that she had nothing to offer, anymore. The cat began to turn in circles, rubbing lightly against her legs. So carefully, Our Girl reached down and stroked the cat along its nobbled spine. When she drew her hand back, she saw that it was dusty. She rubbed her fingers against her palm and felt the fine grit. She smiled to herself. So carefully, she began to wriggle back against her pillows, slide her body further underneath her quilts.

The cat began to pick at the bedspread with his claws, rhythmically picking up the quilt and pressing it back down. Our Girl heard a funny noise, like a small rumbling. She realized that it was the cat purring. She marveled at the sound, warm and comforting, and dared to place a hand against the cat's body where she felt his tiny rumble buzzing against her palm.

She was delighted, nearly bursting with pleasure. It was with astonishment that she watched the cat settle into the curve between her belly and her hipbone. His tail whipped quietly once or twice and she noticed a dead leaf caught in the fur. She caught it and crushed it in her hand, bringing it to her nose. She rubbed the withered veins between her fingers and breathed in the smell of the outdoors. She saw a small clump of earth dried into the fur on his paw. Gently, she stroked his leg, breaking the chunk of dirt into her fingers. Possessed, she placed a bit of dirt into her mouth and ground it between her teeth. She sniffed at her fingers and then rubbed the remaining soil against her cheek.

There, with the warm weight of the cat pressed against her, she took in such a deep, whole breath that she shuddered, her body full and strong as she released the breath and with it, so much sadness. Her head grew heavy and yet she almost giggled because she felt like she was floating. She was so warm and so calm - damp leaves in her palm and a smudge of soil on her cheek. Her eyelids dipped and she watched through half-lids as the cat's eyes did the same, falling contentedly as he purred, holding her there for just a moment longer, to something real and true. And there she stayed - salmon stuck on her fingertips, hair askew, and her body curled around the cat - in perfect happiness.

Funny Memories About Evan

This is Evan. Evan is my little brother. There are many funny stories that I could tell about Evan but there are two in particular that have been tickling my memory as of late.

We grew up in Houston, Texas. There is (or was) a grocery store in Houston called "Fiesta!" I think that there was actually an exclamation point in the name. I suppose that I could stop writing right now and Google "Fiesta!" and find out if this grocery store still exists, but I won't. Whether or not Fiesta! is still in business is irrelevant to the story.

Fiesta!, as the name suggests, was a market which catered to the Hispanic members of the community. They sold some really cool stuff that was unavailable at white-folk supermarkets. Notably, there was a juice bar - way before "juice bars" existed - that sold "refrescos" out of big glass barrels. There would be about five of these immense barrels on a countertop; the drinks were served with ladles. They sold such flavors as watermelon juice, tamarindo, horchata, jamaica, cantaloupe juice...they were all legit and all delicious.

Fiesta! also had an incredibly varied selection of fresh and dried hot peppers. Once, when I was about twelve and Evan was about nine, I broke open one of the dried hot peppers while we were going though the produce section, guarding the pepper seeds in my closed palm. 

Once we were well away from the produce section - somewhere near the yogurt, I think - I told Evan to open his mouth and close his eyes, I'd give him a great big nice surprise. Ever-trusting, Evan squeezed his eyes shut and open his mouth, allowing me to drop a couple dozen hot pepper seeds into his mouth. 

The resulting antics were very humorous for me. My Mom seemed torn, not sure whether she should laugh, admonish, or both. I think she chose the latter.

I think that Evan was kind of upset with me, but I can't really remember, honestly. What I do remember, however, is that sometime near the end of our grocery trip, I needed to rub my eye. 

I had completely forgotten about the hot pepper seeds that had so recently been between the thumb and index finger of my right hand. Even if I had thought about it, I'm not sure that I would have made the connection between residual chili oil on my digits and the insane burning that quickly inflamed my right eye after I dug around in it with my finger. 

I think that Evan thought that this was funny. I think that this is one of the first times that I had a clear understanding of the expression "instant karma".

Another time, when we were both old enough to understand sexual innuendo - say 13 and 16 years old - we again found ourselves at Fiesta! and again, the produce department was the site of our grocery store hilarity. 

There was an end cap stocked with enormous, dark-green cucumbers. I would suspect mutant GMO cross-breeding had it not been the 1980's - did GMO start before then...? In any case, we were standing near a display of very impressive cucumbers when an elderly woman and another lady who must have been her aide came walking along. 

The woman was really old; she was hunched over, hobbling along with the help of her chaperone, and dressed up far too nicely to be doing her grocery shopping at Fiesta!. She had the creaky old-lady voice and she was complaining about the poor quality of the produce. My memory is faded, but I believe that she was lamenting the withered size and lackluster appearance of certain vegetables.

I say that, because my next memory is crystal clear: Evan and I both watched as she picked up a gargantuan cuke in her gnarled, jeweled hand, shook it at her aide, and said, quite loudly, "Now, this is about the size I like!"

If you know Evan, this will be much funnier to you. He turned his back to the woman and her accompanying helper, opened up his big blue eyes even wider in a beautifully theatrical expression of shock, and then squinted one eye and gave me a snide half-smile as he nodded knowingly. 

I'm sorry that I can't explain his face any better than that, but at the time, I think I peed my pants a little bit. Or a lot. His timing, the fact that I was ten feet from the poor old woman and I shouldn't have laughed, the fact that she even said it, straight faced, was too much. 

Evan was and is forever getting me to laugh when I am not supposed to and even better, when I don't think I can. Thank you, Evan. 

Blessings in disguise.

This is Grey, temperature hovering near 103°, the interior of his mouth a simmering mass of bacteria doing the Streptococcal Samba. The woman on his right is his mother, me, fooling around with my iPhone, mostly oblivious to my child's increasing disease and discomfort. 
Not my finest parenting moment.
Looking at the photograph, it does seem fairly apparent that he is not feeling top-notch. How embarrassing.
This was yesterday. The boys got out of school at 1:10 and Myles and I were there to meet them. The first thing that Grey said to me was, "Mom, I have a headache." He told me that it had started that morning and that he was feeling worse. I asked him if he had drunk enough water over the course of the day. He hadn't. 
Now, had I not two other sons who were very enthused about playing on the playground before going home, I'd probably have taken Grey home immediately and attended to him there. Thing is, Child One and Child Three immediately took off to different parts of the playground, leaving Child Two standing near me looking, well, wilted.
I might also add that it was a warm day with strong sun (hello, sexy tank top shaped sunburn) and that Grey was so out of it that he spent a good part of the following ninety minutes sitting. On the scorching blacktop. 
I am further ashamed to admit that while I was chasing Myles and keeping eyes on Isaiah, Grey entreated me several times to go home. While I yapped with other Moms, he fell over on the lawn or just sat, listlessly, staring at the other kids playing.
I mean, I knew that he didn't feel good, but I figured that he was a little bit tired and dehydrated and that he'd be fine once we got home. He is a really stoic, really solid kid and this time, his solidity came at his cost: His own mother didn't take to heart the gravity of his requests.
I finally began to understand how poorly he was feeling when he suddenly sat up (having previously been lying supine, motionless at the base of a slide) and said, with conviction, "Mom! I keep saying that I want to go home but everyone else wants to stay here and nobody is listening to me!"
Well, hell. 
I reigned in the other two and we made our way home. Once we were home I sat Grey on the kitchen counter. Touching him, I realized that what I'd thought was heat from playing in the sunshine was really a fever. The thermometer beeped at 102.9 and I felt like crap, though not nearly so much as Grey did, I'd imagine. 
And so I took his hot little body in my hands and looked him in his sweet blue eyes and I told him, "Listen: I have something important to say. I am really sorry. You told me that you didn't feel good and I didn't take you seriously enough and you were sitting out there in the hot sun feeling like doodoo and I didn't listen to you like I should have and I was wrong." 
I hugged him hard and he started to cry, suddenly, and I thought that I had hurt him, somehow. I pulled back from him and I asked him what had happened, sure I had accidentally done something physically to make him cry. He was shaking his head and rubbing at his eyes with his fists and he said, crying, "No...it's just busting through!"
My heart just cracked and I asked him what was busting through - sadness? hurt? being sick? He nodded and kept trying not to cry and I hugged him some more and told him that he could cry, he was safe and nobody would make fun of him, while in my mind I was thinking about how well I understand the concept of the bad stuff busting through.
And so I took care of my little boy. He got tea and medicine and frozen fruit and a spot just for him on the couch to curl up in pjs and watch cartoons. Of course, all of this would have been done much more expeditiously had the other two not been making their own claims on my attention. Grey, bless him, waited so patiently - even falling asleep - while I attended to Myles' potty trips and Isaiah's need for frequent and substantial caloric replacement and the phone ringing and forgotten laundry in the washer and my own too-oft postponed need to pee and eat, among other things. 
Over the course of the next twelve hours, he didn't get worse but he didn't get better, either. He stayed feverish - right around 103° - and woke me up several times in the night. He came to sleep with me around 4 a.m. He must have been feeling better because we had an intermittent, (mostly) one-sided conversation that seemed to last the better part of an hour, or at least until dawn, as I remember the light coming through the curtains was part of the monologue.
He stayed home from school and had really seemed to improve but then took a nosedive right around lunch time. He complained of double vision, increasing headache pain, and the heat of the fever, and this kid is NOT a whiner. 
Justin left with Isaiah to attend a swim team party and shortly after they left, I went to check on Grey. I asked him how his head felt and his face kind of crumpled and he squeezed his eyes shut and said, "I can't hold it anymore, Mom." 
I took his temperature (103.1) and his pulse (126) and went to scour the internet for possible causes for elevated pulse rate in febrile six year-olds with severe headache and I only had to read about seven possible diagnoses before I thought "Oh, screw this noise!" and I paged Doctor Grampa.
Thankfully, Doctor Grampa was in. That would be my Dad. The doc is not prone to hand-wringing and dramatics, so when he suggests that we amble (he did say 'amble') to the ER, I listen. 
I called Justin and we fell back and regrouped and soon, Grey and I were on our way to the Naval Medical Center, San Diego. 


I have health insurance. It is free for me to visit the doctor. Well, "free" is relative - with the number of hours that our Daddy spends away from his family, I feel like we pay for it. Nevertheless, I am very grateful for the fact that I can take my kid to the ER on Friday night and not get a bill, even if it does take five hours between checking in and receiving the meds. 
Knowing the Balboa ER as I do, I was prepared. I had a tiny backpack filled with iced herbal tea for Grey, a bottle of water for myself, snacks for Grey, a book for me, and a Pillow-Pet tagging along. We checked in at about five p.m. and waited. Grey laid down with his head on my lap; he waited so patiently for triage. In triage, he told the attending amusing stories about how he had fallen ill and exactly what was happening to him at that very instant. He is difficult to interrupt.
There was nothing extraordinary about our visit - we went from checking in to the waiting area to the ironically named "Fast-Trak" mobile unit to another waiting area therein to a room to a curtained area and finally, we saw a medical professional. They did a throat swab and diagnosed strep. We were prescribed medication, went to the pharmacy, and waited some more before we got the meds.
What was extraordinary was how much I enjoyed being with Grey, even in these circumstances. It was delightful to sit with him and rub his back and talk about whatever came into his mind. We looked at magazines and talked about the pictures and practiced reading. It wasn't until more than halfway through the process that I relinquished my iPhone and let the kid watch cartoons. And then, he sat near me, pointing out the hilarious things that Jerry was doing to Tom. 
I was awed, awed and proud, of my son. He was so GOOD. Patient and calm and pleasant, regardless of the glacial speed of the medical unit, regardless of his fever and headache. I didn't have to tell him anything or correct him or ply him with treats to get him to behave. He was just good.
There is a Subway sandwich shop just across from the pharmacy at Balboa. Grey began to give me subtle hints that he was hungry at about eight o'clock. Frankly, not only could I not blame him, I felt the same way. Nevertheless, I kept my reserved demeanor, not saying yes or no to the Subway proposal. I wasn't sure that they'd still be open by the time we got out of the damn pharmacy.
Turns out that the hospital Subway is open 24 hours on business days. He did, once or twice, give me a pointed look and say, "We could go eat at Subway because I have been so good listening and being patient." 
Once we did have the meds, I told him that we could absolutely go to Subway and that he could have anything that he wanted. He stood there before the vast menu board in his leopard-print slippers wearing his turtle backpack and made his menu selection as carefully as if he were a Supreme Court Justice deciding the trial of the century. This IS my kid.
All illness was forgotten. We pumped out 15 mls of amoxicillin and sat side by side, eating our Subway and reading out loud any signage that was visible. He talked and talked and looked a little bit disappointed when I told him that it was almost ten o'clock and we did have to go home. 
He was gallant - trying to carry my purse for me as well as his backpack and his Subway leftovers - and charming, stopping me outside when I said that I was cold so that he could hug me and "give you all of my heat, Mom".
I arrived home insanely in love with my second son, so thrilled that we had ended up at the hospital for five hours. He fell asleep as I brushed his teeth and I laid down with him until he was completely asleep. Coming out of the boys' room, I tried to explain to Justin what effect my time with Grey had had upon me. 
Two things of note: I don't like school. I don't like that I have invested so much of myself into these small people and then they are obliged to spend the better part of their day away from me. I am selfish. I would have them with me.
Two, the whole event was unexpectedly gratifying. I felt that I was accompanying an equal, not someone who needed surveillance. He is only six and yet he is huge, his personality decidedly unique and his presence, undeniable.
He was good because he IS good. As Mom, I'm not here to make my boys do or not do - all I can do is show them how to be the best version of themselves possible. There is an immense satisfaction for me in letting them be who they are and finding out that left to their own judgement, they are better people than I could have crafted had I been manipulating every move.
*sigh* Okay, you can all puke, now. The Moms among you won't, though. This is a tough gig. Talk about delayed gratification, long-term investment, and letting go. Grey impressed me. I have felt this way about all the boys at some point, many times, even. The unfortunate part is that we are so caught in the grind that I often feel like BUD/s instructor ;) barking out orders, "You! Lunch, water bottle, backpack, library books, GO!!! You! Swim stuff, permission slip, signed planner, chapstick, GO!!! You! Pee in the damn potty, for chrissakes!!!" 
I am thankful for this bizarrely blissful slice of time with Grey. He is my kid, so you most certainly can't trust a damn thing I'm writing, but he is exceptional. There is no one like him. I am so proud of him and I only hope that some good part of who he is came from who I have tried to be, for him. Ditto for those other two. I love them so completely, I'm saturated in it. It's bigger than I am. Sometimes, I can't hold it and it just comes busting through.

Tiny, brave humans.

This photograph has nothing to do with tiny, brave humans. At one time, I was one of them. Now, I am an average-sized human, slowly recovering my bravery. However, I noticed tonight that I have only one photo of myself on my blog. I reflected for a few minutes and decided that I couldn't possibly be labeled narcissistic and self-absorbed with only two photos of myself posted to the blog. I am sure that I was thinking something very profound when I Hipstamaticized myself on my kitchen floor just before my 36th birthday. This is what I do when everyone else is asleep; I lie on my kitchen floor topless and play with my camera. There are worse habits.


I began to decide to write about tiny, brave humans as I was preparing the kids for bed this evening. Justin is in Chicago for several days and though I had hoped for the company of my dear brother, I am alone this evening. 
As I mentioned in the previous post, I spent last weekend in LA with dear old friends. One couple, M and P, have a three year-old, L. I use initials because it isn't really important to anyone but me who they are. If you really want to know, call me and ask. 
It meant a great deal to me when P, a thoughtful woman - a sort of still-waters-run-deep kind of gal - said to me that she felt that my whole demeanor changed when I engaged with her son. As I have, as of late, been troubled by my mini identity crisis, it was noteworthy to me that she should mention that I should consider any kind of work with small children.
Understand: The fact that I am unusually comfortable with kids and that I truly enjoy their company is not news to me. However, when another person not only notices, but mentions, something about which I am already aware, it can't but reinforce my own feelings on the topic. 
This has me thinking about myself as a small child and my "grown-up" relationship to little kids, now. I wonder if, as a very small child, I was awkward and standoffish with other small children. I haven't much thought about the effect that I had on others before the age of about twelve or so. 
Which is to say, if I can identify with little people as an older person, might it have been complicated for me to relate to my peers if I felt like I was older and different than they were?
I do have memories from a very young age. I do know that I never felt very happy to be a child. Don't misunderstand! I wasn't an unhappy child, I just knew that childhood was an inevitable passage in my life and I think I just hunkered down and bore it. 
I do recall with unequivocal clarity a moment in first or second grade - I know that it was first or second grade because I can remember the view from the classroom door as I thought and in those two grades, the view was nearly identical. 
In a moment of quiet, the following question came to mind: If I had not been born, where would I be? I am not shitting you - I had phenomenal metaphysical mind shifts at age seven. Now...maybe not. I have a very distinct image in my mind of what I thought about after I posed that question: I imagined a darkness broken only by purplish pink smoke - almost like cotton candy - and I decided that if I had not been born, I would have been floating along in this wispy sunset-lit space with no back and no forwards, no time and no bearings to guide me. I would have been waiting.
It was very hard for me to imagine an Earthly situation to which I hadn't been born. Even small, I felt too unique and too much myself to imagine that I could have just as easily not existed. 
Now, bear with me as I become kookoo: What if that is where I DID come from, the purple cotton-candy nothingness? Maybe I remembered it, still. I can't know, obviously, but I do know that I never quite felt like I fit in until I was old enough to start watching after littler kids.
My Mom was a very faithful church-goer. We went every Sunday and I quickly tired of the church school classes that had been organized for my age group. Very nonchalantly, I began to introduce myself to the church nursery. I was perhaps twelve years old. I much preferred to be with the 0-3 age group than my own classmates. I was very happy when another Sunday passed and no one threw me out. Maybe they were happy about my volunteerism; maybe they recognized that I was better-suited to change diapers than belabor the heavy company of fellow pre-teens. I don't know, but to whoever allowed me to stay in the nursery rather than insisting I join those who were my age, thank you.
I think that I was about fourteen when they started to offer me $4.00 an hour to be there on Sunday mornings. Sometimes, I was even called in for meetings during the week. I liked it.
There was never a time in my life when I doubted that I would become a mother. The diaper-changing at age twelve came very naturally to me. I have never had to ask myself that question which seems to plague so many - will I breed? - and for that I consider myself lucky. I knew what I was good at before I was aware that not everyone had that same information. 
P and her comment has me putting into words what it is that I like about children. 
Mostly, I love children because they laugh. I can make them laugh. Little kids are Mini Grown-Ups, but better. They do not censure or filter very well, a fact which allows for much more honest communication. They are masters of vulnerability, which, ironically, makes them incredibly solid. Generally speaking, if they are pissed, they will let me know. When something is interesting to them, they tell me. If something is funny to them, they laugh out loud without first questioning whether or not I'll understand or share their laughter. I can ask them all manner of absurd questions and they will absorb them quite seriously and give me a serious answer. The serious answer often ends up being funny, and they get that. Little kids understand why the serious is funny much, much better than big people can. 
I feel very lucky - almost magical - because tiny people, pre-verbal people, have always liked me. I have always thought that it is simply because they know that they can trust me. Infancy is such a shitty, painful, unpredictable time; there is a reason why we don't remember the first three years of our life. Most likely, it sucked. I have always tried to be an ocean of patience, of quietude, of breath and stability for those little people who were just trying so hard to get bigger, day by day. 
When Myles was just a year old, we flew home from Memphis together and ended up sitting next to a pediatrician. That is pure luck, friends. He and I were talking about babies and children and I was flattered to note how impressed he was with my parenting. He told me that he knew of many doctors who chose not to specialize in pediatrics because they were afraid of children. Funny, because if I had studied medicine, it would most certainly have been a specialization in pediatrics. And I'm not just talking about the obvious - if I could choose between having the puke and poo of an eight month-old or eighty year-old smeared on me? I think that the choice is clear.
Although I did once meet a Team Guy at a party who, upon witnessing me have a two year-old Isaiah blow his nose in my hand and then wipe the snot on my jeans, blanched and said, "Oh, fuck. That's my Kryptonite." Yeah, I still haven't killed people, but I can handle phlegm. 
Children make life plastic - not the crappy petroleum product, but malleable, changeable, and most importantly, with the infinite potential to be experienced in a new way. My children love me wholly, with abandon. I feel the same way. 
My pedagogical philosophy is no more complicated than this: I talk to children as if I value their time, energy, input, and opinion. I talk to them as though they are intelligent. I give them the power to be who they are. I make sure that they can trust me. I don't lie to them. Ever. I hear what they say and then, I respond.
As far as future career opportunities, I'm not sure what this might yield. For the time being, P's comments have calmed me, somewhat, because I do know that I am good at being with small, brave humans and because that is what I do every day, it seems like I am resting on a solid base, even if I don't know what comes next. 

Ugh me.

Okay. So it's been a long time. I can't be the only person who vows that something will be done and then something IS done...for a time, at least, and then it isn't. 
And days and weeks and (give me strength) months pass and it feels too embarrassing and such like an exposure of failure that it doesn't happen. Ever. 
But yes! But yes! It is happening TONIGHT! Tonight is not special. Tonight, I was within a gnat's eyelash (thanks, Mom) of sleeping the Mac to go make popcorn and then watch a movie of unknown foreign origin entitled "Ugly Me". Fitting, actually, because that is how I have thought of myself for some time. But Christ, let's smash the violins and mute the therapist-labeled "negative self-talk" to bring anyone who might care up to date on tonight.
Justin is not here. Justin is at the Hotel Del Coronado at a dinner event. He says that there was "a sign and everything" saying that no wives were allowed at the dinner. I do know that he also had to buy a special pin to stick in his lapel for said dinner. I have no idea what is going on, but it is 10:06 p.m. and if there was an open bar, I either won't be seeing him until tomorrow or a cabbie is going to make some decent scratch.
I am feeling like a different woman these last few days, and yet I'm feeling like my old self. My 36th birthday was last Monday and while the day, itself, was uneventful, I did spend last weekend in LA. My brother and his darling offered (offered!) to keep our three while Justin and I spent the weekend with my longtime friends. It was the best weekend that I have had in a very long while.
I talked and talked and talked. It was great. It re-energized me. It gave me strength. At the risk of sounding...stupid, I experienced a moment of clarity that will hopefully prove to strengthen my marriage and my view of myself. Friends who shared space and time with me, thank you - you did more good than you may have thought. 
With my 36th birthday upon me, I am in the pathetic throes of "What do I do?". This isn't unreasonable. Justin will be out of the Navy in three, maximum seven, years. I should probably figure some way to gainful employment by then. But the only things that I have ever really wanted are to live in France, speak French, and have babies. Done, done, and thrice done. 
So, where do I go from here? 
All input is welcome. 
I was born in 1976 and in the Chinese zodiac, this is my year: Year of the Dragon. I keep hoping that something dramatic and ground-shifting will occur. Joining the PTA is not earth-shattering, Dragon - try again.
My husband just called. He is homeward-bound. I think that I might go make that popcorn and maybe start that movie, but always in the back of my mind are the thoughts, "What can I be? what do I love, and do well? how do I do it?"
Hopefully, one of the things that I do better than most is write, and hopefully, I'll be doing it again, soon.

All Hail the Mighty Boob

It's no mystery to those who know me: I am an opinionated B. I do believe, however, that sometimes, my opinions are actually worth hearing. Sometimes, they are based on hard scientific fact. Okay, sure, sometimes they are nothing more than crackpot conjecture. I take comfort in knowing that I'm hardly alone in the "crackpot conjecture" group.
I consider my breath not wasted when my opinion, voiced, succeeds in provoking a shift in thought for even just one listener. Even better, some listeners question my way of thinking, giving me fresh food for mental mastication - something to chew on while I vacuum, for example.
I'd like to flatter myself and assume that I effect daily social paradigm shift by dropping pithy commentary that (upon absorption into the listener's mind) causes them to think, "Wow. I never thought about it like that!" More likely, I just annoy people. Daily.
However, the topic of this post is breastfeeding. I know a whole hell of a lot about breastfeeding. I have spent...calculating...almost exactly five years of my life breastfeeding three children. I know that this is a hot topic. Be forewarned: What I am about to write might cause you to get your brassiere all in a twist. Remember, it is all just my annoying opinion.
So, yeah. On the way to yoga the other night, I happened to hear a portion of Jian Ghomeshi's "Q" on NPR. The topic was Facebook and their habit of removing photos of women breastfeeding, citing them as "Sexually Explicit" or "Obscene". The link to this article and audio interview appears on this blog. Somewhere close to this post, I assume....
Emma Kwasnica (you go, girl!!) is a Canadian woman who has been fighting Facebook for more than five years. I definitely don't have the tenacity or passion to do what she has done, but I was inspired and incensed by her story. She said a few things that were poignant and apt.
The subject is breastfeeding: Who does it? For how long? Exclusively, or with "bottle supplements"? For the women who don't, why? Oh, that little three-letter word is the one that dogs me: Why? 
Emma said that the censorship that women are experiencing on Facebook is one more way that society is ostracizing nursing Moms. She argues that it is of paramount importance that we normalize the act of breastfeeding. I could not agree more.
Breastfeeding is not a furtive, sexualized act to be hidden away in the nearest public restroom, the back seat of my car, or a dark corner away from others who might be offended. Offended by what? That my child is eating? That the food comes out of my body? My nipple? Trust me - many have seen my nipples and come out unscathed...even pleased. Lasers do not fly out of them. They aren't like Medusa's eyes; nipples will not turn you to stone should you chance to look at one directly. 
Dig this: You can even put them in your mouth.
So, why the fear? Why the discomfort? Why the damn bottle? 
Here is a theory: Women who choose not to breastfeed might do so because postpartum, they already feel icky and fat and not like themselves and they don't want any extra attention, especially not attention devoted to parts of their body that they have been conditioned to believe have lost their womanly sex appeal. 
Another theory: We cannot seem to divorce the sexual breast from the maternal breast and therefore, should women be seen breastfeeding and enjoying it, they imagine that it casts them in the same light as perverts and pedophiles.
Another theory: Women believe that if they bottle-feed, life will be "easier" with a baby - because they can leave the house for more than three hours, because their husband can administer a bottle of Enfamil as easily as they can. They have their independence! Their freedom! Equality with the bottle-feeding husband! 
And let us not forget the power of advertising. There are many, many more dollars going into convincing women that formula is the way to go than there are in the La Leche League's coffers.


Oh, jesus. Where do I begin?
One: Nutrition. It is impossible - impossible! - for mankind to produce a more perfect food for children who cannot yet eat solid foods than that which comes out of the boob. Oh, women who have chosen to bottle-feed have told me that it makes no difference and that formula is just as good and often, I want to slap them. Purely from a nutritional standpoint: No. Wrong. No laboratory can create the man-made equivalent to human milk. If they had, they would be very, very wealthy and we would all have heard of them. 
I have read fascinating and compelling research regarding breastfeeding; shit no one ever talks about, probably because they aren't aware. For example, nursing utilizes far many more facial and skull muscles than drinking from a bottle. The smashing of the tongue against the palate and the back-and-forth jaw motion required by nursing forms not only the jaw but the appearance of the face. Children who have nursed at least six months have a jaw that is less "hairpin" and more "horseshoe". This means fewer dental problems later in life. Children who have nursed at least six months have cheekbones, wider eyes, and wider jaws. Or, they're better looking. 
Two: Bonding. Now, I am about to talk some mad shit because not one of my three children ever had formula. Not one time. The older two were, at some point, offered a bottle with breast milk and found it lacking. I can't blame them. If you were given the option of a warm, pliable chunk of flesh that smelled like everything you had ever known AND delivered sweet, tasty milk, or, a body covered in polyester and a hard, silicone nipple, which would you choose? I rest my case.
There is nothing, NOTHING, like nursing my babies. There is precious little to glorify about infancy; it is a shitty, hard time of scant sleep and raging, evil hormones. Pregnancy is almost as bad. I have always said that the only thing that I will miss about pregnancy is the feeling of the baby moving inside me. True. The only thing that I will miss about having a little baby is the nursing. It is the very best part of having a tiny person for a roommate. 
This is why it is so very difficult for me to understand the bottle-feeders. I understand that some women are single mothers. I understand that some women have to go back to work to provide an income for the most basic necessities. I do. I get that.
I don't know from experience, but I imagine that there is enormous pressure in the working world - be she CEO or part-time employee working for minimum wage - for a new mother to get back to work as soon as possible and to have the new child interfere as little as possible in the woman's working life. 
How many women choose to bottle-feed when they would rather breastfeed, because they fear for their jobs? Would it make a difference if more women spoke up and informed their employers that they intended to breastfeed and that they were looking for the best way to do so in concert with their professional obligations? I don't know. Logic tells me that if more women demand this right, employers will have to learn to work with them.
How many women choose to bottle-feed because they are squeamish or nervous or don't trust their own bodies to do the job right? I don't know. I can only speak from my own experience. The human body is an amazing machine. I have oft heard the "I didn't make enough milk" excuse and wanted to shout, "Bullshit!" Convince me that the human body is going to put in damn near ten months of hard labor to produce offspring...and then not produce adequate nourishment? 
Some women seem to be hung up on the idea that with the boob, they can't measure, ounce by ounce, how much their child is eating. Here's what's so cool: The boob makes what is needed. Sometimes, a baby needs more, sometimes less. The body is designed to produce more during growth spurts and lessen production when the child requires less, say, during a bout of teething when appetite is down. 
We seem to live in a bottle culture. Or, breastfeeding seems to be something that some women suffer through for three weeks, perhaps three months, as though it were a job to do. Well, it is a job. But it is also a joy. 
When I decided to become a mother, I rented out my body to these little creatures. I gave everything that was good in me to them, first. And it didn't stop when they came out; I still give the best to them, first. The boob is, for me, a natural extension of this philosophy. Being a parent is not easy, but nothing that is worth doing is ever easy to do. By comparison and considering everything that I know goes into being a parent, breastfeeding is a day in the park. At times, literally, a day in the park. Or in the car. Or on the floor at Target because the child was just not going to wait. 
I have heard women say that they decided not to breastfeed because it "was just too much work" and I just want to laugh at them with their tiny, first babies and ask if they think that everything else is going to be easier than having chafed nipples. 
Breastfeeding is part of the job of being a Mom, but it can be so good. In fact, the longer I breastfed each son, the less I wanted to stop. In the beginning, it was all about taking this amorphous, near-sighted person with horrible fine motor control and preventing him from perishing. But eventually, he begins to smile, make small, happy noises while eating, and pat my other boob while he nurses lazily on the other. It becomes time with this little person that nothing will ever replace. Bottles can't do that. 
The best naps in my life have been while I was nursing. I remember watching this child fall asleep in my arms, moving his jaw in his sleep (dreaming of warm boobies) and myself thinking, "Holy crap! If I just move soooo slowly and soooo carefully, I might be able to wedge myself quasi-comfortably into the corner of this sofa and sleep with this baby." The best naps. Ever. 
Ugh, this post is all over the place. It's tough to condense five years of experience, emotion, and the knowledge gained during those years into several paragraphs. I wish that all women would breastfeed - unabashedly, happily, and bolstered by the support of their husbands, employers, and society at large. I wish that women would talk about nursing, to each other and anyone else who will listen. I do believe that nourishing our babies with our bodies is an undeniable foundation of our humanity. 
I wrote earlier, way up at the top of this post, that I consider my breath not wasted when I succeed at putting a new idea into someone else's head. Sometimes, though, just listening to myself talk can be the most powerful process I know for learning more about myself. Writing is a fabulous way of talking without being interrupted. To all those people who bother to take the time to read what I write, thank you. And to all those people who have sat and listened to my seemingly interminable monologues and in so doing, helped me become a better version of Leah, thank you. I am forever grateful.