Not knowing exactly what the term means, I pondered for awhile, to see if I could figure out for myself a clearer definition as to what exactly a soccer mom is and why it’s used so pejoratively. I know I’ve heard “soccer mom” used as a way of denigrating women who engage rather more participatingly in their children’s youth sports program than they should. They are the ones who ask the coach why THEIR darlings are warming the bench, or why Sally never gets the ball on an offensive play. But, let’s not confuse “soccer mom” with the overbearing parents we see at kids’ soccer events. This term needs some qualification. I have personally seen moms and dads at soccer events who take “cheering on their kids” to the extreme, berating their kids or the coaches for the level of play on the field. I think we can come up with a better word than soccer mom or dad for this behavior. How about “fuckbucket?” That works for me. Soccer moms cheer and can be a little pushy. Fuckbuckets berate and really should be given some anti-anxiety meds and family therapy for aggression.

I felt a little closer to getting what soccer mom means. Next, I asked Dr. Wikipedia:

The phrase soccer mom generally refers to a married middle-class woman who lives in the suburbs and has school age children. She is sometimes portrayed in the media as busy or overburdened and driving a minivan. She is also portrayed as putting the interests of her family, and most importantly her children, ahead of her own.

Yes, according to this definition, I can see why soccer moms are such douchebags. They care about their kids. Yep. Down with them all, and their busy Google calendars and cheery bumper stickers. They should all die. </sarcasm>

The Wikipedia article goes on to explain that the word was coined by political consultants, and that Bill Clinton actively campaigned for the support of these suburban women, who were seen as the potential swing votes in the 1996 election. It was the word of the year that year. Since then, the word has somehow earned a negative aspect. Not as bad as “hockey mom” and its attachment to Alaska ex-governor Sarah Palin. But it seems that in the zeitgeist of 21st century mainstream pop culture, “soccer mom” is the opposite of sexy, desirable, empowered woman. She is just a stupid broad who doesn’t bring home the bacon OR fry it up in a pan.

I sought a deeper understanding, so I tried to call up some imagery of what I see as a typical soccer mom. “Soccer mom” brings to my brain an image of a mom getting the exhausted kids into the car after soccer practice, with all their gear. She is tired from work, or from being home all day with the kids, but she’s THERE. She is present and actively engaging with her kids to help them have extracurricular activities they care about. She brings them out for an ice cream after practice. Then they head home, and she makes dinner, with the help of her awesome partner, and the pair get kids to bath/bed. That’s how I see a soccer mom. Because I’ve been one. Is that what YOU think of as “soccer mom”? If not, why not?

My question for you all, and for my dear friend whom I’m NOT picking on at all (well, perhaps a little?) is this:

When you call someone a soccer mom, do you actually mean something else? Is the soccer momness the thing that so bothers you, or is it just a common denominator that also includes OTHER elements that you find offensive? Is she FAT, too? Or a Christian? Or a Republican? Is she dumb? Or a shitty driver? Does she call her kids “fucktarts” or yell at them constantly? Does she care about her nails and hair too much, or not enough? Does she *gasp* wear sweat pants? What exactly is the offensive characteristic that you are using the umbrella term “soccer mom” for? Can you be a soccer mom AND a progressive, liberal, hippie, pagan, dirty-fingernailed, intelligent woman who treats her children fairly and with empathy? Does that mixture help or hurt? Why or why not?

Would I be a better, more attractive woman if I worked overtime every weekday and had my kids in daycare? Am I less valuable because I have the time to spend with my kids, to take them to sports events in the family minivan and treat them to ice cream? Lots of moms don’t even have this option. They just don’t have the time. Or they make different choices that are completely valid in their household. They make it work. Are they better than me? Worse? It seems that moms are damned if they do, damned if they don’t engage in soccermommery now.

In short, what are you sneering at when you use that term so negatively? Do you even know?

Huh. I guess I am a soccer mom. Now get the fuck out of my way. We’re late for practice.

I know, we’re getting all geared up for having a baby. But… we have 4 months to go. Is it REALLY necessary to add this much breast THIS early? These are the tits of porn. Isn’t this overkill? And let’s not forget what happens when the milk comes in. It’s just ONE baby!

You know you’re in trouble when your husband sees you naked and points and stares in fascinated confusion, and is only able to stammer out the words, “Baby! Your boobs!”

Are we really moving into size “G” territory here? For fuck’s sake.

No love,

me

Strangely, I have apparently beaten fate once already with regards to rubella. My mother had German measles in her first trimester with me. She was advised to terminate the pregnancy, and there was a 20% chance that she would spontaneously miscarry, err, me. There was a lot of joy and surprise in the delivery room when I was born, with no visible abnormalities or deformities (they’re all in my brain *grin*). My mother reports that the team of doctors on hand were positively bored when they first saw my perfect little self. My father cried as he counted toes and fingers.

But I digress.

Of course, my initial reaction to receiving the news of my newly discovered lack of immunity to a disease that had the potential to kill my unborn child and COULD have killed me in utero was to freak out. Luckily, and as is my modus operandi, I followed the freaking out with doing some research. I figured I’d share the fruits of my paranoia, err, research with YOU, my reading public!

Interestingly enough, the rubella vaccine was introduced in 1969, just before my birth. The disease itself isn’t a very big deal to those not pregnant. But the vaccine was actually developed to protect unborn children. According to Wikipedia, “during the epidemic in the US between 1962-1965, Rubella virus infections during pregnancy were estimated to have caused 30,000 still births and 20,000 children to be born impaired or disabled as a result of CRS.”  There are other scary statistics, but you can go look those up yourself. Suffice to say, the epidemic did some damage to unborn children in those years before the immunization program began.

The comprehensive MMR vaccine (measles/mumps/rubella, for those of you who haven’t gone through the fun of childhood immunizations) that children* receive at 12months was developed in the 70s. Incidences of rubella dropped so significantly that today it is rarely seen in the US. Most cases worldwide occur in developing countries where the immunization is hard to get.  A 2004 study reported that 91% of the US population is immune to rubella. Thus, it’s a rather rare disease to procure these days.

In my humble opinion, it would be prudent to check on your immunity if you plan to have children or be in the presence of pregnant women. It’s rare, sure. The MMR program works. NPR had an interesting article up today, actually, about immunizations, specifically about the pertussis immunization. Take a look!

I’m not going to rant about whether or not you choose to immunize your kids. That’s a personal choice. I happen to fall on the side of immunizing the hell out of my kids. And I do it not only for them, but also for my community. For those who would be most affected, were one of these rarely seen, almost eradicated epidemics to have its way with an underprepared population.

So yeah, I’m not going to be exposed to rubella. The chances are ridiculously tiny.

Still, if you have a rash and sneeze in my general direction, you can fully expect me to run screaming in the opposite direction. I can’t help it. It’s something abnormal in my brain.

*read this as “children whose parents support immunization programs in the US,” and know that I bear no ill will toward any of my dear readers who have a different ideology than mine regarding immunization.

Yesterday, I figured I’d get some pants at Motherhood, since Goodwill doesn’t have much of a selection and Allen’s pants are getting tight in the belt. So, the girls and I took a trip to Burlington Mall, rode the escalator up to the second floor, and into the very neat and orderly Motherhood store. And that’s when they got me. I was distracted! Seriously, I didn’t have my defenses up because the kids were trying to negotiate with me. And by negotiate I, of course, mean “whine piteously” for a trip to stuff something at the Build-A-Bear across the way.

I pick out the only pants that will fit my robust thighs and proceed to the checkout. Forty bucks later, and the clerk is asking me some questions, and I’m just distractedly rattling off my information. Address, phone number, due date. “Do you want two free issues of Parenting Magazine?” she asks innocently. I nod, and then my brain goes into catch-up mode, and I remember throwing a Parenting Magazine across the room in utter disbelief over some forgotten stupid mothering lore I disagreed with vehemently when my oldest was a baby. And then I wonder why I’m giving out my personal information….

But it was too late!

I asked her to back up and take me off the lists, and she said it was too late. It had already gone through and there was nothing she could do.

The cruft

I left, feeling like I had just been slimed. I opened my bag later to look at these pants that cost half my paycheck, and there’s another bag in there. A “gift” bag with a free plastic Playtex bottle, along with about 50 glossy flyers, advertisements, and catalogs for stuff neither I nor my baby will need. Oh, and JOY OF JOYS, notification that my personal information is now shared with companies that want to help me! I’m now on mailing lists for Huggies and Enfamil! Fucking yay!

So I’m left to rant at my dear readers. You poor, innocent few. Because I can’t rage against the marketing machine that looms before me, indifferent to my protestations! THEY don’t really want me! Most of the things I need for a new baby I can get from friends, Freecycle, or Craig’s List for free or close to it. I don’t want any part of the mass marketing frenzy that most people are convinced they need to buy into just because they’re having babies. Think of all the wasted paper, all the glossy catalogs that will now come my way. All the trash that will accumulate in my garbage, all because of this momentary lapse in my attention.

So, this is a warning to the other hippy freak moms out there. Don’t be a target. Refuse to give them your name. Pay with cash. I mean, they still take cash, right? It’s too late for me, but maybe I can save some poor innocent woman out there who doesn’t know any better.

When, for a few minutes, no adult knew where she was. And where was she? Standing out by the pick-up zone at school, with no one in sight. No one watching my child. No teachers, no office staff, no other children.

I could have been anyone, pulling up alongside a confused and alone 5 year old. I could have assured her that her mommy asked me to pick her up. She was confused enough; even though we’ve role played this very situation, she might have gone along.

I think about that day a lot. When, regardless of all the care and safety, all the precautions I’ve taken in the last 5.5 years, she could have been taken from me in those minutes of school neglect.

I can’t forgive the school or the teacher. Or myself. All I can do is place my trust more carefully.

When people ask why I choose to put my child in private school, I tell them. I would live on a diet of dried beans and drive a scooter to work if I had to, to put my child where she is now.

1. Modern medicine isn’t really all about finding a diagnosis that explains your symptoms. It’s mostly about fitting a prescription to alleviate your symptoms. The cause of the illness can remain a mystery, and the doctors seem pretty OK with this philosophy.
2. ER doctors who don’t have time to really listen to your list of symptoms and try to figure out why you are so sick would rather just get you to shut up by drugging you with heavy narcotics.
3. This time, it’s not my gall bladder. Blood tests, ultrasound, urine tests all confirm that it’s not the gall bladder or kidney or liver. This is actually good information. And I’m thrilled to know that the gall bladder that the last doctor said needed to be removed LOOKED just fine. Yay me, for wanting to keep my organs intact!
4. Friday nights that coincide with big college reunions are NOT good nights to be in the emergency room.
5. Painkillers work for a very short time on me. Or they don’t work at all. Or they make me throw up. I’m told this isn’t the normal reaction. When asked if I wanted more morphine, I shrugged and said, “Why bother?” I guess there’s no fear of my becoming an addict?
6. When getting an IV, I should ask that they use the non-dominant arm. Peeing into a tiny cup while on morphine and using my left hand is … messy.
7. Bring your own pillow. The ER wants you to be as uncomfortable as possible, so pillows have become extinct. As have beverages. And soon, they’ll probably take out all the beds and give you a plastic sheet.
8. When the doctor says he’ll bring the anti-nausea medicine right away, that actually translates to 15 minutes. This is damn fast, so don’t complain. When he says he’ll order an ultrasound, this process apparently takes 3 hours.
9. The cute nurses don’t linger for long. A quick flirt, a drawing of blood, and they leave you for more interesting patients.

And the most important lesson I learned last night…

10. There’s no person in the world I would rather spend 8 hours of absolute misery with than Allen. Of course, I’d rather spend 8 hours doing something much more fun with him, but you get the picture.

By the way, THIS is not the post where I rave about my husband, in honor of our 9th Anniversary. We are re-scheduling the celebration for next week. So, prepare for the schmoop!

*please note: I have a wealth of respect for anyone in the medical profession. Please don’t kill me.

My gall bladder sucks big stinking monkey balls.

I’m back on the fat-free diet in my increasingly rather masochistic desire to keep my internal organs intact. AND I just started antibiotics to combat a particularly nasty bout of bronchitis. So I’m coughing my guts out, and said guts are already rather ouchy.

Now is NOT the time to tell me I have to soon relinquish my older daughter to some impersonal school system, trust in people whom I don’t know, happily. When the principal begins her well oiled tirade on Sunday night regarding how best to insert my precious li’l kid into the beaurocratic machinery of grade school, she may just find my well sharpened clog protruding from her trachea.

This mood swing is brought to you by Benzonatate, Doxycycline, Tums, and NOT ENOUGH FOOD IN MY BELLY TO KEEP A FUCKING SPARROW ALIVE.

It’s been one of those shows I’ve tried to keep my kids from viewing because it has a high mommy-pulling-her-hair-out potential. Same with the insidious purple beast that I shan’t name here. I don’t like my kids to watch shows that make me nuts. Caillou is, to my mind, a spoiled little kid who has tantrums when he doesn’t get what he wants. His parents are sickeningly rational. Caillou is a brat. And that voice makes me want to throw large heavy things at the television.
I’m the same way with certain toys. My kids both know that I don’t like Barbie. I’m not going to tell them THEY can’t play with Barbie, and I believe Santa is bringing them their first Barbie this year, as they requested one. But my kids are going to know WHY I don’t think playing with a grown-up girl doll with unrealistic proportions who doesn’t do anything except dress in trendy clothes is fun. I hope my tastes rub off on my kids. I know this can backfire.

I don’t put much stock in Disney Princess products either, and for the same reason. How many brain cells am I killing in my girl children by giving them toys that tell them they should be well-made-up, perfectly coiffed princesses waiting around for their princes? I mean, let’s be realistic about our culture here. Let’s see… where do you think the unrealistic expectations regarding marriage begin in our culture? But I digress. I always get in such a dither when I get on this subject.
So screw you, Caillou. My kid is on to you.

I remember going through those emotions, that uncertainty. But, I swear, some of these first-time parents are just utterly disconnected from anything resembling rationality! Really. They make me worry about the gene pool. It keeps me up at night.

I watched an episode where the expectant mother and her spouse went shopping at the health food store. And I watched 5 minutes’ footage of this couple choosing dozens of jars of organic baby food for their baby. Why did this set me off? Why did I turn off the TV before even the wondrous event of childbirth? Because I caught a glimpse into the dysfunctionality of our parenting culture.

So, I decided to write a letter to these dear, well meaning people:

OK, now that I got that off my chest, here is some sage advice on how YOU TOO can buy yourself a little pocket of time to do such things as watch the ending of A Baby Story, or perhaps to get SOMETHING done while simultaneously parenting little kids. Here’s how to get about 10 minutes to yourself if you are the parent on duty and you have children older than 2 yet younger than 5. The main ingredient is a jar of organic creamy peanut butter (Do I need to state the obvious and say that your child should be at least 2 and not exhibit signs of peanut allergy? *sigh*), two plastic kid-friendly knives, and a pile of crackers. Place children at dining table. Give each a (plastic, kid-friendly) knife and plate and 10 crackers. Open the peanut butter jar. Tell them to make peanut butter cracker sandwiches. Hide the dog (because, really, washing peanut butter off the yellow lab is not fun). Now, RUN!

When returning after 10 minutes, bring baby wipes and a sense of humor.

Yes, I freely admit that I stepped into a Wal-Mart. A friend of mine who shall remain nameless, although her first name begins with ERICA, convinced me that this cool Wal-Mart in Reidsville has all the things I want, and cheap. Because of past experiences in Wal-Mart, and because I’m just a tad elitist, I’ve avoided the chain and haven’t suffered any horrible consequences thus far. But I figured I’d give it another shot. So there I found myself. In Wal-Mart. In rural North Carolina. On a Saturday. Now, maybe Wal-Mart is always like this. Or maybe I just happened to venture into this store on field trip day for all the crazies in all the state’s mental agencies.

One woman stood in my path when I was wrestling the 2.5 year old back into the seat in the cart while holding the 4.5 year old on my hip. She smiled crazily and said, “Oh, aren’t they pretty,” and I swear she was about to pinch their arms to see if they were fattened up enough to throw into her oven.

At this point, the kids become possessed. I have to battle my way through the toy section, detaching clutching fingers from trikes, threatening time outs, blackmailing, cajoling with promises of treats. I think there must be something in the vents at Wal-Mart. Some toddler consumerist stimulant piped in through the air conditioning, that made my normally very well behaved children act like spoiled ranting minions straight from the loins of Satan.

Sweat is starting to accumulate on my forehead and under my arms, and I can feel myself grinding my teeth. I lose my sense of direction in the vastness of this so-called SuperCenter, so I stop to ask a Wal-Mart associate for the location of the handbags. I think she may have been a zombie. Truly. There was this dead look in her eye as she pointed the way. And she could barely communicate the location, having, perhaps no word in her vocabulary like “aisle” or “row.” I expected her to all of a sudden come at me screaming “brains!”

So I’m off, after receiving some vague idea of where to go. But the voyage is long and wearisome. Where do these people come from who frequent Wal-Mart? Blocking my way in the aisles are people who walk side by side, in no particular hurry and completely unaware that there are, you know, OTHER people in the store who may have to travel in the same direction. People who stand in the middle of the aisle while reading the ingredients on a product, either ignoring me and my efforts to steer my cart full of wailing children around them or just being plain evil.

And THEN, as I’m coming out the door with tears streaming down both children’s faces, the 41 pound child in my arms and the 24 pound one clinging to my arms from the seat of the cart (barricaded in via the cart’s blessed leash), I see some woman CRAMMING two carts between her van and my Cherokee. I mean, PUSHING the carts between the two vehicles, scraping my truck! And when I finally get there, as I’m trying to get the lump of sobbing four year old into her seat, I see her back up and ALMOST HIT THE FUCKING CART MY BABY IS SITTING IN! Now, my cart was parked behind my truck, so she had to actually angle her behemoth of a van like a villainous idiot to even threaten the same latitude as my cart. So I run to save the child as the driver stops. I think, “Hey, she’s going to get out of her car and come apologize.” No. She stops, evidently to hand her elderly mother (in the passenger seat) a napkin FOR HER ECLAIR.

NEVER AGAIN, Wal-Mart. You keep your crazy. I’ll be saving my sanity in the Target around the corner.