Birth Vlogs

I once had the marvelous honor of being my best friend's vaginal cinematographer.  She had asked me to come to the hospital when she had her baby, but warned me that they had strict rules about how many people could be in the room.  I said I'd be happy to sit in the waiting room and just be distantly supportive if that was what she wanted.  She offered to lie and say I was her doula.  As I had no prior experience with child birth in any respect, this seemed to be a stretch (though stretching is part of the doula's métier).  So I packed myself a satchel of books and prepared to enjoy the delights of a hospital waiting room.  To my surprise, I was allowed in the room, an eventuality for which I was not prepared.  My friend had had her epidural and was napping.  I sat in a corner feeling useless yet desiring to be supportive.  Then suddenly it was time to push.  The lights were dim.  My friend said "get the camcorder out of my bag!" I assumed she was kidding.  She was not.  The other non-hospital people present were her husband (useful for encouragement), Bianca (useful for at that point moderate levels of medical knowledge and support) and me (useful, apparently, as a key grip).

I did my best.  We had not discussed this in advance, but do you say no to a friend in need? Also I had never really worked a video recording device before.  I wasn't sure what footage she was hoping for so I did my best to balance tasteful shots of her perineum (is there such a thing?) and views of her beatifically miserable face, while not getting in the way of people who actually needed to accomplish medical things.  My unexpected vantage gave me a front row seat (so to speak) to the miracle of life, and the no less miraculous but much grosser placenta.

The crowning glory of my film career was that in the dark and unfamiliar with the device, I had not actually recorded anything.  I had just stared with uncomfortable fixity at an acreage with which I was not familiar.  It brought us closer as friends, and I have certainly offered to return the favor via FaceTime or Skype.  I am sorry I didn't get the video she wanted, though possibly my footage wasn't what she would have wanted in any case.

This experience has returned to me in the last few weeks as I've found myself watching a new (to me) genre called "birth vlogs."  Apparently cute couples make money by making video diaries of their lives and as with all reality shows, childbirth makes for a blockbuster episode.  I've been watching them to try to get in the mood for parturition.  I figure if I remember feeling excited or weepy or seeing what a newborn looks like this will be helpful to me in an unspecifiable way.  The vlogs differ from my career behind the camera in at least two ways -- there is actual film footage of the event, and the camera is always angled in a tasteful and discreet way to maximize action without revealing from whence the baby emerges.

The thing is, these videos also differ significantly from what I remember childbirth being like.  At the most, these women seem to experience mild discomfort, then they get the epidural and everything is sunshine and rainbows and sometimes they nap and then there's a baby.  I feel like I'm taking crazy pills.  I remember being clenched in pain so bad I couldn't speak, move or effectively communicate in any way except intermittent gasps or gestures before the epidural.  I remember contractions being essentially relentless, coming on top of each other so the possibility of having a cheerful one on one interview with a camera was non-existent.

I remember getting the epidural, but I also remember it not working entirely, and maybe that is why the idea of napping or smiling or talking seems so foreign.  At first it only worked on half my body so the nurses tried to get me on my side so it would drip in that direction. Or something.  I just remember being in too much pain to roll and needing a prying paddle.  I remember round 2 of the epidural working a bit more, but leaving a "hole" the size of a dessert plate where I could still feel everything.  And I remember sitting there trying to survive each contraction that the dessert-plate-hole-from-hell was inflicting on my body.  This does not match with what I've seen on vlogs.  Maybe I looked dainty and sweet and only mildly discomfited by the whole business and that can be my comfort.

A glimpse into our utopia

Motherhood is endlessly fulfilling, as any mom could tell you.  It's also easy to be a nice human being while raising live young and performing basic household tasks! Ha ha ha.  Here's a glimpse into our little piece of heaven on earth.

I have had piles of laundry sitting on the couch and in hampers for several days.  Portions of at least five loads lingered around.  I had sorted and folded into tidy little piles two or three loads, but these had gotten shoved to the end of the couch to make space for sitting and playing and so they were essentially back in their natural state of chaos.  There is little point in trying to fold laundry while Pip is on patrol as he feels strongly about his role as hamper trampler and clothes unsorter.   Of course I could use his nap time but it turns out nap time needed the following activities as well:

• Call insurance to disagree with their decision not to pay for a test my doctor ordered (of course time on hold)
• Call doctor's office to ask for their assistance, transfer to billing and repeat request
• Answer work emails and provide feedback to students preparing to turn in a paper tomorrow
• Exercise on ye olde treadmill
• Lift weights
• Work on a paper cutting (yes I am going to enjoy a hobby for once!)

Sooooo nap time is pretty heavily scheduled.  That left evening when P would plausibly be entertained by his father.  Hahahaha.  Not if Pip hears the clarion call of cloth being folded.  He knows his duty.  After crossly steering him out of the hamper more than once and making several trips up the stairs I finally got the last of it prepped for put away.  First I needed to put the clean sheets back on my bed.  Obviously I'd need a toddler to get on that bed to help the process.  Then I'd need a toddler to repeatedly try to touch a very hot light bulb while I put away my socks -- ultimately resulting in me putting away laundry in the dark because some people cannot be deterred.

As you might imagine, I was in a super duper good mood about my progeny by that point.  I had to pee.  The bathroom door is currently not latching (of course).  So as I try to have 30 seconds to do what must be done, a toddler barges in cackling like a maniac.  He heads straight for the walk in shower, which is still soaking wet from earlier.  Is he in his footie pajamas? Yes he is.  So I lunged off the toilet and grabbed the boy by the scruff of the pajamas and shoved him out the door, cooing in my best motherly dovelike tones "LEAVE ME ALONE DAMMIT!"  Then I sat on the seat abruptly at a weird angle and broke it, and had to hold the door shut with one hand.  Oh and I had pee dripping down my leg so that had to get cleaned and my pajamas changed.  My son was screaming and sobbing in vexation at being excluded from mama's company.  It's moments like this that make me hope to be featured in the Ensign mother's day issue.

After we'd both had some time to recover from the intensity of our mother-son bonding, we snuggled down for stories.   I gathered a large stack of books as a peace offering and read them all while he nestled close.  It was very sweet and lovely.  I read him Caps For Sale twice, because he is very good at doing the monkey part, wagging his finger tauntingly and saying "Tzt tzt tzt!"  When we were done he called for family hug, our little pre-bed ritual of sandwiching together for kisses and good night.  He's learning how to say "I love you."  I tucked him in to bed and gave Bunny and Piddit (Piglet) each a kiss, we said prayers and I turned out the light.  I love him a lot, and he's a great kid, and I love being a mom.

And I put duct tape on the toilet seat because when I sat on it again it pinched my inner thigh and I uttered an obscene word.  I guess on Wednesday we go on a field trip to Jerry's.  I'm really working on not swearing and I feel like I'm getting better, but I also feel like opportunities keep presenting themselves really persuasively. 

But it didn't do anything

I'm still thinking about the backlash over the Women's March, folks. One of the criticisms I've heard quite a bit is that "it didn't do anything."  I think this is a critique that depends heavily on how you're defining "doing something."  Did the March result in Trump resigning in disgrace and Congress joyfully passing a slough of legislation that ended inequality forever? Nope.  So I guess if that's your definition of "doing something" then you're right, it's a failure.  I don't think any of the marchers expected that outcome, though, so perhaps it isn't a fair metric.  I keep mentally framing this in terms of my experience as an LDS missionary, so here goes my thoughts.

I served my mission in Baltimore, Maryland.  For my non-LDS friends, know that you don't get to choose where you go, what areas you're assigned to or who your companions are.  You do get to decide how to spend your days, within a fairly limited framework of working toward your goals of sharing your faith with as many people as possible and teaching interested people about it.  You also get to do some community service.

When you come home from your mission you give a homecoming talk to your ward who supported you emotionally and often financially while you were gone.  You talk about your experiences and share the good parts and everyone marvels that you've become a compassionate adult (hopefully).  Many homecoming talks (and triumphant letters home, and reminiscences etc.) focus heavily on baptisms.  That, after all, is your goal -- to teach people about the Gospel and have them decide they love it and get baptized.  Hooray!

Yeah.  Hooray.  If you serve in South America, where there is a pretty high rate of baptisms, hooray.  However, the people of Maryland already have a church thankyouverymuch.  So here are my statistics.  In 18 months I got to go to one baptism of someone that I had taught.  One.  As far as I know she is no longer actively LDS.  I also taught several people who were later baptized after I left the area.  My online sleuthing has yielded a suspicion that none of them are active either.  I worked with many families/individuals who were LDS but were not active, and after meeting with them extensively they returned to full activity.  Aaaaaand then returned to being inactive, as far as I can tell.  Cool! Great job Sister Gilkey! You're a huge failure and you spent 18 months of your life pouring your heart into something that "didn't do anything."

Aww look at little Sister Gilkey off to share the Gospel on a bike! Incidentally, riding a bike in a long skirt = the worst. When there was no oncoming traffic we'd pedal frantically to build up speed (our skirts hiking up with every pump) then we'd let the hem fall demurely and coast so oncoming traffic couldn't see up the skirt.  Yet another small way being a Sister missionary ain't like being an Elder.

The thing is, baptism is a terrible standard for success because it is entirely dependent on someone else's agency.  I can't force people to listen, to care, to believe, to agree, to change their lives.  I can invite, or persuade, or encourage, but their choices are beyond my control.  I knew that even as a missionary and did my darnedest not be discouraged by the fact that I was routinely reporting zeros for my stats (except for the number of people I tried to talk to.  That number was always high...).

Here are some of the things my mission accomplished:

• I changed.  I became more compassionate and loving.  I met people from different economic, ethnic, religious, racial etc. etc. backgrounds and I loved them and tried to help them.  Those changes in me stuck, even if I didn't get anyone else to change.
• I met people that I love and still communicate with and care about.
• I learned a lot -- about myself, about getting along with others (hello being assigned a stranger you have to be with 24/7! fun!), about the Gospel, about self-sacrifice and being happy with less etc.
• I gained important skills that are still valuable to me today.  I'm not afraid of public speaking.  Talking to strangers doesn't freak me out.  Teaching is very comfortable, even relaxing to me. I feel confident in my competence and ability to take care of myself.  I learned how to pump gas (a skill I have not needed since and have therefore forgotten.  Thanks, Oregon! Okay so that one wasn't that useful)
• Perhaps most importantly from a long-term wide-scope perspective, I had an impact on other people's lives that I cannot measure.  It may be that someone I talked to later joined the church and I never knew.  Maybe I gave invaluable comfort to someone in need.  Maybe I helped inspire a teenager to make better choices, or to go on a mission, or to go to college.  Maybe those kids I volunteered with at the Boys and Girls club did better in school because of the time I spent helping them learn to read.  I can't measure that stuff, and maybe it won't be apparent for decades.

Wherefore, stand ye in Holly Places, and be not moved, until the day of the Lord come;
for behold, it cometh quickly, saith the Lord (Doctrine and Covenants 87:8)
A little missionary joke.

So back to the Women's March.  From a very narrow measurement of effecting immediate legislative upheaval, it did nothing.  But possibly six weeks is not enough time to accurately judge the impact of an action on that scale.  Even without that big picture claim of significance, here are some things we can suggest the march accomplished.

• Many people who had never engaged in any kind of demonstration or political activity besides voting did so for the first time, and not the last time.  Protesting once makes it easier to protest again.
• On that note -- the very next weekend there were many spontaneous demonstrations against the Muslim ban, doubtless with many of the exact same people empowered to give up their leisure time to make a ruckus.  The protest put pressure on the judiciary and the administration to reexamine the order, and it also had a significant international impact of sending the message that not all Americans are Islamophobes.  That's a big deal.
• Legislators are being flooded with emails, calls, postcards etc. from citizens who were never engaged before.  You also see this at town hall meetings which have to move to bigger venues to accommodate crowds who suddenly care about this stuff.
• The March spawned many smaller groups where people are connecting for the first time and sharing their experiences and values with one another, communication that wasn't happening before.

Of course the only thing I can really measure and say for sure are the changes in me, just as with my mission I can really only attest to my own growth.

• I deliberately included my son in making my protest sign, even though he won't remember any of it.  I've started thinking more proactively about how I can including my child(ren) in the political process so they grow up to be good citizens.  
• I've called my representatives in Congress to share my views (and emailed and emailed and emailed).  I make those calls in front of my son.  Then after I hang up I practice key words with him so he has the vocabulary to make those calls.  He's too young to do it, but he isn't too young to start practicing the skills of being a good citizen.
• I went to my first town hall style meeting ever.  It was not easy to haul a toddler to that meeting, and I was definitely in the minority as a young-with-kids person, but we were there.  I had never done that before, but I feel a new responsibility to stay engaged.
• I keep making myself do the hard thing.  Speaking up isn't always easy or comfortable, but it's the right thing to do.  And thanks to the march, I don't feel alone.

In sum: The Women's March very definitely made important changes in our society, many of which we cannot yet measure.  Also, stop measuring your success by things that are beyond your control.  I can't force Congress to conduct an independent investigation into the connection between the election and Russia.  But I can badger the heck out of them.  And I will!

It seems as though the adversary was aware, at a very early period of my life, that I was destined to prove a disturber and an annoyer of his kingdom; else why should the powers of darkness combine against me? Why the opposition and persecution that arose against me, almost in my infancy? (Joseph Smith -- History 1:20)

But it isn't nice.

I've had an odd couple of days.  Yesterday I read a news story in which a former church leader said the following about the Women's March in New York: "We were in a cab, and as I watched those women marching and yelling, and should I say, behaving anything but ladylike and using language that was very unbefitting of daughters of God,” Sister Dalton said. “As I watched all of that take place, my heart just sunk and I thought to myself, ‘What would happen if all those women were marching and calling to the world for a return to virtue?"

I wrote a personal response to this as my Facebook status, and shared it with my usual curated group of friends.  Then a friend of mine asked if she could share my post, so I made it public, which means anyone on facebook can see and comment.  Some of the feedback was positive, even surprising.  One of my former students saw it and reached out, not realizing that I'm LDS (since I'm not supposed to bring that up in class) and sharing that she was raised in the church too.  So that was a neat connection.  Some friends offered thoughtful responses that, if not in total agreement with my views, were at least kind and measured.  And then there were folks who were completely disgusted and outraged and made sure to let me know.

What has been strange for me is seeing the nature of criticism I received.  Here is some of the negative feedback:
-"saddened that you feel the need to speak ill of the leaders of the church in such a public forum" 
-"No wonder the adversary strives, even now, to prevent this from happening! Regardless of who is getting the adversary’s special attention at any given time, he seeks to make all people “miserable like unto himself” (2 Ne. 2:27). Indeed, he seeks “the misery of all mankind” (2 Ne. 2:18). He is undeviating in his purposes and is clever and relentless in his pursuit of them.
He fools people like this and makes them look at situations through foggy eyes. Just because they were fooled into believing this way, it's not how our Heavenly Father looks at this. She's wrong and I disagree 100%.
-"No one saw the values you thought you were representing,
for the pussy hat on your head....
That's how you missed the mark by a mile. 
I'm sure as you marched you explained all the values you learned in YWs with a tasteful sign though, right? This is my point. You may have been among the "hundreds" of LDS women who marched, but there were millions who did not. You are among the minority within the church. Good for you for using you free agency, but don't think for one minute that wearing a vagina on your head made any difference that day.

Along with the criticism Sister Dalton offered, here is a summary then of my misdeeds and those of my sisters in marching:

• unladylike
• unbefitting language
• vulgar
• disagreeing publicly with an authority figure (though I might note I was not actually criticizing that leader in any way -- just voicing a different perspective on an event)
• Being fooled by Satan
• Being in the minority, because millions of LDS women chose not to express themselves by marching
• Wearing a vagina on my head 

I want to say right now that I was not wearing a vagina on my head. 

This hat bears no resemblance to a vagina, other than it has a hole at the bottom which is a critique that could justly be leveled at all hats.  Yes, there is a double entendre meant to taunt our vulgar president, but I don't think you can argue the hat itself looks like genitalia.  My mom made it for me and it is very cozy.  I proudly wear it all the time.

As for the other criticisms -- I have many scrappy friends who entered the fray on my behalf and I am grateful to them.  Of these critiques, only one actually seems like a genuine problem.  If indeed I am misled by Satan and God disapproves of my actions then that is a serious problem.  However, the only way to gain any insight into that is through personal reflection, study and prayer.  The fruits of the Spirit include peace and joy, two feelings that I felt very strongly that day as I stood with other sisters and talked with strangers about our values and concerns. I felt unity, happiness and hope.  Those are not feelings that can be produced by Satan and as a result I am not worried that my actions were the result of diabolical manipulation. I cannot speak for anyone else, only for my own motivations and actions.  I do not believe they were the result of evil.

The other critiques are troubling to me because they suggest a set of priorities and values that do not necessarily lead toward moral courage.  Is obscene language offensive? Yes.  However, many people who do not embrace the same language values that I do nevertheless have important things to say.  It is more important to listen and love despite crude phrasing than to shun a message just because it is delivered in a way you'd never hear in Stake Conference.  Many women were speaking out about their experiences with sexual assault using extremely vulgar terms.  Should we dismiss and ignore them because of how they expressed their pain? Perhaps the very vulgarity is necessary to get people to pay attention to a problem that our society routinely ignores and excuses. To me it seems a bit pharisaical to condemn the march on the grounds that the signs were vulgar.  Which is the greater problem to be fought: the word p**sy on a cardboard sign, or the fact that 1 in 4 women in our society is the victim of sexual assault and we continue to celebrate predators while silencing women? 

The other critique is one I have heard often (usually on the internet, not from my ward) as a result of being an outspoken feminist who is also Mormon.  You are in the minority! Most LDS women don't feel as you do! Millions of people don't act the way you do! 

And? So? Since when is belonging inherently virtuous? Since when is fitting in a desirable end in itself? What about our religion teaches us that Christ wants us above all to always feel comfortable and part of an in crowd?  I don't base my moral calculations on whether they'll help me to blend in to my community and I'm troubled that I so often hear a refrain that suggests I should.

Mormons are used to thinking of themselves as a peculiar people, standing apart from the world.  As it happens, I don't think that my views on refugees, or helping the poor, or standing against racism and misogyny make me out of step with my fellow LDS people.  Certainly nobody in my ward seems to think I'm taking an outrageous stand, indeed many have been openly supportive and encouraging.  But even if every single one of them thought it was wrong for me to be politically active on these issues, it wouldn't change my confidence in speaking out.  I'd love to feel like millions of Mormon women were with me.  But if not, I still have a moral responsibility to act in accordance with my conscience and to stand for truth and righteousness.

To hell and back: A mama's tale

This week has been straight up hellish.  It honestly felt like I was experiencing election day all over again -- a day I had eagerly anticipated and was sure would be wonderful, only to end up feeling like I'd been sucker punched.  Monday we had our 20 week ultrasound -- I have been waiting and waiting and waiting for this magical day.  I was sure it would be wonderful, because this time I'm on prozac and not in (as deep) throes of depression.  With P's ultrasound I spent much of the day sobbing because it turns out my mental chemistry is far from ideal and pregnancy doesn't help.  But this time! This time will be all it should be! Huzzah!

We had the ultrasound in the morning and found out we're having another boy.  I was mildly upset mostly because everyone I knew was rooting for a girl and I didn't want to have to disappoint people, not that I could control it anyway.  I was personally ambivalent.  I want a boy AND a girl baby, but I don't want to have twins or another child.  Is that so much to ask? So I knew I'd be excited and disappointed because my expectations were impossible to meet. My follow-up appointment was for the afternoon and P was playing with grandma so I ran a few errands and ate lunch, then went to the follow-up appointment.  At the appointment the doctor informed me she thought there was a possibility the baby could have Down Syndrome, and also that the it looked like I had velamentous cord insertion.  Her quick drawing on an index card did not clarify what that would mean.  So she recommended further testing at the maternal-fetal health center.  Fantastic! Just what every mom wants to hear!

I cried in the car all the way to grandma's.  Then I cried some more at grandma's.  Then I came home and tried to cook dinner and everything got burned and I burst into tears.  And I looked up velamentous cord insertion and cried some more.  Then I read a bunch of scary possible scenarios on the internet and cried some more.  The next day I bumbled through my morning, made an appointment with the specialist, bumbled through work, cried some more and spent more time on the internet instead of sleeping.

Today I had the appointment with the specialist.  An hour and a half of being looked at and sitting in a room waiting and then getting some blood drawn yielded the happy result that the cord looks completely normal and there is no reason to worry at all and that it doesn't look like the baby has any higher likelihood of Down Syndrome than I would ordinarily have as a mom in my thirties anyway.  Hooray.  And also, WTH doctors? Was it really necessary to make me cry and freak my family out for 48 hours? I know they just wanted to be sure and get a second opinion but, ugh.  What a week.

Meanwhile, P really worked himself up this afternoon.  I think he feels a little under the weather.  He scream-whined at me for two hours straight this afternoon/evening.  I knew he was hungry, but he refused the food I offered and I was trying to get dinner ready.  When he threw a glass (mercifully it didn't shatter) I completely lost it and yelled at him that it was a dangerous thing to do.  He then started wailing for daddy and I informed him that I didn't know where daddy was or when he was getting home and I know I'm nobody's favorite parent but we were both stuck.  More screaming.  Another yell from me and dinner was in the oven.  Then we cuddled up so I could sob while reading Goodnight Moon.

Patrick has rounded out the evening by being as unpleasant in as many ways as he possibly can.  Slam every door, kick, flail, headbutt, whine.  I felt like a really good mother when I said "if you kick me again I will kick you back" -- it did not come to that, and I hope I never follow through on words said in anger.  He flailed away from me while I was doing his diaper and he whacked his head on the floor as a result of the tantrum and like a good mother I had no sympathy for him whatsoever.  Now we're all in bed hoping tomorrow is at least two weeks away.

While I was doing dishes I thought "Thanks, Trump."  It always bugged me when people blamed Obama for stuff that wasn't his fault, but now I really see how satisfying it can be to have a scapegoat.  Nothing that happened this week in my life was anyone's "fault" -- least of all our commander in chief.  But he isn't making my week better either, so thanks a million pal.  You wanted a thankless job where you get blamed for everything and thanked for nothing and now you have it.  Here's some other stuff that you did that sucks Donald: You've left a load of laundry wet in the washer to get moldy and you're too worn out to do anything about it.  You forgot to get blueberries and only the little sour ones are left for tomorrow's breakfast. You didn't put a warming pad in my bed and now my feet are cold so that's on you too.  Nick from the Bachelor is someone I don't respect or care about and it has diminished my enjoyment of that program, and it's airing on your watch even if it was filmed during Obama's tenure so I blame you.  Everything on every media platform, including this blog, seems to be about you and it's annoying and tiresome and overwhelming.  Clearly not my fault at all, just like everything else I feel like whining about.


I did make amazing enchiladas tonight.  In spite of an adult and a child both having a tantrum during the process, they turned out super duper tasty and there are leftovers for tomorrow.  And my baby is healthy.  And my pregnancy looks just fine.  And I worked out for 50 minutes while keeping an angry toddler moderately satisfied with life.  And I forwent dessert without feeling like a martyr, because I knew sweets weren't going to fix how today feels anyway.  So things are okay.  Even good.  But I'm donezo with this week.

Protest like a toddler

This week the President announced plans to defund Sesame Street reruns.  Not on our watch.  You just pissed off the group in America that is best qualified and most determined to protest.  A lot of Americans are new to protesting things and are reluctant to make a public scene or potentially hurt the feelings of someone they love.  This is simply not true of someone who is twenty months old.  Under Pip's loving tutelage I offer the following guide to forms of protest for the newly-engaged American.

Calm Refusal
This is always the first tier of resistance, though not necessarily the first tactic.  If someone asks you to do something and you don't want to, say no.  Say it insouciantly and cheerfully because it's more annoying but the tone can't actually be punishable because it's pleasant.  If you're not sure whether or not the request is a good idea, refuse anyway.  Someone asks you to laugh at an anti-Muslim joke? No.  The senate needs unanimous consent to proceed on debate or votes for any issue.  No.  Ha ha now four days of complex procedural crap are necessary.  Republicans in Congress have been using this tactic for eight years to general obstruction.  Patrick almost never says yes, even if he means yes.  Why negotiate from a position of weakness?

Passive Resistance
Simply do not do the thing you are ordered to do.  You don't have to say anything (though an cheerful no is still obnoxious).  If you're worried your body might accidentally obey an unconstitutional executive order, go ahead and lie down.  Last week I tried to get Pip to come with me to the next aisle in the library.  He calmly plopped down and reclined his toddler body.  "No."  Now of course I have superior force, just like the National Guard.  I can pick him up and force him to obey, but I'm pregnant and he's heavy so this is a demanding and unpleasant undertaking, and he knows it.  The government could try to force compliance, but enough people just lying around saying "no" is hard to move.

Sabotage
Nominally agree then immediately undermine.  This also works if you were forced to do something against your will.  Republicans didn't like the Affordable Care Act so they actively undermined it to make it worse.  Patrick doesn't like wearing socks but sometimes he loses.  As soon as mommy is driving she will be unable to get them back on.  Ha ha.  Oh, she put them back on because it's 40 degrees outside and so she put on the shoes? Take off the shoes and throw them.  She won't want to lose them on the walk.  Then take off your socks repeatedly.  Eventually she'll concede your right to frostbite.  If you lose one fight by executive order, just go ahead and undermine it every single chance you get.  You can break him.  Mom cares a lot about warm feet, but she eventually broke because she wanted a walk more than she wanted to fight.  Pip was not so feeble.


Shrieking tantrum
This is energy-intensive so this tactic should only be used four or five times a day at most.  If you really need the world to know that you object, you give it everything you have.  Throw your body around, cry, scream and if necessary follow your audience around and repeat the performance so they can't miss it.  Do not allow any business to proceed as normal.  Prevent conversation or action by the leader by drowning it out.  Be totally unapologetic about your tactics because you know you're right.  This week while flailing Patrick punched me in the face.  I asked him to say sorry.  He calmly said "no."  I don't suggest that you punch people.  But a good protester knows that the opposition will want you to be quiet and play nice, and if they're still suggesting you wear pants then you fight them.

Persistent Whining
Patrick has perfected a really annoying whine.  It oscillates like a fire engine siren or a yodel.  If you want to play on the big bed, you grab a grown up's finger, say "bed" twenty times or more and then make the siren-yodel so they can't think or do anything.  Be warned: They will try to distract you.  If you're upset about Trump's cabinet picks, you stick to that.  Yes, everything else he did this week was also horrible.  But you stick to your whining.  Mommy might offer you a toy, or a snack, or a view of a bird out the window.  The amateur toddler will forget about the bed.  The pro sticks to his theme.  If you didn't care that much about bed you were just bored and wanted attention, then sure give up.  But as a true protester, you're not just an activist because you had nothing else to do.  You have a cause.  And that cause is Betsy Devos is terrible/I want to jump on the bed.  Stick to it.

Live to fight another day
You can't fight every single fight.  A true toddler will likely try.  Decide which fights are worth the full body tantrum, and which simply need a "no" so mom knows who is in charge.  Millions of people aren't free to protest every weekend.  Fight the big fights tooth and nail, and settle for passively pissing the President off the rest of the time.  It won't be hard.  A toddler knows which buttons to push, and there is nothing more appealing than a button.  Luckily, our President is basically entirely made of buttons.

I took this picture of Pip the week Trump was elected.  He got right down to business.

Brought to you by the number 8

I am determined to post at least once a month.  A blog is not dead as long as you post at least once a month.  This is scientifically proven.

I belong to a group discussion board for women who are due to produce live young in July.  It is mostly not a good use of my time but caring for the offspring I already have can be mind-numbingly dull (sorry darling) and mama needs her stories.  So if Facebook and Instagram fail me, I turn to What To Expect July 2017 Moms.  One of the nice things about being a STM (second time mom -- the acronyms for these cult-like groups are out of control) is that you can quietly smirk at things FTMs (I'm sure you can deduce that one) say.  See when you're pregnant with your first it is very very annoying to have people act superior and tell you your ideas, expectations etc. are wrong.  But as in all areas in this life, being smug is very enjoyable and as soon as you get the chance you take it.

Last week an expecting mom solemnly proclaimed she was NOT going to rock her baby to sleep.  I forbore to comment, though I wondered what new age nonsense she had read forbidding that.  Sure, there comes an age when you sleep train a kid and they need to learn to self soothe.  What age that is and how you should do it are of course set in stone and anyone who deviates from what works for you is probably an abusive psychopath.  But a newborn?  Honey, when that screaming mommet is exhausted and can't figure out why her entire world doesn't constantly bounce up and down anymore, you're going to be rocking.  Rocking will be so ingrained that you'll find yourself constantly swaying side to side even when you aren't holding a baby.  This will especially happen if you hear a baby in distress, but you'll do it even if you're standing at a party.  It's part of your new endearing weirdness, like how you smell like rotten yogurt all the time.

Another one of the charming things that people who don't have children say is something along the lines of how with the right toys, music, clothing etc. you can defeat gender and raise a child who is not interested in things that are stereotypically associated with their assigned sex.  Nope.  Your kid comes to this earth with weird preconceived notions about what is awesome and what could not be less interesting.  The slightest accidental exposure will rivet their interest.  You can keep introducing the other stuff, but unless you live inside an opaque snow globe, (and how do we know we're NOT... oh shut up high school philosopher) your child will find a way to love cars, or dolls, or dinosaurs, or tacky jewelry.

Here are some of my son's great loves.

He loves the shower squeegee.  The thrill of his life is taking a shower with me and wielding the rubber utensil of power.  He struggles to say "squeegee" so I refer to it as "the wand of destiny."  He is pretty good at saying wand.  If he had his way we'd go back and forth between playing on my bed and showering for hours on end.  Why don't we do that? It actually sounds okay.

This week Patrick decided he really loves the number eight.  I was reading one of the zillions of "learn to count through a boring list-based non-story" books in our house.  We were practicing saying numbers, more to break the monotony for me than anything else and he took to one and two pretty well.  But he really met his true love when we got to eight.  It's symmetrical.  It sounds like you're about to get food (the way he pronounces it which is more like eet).  It looks distinctive.  And it's blue.  He has a bunch of foam shapes and numbers and letters to play in the bath and he held each one up asking hopefully if it was "eet?"  I finally had to go through the package to find 8.  It has been his constant companion all day.  He even had a meltdown (a true sign of devotion) when I couldn't find eet.  He scrabbled at the couch cushions hopefully "eet!  eeeeeeeeet!"  Thankfully I found eet along with Didi (his blankie and other constant companion) in (where else) "bed! bed! bed!"  Boy and eet are reunited and our family is whole again.

So don't tell me that YOUR child will be strictly raised on the number SEVEN.  Nothing but ol' sept for you and yours! Because that kid will come into this world already drawn by a mystical otherworldly force to the digit of his dreams.

Eight.  Now there's a number you can really sink your teeth into.