The Odd Broad

The Daycare Dilemma

Odd Broad Note: This post was written while I was in one of my "dark night of the soul" type moods.  In my defense, I'd just gotten some stinky news regarding work about an hour earlier, hence the Too Much Information/Gloomy Glenda/Bitter Betsy vibe.  Saaaaw-Reeee.

I was writing a message on a friend's Facebook page the other day when I noticed something that struck a chord with me.  This person had delivered her baby about a week or so after mine, and a relative had told her the best advice she'd ever been given as a mother was to forgive yourself.  She said she didn't understand what it had meant at the time, but years later she finally did.

Forgive yourself. 

This advice wasn't intended for me, but I'm taking it anyway.  Because as the end of my maternity leave nears, hovering over me like the most petulant of rain clouds, there is certainly a lot to feel guilty about.  Returning to work is an ever-present reality, fluttering just under the surface of my skin, and if I were to be completely honest, it literally makes me feel sick to my stomach.  And I feel guilty.  Guilty at the prospect of leaving my baby to go to work for 8 1/2 hours, with a 45 minute commute on both ends, and guilty for not feeling enthusiastic about it.  After all, I love my job, and I've worked hard to get where I am.  I feel guilty because I know I should be very grateful to even have a job in this economy, and guilty because I realize a lot of women don't get thirteen weeks of paid maternity leave.  Guilty because my family is depending upon my paycheck, and I sort of wish we weren't.

A voice in my head tells me I should be grateful, not whining!  Shoulda coulda schmuda. 

I consider myself a lifelong feminist.  Smoke used to come out of my ears when my uncle Steve would tell me all women should be kept at home, "barefoot and pregnant."  Whatever that phrase even means.  Years later, I was as surprised as anyone to discover that I actually enjoyed being barefoot and pregnant (I worked full time up until the day before I went into labor, but I still liked being home in my spare time without any socks on).  For me, being pregnant brought out my feminism in its purest form.  Every day I was reminded of how radically powerful the female species is.  I'd never been so proud to be a woman, truth be told.  Our bodies were made to grow and deliver babies, to give life, and I just find everything about that amazing. 

I inherited my feminist notions from my mother, who, alongside my dad, always worked extremely hard to help give my sister and me every chance in life.  Truly, they did right by us in every way.  Ma makes a good point, though.  She figures the women's liberation movement earned us the right to go to work, but it sort of ended there, didn't it?  Because after that, weren't women expected to do it all, and do it well?  Women could go to work now, sure, but they still had households to run, and the majority of them were still considered the primary caregivers.

These days, some of us are lucky to have amazing, hands-on husbands like I have, but what about the ones who don't?  If they also work full time, they're doing double duty.  And if they want to complain about it?

They really should be more grateful. 

Now, Hubby and I can't afford full-time daycare.  He's just finished school and although he's scored an excellent job in his chosen field, the pay just isn't there yet.  He's gaining great experience, so for him to quit his job before he's even really begun in order to stay home with our bambino just doesn't seem like a wise decision in the long run.  Even with us both working, full time daycare just isn't financially possible for us at this time.  Massachusetts is generally an expensive state to live in anyways, and their daycare costs are no exception.  As we grapple to figure out a solution, I find myself slipping into a sad little abyss.  The truth is, even if we could afford it, I don't want to leave my son in the care of a stranger at thirteen weeks.  It pains me to even think about it.  And do I feel guilty for saying that, because so many other women do it every single day?  Yes.  I do.  But fuck it, I don't care.  I won't forfeit my God given right to feel crappy about this because society (and corporate America) thinks us mothers should put on a brave face.

I really have to stop and wonder, if men were the ones who gave birth, or if the majorty of American men were the primary caretakers of children...would there be more childcare help and solutions in the workplace?  I think there would be.

It's a little like breastfeeding.  Everyone's got an opinion.  I have friends and acquaintances who all put in their ten cents.  Two work friends told me it's actually nice to come into work, that I'd get used to it quickly, that babies sleep all day when they're very young anyways, so I wouldn't be missing much.

"Oh?" I asked, feeling a small ray of hope.  "So you put your kids in daycare?"

Um, no.  Their mothers watch their children for them.

My mother would certainly love to watch my sweet baby, but she works full time herself.  (And naturally, she feels guilty for not being able to help me!)  There are no family members nearby who are available to help us.

I'm also weary of people from the older generation telling me it will be "okay," and that they went to work, too.  Did they go to work when their child was three month's old, though?  Because I've yet to meet anyone from that generation who did. 

Another friend tears up every time she talks about leaving her two year old son in daycare.  The fact that she's busting her ass at work to provide for him isn't enough to make doing it any easier.  My older sister, one of the few stay-at-home moms I know, is quick to tell me how hard and sometimes maddening a job it truly is.  It would be far easier to go to a job outside the home, she assures me, and there are a lot of days when she really wishes she could.  I listen to her and understand that when she talks like this she probably feels...guilty.  Guilty for not always wanting to be home full time with her two kids and guilty because she knows that I would like nothing more than to stay home with my lil' prince.

Since I'm already up on this soapbox, I think the phrase "full time mom" is kind of a stupid one.  I mean, what about those who go to work outside of the home every day?  Do they magically stop being mothers during those hours?  Or are their hearts aching a little, or a lot, every time they remember saying goodbye to their baby that morning?

Any way you slice it, it's not going to be easy.  (Or, to quote my sister: any way you slice it, you're going to feel like shit.)  I know everybody does it, and I should suck it up, but that's of little comfort to me.  I probably sound bitter and am maybe putting people on the defensive, but it's where I'm at these days.  I'm not happy about having to leave my son, and I'm sick of feeling as if I have to sugarcoat it so as not to make anyone feel uncomfortable.  Because this feels very uncomfortable.  It feels like the hardest thing I will ever have to do.  I haven't even written about it here in Odd Broad Land, because the issue is so close to my heart.  But there you have it.

People often used to ask me if I was afraid of childbirth, and the truth is, I wasn't.  I was never afraid, not really.  The one thing I was nervous about, though?  Finding a safe place to leave my baby when my maternity leave ended.  And then, actually going through with it.  Now that, that absolutely terrifies me.

These days I've spent at home with my baby have been the happiest of my life.  Hard work, for sure, but the best kind of work.  I am so grateful for every moment and I feel bad for sullying up even a second of it worrying about stuff like this.  But the fact remains, we still need to find a child care solution.  And working a few days from home, although I had high hopes for it, just isn't in the cards. 

We'll make this work, though.  We've got to.  So I suppose I should just forgive myself.  Over and over.  And, like Jon Bon Jovi suggested circa 1992, I'll try to...keep the faith. 

Waiting, waiting, waiting...

Fyi, I just read this post to Hubby and he thinks it should come with a warning...

At the risk of sounding crass...I've had the "bloody show." 

Are you ready to barf yet? 

Truth be told, I've never been so excited to have cramps and vaginal discharge in all my life!  (Too much information?  Perhaps.  If you notice, I did carefully file this post under the "TMI" Category, however.)  I was at the doctor's office, trying my best to pee into the tiny cup...incidentally, this is never an easy thing to do, especially if you're a germaphobe like myself, but being 39 weeks pregnant and trying to:

a.) maneuver a small container around the situation that has become my belly

and

b.) pee into it? 

Damn near impossible!

And...I digress.  I was attempting to pee into the cup without touching the toilet seat when I discovered there was something "going on" down there.  I returned to the exam room and cheerfully informed the technician, "Hey, there's a little schmutz down there!" 

She was very happy for me.

My midwife agreed that this is a positive thing, proof that the ball is finally in motion.  I'm so close!  Of course, who knows when I'll actually go into labor.  In the meantime, I'm going to work, coming home, stuffing my face with Oreos, watching the Golden Girls, trying in vain to get some sleep, and waiting.  Waiting, and dreaming about that little baby boy. 

My loved ones have recently forbidden me to take the T, so now Hubby will have to drive me into work.  Sissy was terrified my water was going to break on the Red or Green lines, but I suppose I hadn't really been giving it too much thought.  The other morning, however, when I told her I felt "crampy" because of indigestion, she set me straight: "It's not a belly ache from the steak dinner you ate last night!  YOU ARE 39 WEEKS PREGNANT, YOU FOOL!!!"

Geesh.  She's right, though.  I'm about to have a baby! 

When I was about 5 years old, I had the unfortunate experience of watching a baby being born on "3-2-1 Contact."  (Damn PBS!)  It was the night of my first grade school play, and I was sitting in the living room eating chicken nuggets.  Only, after watching that baby come out I sort of wasn't hungry anymore.  I couldn't bring myself to dip my chicken in that ketchup, not after what I'd just seen. 

My older sister came into the room, took in the situation and immediately went to find my mother.  "MA!  Sarah's watching a baby being born on 3-2-1 Contact..."

What the??!!

Later, I informed my auntie Kimmy, who at the time was very pregnant with her first child: "Auntie, don't be afraid if your baby comes out all bloody.  That's okay, they're supposed to be like that, you know."

This is not the thing she wanted to hear, naturally, but there you have it.  I think I probably assumed I was being helpful. 

5 days left to go.  At the risk of sounding batty (who, me?), I'm relieved to know the baby will not share a birthday with a one Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.  Terrific writer that he was, he does seem like he may have been a bit of a "downer."  (Quoth the raven: Nevermore!  And all that jazz.)

We'll see when this sweet baby decides to emerge.  I have to say, my heart is oozing with love for him already, and we haven't even officially met yet.  I could melt. 

But before the melting, comes the pushing.  Pray for me, Dear Reader!  I'll keep you posted.  xoxo

The long and winding post...

(Hubby's sole comment on this post was that it is "very long".  It's rather personal and will probably take you ten minutes to read, if you feel like it.  Forgive my long winded rambling, I had coffee today for the first time in months and have been at the computer all day.  I'm feeling hyper and deep.  xoxo)

Since becoming pregnant, people keep warning me to "sleep now, while you still can," which is a little annoying, seeing as I haven't slept a normal night's sleep in probably five years.  (My darling husband suffers from sleep apnea, ie: he snores, so I'm basically already acclimated to being woken up every thirty minutes or so.)  In defense of this handsome creature, it's one of the man's only flaws, so I can hardly be too mad at him for it.        

Now that I'm pregnant, and waking up every hour to pee, I'm getting even less sleep.  Add into this equation Kittie, our surly tuxedo cat, who likes to wake us up in the wee hours of the morn, and I'm one tired cookie.  (A double chocolate Milano cookie.  Mmmm.)

But when I do sleep, man are my dreams bizarre.

The other night I had a vivid dream that Barbara Streisand was dead.  There were endless tribute shows playing on the television and I was beyond consolation.  In my dream state, I kept waking Hubby up to ask him, "Is this true?  Or is it just a dream?" and every time he'd confirm Babs's untimely exit.  You can imagine the first thing I asked him when I actually did wake up: "Is Barbara Streisand dead?"

Thank God it was just a weirdo pregnancy dream.

Today, after Kittie woke me up, I fell back asleep and slept for an uncharacteristically long while.  I dreamed that I'd adopted a pretty little four year old girl (who, mysteriously, was the spitting image of Aarti Sequeira, winner of this season's Next Food Network Star), and we needed to get to New York asap, since the Today show wanted to interview her about the adoption.  

I also dreamed I was in church, and a long lost text was being revealed, one which finally proved that Jesus Christ had condoned homosexuality.  Mary, CSA, (or was it ASC?  either way, in the dream, I took this to mean CEO) was also quoted in the text.  Somehow a dance number was also involved, but my phone rang and woke me up before the routine actually commenced.

These ain't your run of the mill dreams, Dear Reader!  Half the time I can't even remember them.  Another running theme flavoring my reveries as of late has to do with my long defunct acting career.  I've been having anxiety acting dreams, in which I'm in costume preparing for some random production of Fiddler on the Roof or something.  These dreams are particularly real, and a part of me wishes, after all these years, that I wasn't still having them. 

This morning, after the Jesus text had been revealed, I woke up, went into the bathroom, and performed the little dance number I'd been practicing in the dream.  (Step, SLIDE, step, back...)

People who know me best have been quick to tell me I didn't try hard enough to achieve my creative dreams.  (Hubby, with a veritable cornucopia of dreams of his own, has never accused me of this, because I think he realizes better than anybody that it's not a black or white issue.)  At any rate, it's a question I fear I'll be dissecting and dreaming about until the day I die.  (Step, SLIDE, step, back...Oh my lord, I have been so afrighted!  Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbraced, NO hat upon his head...)

Yikes.  I think part of me will always be that teenager staring into the bathroom mirror, rambling on about what a douche Lord Hamlet is being. 

Sometimes I think, could I not have been born with a strong and deep desire to become something just a bit more realistically attainable?  And just as soon as I've thought it, I bite my tongue.  I am who I am because of those dreams.  And yet...

After Hubby and I got married, I spent a large chunk of money on getting new headshots taken.  I was in a good place, and isn't that what the universe likes to see, just before it rewards some poor schmuck with a pretty dream?  I had a great job, and for the first time in my life could actually afford to spend money on my career.

I'd decided, by this point, that I wanted to focus on commercials.  This somehow felt different, more within reach, and practical, to boot.  I enrolled in classes at a now defunct acting school, which promised to match students up with commercial agents, which, I was told, was pretty much mandatory in order to land a commercial gig.

Now, some people are naturally good with numbers, or computers, some at gardening or sewing- and I'm not trying to be weird here, but I'm good at commercials.  Or I would have been, if someone had only given me a frigging fragging break!  From the start, my teacher told me I probably didn't need to be in the beginners class, since I was already so relaxed on camera, yet he took my money anyway.  After that, he watched me carefully.  An actor himself, he'd sometimes look at me thoughtfully and ask me questions like, how do you prepare yourself to be so relaxed on camera?  Do you meditate or something?  Are you in a long-term relationship?  Do you do yoga?

The truth was, I didn't know why I was so good at smiling and reading blurbs about under arm wetness or shaving cream.  I just was.  

After years of fruitless auditioning for plays and musicals, I decided commercials would be my final push.  I was told you could earn a boatload of revenue if you landed even one, but what you really needed to make this happen was an agent.  Which I never got. 

If you really pay attention, it's usually the same actors in most of these commercials.  Like the girl with the really wide jawline that seems to be in every local commercial nowadays.  How do these people get work?  That's a question I simply don't have the answer to.  I never did. 

The performing arts is one profession which you can actually be quite good at and still never succeed.  I think of my friends, all of them so unique and talented, and am reminded that this just isn't like other endeavors, it really isn't.  You can be amazing and still not get that one big break. 

I remember the first day of acting class at The Boston Conservatory; I was seventeen, and all of the freshman had piled into the black box theatre to perform monologues in front of each other.  It was terrifying.  Our intimidating British acting teacher, Steve, stood at the back of the theatre, and I later found out my friend Ryan had been standing next to him.  When it was my turn to perform my piece, about the day John Lennon had been shot, Steve said to Ryan, "That girl is the only one who did it right.  She's not overacting, like the rest."

Sometimes I think reading lines off of a sheet of paper was the one thing that came naturally to me.  But that still wasn't enough for me to become a working actor.

Flash forward years later, in New York City, when a new, advanced commercial acting teacher pooled his two classes together for an informal mock competition to see who'd be the winner of a commercial he'd actually been responsible in the past for casting.  It called for us to act sort of deranged, something I've never had trouble with, and when all was said and done, the prize went to me.  If he'd actually been casting this commercial again, he said, the spot would have gone to me. 

And yet, he never called me when casting a real commercial!  Despite all the auditions I went on, all the butterflies, all those minutes spent standing outside doors, waiting my turn, willing myself to Cowboy Up (this was during the Red Sox's Kevin Millar days), nothing substantial ever came of it. 

The last straw came when I auditioned for some twirpy casting director from Third Watch, who was in charge of casting the extras.  I went in and performed the Squeaky Fromme monologue from Assassins, the one where she talks about the first time she met Charles Manson, and this youngster proceeded to give me...notes. 

He was wasting my time.  Actors, at least if you've been trained at the place I was trained, are taught to be ever humble, open and grateful, to not have an attitude, but enough was enough.  That day, standing in front of the Third Watch twirp, I remember thinking, for the first time in my life, you know what?  Fuck you, buddy.  And I meant it.  

When people say I didn't try hard enough, I do half agree with them.  Sure, I could have been more persistent.  And if I were to be completely honest with myself, I didn't really pay my dues.  It was a fragile time, though.  Hubby had left California to move to New York with me, and we were twenty-one and in love.  9-11 happened shortly thereafter, and part of me just wanted to stay with him in New York, in our one room abode, forever.  The way to build a career in the theatre is to travel, and yet the idea of leaving him for some crappy bus tour slowly faded out of my mind.  Despite my protestations to my disapproving mother, who felt I wasn't trying hard enough, looking back, I'm not sure I wanted it badly enough anymore.  After all she'd sacrificed to help make my dreams a reality, I was letting both of us down. 

Sometimes, late at night, when I wake up to pee for the umpteenth time, I wonder...will this dream ever let me rest?  Will it not fade away, gently, mercifully, or will I forever be waking up at 4am, mysteriously reciting a Shakespeare sonnet?  And then I'll go months and months without giving it a second thought.  It's not black or white; no siree, Barbara Streisand. 

I'm no dummy, I know full well you can want something and have it not be what you need.  I've spent years analyzing why I failed to achieve what I so passionately set out to do, and the answer is never satisfactory.  The sad part is, this ambition- dusty, worn, and untouched, is so embedded in who I think I am that to this day, when someone doesn't realize I used to sing, or act, part of me feels the urge to tell them.  Tell them what?  Why am I so uncomfortable letting go of something I no longer have the desire to actively strive for? 

It was a monster of a dream.  And I met some of my best friends, and the love of my life, the father of my little bambino to be, through it.  My acting training has taught me to take direction, to be outgoing, to not be afraid to get my hands dirty.  In many ways, it prepared me for the real world.  Was that its sole purpose?  And if so, will it ever just let me rest?

I don't know.  One day I hope to escape the strange, quiet guilt associated with abandoning my dreams.  Because it does stay with you, even if it fades into the background most of the time.  Do you ever feel this way, Dear Reader?  Or am I insane?

In the end, I was just so tired of the reaching.  This business, by sheer nature, is one of endless grasping, and I was tired of it.  I stopped temping and waiting tables and took a full-time job, with benefits.  Not that we don't still struggle, years later.  We just need a break!  That's all we've ever needed!  I said to my mother the other day, regarding Hubby's imminent release back into the job market, after being in school for the past two years.  "You've had breaks, sweetie," my mother reminds me, but I tell her I've had breaks professionally, sure- but creatively?

These days, Hubby and I seem to exist somewhere in between both worlds.  We're not working artists, I've totally gone corporate, and yet we still don't have the money for a down payment for a home of our own, or even for the car that we so desperately need to buy.  Even so, the government still tells us I make too much money for him to be eligible for financial aid, or a low interest loan, or even work study!  All of Hubby's loans are private ones, and the interest is exorbitant.  The dude at the financial aid office just shrugged and informed my husband that if he got our marriage annulled, he'd be eligible for financial aid.

We pay our own way, on our own terms, and we wouldn't have it any other way; but I do sometimes wonder...will we ever get that elusive break?

Corporate America has been my bread and butter for years, although I can't say I've ever really fit in.  (I don't play squash, and don't have a fucking clue as to what that even is, nor do I want to).  Would these ivy league types want their daughters to turn out like me, low on the corporate totem pole, having abandoned her dreams, and at the same time, do my actor friends look down on me, for settling?  I don't fit comfortably into either world, not really.  Everyone's currency is different, and I float somewhere in between, with a set of ideals and opinions all my own.

In the end, am I sometimes truly heartbroken about never having played Ophelia, or Maria in West Side Story, at the same time worrying about finding a real home for my child to dwell in?  The answer to both is yes, I suppose.  I casually worry about both.  I'm happy with the way things are proceeding, and trust that we must be on the right path, yet I'd be foolish not to wonder about our next step.  Boston proper is far too expensive for us to buy a home, and I don't really want to move to the suburbs, having spent half of my life waiting to escape them.  Not that we wouldn't have run into these same issues in NYC, I'm quick to remind Hubby.  I'm not sure where we'll end up, but I'd certainly like to have an idea!

I can't help but think of that Robert Frost poem, where Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not follow both, and be one traveler...

He took the road less traveled by, and that made all the difference.  As for me, I don't think I've taken either path, really.  I'm a quiet person, but I've always done my own thing, on my own terms.  I think I've sort of been straddling the middle somewhere, walking through the leaves, ruining my shoes, carving out my own path to follow.  Isn't that what a lot of us do?  With this baby coming, things are sure to get pretty interesting.  If there's one thing I can teach him, it would be not to follow anyone else's path, even if it's tempting.

Will our baby have big dreams?  Hubby and I are a lot alike, and it's safe to say our child will probably inherit some of that optimistic dreaminess.  Will his soul be that of the tortured artist?  Or will he simply want to become an accountant?  And when it comes right down to it, which do I wish for him? 

In spite of everything, I wish the same thing, every time.  I want him to pursue that which makes him happy, even if it's difficult.  It's better to have reached and missed the mark than to never have reached at all.  It builds character, introduces you to interesting people, and gives you something to talk about on the world wide web.  (tee hee)

And of course, if he changes his mind halfway down the path and wants to change directions, that will be okay, too.  xoxo

That's me in the spotlight, losing my religion

(Odd Broad Disclaimer: This marathon post took me six hours to write.  Therefore it may take you six hours to read.  Also, it discusses two things my mother always warned me to avoid talking about in public- religion and politics.  I usually hesitate talking about God because I don't want to ostracize anyone, therefore this post may fall under the category of "too much info."  But there you have it.  You have been lovingly warned...read at your own risk!  But do read, if you like, because as I said it took me six hours!  xoxo)

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Part One: Serial dreamer

I have been certain of so very few things.  The rest has been a collective free fall of faith.  (Of this, I am certain.) 

When I was a very little girl I was certain I wanted to be a writer.  I practiced all the time, at my roll top desk; holding my old timey fountain pen, my brow furrowed as I dipped the tip into the little bottle that held the ink.  I wrote letters to Louisa May Alcott and stuck them under my pillow, hoping for some supernatural advice on how to get published.  She never did write back.

When I was twelve I knew very strongly I wanted to go to New York to be a working actress.  Basically everything I did up until the time I was seventeen was a push to make this happen.  My focus was laser sharp, and I knew what I wanted.  I'd give anything to have the discipline I had back then coupled with what I know now.  There is a certain comfort to knowing who you are, and what you want, and where you are going.

I was always certain I never wanted to be apart from Hubby, even when we were nineteen.  I was so sure that I could never tire of him, that my feelings for him came from a well so bottomless it would never dry up.  It was eternally hopeful, this belief, as hopeful as any of my innermost dreams have been.

My love for Hubby continues to bloom and expand with each passing year.  But I have all but abandoned my creative dreams; have neglected them, forgotten to nurture them, have left New York.  Yet still I'll wake up at 3 am in a panic that I'll never sing again.  It's too late, too much time has elapsed, and it's this time lapse especially that makes the loss all the more scary.  So many times I forget I'm thirty-one, and what that specifically means in terms of my creative dreams.  I never played Anne Frank, or Juliet, or Ophelia, and now I never will...

It's not a regret I feel daily, or monthly, even; but it's there all the same, hiding out in a deep pocket of my heart that I usually don't allow myself to reach into.

Dreams are a blessing.  Dreams are a curse.  In all honesty, my opinion changes with the weather.  (Set the scene: Am I pms-ing?)

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Part One and a half: Secret Dreams

I have other, newer dreams, of course.  I think about becoming (or not becoming) a mother just about every day, and have been meditating on it for some time now.  Years, even.  People who know me well are usually shocked to hear this.  My own sister didn't even realize, but there you have it.  It's not that my heart isn't willing, or longing, it's the HOW I'm concerned with.  As in, how will it work when there are so many factors currently standing in the way?

I was on my lunch break the other day and saw the following words written on a sign in front of a church:

"Faith is taking the first step even when you can't see the whole staircase." - Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. 

Tears stung my eyes when I saw those words.  Of course I don't know how it will work.  I never know how anything is going to work, after all, do I?  And don't I still always believe things will turn out fine?  Don't I always know this somehow, deep down?  Isn't it one of the very few things I am certain of?

Like it says on the little placard Nanny bought me (but that Auntie Kim actually picked out), the one that plays "The Wind Beneath my Wings":

When you come to the edge of all the light you know, and you are about to step off into the darkness, faith is believing one of two things will happen...there will be something solid to stand on...or you will learn to fly.

I often say the only choice I've committed to in this life is Hubby.  I am bound to him, and unknowingly tethered one half of my heart to him all those years ago.  Loving Hubby has been a natural free fall, one that I'd always make.

The only other thing I know, in my heart of hearts, concerns my very personal relationship with God.  I've been pondering this an awful lot this week.  Specifically because I've been questioning my Catholic faith.

+ + +

Part Two: Are you there God?  It's me, Odd

Now, I've been talked to about God ever since I can remember.  My father's mother taught me all my prayers and would tell me about the Baby Jesus.  I prayed to the Baby Jesus for a long time, even, before I realized he grew up to be a man.  He was easier to relate to as a baby, I suppose, when I was very young.  In her bedroom, Grandma had a picture of Baby Jesus with a halo around his head; an angelic, beautiful little cherub, and it was Him I would pray to when I was terrified in the middle of the night.

Every Sunday we got dressed and headed over to the little white church for Sunday Mass.  My parents had both been raised Catholic, but didn't go to church as adults until my older sister was born.  It was then they decided they'd need some type of celestial reinforcement. 

Going to Sunday mass meant an abrupt interruption of watching Hanna-Barbera to head upstairs and get changed out of my pajamas.  We went every Sunday, not just on Holidays, and usually we were very well behaved.  My father says it's rare that my sister and I acted up, although I distinctly remember being separated, or receiving a pinch to my arm followed by a warning glare.  The mass was long; 45 minutes, and the pews smelt funny.  I'd pass the time by singing verses in my head of "I'm Henry the eighth, I am, Henry the eight I am, I am..."  Ma told me when she was a little girl she'd think of funny things in church.  "Like what?" I'd ask, "What did you used to think of?"  She told me she used to stare at the backs of the people's heads in front of her and picture silly things, like the men would have two pigtails and stuff.  From then on, I'd think of this, too, and would be forced to stifle many an irresistible giggle. 

There were a number of priests that came and went.  The soft spoken Father Sweeney, Father Power, who made everybody sing and handed out wooden crosses to the high school students, but only the males.  (I found this irritating, naturally, and it merely reinforced my already growing disenchantment with the patriarchal system.  My dad eventually asked Fr. Power for one of those cross necklaces and gave it to Sissy, who was in high school at the time.  Go Dad!) 

The prayers, those words softly mumbled under my breath over the years, became embedded in my psyche, and it would be years later that I'd realize I didn't need the missal to recite them, that I could recite them in my sleep.  Years before they would stop being disconnected words and became a message that I'd never heard before, despite all that monotoned repetition.  I knew them all, even that long Apostle's Creed.  One day Father Kiley omitted one small but irksome word that had always bothered me greatly: "For us MEN and for our salvation," and he changed it to, "For us AND for our salvation..."

This edit certainly wasn't lost on me, and I inwardly cheered Father Kiley for this small but respectful nod to my gender.

I was raised to be feminist, socially liberal, and lived in a lovely glass bubble until I left home at seventeen.  The people who didn't believe in equality for everyone were hateful caricatures on The Jerry Springer Show, larger than life villains who could be easily spotted.  Or so I believed. 

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Part Three: The Racist Girl Scout

I was a Brownie in elementary school but I didn't earn many badges.  I might have been in second or third grade, and was on the way to a Brownie field trip.  I was riding through Lowell in the back seat of a fellow Brownie member's car, when her older sister, just a girl herself, made a racist remark about a black man crossing the street.  I think she may have said something to the effect of, "Look at that black bastard."  I stopped breathing for a second and my eyes grew wide.  I had never witnessed anyone making a racial slur before, and the little bigot immediately got a scolding from her mother.  I told my parents as soon as I got home, but I didn't need them to tell me it was wrong and idiotic to refer to someone as a black bastard.  I already knew it was.  I judged that Brownie, and I judged her family. 

It wouldn't be until I was a senior in high school when I'd hear someone make another racial slur.  A good friend, in fact.  The remark was unexpected, caught me off guard, was casually spoken and shook me to the core.  Was she for real?  I will never forget that day, probably, because it was the first time I realized that anyone could be racist, and it wasn't as easy to spot hatefulness as I had thought.  ie: It wasn't just the wackos on Ricky Lake. 

It was all so gray.  Although, it became very easy to spot the openly homophobic kids at my high school, and I hated them, longed to be away from them, pitied them, even, for their backward ignorance.

Whether they realized it or not, my parents had reared me to be an idealistic little dreamer, and my heart was ripe for the breaking. 

My heart broke into a million bits the day the letter came from NYU saying they'd rejected me.  Even still, I knew The Boston Conservatory was where I was meant to be.  It was the environment I'd always dreamed of: tolerant, flamboyant, constantly creative; it was heaven.  Heaven with jazz hands. 

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Part Four: Miss Understood

When I first met my college roommate (now one of my oldest, dearest friends), she balked when I told her I was Catholic: "You are?  So your family hates gay people and stuff?"

She could have stuck her pointy finger up my nose and I couldn't have been any more shocked.  "No, of course not!"

It turned out her friend from high school was gay, and his strict Catholic mother didn't approve.  This was a real wake up call for me, the first time I realized my telling people I was Catholic came with a specific list of ugly implications.  (As I said before, I had been in a groovy little bubble up until then.)  The custom fit, tailor made, cut and paste Catholic blanket my parents had wrapped around me didn't involve anti-gay sentiment of any kind.  No siree, Barbara.

I was a Catholic, after all, but that certainly didn't mean I believed in every little thing the church told me to!  On the contrary, I disagreed with most of it!  Didn't a lot of us?

It wasn't like I was unaware of what the church did and didn't officially approve of; and it wasn't as if those things didn't infuriate me, and it wasn't like my parents and I didn't have open discussions about them, it was just...our parish priests never spoke of these issues.  EVER.  The most controversial I ever remember one of them getting was one Sunday when he spoke out about the issue of being pro-life.  Suddenly there were a lot of people clearing their throats, and I could feel a tension growing in the pews, hanging uncomfortably in the air.  Not that Father Kiley was spitting at the pulpit or anything; I distinctly remember his description of pre-marital sex as the act of "loving someone a little too much, a little too soon."  Hardly a scathing sermon.  We never got scathing sermons, it seemed.  This was the first, and it wasn't even very scathing.  It was more of a plea, to consider other options.

I guess what I'm getting at here is the church had its beliefs, and my family had ours.  The truth is, I had ZERO idea that when I said "I'm Catholic" it would mean I hated gays, was in support of pedophile priests, didn't believe in birth control or safe sex, didn't support a woman's right to choose, and didn't believe women were equal to men.  I didn't realize this, of course, because that wasn't what I believed in!  And as I said, none of it was ever mentioned in that little white church of mine, save for the occasional pro-life talk, which seemed to make the parishioners rather uncomfortable anyways.

Then again, I was raised in Massachusetts, and I'm not sure how the other churches were during the 1980's and early 90's.  I was also raised by fair-minded parents.  And somehow I knew, have always known, in my heart of hearts, that God himself wouldn't, couldn't be nearly as intolerant as the church would have me believe.  Man was intolerant, not God.  Mad had hidden agendas, not God.  It wasn't God's fault His message has been twisted and misinterpreted a thousand time over!  And not just by my own religion, but by a good many of them!  I never believed God had anything to do with a lot of the church's uglier man-made doctrines.  In my idealized little teenaged heart, man's missteps had very little to do with what I felt God believed.  I suppose I assumed this sentiment would translate.

It may seem naive, but there you are.

+++

Part Five: Getting personal

Somehow, some way, my parents brought Sissy and I up in the Catholic church and we were able to take all of the good and none of the bad out of it.  My father-in-law once summed this up as "eating the meat and spitting out the bones."  I couldn't have put it better myself, because that's exactly what we were doing.  Sissy and I both emerged with a deep love and respect for God, and Mary, the mother of God, and we have personalized our religious beliefs in a way that makes sense to us.

I don't talk about it much, I realize, because it's kind of a touchy subject.  But I'd be lying if I didn't say that I have placed every important decision in my adult life in the hands of God.  (Not the church's hands, mind you; God's hands.)

There.  I said it.  I don't make a move without Him.  When I have been at my most pathetic, at the lowest of my low, terrified and alone, I have literally said, "God, I place this situation in Your hands.  I'm done trying to fix things on my own.  Take this situation, this mess, and do with it whatever You feel is best." 

I will tell you that at these times there has been a tangible force, a strength other than my own, that has swept in and saved the day.  Every time.  All I have to do is ask.

Most of the time I forget to ask, of course, until things go pear shaped.  And then I'll remember, like waking up from a dream, and everything becomes clear.  I usually opt to do things the hard way, when I know the easy way is to place my choices, my very life, into a power higher than myself.  And that pretty much sums up my beliefs.  The God I love certainly doesn't hate gay people, He created gay people for crying out loud, and He wants them to be happy, and accepted, and safe; He wants them to be able to get married.  The God I believe in doesn't condemn; and from a place deep inside me I know, I just know, I know this to be true.

This is what works for me.  I don't attend Mass, but I wouldn't call myself a non spiritual person, and I don't believe it makes me love God any less.  I've attended other churches: Non-denominational, Episcopalian, Baptist, United Church of Christ, but honestly I don't get the same connection I feel as when I enter a Catholic church.  With all the mess, and the lies, and the infuriating, outdated, often hateful beliefs that emerge from the Vatican, I can still find comfort kneeling in those pews.  No other church regards Mary, the mother of God, in the way I've become accustomed to.  I love so many things about Catholicism- the ritual, the mysticism, and yet...

+++

Part Six: The Next Generation

Hubby and I talk about what religion we'll bring up our child, when we have children.  He was raised non-denominational Christian, but is not religious.  He's always told me we could raise our child Catholic, if that's what I wanted.  And up until now, theoretically that's what I wanted.

Because in theory, it always seemed like a good plan.  After all, my parents did it, and even though we didn't agree with a large percentage of the church's outdated doctrines, my sister and I still emerged with a deep love and respect for God.  It works for us.  We didn't turn out to be conservative radicals.  Couldn't it work again?

It dawned on me that it's an awful lot to hope for.  Wouldn't it be lovely if I could just find a religion that lined up perfectly with my own strong beliefs?  Do I really want to have to keep spitting out the bones?  I'm a vegetarian now, after all!

More importantly, would I want my child to have to do this?  What if she is a girl?  How will I tell her she can never become a priest, because she is female?  How could I explain to her that this is simply the way it is, because it's always been done this way?  What will be her response, when someone at school asks if she hates gay people?

+++

Part Seven: In Defense

Hubby and I were married in the Catholic church.  We didn't take communion, since Hubby isn't Catholic and the priest suggested it may alienate my new family if half of us took communion and the rest didn't. 

The priest never asked, "Who gives this woman away?"  Now, I had been gearing up to tell him those words would not be welcome at our wedding, but it turns out I didn't have to.  He wasn't planning on saying it, anyways. 

Oh. 

Hubby and I both asked we not be announced as "Mr. and Mrs. (insert Hubby's full name)," and the priest merely shrugged and complied. 

I've attended many a wedding, and have also seen a few non-religious wedding ceremonies (one that was even officiated outside by a radio dj) and one common thread is that the woman has always been "given away" to her husband.  (Gag me with an effing pitchfork.)  But not at my wedding, and come to think of it, not at my sister's wedding, either. 

The church did right by me that day, and I was glad.  For all the shit I've taken over the years for being Catholic - and believe me there is no other religion, I don't believe, which the majority at large feels they have a free pass to bash, even to a Catholic's face, (especially to a Catholic's face?) - I loved everything about my wedding.

+++

Part Eight: The Beef

However.  I feel very strongly in support of gay marriage.  As an American, I am ashamed and sickened that this hateful lack of civil rights still exists for the gay community.  But that's another post.  (Another long, angry post.)  Do I want to attend a church that would ban gay marriage?  Not to be so naive as to say the Catholic church is the only church who opposes this, because I know that isn't true.  But this may just be the deal breaker.

I told my mother I'm having doubts about Catholicism and initially she asked, "Hasn't God been good to you?"  Of course He has, but I didn't say I was doubting God, I said I was doubting the church!  I don't think one has anything to do with the other.  My whole life I have always spit out the bones.  But what about my children?

God has been so, so good to me, and I want to pass that love along.  It's what I know, it's what comforts me.  Mary the Blessed Mother has been a comfort to me.  The saints have been a comfort to me.  The repetition of the prayers has been a comfort to me. 

One of my dearest friends is Jamie, whom I've known and loved since I was seventeen, when we met in the basement of our dorm freshman year of college.  Jamie was raised Catholic, and is gay, and although it's a bit of a contradiction, he can still find some comfort in church.  I can, too.  Is it because it's all we know?  Dysfunctional though it my be, do we return to it because it's what we know?

It's complicated.  I don't think God or God's love is complicated, I think the rest of it is. 

+++

 The future

Sadly, I don't think the church is going to change any time soon, or within my lifetime, even.  Therefore, when I tell someone I am Catholic they may always assume I'm a radical religious zealot.  But if I'm not any of those things, is that their problem, or is it mine?

They most likely will never be able to delve into my heart and know what I know.  And I do know.  My beliefs concerning God are long held and unwavering and strong and deep and real.  And I don't feel safe talking about them with most people, especially "religious" people, because in my experience, talking about my strongest and deepest beliefs is an open invitation for me to get my heart trampled upon. 

The Catholic church is what I was born into, and the very thought of leaving fills me with a certain amount of anxiety and sadness.  I'm no quitter, and yet...can I keep on spitting out these bones?

Is the church concerned about losing people like me?  Will they ever be willing to bend, to evolve with the times?  I don't think so.  Not one bit.

Morally and ethically I want to do the right thing by God, myself, and my future children.  Maybe I'll never, ever find a spiritual cookie cutter to cram my personal beliefs into.  Maybe a lot of people don't.  Maybe for now, spitting out the bones will have to be enough.  The rest may have to be another free fall.  (And hopefully not a free fall into Hades.  I don't care much for barbecue.)

Back on the horse

My heart was pounding and I was petrified my hands were going to shake.  But I did it; I sang in public again for the first time in years.  It wasn't my worst performance, and it certainly wasn't my best, but I did it nonetheless. 

I love weddings.  Afterwards, as I sat next to Hubby and listened to his cousin recite her wedding vows, I gave his hand a sweaty little squeeze at the words, "In sickness, and in health..." 

I had certainly been testing the boundaries of the in sickness category as of late...mental sickness, to be exact. 

I experienced a brief but potent meltdown on Friday evening, you see, after I ran through the song with the church's ancient resident organ player.  She didn't know the song, she told me, but she would learn it before the wedding tomorrow.  I was also singing it at a much faster tempo than she seemed comfortable with, but she told me she would follow along.  I'd be singing from up on the alter, out in front, holding a wireless microphone.  (We'd forgotten to bring a microphone stand, hence my worry over shaky hands.)  It occurred to me that if I was fourteen years old I wouldn't have batted an eyelid at any of this information.  When had I turned into such a wimp?

Back in the car, I called my mother for comfort but found she had none available.  I had made my own bed and it was time for me to lie in it.  This is when I hung up the phone and cried heavy, sloppy tears, my chest heaving in rapid, panicky gasps.  I was going to make a fucking asshole out of myself!  Holding a microphone, up on the alter?  Like Ted Neely or Carl Anderson in Jesus Christ Superstar?  I couldn't do it!

Hubby continued driving, the very picture of calm.  He reached out his hand and patted my knee, gently telling me I was being ridiculous, but still allowing me the freedom to blubber away.  I was hot mess central: broken, pathetic, and very, very ugly.  Ten minutes and one phone call to Sissy later, I wiped the smudged mascara from my cheeks and entered the rehearsal dinner wearing a happy face.  What was the alternative?  I had to be an adult; Sissy said so.  She also told me to make like Mary Magdalene and just sing!

My husband is an exceedingly kind person.  All the same, ten years ago it would have killed me to put on such a shamelessly vulnerable display in front of him.  These days it's a different story.  He loves me even at my very worst, when I am at my most atrocious, and for that I am truly grateful.  I trust him, more than I trust anybody in the world, and there's something very freeing about that. 

"I was being really pathetic and horrible," I tell my husband tonight, back at home on our red couch with Kittie.  "I was acting ugly and childish and hysterical, all for no reason." 

"Yeah," Hubby agreed, squeezing my hand, a smile flickering across his eyes, "But it's okay."

God I love that man.

PS: I capped off my singing performance by getting very, very, very drunk.  (Fast dancing drunk.  Telling my brother in law to shave off his beard because I hate it drunk.  Peeing without putting a liner down on the public toilet seat drunk.)  I then commenced to tell all of my in-laws how much I loved them, again and again, and apologized profusely to Hubby's parents for not providing them with grandchildren.  I also promised to get on this right away, in a year and a half or so.  (Thanks, chardonnay!)  Hiccup. 

All in all, the evening was quite a success.

In a pickle

Warning: The following anecdote could very well be considered "too much information."

I was a woman living on the edge, a gambler, a taker of risks.  I knew I needed to buy a box of tampons and yet some slothful part of me kept putting it off.  But not to worry, I was sure there had to be a few lurking around somewhere.  Actually, didn't I have an extra one in my purse from the vending machine at work?  It turned out I did.  And good thing, too- because it was Monday evening and I'd just gotten a visit from Aunt Flo.   

A word about tampons purchased for a quarter- they're not always of the highest quality.  In my experience, they can be prone to falling apart.  And wouldn't you know, this is precisely what happened when I unwrapped it.  Times were desperate, however, and I did my best to put that old plug back together.  I went to sleep, never guessing the adventure that would await me in the morning...

~        ~        ~        ~        ~

7:57 am:  It's stuck.  What the?  Nary a string in sight.  And I'm already running late for work.  Shit! 

8:36am:  I call Sissy on my way to the T, hoping she'll ease my anxiety.  She is not laughing, and as it turns out is quite unable to hide her concern.  Oh dear.  Perhaps a vigorous jaunt to the train will help bring on a miracle?  (Or bring out a tampon?)

9:25 am:  In the bathroom stall at work.  In the spirit of true improvisation, I fervently attempt to remedy the situation.  No dice. 

Now, I've been in the employ of my company for less than two months, and yet on that Monday morning I find myself sidling into my new boss's office to utter a sentence I surely never thought I'd have to utter:

"My tampon is stuck."

There is really no dignified way to say it.  And with that, I am in a taxi on my way to Mass General Hospital.  Once inside, I am curiously surrounded by several people wearing facial masks.  (It is all very "SARS") 

10:38 am: The nurse who registers my information gives me a doubtful look.  "Are you sure it's still in there?"  (Of course it's in there!  Wouldn't I know if it wasn't in there?  I may be idiotic enough to get a tampon stuck inside of me, but so help me God I'm intelligent enough to know if it's still in there or not!  For reals!!) 

Alas, this is not the time for hysterics.  I remain calm.  "Oh ya, it's in there."

By this time Sissy and Lukey the Wonder Nephew have rushed to my aid.  We decide to have a nice little visit and make the most of the situation.

12:30 pm:  It occurs to me that I may be forced to see a male doctor.  Oh please, God, please don't let my doctor be the somber looking man who just walked by.  If you can work with me on this one, I will surely be grateful. 

A kind faced doctor opens the door and calls my name.  She is a lady.  Thank you, Baby Jesus!

It takes only three tries.  She apologizes profusely throughout.  At one point she exclaims, "I see the string!"  A voice inside of me wants to scream: "For Christs's sake, PULL!!!!" 

12:45 pm:  It is out.

12:47 pm:  I ask for a pad.

~        ~        ~        ~        ~ 

In closing, I ask you which is more ridiculous: the fact that I'm telling this grisly tale on the world wide web, or the fact that this has already happened to me once before?  xoxo

Ouchie

People aren't supposed to get sick on vacation.  It's just not done! 

I'm not supposed to dash to the bathroom, mid-Sunday-barbecue, to vomit into the toilet of my husband's best friend.  But vomit I did.  And with a vengeance.  I strained muscles I'd forgotten I had.

Before you wonder, the barfing was not alcohol induced, as my Mother-in-Law was also extremely sick today.

Not that my violent retching ended today's festivities.  On the contrary, I chose to respond to the nastiness with my typical, perverse sort of style: chipper, cheerful, albeit a bit paler and shakier than before.  Well, we hadn't seen any of these people in ages, I didn't want to spoil the fun. 

This was totally reminiscent of the time my friends and I got into a head-on collision a few weeks after graduating high school.  There I stood, the Benetton t-shirt I'd stolen from my sister now soaked in blood, telling the woman who'd gone the wrong way on the highway, "I'm ok!  (can someone hold me up, please?)  Really, I'm fine!"  When the ambulance finally arrived they said I was the happiest patient they'd ever had.  Lesson learned?  Please proceed with caution when I tell you I'm "ok," since my smile, though frequent, can often be suspect.  Everyone's can, I suppose, which is why I'm always on the lookout for this sort of thing.

So tonight, here I lay...listless, pajama clad, forehead pounding, shivering in the king sized hotel bed, having just finished the toast and tea Hubby ordered for me from Room Service. I've managed to make sure the bed is almost completely covered in crumbs. 

I'm not sure what's sadder: the fact that I threw up last night's $32 petite fillet, or that the hotel's lack of the Lifetime channel nearly brought tears to my eyes.  (It's Sunday night, I need my Army Wives, already!  Have you ever watched it, incidentally?  It's nice.  I'm hooked.)

Other than my moments of spontaneous barfery, LA is splendid.  I'll give you a more pleasant recap very soon, when I'm not feeling so...pukey.

Ok, time to finish my chamomile.

xoxo

Sarah and the Maxi Pads

Warning:  The following is too much information about lil' old me.  I have a habit of giving out too much information.  (What my Grandmother would refer to as diarrhea of the mouth.)  The following is an example.  Having said this, continue reading at your own risk.  You have been warned.

Have you ever just had an idea about something?  When I say idea, I'm speaking of a strongly held, perhaps unconscious belief that something is undeniably a certain way.  Maybe you've never even spoken of this belief to another living soul, but it's just something you know to be true?  And then have you ever one day realized that your strongly held belief is absolute insanity?  Insanity with a capital I, dipped in delusion and sprinkled with idiocy?

If your answer is yes, then read on my friend, this story is certain to make you feel better about your own life at the expense of mine.

In elementary school my group of best friends and I used to pray for our periods.  (Yes, I know, very "Are you there God?  It's me, Margaret," but really, we did.)  We actually prayed.  Little did I know that they'd all be getting theirs ASAP and I'd end up waiting until I was 14 years old.  I was somehow always underweight as a kid, and that's probably why my period was delayed.  Of course, looking back on it I am gloriously happy that I got to put off "the curse" for as long as I did. 

The night before I got my first period I remember experiencing a terrible, out of the blue belly ache.  The pain was so excruciating, I had no idea why God was punishing me so viciously.  Then the next morning I woke up and realized, hey, I had just gotten my period.  Hmm, what do you know.

I was in a big fight with my Mom and older sister that weekend.  Looking back on it, had the circumstances been different perhaps I could have saved myself a host of heartache.  But alas, this was not in the cards.  When I woke up that morning and discovered I was now officially a woman, my first thought was, "Ha!  Now won't the two of them feel ASHAMED when they find out months from now that I got my period and never told either one of them!  Ha!  They'll be sorry!"  And so on, in a generally bitter, maniacal sort of way.

I guess you could describe me as being "naive" sometimes.  I'm just going to come right out and say it:  For some reason, for as long as I can remember, I always thought maxi pads went on the outside of your underwear.  Now before you think I'm joking, please know that I am being 100% serious.  It's not like I was a stupid kid.  I was a brainy child, always in honors or advanced placement classes, eventually going on to become a member of the National Honors Society.  I just happened to believe that maxi pads were meant to be stuck to the outside of your underwear.  Like, tape side up, on the outside.  So the blood won't get all over your jeans.  Go figure!

So that morning, I did what any other red-blooded American girl would do.  I stuck the maxi pad to the outside of my underwear.  (Have I actually admitted this to another living non-family member?  Because I'm not sure...)  But that is what I did.  Because, after all, that is what you do!

The next day, as I got ready for school for the first time as a woman, my pants felt a little extra bulky.  To be certain, I felt like I was wearing a diaper.  I wondered if people would notice a "bulge."  Ever the resourceful youth, I decided to deflect from any bulginess by wearing tights underneath my pants.

As the week wore on, I slowly began to realize I was ruining every pair of underwear I owned.  I couldn't help thinking, Boy, this is a really inefficient way of dealing with something that is going to happen once a month for at least the next thirty or forty years!  You'd think by now someone would've thought of a way to take care of this problem without destroying your underwear!  Seriously!

I'm not even sure how I found out.  In the end I think I finally cracked and casually mentioned to my Mom that I had gotten my period.  Relieved to finally be able to talk about my situation, I expanded upon this information, telling her how I had ruined about seven pairs of underwear that week. 

"Mom, it's kind of silly, I'm wrecking all of my underwear!  These pads don't work!"

"Really?" she asked, starting to sound a little nervous, then adding, "Why?  How?"

"Well," I explained, "It's stupid, the pad barely catches any of the blood."

"Sarah, Sasa," my horrified Mother intoned, "What do you mean?  Are you sure you're putting it on right?"  She paused a second before adding, "You're sticking it inside of your underwear, right?"

Now I was beginning to become impatient.  What did she think I was, stupid?  "Ya, Mom, of course I put it on right, I'm not an idiot!  I stick the pad underneath.  You know, like, under."

No, she didn't, like, know.  Nobody, like, knew.  I was alone on this one.  And now the horrible truth had been exposed:  I had been sticking the pad, sticky side up, to the outside of my panties.  Why?  Honestly, why?  Looking back on it, I really can't say.  Logically, it makes no sense.  I thought the blood was meant to get all over my underwear, but not on my pants.  The pad was there on the outside to catch it from going onto my pants.  I have no other explanation, no defense.  This was simply what I believed to be true.  I thought this was the function of maxi pads.

It's not even like I was some terrible, friendless teenage misfit, either.  I guess I was just...clueless with a touch of stubborn?

When I told my Mom I was going to write a story on this subject, first she cracked up laughing because, well, my family always has that reaction whenever we speak of this matter.  But then she got a little serious and said, "You know, honey, are you sure you want to tell people about this?  Maybe don't tell them how old you were...what were you, like, 14, 15?  They might think...something is wrong with you."

I think it's safe to say that sometimes even I think there is something wrong with me.  Sometimes I get sort of nervous.  I mean, what if I hold other wacky beliefs that are just...grossly inaccurate?  Will there be many more bizarre surprises like this in my life?  God I hope not.  I hope when the stork delivers my first born I will have read up on all of the details so I'll know exactly what to expect.  And, do I have to tip the stork?  What, like, 20% or something?

The first time I learned how to use a tampon is another story.  Another long, gruesome story.  But I think I'll probably have to get my Sister's permission before I tell that one.