young dads rad dads

Ok, so sometime, somewhere I read an article about how there's a whole new breed and brand of young dads. They are involved. They want to spend time at home with their families, they want to help out with the dishes, laundry, housework; they want to take little Lulu to ballet practice. And this is my man. So perhaps there is an advantage to being young parents after all. I mean, when everyone comments on how much easier it is to be a parent based on age alone (cause the older you get the more tiered you become yes?), I find those comments to be full of crap cause young and old alike can only take so much of their own children (it's all about personality and disposition people!). So now when people say "well at least your young" about having three kids before my 25th birthday, two of whom happen to only be a mere 15 months apart in age (and both boys- how ominious for me), I can smile and think to my self "why yes, I'm young and so therefore I've got it easier, my husband helps out." Thank goodness for husbands, young one's that is.

But wait. Does it count if he's already balding? Doesn't that subtract some of the youngness? :D


ps. doing a quick google search, here's some of the news articles that spurred the whole cool young involved dad thought...
http://www.boston.com/news/globe/magazine/articles/2005/01/16/gen_x_dad?pg=full (the original story I read somewhere sometime)
http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,1168125,00.html (got this one off of rebeldads blog)

The newest man I'm in love with

Ok, so here is the man with whom I'm falling in love with. So far these first two weeks have been blissful. Yes, I'm saying that they've been blissful even though a certain V-word part and surrounding areas have been hurt and recovering, and the four year old has had a whole 12 hours of vomiting, and the hubby has had eye surgery and then minor complications and plenty of whining (which from him, isn't much noise anyways, but I'm the only one who can complain in the first place!). Blissful. Because baby is here. And baby is beautiful. Now, not to make anyone jelous, and perhaps I'm speaking too soon here, but I seem to be experiencing the opposite of post partum depression and am in post partum heaven. Let me list the ways that I love having this baby:
1. I'm already squeezing back into my fat pants (and let me tell ya, they're fat- twice the size I was in college if were going by numbers here)
2. I've got boobies (see earlier post). Hot sexy boobies... that leak.
3. I've got a soft little head to stroke all day long (nope, not the husband.. out of the gutter- out!)
4. Soft little head has soft, fine, downy hair that is like licking chocolate every time I stoke my face against it. Delightful.
5. He's got a dimple. A dimple I tell ya. Maybe even two, but definately one confirmed.
6. His perfectly puckered mouth. I can't wait to get kisses from it!
7. His unassuming, nonjudgemental, observant, wondering, soulful eyes gazing and taking in the world around him (including me!).
8. Having other people comment on what beautiful children hubby and I make. Because I agree.
9. The breastfeeding. A warm feeling. See picture.
10. Wondering what he'll look like, act like, behave like. And knowing he's a clean slate now.
11. A bowl full of jelly. Having no more baby inside of me and being able to sleep how I wish (ok, with exception to big 'ol honkin milk tit's getting in the way), and poke my own stomach without pain and discomfort- cause it's just a big ol bowl full of jelly.

Life... my little life. So perfect and unshaped by the world. Created in love, nurtured with love, and loved oh so much. Hopefully raised with love; if I don't use it all up with the siblings, cause goodness knows mama needs some lovin to raise those hellions ;p Ok ok, over exaggerating now... trying to be funny.

So yes, I love my little boy. And now I've got two of them

My husband is a...

Feminist. The first time I heard this term used to describe a man, and the description of that man, I was so happy because it finally gave me a descriptive to use to describe my husband, and a frame of reference for what kind of man he is. We've both known for as long as we've known each other, that my husband isn't exactly the American masculine macho type male. It's not that my husband is effeminate either. I mean, he stood up for me the time I cut off and then flipped off the asshole driver that then proceeded to get out of the car and try to fight now hubby then boyfriend, for my driving. Or the time that he took one for the team (a mildly pregnant me- again the driver), when the big 'ol black dude punched him in the face for my refusing to give up (or give in to the battle between us) the rightly mine parking spot. He's stood tall like a dude and taken it. Didn't try fighting back no, but didn't whimper and run in the opposite direction either. And then the hair. And the pit smell. And the 5 o'clock (no- make that 1 o'clock) shadow. So yes, he's a man. But he's also a feminist. And this means, that no matter what, even if he's got to sit and wait for a rejuvination period, he'll get all ready to go again even after he's had his, to let me get mine if I didn't (or want seconds). And he'll really sympathsize (oh lord I can't spell) with me when I complain about a shitty day home with the kids, even though I do this every day (ok, but sometimes it feels like it). And he's willing to share the housework, kid raising, errands, cooking, cleaning, et cetera (fill in with typically feminine work) fifty-fifty, or more if he could actually accomplish it. We agree on many points. Abortion; he get's mad at them darn republicans- it's cute to listen to him shout at NPR asking them "and what's that going to do?!" regarding various legislation or propositions. And he prefers to spend time with me. Yep, me. I tend to think that I tire (ok, annoy) most people out after, say, a couple of hours. But this man sticks by me all the time, and actually puts going and drinking and checking out hot chicks on the bottom of his list of things to do, and me at the top (yes, that's me on the top of his list of things to do- ask him, he'll agree). So pair his feminist attitude with his bitchin', witty, sarcastic sense of humor, and here I am, falling in love again. And now I know what to call him when I need to describe my husband as a man, but not the overly masculine type, no macho attitude here. Ahh... so nice, especially when I run across those husbands who are the opposite of mine, and I get all annoyed because they actually complain about helping out, and keep track of mommy taking mommy time and demand equal Daddy time (even though Daddy gets kid free time during the majority of the day- counts for somethin!). So that's my love and rant! :D

The best thing about having a baby is...

BOOBIES!!!
Ok, so now that Nicholas is born, and my midsection is slowly shrinking back to probably 10 inches wider then it was before I had kids, something else is getting larger. Men's penises. That's right because with the breastfeeding, especially in this early stage, my boobies have grown to nice round huge milky porn star tits. It's amazing. There is nothing to make you feel great like instantly dropping a whole ton of baby around the middle (and being able to see your feet and knees again) and then having the boobs grow bigger in relation. It's amazing. So I feel pretty hot cause I've got big boobs (if only they could stay this way), I am regaining what might one day actually be a figure, and I can eat like a cow. I love babies.

Seriously though, I do love babies. With all the hoopla over post partum depression, I would like to think that I suffer the opposite, post partum hoorah. As Dan pointed out that perhaps I didn't feel this way the first time around with all that went on with Morgan, I feel like I did a bit feel this way with Morgan, a lot more this way with Carter, and again, hopelessly happy in love with Nicholas. I'm so happy with the way things are. I had such a beautiful labor and delivery, and now I've got a beautiful baby who's whole life is pleasant as long as he can suck on a boob or sleep on/around/next to mom. And he's so beautiful. I love stroking his hair, feeling his little soft round globe of a head and realizing how fragile it is, and how I'm the protecter that will keep this little grape from being smushed. And how I could just kiss his little face for hours on end (I've actually felt compelled to lick him like a mother cat, which I've passed on out of sheer wierdness, and the fact that I haven't been paying attention to when I brush my teeth anymore and it would be gross to mess up baby's hair with stinky breath smell). Everything about my precious little one is so amazing.

And then, because of Nick's arrival, I'm taking in my other two in a whole new light. Ok, mostly Carter has changed in my eyes because before he was the baby. He still looks like a baby with his fat chubby legs, his humongo diaper, his furry little mop. But he's not quite a baby anymore. He's talking (or atleast making sincere attempts), he's throwing fits and temper tantrums, he's got teeth (pretty soon a whole mouthful), and he's takes up half my body when I hold him. He's mondo mondo humungo! And then when Morgan's off to school, I've got my two boys, which freaks me out. After having my first baby be a girl, and then that little girl going to a nearly all girls playgroup, and getting well versed in all things girl, I've got two boys. Two of them! And Carter is boy. I see that now, after trying to ignore every thing about gender neutrality, and fighting against all things decisively boy, that I've got a B-O-Y! From the moment of raised eyebrows between Dan and I after Carter picked up a car for the first time and made vrooming sounds, to the "choochoo" he calls every loud vehicle (knowing full well that in very little time, he'll be very good about differentiating between bus, train, truck, and all other loud vehicles), and the need to climb and conquer every conquerable spot, he's a boy I now realize. An adorable loveable little man. And so I will need to finally learn the difference between a front loader and an excavator, get some more hotwheels, might actually have to give in to football and other sports themed toys, and even, perhaps, cultivate my daughter and allow her to become that much more girly and princess-y to offset all of the boy that I will be surrounded by. And I haven't done boy in a long time. The world of boy has mostly been hidden to me, with occasional glimpses from the one boy in play group, or the lump of boys at preschool. After nannying two boys for years, and having two brothers, I wonder how I did it. Have I lost anything from those times? What will be different now that these two boys will be mine? I look to others, like the lady at the doctors office with two little boys obviously close in age (after asking, they were 16 months apart), who looked as tired and worn out, yet very go with the flow (I'm thinking coping and realistic strategy here), as I sometimes feel, yet can see in every parent who has the two little boys dragging behind her. I know that it's going to be different, and I hate that it will be, just the nature of two little boys, versus a boy-girl, girl-girl, twins, or even just two kids. I will be having a fairly unique experience corraling my two sons to do what I want when I want, and dealing with those situations (I see plenty) when that will never happen, as well as having a four year old who's independence and individuality is becoming louder and more clear every day (bittersweet), all while being under 25 (well till November- hot damn I'm gettin up there :). Yeah, as if my age will be some magic potion that keeps me from getting fusterated, tired, worn out, or any other mother-induced condition. I know it does help, it is a factor, but still, it ain't everything! You can still have sympathy damn it!!

Ok, now I have written enough, and must move on. But I am thorughly enjoying these opportunities to write, and hope that they continue to come as often as they have been, or at least I will try to make them do so ;D

Nicholas Caleb

My darling third baby finally made his entrance into the world. After an agonizing nine months. Ok, so the whole nine yards wasn't terrible, but those last couple of overdue days made the effort stretch into an eternal desert wasteland. But finally, on March 15th, as someone predicted and cursed at the same time, I woke up at 3/3:30 am feeling crampy. Whoo hoo I thought as I made my way down the stairs to see if this was it, not wanting to wake my husband if it wasn't, and also to start getting things ready if it was. Well it was. And darn it, I just didn't have the pretty little exciting "this is it!" crampy contractions that I could just walk off and breathe through. Nope. After say a good half hour of minute long, stop what you are doing and breathe and rock and try any thing to diminish the pain every five minutes contractions, I realized, damn, I'm not going to be able to hang on to this for very long. And so I went and woke up the husband just after four (halfway in jest because the good ol hubby said before bed "if it's going to be tonite, just wait till after four in the morning- that should be enough sleep"). After waking the husband (well, first I pre-washed the dishes because Dan's obsessively, freakishly neat grandmother would be coming over to watch the kids, and most likely do the dishes and would probably scowl- in a nice forgiving pretend to understand way- at the left out food from dinner... and then I typed up some instructions on how to handle Morgan's breakfast with her diabetes, and then finally finish packing my hospital bag, and take a shower because I wanted to not have greasy hair or smelly p***y... ); well after waking the husband and then calling my sister, I was getting nervous. I kept thinking, hell if my water breaks the baby is going to born in the car. And damn these contractions are plentiful painful and if my water breaks I'll wake the whole neighborhood with screams and howls. Well my sister arrived shortly after calling her and I was feeling pretty painful, even begged for a bucket to take in the car because I thought I'd puke from the pain (something I quite remember from last time). We hopped in the car because we (me) couldn't wait for the grandparents to show, told my sis to meet us there and drove to the hospital. Poor Dan was wanting to get there as fast as possible, and of course I was yelling (ok, strongly demanding) that he do so, yet during contractions I could hardly stand to be in the car anymore, let alone feel any turns, bumps, or movement in general (turning into the hospital driveway- so close- I yelled at him till we slowed to painstaking five mph- so close, yet the pain so bad). Well, we parked and I started walking to the doors despite the pain cause no hurly burly man was waiting around to pick me up and rush me upstairs, and now, Dan just can't do that, especially when I'm painfully nine months pregnant. Walked past the security gaurd who nodded at my obvious condition, down the damn hallway, through another hallway, finally to the elevators. Why, in the middle of the night they force the pregnant, laboring women to walk even further then during day time baffles and fustrates me. Now I could have demanded to be wheeled up in a wheelchair, but why take that extra time to make my demands and have people hop to it? So finally we get upstairs and I walk up to the counter and tell them that I am having a baby. So what do the lovely staff do. Look at me and ponder whether or not I'm joking or serious. I wanted to slap them around and say damn it, I'm a nice person and want to be nice, but if you don't help get this baby out of me in the next five minutes or somehow alliviate my pain, I'm going to be the biggest loudest bitch on this floor so hop to it! But of course I'm nice. So I patiently sat there and breathed, rocked, and waited while they debated where they could put me since all the main labor and delivery rooms were busy (or not busy but occupied), and who would deal with me. Well, finally the chosen nurse walked me down the hall to the little triage room that they stuck me in before when I had Carter (which is obviously a temporary room because they never have the supplies they need!). The lady asked me to get undressed and such, which at this point I wanted to kick her in the shin and tell her that putting on a fucking gown wasn't my concern, to hell with my clothes, I just wanted to have a baby! But obviously we wouldn't get anywhere with that because she just was waiting for me to strip. The funny thing was she gave me the gown and showed me to the bathroom and politely shut the door. Now I could give a shit if she saw me naked while putting the gown on for she might just have to watch me poop on the table, shoot a kid out of my vagina, and puke all over the place. But whatever... I put the gown on and was hit with a nasty contraction which found me on top of the bed thing on all fours which made my gown fall almost completely off (well, it was around my wrists and under my knees). Perfect timing to have another nurse peek in and ask if my nurse needed anything, and then for the male nurse who was going to put my IV in to walk in... ahhh.. first impressions? I know, they've seen it all in labor and delivery. So I'm moaning and groaning through these contractions that at times, makes me think "is this what I sometimes sound like during sex? is it? oh god? I hope Dan doesn't make the connection and then sex is even further ruined for us?" Can't dwell on these thoughts though because the epidural man is here. Thank god. And so I lean forward and the nice male nurse tells me to bring my hands round to the front- his crotch area. Now Dan is lucky that the male nurse was doing this, because had it been my husband telling me to 'just bring your hands forward' right to his crotch area cause the only thing that kept me from grabbing and squeezing to show how much pain I was feeling, was that male nurse wasn't my husband. Lucky for the both of them. Well the epidural man I guess was having a hard time with my back and Dan and Christina got to see spinal fluid squirting out of my back as the man dug around back there not quite getting it right the first time. All I cared about was that the man hurry with my relief. And relief came, in a light dose which I wanted, and I could tell that things were moving fast considering when I checked in, I was 7.5 cm dialated, and after the epidural, the nurse checked me and laughed as she said "she's 9.5, chuckle, nope 10 cm". I screamed that I was going to have this baby by 6 am (considering we got to the hospital probably around 445- this was a pretty amazing feat), and everyone in the room laughed at my resolve and the half hour time limit, yet those nurses sure did find me a real room in labor and delivery pretty fast as well as page the OB to get to the hospital. Well, my spared the pain in the genetalia nurse advised and told me to roll onto my side as they rolled me down the hall, which I did to find out that I liked the curled fetal position it put me into and the easy access side railing that I could squeeze the plastic out of without guilt. So as we hit the real room, I was seriously feeling the urge to push, as I never really did with the other two kids (epiduraled out of mind for those one) and push I did, but just to the point of satisfying the urge. It was pretty cool, the urges and the satisfaction of giving in to those urges, and it all really felt like I was taking the biggest dump ever. I could literally feel the baby move down the birthing canal with each groaning push, and feel the pressure all down my backside. It was great... well finally the doctor showed up just in time, and I was sure the baby would be looking at everyone in the face as they told me to roll on to my back and open my legs. Well, baby wasn't quite there yet, but the doc told me to push once and woahhh, there was the head starting to emerge. And another push, and another and then the doc's damn fingers helping stretch out my ouchy part and me yelling don't touch there (to which she would reply "I'm not touching you" oh so innocently as if I would fucking believe her). And so then after some searing pain, the baby's head popped out, a little more pain and the shoulders were out, and then the doc asked Dan if he'd like to catch the baby, which was pretty damn cool that she'd ask. Stuck in a momentary stupor, wondering exactly what the doc ment, Dan stuttered and agreed to which the doctor coached him on what to do and then the baby was out and the pressure was relived from the ouchy place. At this moment, Dan looked down at the baby and said "it's a boy!". Of course, I didn't believe him, and knowing his tendency to joke at even the most inappropriate of times, I thought he was fucking with me so I looked to the doctor who confirmed "it's a boy!". Damn, a quick check to the genetals, and lookie here, a boy. Stuck by shock and wonder, I just looked at my little boy (a boy!), and took in the beautiful baby. The doc asked Dan to cut the cord, which he absolutely hates, and after he insisted that he didn't want to, asked my sister if she wanted to, which was really cool cause she enjoyed it and Dan was relieved that he didn't have to. And so they let me just take in my baby for a while, while my head continued to loop "it's a boy, it's a boy, it's a boy". I started thinking of all the pink things I was collecting, harvesting, dreaming about that now would have to be amended to blue... But it was a boy, and born one minute to six, my deadline. A fast, fast birth, that went beautifully. Start to finish I was barely in labor for three hours (more like 2.5), I had just enough pain control before I couldn't handle it, I had great nurses (haha, that one that got stuck with me in the beginning never had a chance to leave my side). And I got to be oh so smug that I the first person up to that point to give birth despite all the full rooms before me (and the new baby chimes just started a' comin all day after me :)... the fastest birther on that day!! whooo hooo... and then, icing on the cake, I got a private room!! Granted it had no furniture for anyone else, but I got a huge room all to my self with no other bed that couldn't be touched. A big private room! After such an uncomplicated labor and delivery I was psyched to get my IV removed before I even was close to leaving, and to get to go home within 24 hours... but then, because I had the group B strep stuff (like both other pregnancies), and had baby much too fast, found out that baby had to stay 48 hours for observance. Damn, too fast for my own good I guess. Well we charmed the nurses and doctor and got to leave in 36 hours instead, which was nice because I made it home in time for dinner :D And all that time, Dan's grandparents and my sister were helping out with my kids, and then a neighbor/friend/Morgan's friend's mom, took Morgan out for one of the best days of her life (this is on her brother's actual birthday). So everything was beautiful and amazing and the funny thing is that we didn't even have a name for him. Leading up to the event, we were starting to have identity crisis with the names we had picked out, and then when we found out we were having a boy, totally unexpected, we were stuck without a name that we loved. And so we debated, and debated, and debated. We brought the baby name book to the hospital and poured through it. We made a list of possible names that we liked. I asked the nurses for their opinions. We called family members to weigh in on some choices. We'd think we chose a name, and then recind the choice. So we took home baby boy Gadsden (or Lewis depending on who you asked). We took him to the doctors and told them "he doesn't have one" when they asked what the name was. We told family members that we hadn't picked anything out yet when they kept calling and asking. We sent pictures of our baby and got responses asking what we were calling him. Finally we settled on Nicholas Caleb Gadsden. To which I still have a hard time remembering what exactly it is. My little Nick. Must keep repeating to self so I will remember. And there will probably allways be a huge pause when someone askes what his name is (whole name), because he IS the third child, and that's alot of names and birthdays to remember... especially for someone as bird brained as me. And that's my story, or more so, that's Nick's story. :D

Youth? Really?

Being a young mom, people love to herald the fact of my youth. Sometimes it's a negative intonation to my age, othertimes they like to attribute many positive things to it. So as I'm a day overdue so far, and bending over to pick things up off the floor in hopes that the uncomfortable feeling it induces in the shreds and shards of whats left of my muscles will some how provoke the much anticipated labor to start, I think, fuck those people who say it's easy cause I'm young. I don't care the age of the mama cow in waiting. It still is not fun to have to wait and wait and wait in suspended uncomfort for the rest of goodness knows how long of a time before the baby comes. And then there's the whole matter of peeing. In my pants. Ok, youth aint helping this department at all. As I take off my slighly already damp undies to replace with a much better fresh pair, I feel the knowing dribble as I struggle past my awakward basketball shaped middle to put on the pants. Damn, youth aint helping me when all I want to be is fresh- the pregnancy overrules everything. And this is how I am equal to all other mothers. Our united front is the peeing problems that a nine month incubation brings on, the struggles of having to wait for our body to DO something regardless of what our mind says it wants... and the lugging around of and anticipation of an afternoon of nothing to entertain two already wanting minds. Blah

Any day now...

So now we're to the point where it REALLY should be any day now. And I'm actually getting afraid to go out in public in fear of my water breaking. I have these disasterous thoughts that since it's a third child and they're supposed to come fast, that this child will. Then again I would love for the child to come sooner rather then later, but I don't want to stay in my house all the time. What would I do though, if I'm out with out my husband and my water breaks and I go into hard fast labor? I would have to rely on those ambulance folks to get me to the hospital, which would still mean having to wait for some one to come get me and then take me to the hospital while I'm agonizing in pain somewhere public. Doesn't sound like fun. Hopefully my fears are unfounded and I'll go into a nice pitcure-esque labor at home during some appropriate and ready time. Here's hoping!

mamazine inspiration

OK, so I love going on my fellow mother, neighbor and friend's website Mamazine, to read funny, insightful, close to home type of stories about being mama's. I love the wide range of liberals, the stories I can't relate to, and those that I can. Most of all though, I love to read stories posted by those I know. It's like a little gratifying peek into their head. It confirms that the outwardly appearance that they put on, is really who they are. They're not just going along with what I say, interacting with me in an altered way that would fit my reality. No, they really are thinking the way that I think, often in a much better, well written way, and it's a nice kind of echo.

So the co-owner of the site and my daughters current best friends mother (haha-figure out that one), just posted a piece inspired by a sociologist saying that parents need to be at peace with their parenting decisions and move on- not to be conflicted with guilt about what decision was made. I find this quite hits home... For the most part, I'd like to think that my world mantra is go with the flow. What happens happens, whether you will it into being or not, and the rest of life is defined by how you deal with it.

For example, I got pregnant. I got pregnant when I was only 19 (yeah yeah, babies having babies... blah, blah, blah). Luckily I got pregnant with the right guy at the right time. Well, I don' t know how much luck has to do with it; it seems kinda harsh to say that the husband I love and the life we lead is all based on luck. But really though, through a rough time of being a college freshman in a major I hated, ignoring the fact that my only real parental type family member was dying and I was supposed to be so caught up in my new life to not think about it, and then getting pregnant. Whew, it forced my hand to change my life. So we were going to have a baby and the details were going to have to work themselves out. Details like, where to live? When will college get finished? How will we support this baby? Will everyone for the rest of our lives continue to look at us with pity for being the poor kids stuck with a baby? Well, the story goes- move into great neighborhood by the great graces of a grandmother who wouldn't raise the ridiculously low rent on us, have baby and use part of dead, wondrous grandfather's insurance money to get us through the rough times, and make life as depicted across America.

Sure there were times when I second guessed myself. The thoughts of my own mother's neurotic behavior courses through my mind as I question the seemingly unavoidable reality that one day I will turn into her. Or at least fuck my kids up as much as she could do to us (sis and I). Or when I have to fess up that yes, I'm at least ten years younger then you, and have two more kids then you do, and of course the pregnancy wasn't planned. But the way things have worked themselves out, is that we just took our lot and reorganized our life to comfortably settle around those events.

These events, they occur much more often then I'd like to admit. Someone was right when they said that life is out of our control (as much as I'd like to think that I am in control). So I'm sitting around playing the waiting game while oops baby is waiting to find their self crammed into some nook or cranny in our two bedroom place (currently stuffed with four already). Or when my worst fear (or one of many) was realized when it was obvious that my firstborn perfect little being was a diabetic. We just said, ok, this is our life, how are we going to make it ours? We purchase a mini-crib to shove baby #3 into our room (since there is no more room elsewhere), and be glad that this ends any quibbles about one day having more (we're done, at least until my sanity regains itself in at least 5 years). The diabetes, we just started adding blood sugar testing before meals, shots after meals, disclaimers about snacks during play dates, and laborious processes to kindergarten registration, into the daily grind of life.

So in the grand scheme, we do a good job of being at peace with our decisions. But those are the big decisions, the ones that need immediate attention and action. It's the little decisions that make us crazy parent's go crazy. Like Kindergarten; the brave new frontier for me. Morgan is my firstborn; I've never had to go through this process and there really isn't a manual that will guide me through every decision out there in my little world. For example, am I wrong to only choose one school and stick with it? Should I have at least looked at other places? Put ourselves on at least one waiting list to feel that we have "options"? Part of me enjoys the fact that I left myself only one option so I don't have room to second guess and make a "decision", but then I begin the second guessing. Once I go to the school and hear horror stories about certain teachers, or find out personal things about teachers that I don't quite agree with (ok, this sounds worse then it is- I'm referring to finding out that one teacher is a devout Christian woman, which petrifies me because it sounds as if she's the preachy, spread the word, live by the bible type). And then the principal seems all cold and unforgiving. And I imagine myself running into problems and not getting my way about things (diabetes management, problems with religious teachers, not being worshipped by staff). At this point is when I would hate the fact that, like overzealous parents, I'm not on other waiting lists, let alone even looking at other schools. And this is where the doubt sets in. Can you really say no to this line of thinking?

Ah, to be a parent is exhausting. If you're not doing the right thing, or contemplating the right thing, you're kicking yourself in the ass for not realizing what the right thing was before choosing the wrong thing, and then to top it all off, we've got the "others" who judge us about the things we do as filtered through their lens of what the right thing is. Bah humbug, back to doubt, life, and the careful navigation through it all!