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About a block away from this:

..a giant propane/acetylene tank explosion near downtown Dallas.

I was there maybe 15 minutes after it began, trying in vain to get out of Dallas and take Nathan to a playgroup. At first I thought it was just a grass fire, then I realized that “whoomping” sound I was hearing was the actual flames, which were coming out of a building ahead and to my left, reaching about 100 feet or more into the sky. Little bits of ash rained down on my windshield. I saw a piece of debris maybe 5 feet tall go rocketing west from the fire above the freeway, with flames and smoke shooting out of it.The cops were already there and turned everyone around, and yes, we’re fine.

But I guess it says something about me that I was mostly annoyed at not getting to take Nathan out where I could talk to other adults. We came home and he played in his kiddie pool instead. Oh well. At least he had fun.

Here are the key things you need to deal with a child’s meltdown:

1. The ability to remove the child from the environment they are melting down in;
2. The ability to provide the child with alternate/lesser/more comforting forms of stimulation.

How many of these do you think are available on your average overbooked, tarmac-parked, delayed, overheated, loud, uncomfortable airplane?

If you answered “none” then dingdingding! You win!

And you know, even before I had a toddler, I knew this! Because, being a person with a brain, I didn’t actually believe that 3-year-olds plotted how to torment adults with piercing screams. Having met some 3-year-olds, you see, and understanding that they have the attention span of a hummingbird. They are not capable of nefarious plots, other than trying to steal their brother’s cookie, which is strictly a crime of opportunity anyway.

What they are also not capable of is the kind of superhuman patience, endurance, and self-distraction it takes to get through an average hellish airplane flight without a lot of help from adults around them. Heck, I’m barely capable of it. It wouldn’t take much more to make me run screaming down the aisles, on many flights.

So when I read about people bitching about children misbehaving on flights, I wonder if they know any children, or have ever been one, shuttled around an airport with no chance to play and nothing to do. Personally, I find adults who have loud cellphone conversations, or take up all the elbow room with their laptops, or don’t shower, or leer at stewardesses, to be more odious than a bored child babbling at his mom or crying because his ears hurt. Because hey, my ears hurt too. Airplanes suck.

Which begs the question of why anyone flies with a child. And I have to assume the answer is “because it’s the only way they can get where they’re going in the time allotted.” Most Americans get maybe 2 weeks of vacation a year; if you’re going to take some time to see Grandma A at Christmas and some time with Grandma B in the summer, that means you can’t spend 3 days of each precious week driving to Tucson or Pennsylvania. If you want more parents to drive instead of fly with their children, agitate for more vacation time for American workers.

And anyway, as you’re shooting the stink eye at Mom and Dad while their child is flailing his arms and telling a loud story about dinosaurs, or stealing his brother’s cookie, you might remember that they do not want to be there. They not only have to endure the shrieking and misbehaving, they’re being judged and held responsible for dealing with it by an entire planeful of people. They’re the ones who have to convince the 2-year-old to take off his shoes and give up his sippy cup for the security guard, who have to pack a week’s worth of food and amusement into 3-ounce increments in carry on bags, who are, quite frankly, in hell. So really, they’re being punished much worse than you are…after all, when you get off the flight, the torture ends. They still have to get all the luggage and the kids to their destination.

So instead of bitching, you might, occasionally, show some compassion. Pick up a lost crayon, give a mom your unwanted bag of pretzels for Junior, talk to the 6 year old about Barbie while her mom’s in the can. Tell the apologetic dad with the unhappy baby about the time your kid cried for 3 days straight with an earache and drove you insane. Practice remembering that all human beings start out as annoying, screeching little heathens, yourself included, but most of them improve in time, so long as the adults around them make an effort to help. And then be one of those adults, if you have the chance.

I’m the kind of geeky person who reads sci-fi, and sociology and anthropology and history, all the kinds of books that discuss how people are, why they are, what they could be or couldn’t be. Trying to figure out why things are this way, and what could possibly make them better.

At the bottom of it, politics is about this too. Your personal political beliefs aren’t just about “government should do/not do X,” they’re about what you think human beings are. What you think they’re capable of. Or not. Maybe your politics is really just a survey of what you’re cynical about, and what idealism you have left.

Anyway, on this blog I write quite a bit about how unsatisfactory the choices are that most human beings seem to have. For me, privileged white gal that I am, that translates into choking off some things that would make me happy in order to have what I must to survive. I don’t mean vacations to Paris, necessarily, so much as I mean a more satisfying life, that lets me combine my work with the rest of what I do, that gives me room to live.

Work and the rest of my life fight each other, and it seems like such a stupid setup. For one thing, I could so easily do the kind of work I do in a way that lets me have more free time, without losing any productivity, if the ass-in-seats mentality weren’t so entrenched. There is no logical reason to care how many hours in a given day I work on project X, provided it comes in on time; in fact, if I could work from home, or come in a few days a week, my employer could presumably save money on the power and water I don’t use and the building wear and tear I don’t cause. I could afford better childcare, I could spend less on gas, I could deal with real-life hassles like going to the bank or doing laundry or having a sick child without having to disrupt other people’s schedules.

But work is work, and life is life, and in our culture, we seem to think the two should never mix; that people would become sloppy and fail to do a good job without constant supervision. As though they don’t do that now in their little gray cubicles, if that’s how they’re inclined.

The system could change; we have the technology now. The system doesn’t change because it’s about control, and who has the power over whom, and people in charge seldom want to give up even pointless displays of power. Our corporate brains are still in the 19th century, and we are all still like Bob Cratchit, chained to our desks in a miserable office on Christmas Eve so that the boss can feel like he’s properly in charge.

Anyway, what I was talking about before was that human beings have this strange idea that whatever arrangements we already have for the way people live cannot change. Despite historical evidence to the contrary, despite speculations by many many writers about how we could live differently and still thrive. What is frustrating is to read something (like the Mars trilogy by Kim Stanley Robinson) and see how they’ve fleshed out these concepts, and know that things probably aren’t going to change soon enough to make your life better. Not for any good reason, but because people cling to their assumptions long past the expiration date. And they use those outdated assumptions to vote with, too; they mock people who ask “why can’t it be better? Why can’t we live better?” like birds trained never to leave their cages.

I read blogs of people who live outside the mainstream, and oh, I’m jealous. But also aware that they are either accepting a lot of stress and poverty for doing it, or have more resources to cushion letting go of their fulltime jobs, teaching kids at home if they want to, thumbing their nose at the system. It’s not a luxury I have had, or am likely to have. And that has had a really profound effect on what I’ve done with my life, and what I can do with it. I’ve had to make choices that keep me awake at night because I’m filled with anger and regret. I’ve had to stare down the years that I have left and wonder if it will get better, because many days, I’m not too optimistic.

I admit it; I’m greedy. Not for things, but for freedoms, for a little more air. For a chance to do good work without chains or cages being necessary. For not having to choose between the cage and the poorhouse.

..is to compare giving birth to climbing Everest.

But I think marathon running is a good analogy too:

A few weeks later, Ann’s training was going well. She had missed a few days, but usually accomplished her daily goals. While the running itself was sometimes tedious and uncomfortable, she loved how she felt afterwards. Ann mentioned to a friend that she was training for a marathon and was surprised when her friend told several horror stories of marathon runners who suffered lifelong injuries—even one about a runner who drank so much water that he died during the race. Ann replied that she had carefully researched both common and rare injuries and that she was sure that she could either prevent them, treat them herself, or seek help if something serious arose. Her friend said, “But how can you be sure? You might die of a heart attack while you are running—you’d have no way to know it’s going to happen until it is too late. It’s just not worth the risk.”

Ann’s family thought she was crazy. Shouldn’t she be doing something more useful with her time? What if something went wrong? What if during the race she is in too much pain and can’t finish—then how would she feel? Anne told her family that she had done her research and that it was an important goal. She asked that they either speak positively about her upcoming race, or that they refrain from saying anything at all.

Ann noticed that the media always focused on the sensational stories of marathon running turned ugly. When TV crews covered races, they showed runners limping along, looking like death warmed over. They usually interviewed runners who had to drop out, giving them several minutes to tell their stories. Then, almost as an afterthought, they would give 30 seconds to a successful runner who looked exhilarated, if a bit tired and sweaty. Of course, after that runner was done speaking, the TV host would remind the audience that most people cannot complete marathons and that it was best not to get your hopes up. Good grief, Ann thought. I know plenty of people who have completed the race without dying or breaking a leg or permanently injuring themselves.

Via Pandagon and Shakesville and probably a lot of other places on the intertubes. Apparently it’s part of an ad campaign for Paris to increase tourism.

Ai chihuahua.

By the way, guys; if this kind of stuff were everywhere, then you would know what it’s like to be a woman. Consider it payback for all the “pillow fight” beer ads I’ve had to witness.

According to this link, Public Advocate for NYC Betsy Gotbaum is giving local hospitals heat for their lack of transparency:

The Maternity Information Act requires that hospitals provide site-specific statistics on delivery procedures to all incoming maternity patients and all members of the public upon request. In 2005, the Office of the Public Advocate determined that none of the 44 hospitals providing labor and delivery services in New York City were in compliance with the MIA; most did not provide any information, and the one hospital that did attempt to comply provided a pamphlet containing information that was eight years old.

Well isn’t that interesting. I birthed in Brooklyn, and I can assure you, they didn’t give me any of those stats either. Here’s something that also surprises me not at all:

The Office of the Public Advocate further determined that the cesarean section rates among hospitals in New York City were striking. Overall, public hospitals had lower cesarean rates than privately operated facilities; however, with the exception of New York University Downtown Hospital, all hospitals had cesarean rates well above the 15 percent maximum rate recommended by the World Health Organization….The report also noted, In 2004, the average cesarean rate in New York City was 28.6 percent, a 2 percent increase over 2003, when the rate was 26.6 percent. Many New York City hospitals now have a c-section rate over 30 percent.

I’ll bet it’s closer to 35% by now.

Transparency is a huge issue in all aspects of healthcare. It can be impossible to find out how different hospitals compare in terms of outcomes and quality of care, and the hospitals themselves do everything in their power to resist giving out that info. Which is especially galling under an American system that constantly tells us we are “consumers” with the right to choose how we get our healthcare. Right to choose is meaningless if you don’t have accurate information about what you have to choose from.

Thankfully, the Lamaze organization is partnering with the Coalition for Improving Maternity Services to try to create some more transparency for pregnant women seeking maternity care:

An incredible group of grassroots advocates with leadership from Sandra Bitonti Stewart and Elan McAllister (under the umbrella of and with the accolades of the Coalition for Improving Maternity Services and with support from Lamaze International among others) will officially launch the Transparency in Maternity Care Project in New York City on July 21, 2007. In the meantime the Grassroots Advocacy Committee has been collecting hospital data on hospital care practices and interventions and have developed a birth survey that will be used to gather women’s personal stories of their birth experiences. In the future women will be able to go to the website and find information about hospitals and providers…not just intervention rates but, just as important (if not more so), women’s personal experiences.

Oh man. I can’t WAIT to add my personal experiences at Brooklyn Methodist. Whoo doggie. That’s going to be a fun entry on their website. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the mom.

Nathan is working so hard on his talking and gesturing lately. He says “Bath!” and “Baba” (while also slapping his mouth). He sings along, in his own way, to certain songs. He always says “AAaaay!” at the end of any song I sing or his daddy sings. He says bye-bye, but hesitantly, so it comes out as a soft “bah”, a pause, then another “bah” with possibly a hand wave. He knows “no” though it’s usally “nonononono.” He imitates the way Teletubbies say “What’s that?” by saying “Wha da?”, and then he looks pleased when we tell him what it is, even though he usually doesn’t repeat it.

And he has his own funny noises. A way of wrinkling up his upper lip and blowing air through his mouth to make a hissy sound…making him look kind of like someone doing a Jimmy Cagney impression. A “GRRRR!” noise he makes in frustration.

And he babbles, constantly. He reads to himself, in his own way, usually in front of a mirror, so he can stop to make faces at himself. Actually, he doesn’t really like us to read to him at all…he prefers his version, and doing it on his own. I don’t know if he’s telling himself stories or just making sounds. But it’s incredibly cute, so who cares.

He says “Mama” a lot, but not usually when he’s looking at me or when I’m in the room. Same for “Dada”. I’m not sure why…maybe he thinks it’s rude, somehow.

His learning cycle seems to be pretty consistent, in that he doesn’t move fast, but he grasps it well once he does. He seemed to take forever to learn to crawl and walk, but now it’s no big deal. I’m sure talking will be the same. Lots of kids younger than him talk more than he does, but he’s just going at his own pace, and so his dad and I are learning not to worry about it. He’s obviously storing it all up in there somewhere.

We looked at two daycares today, one I was meh on, the other…I was less meh on, though it will lose some of its charm if the utterly charming teacher who would be taking Nathan leaves. She was a trip…super hyped up on all she’s going to do with the 2 year olds, and even going into detail on how she was going to work with them on potty training(!) and utensils(!) and I was smitten.

Nathan, meanwhile, was clingy until he saw other toys and other kids, and then we were forgotten. Until we had to leave…then it was Tantrum Time.

I think we have entered the Terrible Twos a few months ahead of schedule. The Piercing Dolphin Scream of Rage has become his weapon du choice several times a day now. Also the Rigid Resistance Posture, the Going Limp Escape, and your more mundane kicking and screaming.

In between, there is incredible little moments of sweetness, giggles, hugs, and amazing amounts of mugging to get attention.

I am sympathetic, some of the time. It must be hard to know how to do things, but not be allowed to do them. Why can’t he taste the Drano, eat pillbugs, stand in front of the open fridge and play with the mustard? Why are we so gosh darn mean to him? From his perspective, it’s all inexplicable and out of his control and frustrating. I can understand that.

But still, I have to keep him from playing with broken glass and moving cars, whether he understands or not, so we fight, and I win because I’m bigger and smarter. For now. And by the time that’s reversed, hopefully he’ll be able to figure the rest out for himself.

Simpler times.

Nathan seems to love his bottle less all of a sudden. Considering that his bottle has basically been his lovey, and Too Much Bottle seemed, well, impossible until this week, it’s a shock. The Magic may indeed, be Gone.

I’m not sure Matt and I are ready for that, though. Mostly because Nathan loves pouring out his sippy cups as much or more than drinking from them. He doesn’t like the straw-kind, because you can’t pour them out. Oh, and those little anti-pour stoppers don’t deter him; he will mouth and suck at the top until he makes it drop out, and then…start pouring.

With a bottle, we just give it to him and let him go to town. With a cup, it’s going to be a constant-monitoring situation, and towels will be needed. And maybe Windex for the sticky applejuice and whatever. Ugh.

But, he has to move on. And not cleaning nipples out anymore would be fine with me. It’s just…ugh. I hate the mess, and the screaming. Hate hate hate.

And that makes me Bad Mommy, because a Good Mommy would be lovingly committed to Helping Him Learn. She’d patiently show him how to grasp the cup, keep him from pouring it, wipe up the spills, and sing him a happy little song, nevermind that she will never get a chance to eat dinner herself.

I am not the Good Mommy.

sigh.

We have the same problem with utensils. He should be starting to use them. He probably should be eating applesauce and other things requiring spoons, not just raw fruit and veggies and Cheerios. But…he flings his finger food as it is. A bowl of applesauce and a spoon would be a loaded weapon in his hands. At this point, I’m willing to let him eat with his fingers till kindergarten, because I do not want to clean applesauce out of the crevices of my already bug-infested kitchen.

Yep. Bad Mommy, all the way.

My only salvation may be daycare…I can put the cup and spoon-learning off on the daycare ladies, and hope he does his initial pouring and flinging in a place with a janitorial staff. It’s a Bad Mommy thing to do, but…you know, who cares? I wipe this kid’s butt every day, and let him drool on me. If I can get someone else to let him pour apple juice on their head, I say, hells yeah!

The family friendly one: the comic Stone Soup is featuring a homebirth! Yay!

The even more-hilarious but somewhat scary one: This image found by Dana of Bobofett

Feel free to write your own captions. Or check out Dana’s journal for comments. Hee.