I’m all wired. Not in the normal geeky way, mind you. Not in the excited way, and not in the too much coffee way either. I’m all wired in a totally new and supremely annoying way: via a Holter Monitor.

You see, my heart has started doing this really irritating thing where every minute or so it seems to…ha ha, get this: stop beating for a second and then beat once really hard and then just keep going like nothing happened. Y’know? I mean, what the fuck? Really!

Now normally I wouldn’t really mind, but I’d been thinking that I’d kind of like to start doing drugs on a semi-regular basis again and this may throw a real crimp in my plans. Well this, and the kids. OK, so I really had no real plans to find me some really quality mescaline and go lay in the back yard all night. I hadn’t even thought for a second about how much more I like Scary Monsters by David Bowie when I’m all twitchy on acid. And believe you me, the thought of doing a little X and climbing a tree hasn’t crossed my mind for years. Honest!

So now I’m sitting here at work, all wired up, boxy thingy hanging from a necklace holster, electrodes firmly stuck to five or six spots on my chest (fuck me if that ain’t gonna hurt to take off), and every single iota of my attention focused on every single beat of my heart.

I mean, I’m not really worried. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. I’ve taken really good care of my body over the years. Oh wait, that wasn’t me. That was someone else. Oh well. Here’s hoping for the best.

So apparently weather like this means one thing for men in my neck of the woods: wash your car. I never got the memo. Luckily I picked up on what was going on through my amazing powers of observation and did ours too. Whew! Almost found me out. It’s bad enough that I don’t know a damn thing about cars and don’t really care. To be the only guy on the block not out scrubbing it to a painful shine in a bright sunny day…well I’m really not sure what they’d do to me.

I have a deep and strange love of kung fu. I’ve just started studying again, after a four year break to have my two children. I have been back to kung fu for 1 month now. And, here’s what I’ve discovered – you should not mess with a woman who has given birth.

I started studying kung fu when I was in my early 20’s. I was the weakest link in my class; my classmates cheered the first day I was able to do 20 push-ups. They had all done the required 100 the year before. I did break someone’s glasses once, but only because he stepped the wrong way when I punched him (poor big-ego boy). Over the years, I developed good skills, though I never got very strong.

Then, I took a break to have kids. My first birth was scary. Labor was only two hours, and very intense. There was an asshole doctor and a midwife in serious need of assertiveness training. I spent 3 hours of being stitched with no painkiller, fantasizing about kicking the doctor in the head (he was, after all, right between my legs), but the proximity of his needle to my most sensitive zones deterred me. Wicked pain, yes, but I survived, and learned a little about assertiveness.

My second birth was everything we didn’t expect. Rather than being even faster than the first, it required 8 hours on pitocin (a labor inducer) to happen. It HURT. It lasted what seemed like forever, and I couldn’t have made it a single second longer than I did without medication.

The room was full to the brimming with supportive friends and childbirth helpers. This is important. There were WITNESSES, and lots of them. They were reverent, supportive, calming, and utterly silent in the moment’s of my son’s birth. Since that time, they have all spoken to me about what they saw, and how they experienced my strength.

When my son reached 6 months old, I was desperate to study kung fu again. I found a teacher and a school, and I get to go (a measly) two times per week. In those few hours per week when I am in kung fu class, I am a changed woman. Where I used to punch, and feel pain in my hand, I now punch and see the punching bag (full body size and weight) jerk backward. Where I used to kick and see flexibility, I now kick and see the bag actually lift off the ground. I feel superpowered.

Am I really superpowered? I don’t think so. I’m sure the folks in my class are still stronger than me. I’m not a muscular person, and I don’t think childbirth has changed that. But, the other day I had my first two hour class. After an hour, I thought I wasn’t going to make it. I was fatigued, and thirsty, and thinking of my babes at home waiting for me. But then, I thought, ‘I built and birthed two babies. This is nothing compared to that. Bring it on!’ I kicked harder, I punched harder, I moved faster. I made it through the second hour with finesse.

Now, when I’m getting weary in class, I not only think about my children, but I also think about my friends who have built babies. We are invincible. Take my friend who built two nearly 8 pound babies at once, and birthed them vaginally with half an epidural. Don’t mess with her. And my friend who birthed her second child in her shower – accidentally – with only her partner in attendance. And my friend who arrived at the hospital minutes before her child’s birth, and who walked right past triage and gave orders (that were followed) to all medical personnel in the area. And my friend who carried a child in her belly for 9 months and found it so easy she was nonchalant (until the home birth, in which she cussed a lot and demonstrated phenomenal strength). And, none of my friends are the exception (well, okay, exceptional in some of the details); every person you meet was built and birthed by a woman. Every mother you meet is super-powered.

Don’t mess with me. Not only do I have the power to build a person, but now I’m also conscious of what kind of strength it takes to do that. My body can do and take more than I ever imagined possible before I had children.

Many people say that you quickly forget the pain of childbirth because “the end result is so worth it.” I don’t want to forget. I won’t forget. And, when I look at other mothers, I’ll remember then, too.

And, if you’re a nasty, evil person, beware – the next person you try to victimize may be a Mama, like me.

why does it have to be so very hard to leave the house? i’m going to use disposable diapers, just for today, since the diaper bag is already packed. don’t you think our new kitchen will hold one of those fancy restaurant ovens? the freezer was open all night. i’m really tired and woke up with a headache again. and, we’re running to late to advertise for a mother’s helper. what’s wrong with that picture? why is it all like this?

your “wife”

Dear “wife”,

I love you. Hang in there. Things will get better.

Yes our new kitchen will hold one of those restarurant-style ovens. I’ll order one today.

Are you worried at all about having so many headaches? Is it stress?

It is all like this because we are trying to do things the right way in a world that only knows wrong ways. This makes the right ways much harder.

Life would be easier if you dropped out of school and devoted all of your time to cleaning the house and taking care of the kids. I’ll take night school courses in Business Admin and get an MBA in a couple of years.

After working my way up the corporate ladder either at Scripps or Procter & Gamble, I will start having an affair with some bimbo at the office because the life I decided to lead turned out to rob me completely of my soul. You won’t care too much because you will have already decided that I’m a total asshole.

After trying for a couple more months to socialize with our real friends (the ones with passion, and values, and vision),
you will have determined that it is too much work and that PTA shit only takes a couple of hours a month. You will meet some other mainstream moms there and take up smoking because there’s no reason not to. The only social life you will have will be comparing which stores have the best prices.

You will soon forget entirely that you once had a personality and passion.
You will get drunk at lunch one day with one of the other soccer moms and tell her that you used to call yourself a witch. She won’t really know if you are serious but will laugh uncomfortably anyway. At least you don’t have to worry about the environment any more: Your minivan getts pretty good mileage.

We will continue to have sex every once in a while, but only because if we don’t want the other to realize that we don’t really like them very much anymore. One bonus: It will continue to feel good to have an orgasm. The guilt and self loathing comes after, but during the actual orgasm things will seem pretty good.

So hang in there. Things are really going pretty well. Now, if we can just figure out how to stop spending money…

xxxooo,
Your “Husband”

Yeah, so, this is not a topic I thought I’d ever write about. Nope, not me. I come from a family in which poop didn’t happen. The closest we got was the vague reference to Dad’s need to “read the paper” when he got home from work. None of the rest of us pooped. Really.

This made poop a particularly huge revelation for me as a parent: poop can be the single most depressing thing in the world or make you laugh so hard you cry. Who knew?

For instance, yesterday I cleaned mouse poop out of our silverware drawer (those electronic high-pitched deterrent mechanisms are apparently a huge joke), cleaned a pooping accident by a 3-year old off the bathroom floor, and changed five poopy 7-month old diapers. All before 10am. Yep. It was a crappy day.

A dear friend with whom I trade childcare had a 3 year old with a diarrhea virus. After four days of diarrhea, her daughter had a normal poop. They danced and sang through their house, because a non-diarrhea poop meant that my daughter could come over to play again. The news prompted a “Yeah Poop” song and dance in my house, too. After all, the benefits of that good poop extended to our family!

A few weeks ago, I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, confused about a sensation on my stomach and hand. I couldn’t figure it out, so I turned on the light. Ah, yes. My clever son had removed his diaper (wouldn?t want to get it dirty, after all), and pooped all over the bed (read: me). The source of my confusion was the chunks of carrots. The introduction of solid foods adds a whole new level of pooping adventures.

Then, there is a toddler’s fascination with poop and everything surrounding it. By age 2, my daughter could recite for you (or any other unwilling stranger), “The food goes in my mouth, into my throat, to my stomach, then out my bottom. It makes poop!” After a particularly stressful and haphazard trip to the east coast for the holidays, my daughter found herself unable to poop. It became a regular topic of conversation, “Mama, beans make good poop. So does salad. Does cheese make good poop?” You should have seen the Yeah Poop dance that followed those several days!

And, then, there’s just the great storytelling that arises out of poop. There’s the children’s book Everyone Poops (by Taro Gomi) that examines the pooping habits of many creatures under the sun. There’s our friend’s daughter who used to name each poop and say good-bye to it before she flushed. And, there’s the carrot story I just told you that will go down in the “stories to tell on your son’s first date” file.

Yeah, it’s a poop universe out there. And, look at me, I just can’t seem to stop talking about it. Happy pooping to you, one and all!

I’m sitting at work, watching Diane and Charlie on Good Morning America learn a new dance called the “Harlem Shuffle.”

Perfect timing. I caught some of Ken Burns’ Jazz documentary on PBS last night. The segment I saw was about the rise of “hard bop” pioneered by drummer Art Blakey and his Jazz Messengers in the ’50s and ’60s. Blakey, and pianist Horace Silver, started a “University” at Birdland in Harlem that graduated such musicians as Donald Byrd, Johnny Griffin, Lee Morgan, Wayne Shorter, Freddie Hubbard, Keith Jarrett, Chuck Mangione, Woody Shaw, JoAnne Brackcen, and Wynton Marsalis.

One of Blakey’s primary motivations for inventing this new form of modern jazz was to create something that white people could not steal. His idea was that he could create a form of music so “Black” in heart, soul, and swing, that white people would not be able to appropriate it (as they have with most other Black styles) without it looking like a minstrel show.

So now I have Diane Sawyer and Charles Gibson jerking their bodies along with a couple of kids from the Harlem Dance Performers, looking like a couple of, well, boring white people at their highschool reunion. Nice, guys. Totally excellent minstrel show you treated me to. No really…thanks.