Everyone knows I am a Potterphile. I love the books, love the movie, bought the fake wand, and ordered Chocolate Frogs from England. But have any of you really sat back and thought how messed up the world would be if it was true? Not just that it would really suck to learn that butter beer actually exists and yet you are banned from ever tasting it, I mean messed up on a horrifying scale. I'm talking enslaving the entire muggle race huge.
For anyone who hasn't read the books, seen the movies, or has been living on the moon for the past decade, the wizarding world is a complete secret to muggles (non magical people). Wizards don't have doctors they have healers. Men and women who are trained in the art of magic to cure and repair even the most vile of human diseases. Do they share this power with the world? Do they learn to bottle it and charge insurance companies thousands of dollars for it? No, no they don't. This means that wizards around the world are allowing innocent children to die of cancer when they have the power to stop it. They don't care that little Suzy won't live long enough to be Hermione Granger for Halloween. The only thing they care about is keeping their powers a secret. I don't know about you, but this sounds like crimes against humanity to me. Allowing people to suffer when you have the power to stop it is just cruel. Cruel on a Hitler/Stalin level of cruelty. Healers should be prosecuted at the Hague and locked in a Dutch prison for the rest of the miserable lives.
This secrecy stretches much further than healers. Did you know there is a single person in the wizarding world that has the power to completely destroy the Earth? His name is Voldemort. Yup, one wizard who has the power to destroy the entire Earth and instead of informing their international allies about it, the wizards keep it to themselves. We have assault rifles, nuclear weapons, and the Navy SEALS! Yes Voldemort has limitless dark power but he has to channel that power through a wand. A thirteen inch piece of wood is what has the wizarding world's panties in a knot. Aim a couple thousand heat seeking missiles at no nose and see if he can stop all of them. But do the wizards even for a second take that into consideration? No, of course not. What is their sollution to fighting the greatest evil that has ever walked the planet? They find a wounded orphan boy, force him to grow up in filth and negligence, surprise him with the knowledge he has power he never imagined, then tell him a prophecy says he's going to kill Voldemort, and that he'll probably die doing it. Sounds like a solid battle plan.
The wizarding community is just hoping that no one notices they could have stopped all of this before it started. One quarter of all wizards are evil and for SEVEN YEARS of their lives they live together in a dungeon in a castle where they all wear green. It's not hard to miss these guys. Why not nuke Slytherin house and when the sorting hat places the evil quarter into Slytheryn, instead of being led to their house after the welcoming feast they're led into a little room where Hagrid quietly disposes of them. These evil wizards let werewolves eat unicorns. They murder people to grant themselves eternal life. They imprison children to keep their parents in line. But if this doesn't convince you they all should be drowned at birth maybe just consider not allowing them to attend a school with the purpose of increasing their power.
They start going to Wizard school when they're eleven where they learn only magic. No science, no history (except history of magic), no math. Imagine someone who has access to time travel with a fourth graders grasp of world history. Before long dinosaurs, gun slingers, gladiators, and the entire cast of Braveheart would be roaming modern streets with access to modern weaponry. Now imagine that kid times 10,000, now imagine a quarter of them are all evil. I know the books and movies show every wizard, with the exception of the Slytherins, has a conscience and a solid moral compass. Think back to fourth grade for a moment. If your teacher left a box of doughnuts out on his desk and told you not to touch them, how long after he leaves the classroom do you wait before pouncing on that box like a raptor on a chicken? My guess would be .35 seconds. A fourth grader doesn't care about impulse control. He doesn't have the mental capability to comprehend the turmoil he would cause if he brought Ghengis Kahn, Alexander the Great, Ivan the Terrible, Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, and Lady Bathory to the future and let them go at it with nuclear warheads.
So, if the Harry Potter world is so evil, why do we encourage our children to read the books, pay for the movie tickets, and buy all the merchandising? Because in the Harry Potter world Healers are saviors, Voldemort is satan, and the wizarding community, as a whole, does live by a strict moral code. It is the classic tale of good versus evil. There are some characters who you don't know if they are good or bad (we're looking at you Snape), but for the most part the lines are clearly drawn. While the books may teach that life would be infinitely cooler if you had wizarding powers they also teach the value of friendship, loyalty, hard work, and dedicating yourself to a worthy cause. And in spite of the lying to humanity, aiding and abetting future criminals, and a serious lack of proper education Harry Potter lives up to all the ideals we hold most dear. But, it would be really cool to be able to throw fire balls with my mind.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Lives, Loves, and Lies of the Romance Novel
I recently found myself in the romance section of a bookstore. I will admit I have read a few romance novels. However, I am to much of a prude to read the more steamy scenes without blushing. While I was looking through the different books and reading the backs of the novels I found certain similarities between them all. It seems that all romance novelists are required by the industry to adhere to the same outline. The way I see it, if you have a firm grasp of the more erotic adjectives in the English language, anyone can write a romance novel. In fact, I'm pretty sure if one looked, you could find an ad lib version of the romance novel. Though I don't know how well readers would appreciate the space left to describe a kiss being filled with a word like lifeless.
The first rule of writing a successful romance novel is to find a Chippendales reject for the cover. These books are covered with the same type of male. This male doesn't need to be smart, doesn't need to be straight, and doesn't even really need a pulse. As long as the male in question has a huge chest, killer abs, and wavy long hair you're good. I believe all the male leads in a romance novel can all be described the same way. If you can say, "as he walked down the deserted beach she watched as the muscles in his back flexed and relaxed one by one under golden, sunkissed tan skin. The moonlight played against the peaks and valley of his stomach and danced over his roped shoulders," you have romance gold. All male cover models have the same hairstylist. And while he always looks like he just stepped off his Harley, sailed the globe, or just stepped out of the shower, they all have the I-didn't-try-to-look-this-way look down. In reality, what does their hair truly say? It says that the male in question uses shampoo, conditioner, deep conditioning hydrating hair mask, detangler, mousse, gel, hairspray, blow dryer, flat iron, curling iron, and possibly, those little pink sponge curlers we used to sleep on as young girls.
The second rule of writing a successful romance novel is to have two main characters who are dealing with a tortured past or secret who have decided they would remain single for the rest of their lives. These characters could be human, vampire, werewolf, shapeshifter, demon, witch, wizard, or any combination half breed. They all have the same basic back story. Each character is depressed with their life. They feel they will never have thier happily ever after and have resigned themselves to such a fate. Then they are flung into a completely unbelievable situation that can only come from a writer with no love life and an over active imagination. The back of any romance novel reads like this. Bricker (because all men in romance novels have names that sound like last names or dog names) is an ex special forces opperative (because no real romance man would be an accountant) who has lost hope in humanity. His time spent serving his country has left unseen scars on his soul (because PTSD is way sexier then the loss of a limb or a gunshot wound to the belly). He is troubled by unseen demons (being haunted by the spawn of Satan is much cooler than having bad dreams and flashbacks). His life is turned upside down when he meets the beautiful (because romance women are all cast from the same mold as Angelina Jolie) Stephen (because all romance women have male names). Stephen is a successful attorney (because while all romance men barely passed their GED, romance women all went to Harvard on an academic scholarship) who has dedicated her entire life to her career (because all romance women are workaholic spinsters at the age of 24). When the client of a pro bono case (because all romance men are demons and all romance women are saints) becomes obsessed with her, she must rely on Bricker to save her life (because romance women always put thier lives in the hands of total strangers). Will their love be able to survive when things take a turn for the worst (because it can always get worse than being hunted by a homicidal maniac)?
The third rule of writing a successful romance novel is to have your main characters in the sack within twelve hours, in love within 72, and engaged within the week. When a romance couple meets the meeting usually goes like this. The woman finds herself in peril and the man intervenes to save her life. She thanks him for his kindness. When he insists on following her home she protests but he refuses to hear it and, much like her stalker, he follows her to her house. When they get there she refuses to let him come in. But again he insists on checking her house, much like her stalker, to make sure no one is lying in wait. She makes him leave but, much like her stalker, he sits outside her house in the shadows to make sure she is "safe". When the villan breaks into her house the hero busts down the door chasing him off. In thanks of his heroic actions, she sleeps with him. In the morning she thinks she made a mistake and runs him off. But he won't accept that she's not giving "them" a chance so he starts following her again to protect her from the man following her. He saves her life again, they sleep together again, and when they wake up in each others arms the following morning he tells her he loves her. She doesn't reciprocate but, after he saves her life again, the cold footed companion confesses her undying love. Several more life and death scenarios later, they're engaged, even though they don't know each others religion, occupation, partner history, or last names.
The fourth rule of writing a successful romance novel is that the two main characters have terrible communication skills. It is inevitable that every relationship will have misunderstandings or assumptions. In the romance novel these are completely blown out of proportion. The female character will inevitably overhear the male saying that he likes it when he stabs... He then moves into a soundproof room where he continues his statement. Rather than listening in at the door or asking him to finish his sentence later, the woman sneaks out of the house convinced that he is going to stab her in her sleep. Later the male searches the house for his missing woman. Upon realizing she is gone, he doesn't call her on her phone because he's certain he has failed in protecting her and she has been kidnapped. Upon coming to this conclusion he doesn't call the police or FBI (usually because he is convinced that with all their forensics capabilities, trained investigators, negotiators, and the entire criminal justice system at their beck and call, they are worthless and he alone can save his love). He starts a search for her that comes up with nothing (and he's shocked by this) so he decides to break into her house, roll around on her bed, and fall into a state of alcohol induced depression the likes of which the Betty Ford Center has never seen. When he breaks in she attacks, he holds her down, she yells "I won't let you stab me", he's confused, she repeats what she heard, he says "I was saying I like to stab my steak with a fork when I'm grilling rather than use a spatula to turn it", she can't believe she thought that about him, then they sleep together...again (because nothing puts you in the mood more than clearing up that your lover is in fact a carnivore, not a cold blooded killer).
The fifth rule of writing a successful romance novel is that you have to wrap up the dangerous situation, love situation, and the future situation in the last five pages. While 95% of the novel is filled with the meeting, misunderstandings, fights, time apart, and romps in the sack, the novelist can completely wrap up the lovers lives in five pages. To do this the author usually brings in an absolutely unrealistic situation. It usually goes something like this. Just as the villan is about to slit Stephens throat in front of Bricker the sun explodes killing the villan while leaving Stephen and Bricker unharmed. They rush into each others arms vowing to never be seperated by more than three inches for the rest of their lives. Publishers clearing house knocks on the door to give them a giant check worth $100,000,000.00. She reveals that she's pregnant. He picks her up absolutley thrilled to become a father with a woman he's known for a week and out of wedlock. His childhood dog, Rover, walks into the room unexplicably raised from the dead. And, wait for it,...they sleep together (because their is nothing that can't be fixed by a roll in the hay).
So what have romance novels done to our society? They have completely destroyed the institution of marriage. First of all young women around the world are all looking for male model, special forces vampires that are, quite literally, willing to die for them. They are convinced that marriage is nothing more than a life spent on the run and engaging in hot and heavy panting for the rest of their lives. They don't understand why only geeky, accountant, mortals who wear socks with their Birkenstocks are the only ones asking them out. After they lower their standards to marry the mortal accountant they feel they have been completely wronged by the universe because their spouse leaves his socks in a puddle on the bathroom floor. And that no one has ever tried to kill them thus not allowing their husband to save their life. They are stuck with a quiet, unexciting life of waking up to the one person in the world that knows all their nerotic tendancies and still loves them for it. They are trapped in a marriage, while maybe not as hot as a romance novel, is tender, loving, and peaceful. They will never be tied up in a dungeon waiting for their love to bust down the door to save them. Instead, she will be forced to wait for him to come home from work, gently kiss her, and tell her how wonderful and beautiful she is even if she hasn't had a shower or brushed her teeth that day. Over the years she realizes that even if her life isn't the heart pounding adventure she thought she wanted, it is the one she needs and loves.
The first rule of writing a successful romance novel is to find a Chippendales reject for the cover. These books are covered with the same type of male. This male doesn't need to be smart, doesn't need to be straight, and doesn't even really need a pulse. As long as the male in question has a huge chest, killer abs, and wavy long hair you're good. I believe all the male leads in a romance novel can all be described the same way. If you can say, "as he walked down the deserted beach she watched as the muscles in his back flexed and relaxed one by one under golden, sunkissed tan skin. The moonlight played against the peaks and valley of his stomach and danced over his roped shoulders," you have romance gold. All male cover models have the same hairstylist. And while he always looks like he just stepped off his Harley, sailed the globe, or just stepped out of the shower, they all have the I-didn't-try-to-look-this-way look down. In reality, what does their hair truly say? It says that the male in question uses shampoo, conditioner, deep conditioning hydrating hair mask, detangler, mousse, gel, hairspray, blow dryer, flat iron, curling iron, and possibly, those little pink sponge curlers we used to sleep on as young girls.
The second rule of writing a successful romance novel is to have two main characters who are dealing with a tortured past or secret who have decided they would remain single for the rest of their lives. These characters could be human, vampire, werewolf, shapeshifter, demon, witch, wizard, or any combination half breed. They all have the same basic back story. Each character is depressed with their life. They feel they will never have thier happily ever after and have resigned themselves to such a fate. Then they are flung into a completely unbelievable situation that can only come from a writer with no love life and an over active imagination. The back of any romance novel reads like this. Bricker (because all men in romance novels have names that sound like last names or dog names) is an ex special forces opperative (because no real romance man would be an accountant) who has lost hope in humanity. His time spent serving his country has left unseen scars on his soul (because PTSD is way sexier then the loss of a limb or a gunshot wound to the belly). He is troubled by unseen demons (being haunted by the spawn of Satan is much cooler than having bad dreams and flashbacks). His life is turned upside down when he meets the beautiful (because romance women are all cast from the same mold as Angelina Jolie) Stephen (because all romance women have male names). Stephen is a successful attorney (because while all romance men barely passed their GED, romance women all went to Harvard on an academic scholarship) who has dedicated her entire life to her career (because all romance women are workaholic spinsters at the age of 24). When the client of a pro bono case (because all romance men are demons and all romance women are saints) becomes obsessed with her, she must rely on Bricker to save her life (because romance women always put thier lives in the hands of total strangers). Will their love be able to survive when things take a turn for the worst (because it can always get worse than being hunted by a homicidal maniac)?
The third rule of writing a successful romance novel is to have your main characters in the sack within twelve hours, in love within 72, and engaged within the week. When a romance couple meets the meeting usually goes like this. The woman finds herself in peril and the man intervenes to save her life. She thanks him for his kindness. When he insists on following her home she protests but he refuses to hear it and, much like her stalker, he follows her to her house. When they get there she refuses to let him come in. But again he insists on checking her house, much like her stalker, to make sure no one is lying in wait. She makes him leave but, much like her stalker, he sits outside her house in the shadows to make sure she is "safe". When the villan breaks into her house the hero busts down the door chasing him off. In thanks of his heroic actions, she sleeps with him. In the morning she thinks she made a mistake and runs him off. But he won't accept that she's not giving "them" a chance so he starts following her again to protect her from the man following her. He saves her life again, they sleep together again, and when they wake up in each others arms the following morning he tells her he loves her. She doesn't reciprocate but, after he saves her life again, the cold footed companion confesses her undying love. Several more life and death scenarios later, they're engaged, even though they don't know each others religion, occupation, partner history, or last names.
The fourth rule of writing a successful romance novel is that the two main characters have terrible communication skills. It is inevitable that every relationship will have misunderstandings or assumptions. In the romance novel these are completely blown out of proportion. The female character will inevitably overhear the male saying that he likes it when he stabs... He then moves into a soundproof room where he continues his statement. Rather than listening in at the door or asking him to finish his sentence later, the woman sneaks out of the house convinced that he is going to stab her in her sleep. Later the male searches the house for his missing woman. Upon realizing she is gone, he doesn't call her on her phone because he's certain he has failed in protecting her and she has been kidnapped. Upon coming to this conclusion he doesn't call the police or FBI (usually because he is convinced that with all their forensics capabilities, trained investigators, negotiators, and the entire criminal justice system at their beck and call, they are worthless and he alone can save his love). He starts a search for her that comes up with nothing (and he's shocked by this) so he decides to break into her house, roll around on her bed, and fall into a state of alcohol induced depression the likes of which the Betty Ford Center has never seen. When he breaks in she attacks, he holds her down, she yells "I won't let you stab me", he's confused, she repeats what she heard, he says "I was saying I like to stab my steak with a fork when I'm grilling rather than use a spatula to turn it", she can't believe she thought that about him, then they sleep together...again (because nothing puts you in the mood more than clearing up that your lover is in fact a carnivore, not a cold blooded killer).
The fifth rule of writing a successful romance novel is that you have to wrap up the dangerous situation, love situation, and the future situation in the last five pages. While 95% of the novel is filled with the meeting, misunderstandings, fights, time apart, and romps in the sack, the novelist can completely wrap up the lovers lives in five pages. To do this the author usually brings in an absolutely unrealistic situation. It usually goes something like this. Just as the villan is about to slit Stephens throat in front of Bricker the sun explodes killing the villan while leaving Stephen and Bricker unharmed. They rush into each others arms vowing to never be seperated by more than three inches for the rest of their lives. Publishers clearing house knocks on the door to give them a giant check worth $100,000,000.00. She reveals that she's pregnant. He picks her up absolutley thrilled to become a father with a woman he's known for a week and out of wedlock. His childhood dog, Rover, walks into the room unexplicably raised from the dead. And, wait for it,...they sleep together (because their is nothing that can't be fixed by a roll in the hay).
So what have romance novels done to our society? They have completely destroyed the institution of marriage. First of all young women around the world are all looking for male model, special forces vampires that are, quite literally, willing to die for them. They are convinced that marriage is nothing more than a life spent on the run and engaging in hot and heavy panting for the rest of their lives. They don't understand why only geeky, accountant, mortals who wear socks with their Birkenstocks are the only ones asking them out. After they lower their standards to marry the mortal accountant they feel they have been completely wronged by the universe because their spouse leaves his socks in a puddle on the bathroom floor. And that no one has ever tried to kill them thus not allowing their husband to save their life. They are stuck with a quiet, unexciting life of waking up to the one person in the world that knows all their nerotic tendancies and still loves them for it. They are trapped in a marriage, while maybe not as hot as a romance novel, is tender, loving, and peaceful. They will never be tied up in a dungeon waiting for their love to bust down the door to save them. Instead, she will be forced to wait for him to come home from work, gently kiss her, and tell her how wonderful and beautiful she is even if she hasn't had a shower or brushed her teeth that day. Over the years she realizes that even if her life isn't the heart pounding adventure she thought she wanted, it is the one she needs and loves.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Traveling With Children
I just finished a ten day road trip with my mom, dad, brother Andy, my nine year old nephew Spencer, and my five year old daughter Sam. Traveling before I had a child was blissful. I could read a book during the drive, have in depth conversations with other adults, and I could pack everything I could possibly need for a week in one small bag. This is simply not possible with a child.
Allow me to elaborate. When I was childless my husband and I planned spontaneous trips to romantic locales on a regular basis. We spent a week in San Francisco for our honeymoon. We slept in as late as we wanted, ate where we wanted, and visited attractions that didn't include a mouse or an arcade. A few years later we had the desire to eat breakfast at a restaurant we visited several times while we were there. We decided to go Friday afternoon. By Friday evening we were on the road driving for twelve hours and Saturday morning we were in San Francisco. We arrived to the city by the bay several hours before the restaurant opened and had no problem getting a few hours of rest in our car in Golden Gate Park. We ate, visited Ghiradelli Square, got in the car and drove home. Every year we would disappear for a few days. We wouldn't tell anyone where we were going and turned off our cell phones to have a true get away.
This all changed when we had our daughter. Traveling now takes the same level of planning, packing, preparation, and logistical support as the Normandy invasion of WWII. Every mile and every minute has to be carefully planned from the kid friendly destination and hotel, to preplanning a stop every two hours for potty breaks, to finding restaurants that serve the all important kids meal, and packing every last article of clothing, toy, dvd player, dvds, coloring books, games, the all important stuffed animal without which she will not sleep, granola bars, candy, chips, water, juice boxes, peanut butter, jelly, and bread (in case no restaurant can be found with the desired toy in the ever so important kids meal), travel pillow, blanket, Kids Bop cd's, and a pony. With all these distractions you would think a child would be entertained for eternity...and you would be wrong. Despite packing an entire Toys R Us and Wal Mart into your minivan your child will still ask you every ten seconds "are we there yet" and force you to play endless hours of eye spy. When you arrive at your destination you will be so exhausted that all you want to do is take a nap. This will be impossible because thirty miles before getting to your hotel your little one fell asleep, combine that with being cooped up in a car for several hours and you have a toddler who could single handedly power Beijing for six months with its stored energy.
As a dutiful parent you desire to take your children not just to every Disney park ever created but also to sites of historical significance. My wonderful parents took Sam to Washington DC last year. They took her to the Smithsonian, all the monuments, and Arlington Cemetery. At Arlington they stopped to see JFK's eternal flame. For any of you who haven't seen it let me describe it to you. A simple headstone for President Kennedy is flanked by headstones for his son Patrick, wife Jackie, and daughter Arabella. The grave site is filled out with several mismatched stones with grass growing in between them (I have no idea why they are so mismanaged but perhaps it's an artists rendition meant to evoke thoughts of his ancestral homeland, Ireland). Placed just above JFK's headstone is his eternal flame. I've never understood the purpose of an eternal flame. It is either meant to be thought provoking or further proof of the human race's mastery of fire. The entire site is watched over by a military guard and surrounded by a black chain that you are obviously not meant to cross. So, after being an angel throughout the changing of the guard ceremony at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier my parents take my daughter to see the eternal flame and grave site of one of our nations most revered presidents. What does my respectful daughter do? She climbs under the black chain, runs across the headstones, vaults the flame, is chased down and tackled to the ground by the guard, and subsequently black listed from Arlington Cemetery. That is how my daughter shows respect for a national treasure.
So you may ask why, if we know how the trip is going to go, why do we continue to take our children to places that are not the most entertaining for our kids? The answer is because we want our children to grow up knowing and appreciating their heritage. And we also do it because our parents forced us to see places like that and it's a long held tradition that whatever disservice we suffered as a child our children will also suffer. And the last reason is population control. No doubt all the single and childless people at Arlington Cemetery that day are still single and childless. My daughter single handedly extended the Earth's resources that day by 3%.
Allow me to elaborate. When I was childless my husband and I planned spontaneous trips to romantic locales on a regular basis. We spent a week in San Francisco for our honeymoon. We slept in as late as we wanted, ate where we wanted, and visited attractions that didn't include a mouse or an arcade. A few years later we had the desire to eat breakfast at a restaurant we visited several times while we were there. We decided to go Friday afternoon. By Friday evening we were on the road driving for twelve hours and Saturday morning we were in San Francisco. We arrived to the city by the bay several hours before the restaurant opened and had no problem getting a few hours of rest in our car in Golden Gate Park. We ate, visited Ghiradelli Square, got in the car and drove home. Every year we would disappear for a few days. We wouldn't tell anyone where we were going and turned off our cell phones to have a true get away.
This all changed when we had our daughter. Traveling now takes the same level of planning, packing, preparation, and logistical support as the Normandy invasion of WWII. Every mile and every minute has to be carefully planned from the kid friendly destination and hotel, to preplanning a stop every two hours for potty breaks, to finding restaurants that serve the all important kids meal, and packing every last article of clothing, toy, dvd player, dvds, coloring books, games, the all important stuffed animal without which she will not sleep, granola bars, candy, chips, water, juice boxes, peanut butter, jelly, and bread (in case no restaurant can be found with the desired toy in the ever so important kids meal), travel pillow, blanket, Kids Bop cd's, and a pony. With all these distractions you would think a child would be entertained for eternity...and you would be wrong. Despite packing an entire Toys R Us and Wal Mart into your minivan your child will still ask you every ten seconds "are we there yet" and force you to play endless hours of eye spy. When you arrive at your destination you will be so exhausted that all you want to do is take a nap. This will be impossible because thirty miles before getting to your hotel your little one fell asleep, combine that with being cooped up in a car for several hours and you have a toddler who could single handedly power Beijing for six months with its stored energy.
As a dutiful parent you desire to take your children not just to every Disney park ever created but also to sites of historical significance. My wonderful parents took Sam to Washington DC last year. They took her to the Smithsonian, all the monuments, and Arlington Cemetery. At Arlington they stopped to see JFK's eternal flame. For any of you who haven't seen it let me describe it to you. A simple headstone for President Kennedy is flanked by headstones for his son Patrick, wife Jackie, and daughter Arabella. The grave site is filled out with several mismatched stones with grass growing in between them (I have no idea why they are so mismanaged but perhaps it's an artists rendition meant to evoke thoughts of his ancestral homeland, Ireland). Placed just above JFK's headstone is his eternal flame. I've never understood the purpose of an eternal flame. It is either meant to be thought provoking or further proof of the human race's mastery of fire. The entire site is watched over by a military guard and surrounded by a black chain that you are obviously not meant to cross. So, after being an angel throughout the changing of the guard ceremony at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier my parents take my daughter to see the eternal flame and grave site of one of our nations most revered presidents. What does my respectful daughter do? She climbs under the black chain, runs across the headstones, vaults the flame, is chased down and tackled to the ground by the guard, and subsequently black listed from Arlington Cemetery. That is how my daughter shows respect for a national treasure.
So you may ask why, if we know how the trip is going to go, why do we continue to take our children to places that are not the most entertaining for our kids? The answer is because we want our children to grow up knowing and appreciating their heritage. And we also do it because our parents forced us to see places like that and it's a long held tradition that whatever disservice we suffered as a child our children will also suffer. And the last reason is population control. No doubt all the single and childless people at Arlington Cemetery that day are still single and childless. My daughter single handedly extended the Earth's resources that day by 3%.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Why it would be AWESOME to be crazy
Every night I kneel down next to my bed, fold my arms reverently, bow my head respectfully, and pray to the Lord asking for his divine intervention to be granted one of my dearest desires. What is this desire you ask, I want to be crazy. Now, I'm not talking about a split personality, delusions of grandeur, or schizophrenia. Those mental illnesses lack a measure of commitment. I want to be 100% undeniably crazy. There are so many advantages to being really crazy. I'm not talking about the lethal advantages that get an out of jail free card that comes with committing murder while insane, I'm talking about social advantages. What could these advantages be? Read further for a few reasons and maybe you to will want to join me in the nut house.
1) You can wear anything you want. Everyone has seen the old Asian woman walking through the street market wearing polyester plaid golf pants and a rayon paisley shirt that's two sizes to big. That's not crazy, that's sad. It's a sickness really that needs its own twelve step program. When one is openly crazy you can get away with wearing a toga to the mall, a big bird costume to your kids school play, and the back end of a horse costume to get the mail. Your fashion choices are limitless. Before going crazy you really need to practice this one. You don't want to put something on that isn't in your color wheel. Crazy is great, ignorance is not.
2) You can be anyone you want to be. Part of the American dream is that if you work hard you can be whatever you want. You can be a doctor, lawyer, and if you work really hard by the time your fifty you have the chance of owning your own hot dog cart in New York City. They are all THINGS you can be, I said anyone. You can be a fictional character, someone from the future, or anyone from history. I have a few people I want to be. I want to be Queen Victoria, Marilyn Monroe, and Minnie Mouse. Their have been a lot of crazies in literature and throughout history. Take Elizabeth Bathory, she used to drain the blood from servant girls and bathe in it because she believed it would maintain her beauty. Jim Jones poisoned hundreds of his followers by forcing them to drink cyanide laced grape flavored Kool Aid. Emporer Nero. Contrary to the popular saying, Nero did not fiddle while Rome burned. He is famous for blowing all the money in the empirical treasury to build massive works of art, stadiums, and theaters where he would perform plays he wrote himself and would often last for six hours or more. When you go crazy if your avatar is a crazy from history I salute you for your dedication to the crazy cause.
3) You can say anything you want to anybody real or imaginary. I have started using this one prior to being completely crazy. It is so much fun. If I need to say something to someone I just say it. I don't try to protect their feelings. I'm quick and to the point. You'd be amazed at how well people accept this. Most of the time they like being told the truth with out the sugar coating. When you add crazy to the mix you don't have to stop with being blunt, you can be downright rude. You can say to a bride on her wedding day,"who are you kidding. Do you really think anyone is going to think you should be wearing a white wedding dress. And while I'm at it you really need take the majority of that make up off. If your trying to convince people you're a virgin, you shouldn't look like a whore." You can tell a cop that pulled you over, "what are you talking about? I wasn't speeding and if I was speeding so were you. You pulled me over for crying outloud. Oh and by the way, that bullet proof vest makes you look like a wimp. Oh yeah, I'd watch that partner of yours.He stroking the shotgun and looking at you with extreme hatred." To the little kid waiting in line to see Santa, "You know Santa's dead right? There was a riot in the toy making barn. He fell into a machine making stuffed animals and he was turned into stuffing soaked with blood and guts."
4) You can now be hired to work in a job that requires you to be nuts. Every industry has a department or fringe that commonly attract the crazy. Like kindergarten teachers, a spokeswoman for an insurance company, and people who run a bed and breakfast that's haunted or built in the middle of a lava flow. Some industries are dedicated to the crazy. Take people who dress up like characters at amusement parks. How else could they handle hundreds of screaming kids with snot running down their faces mobbing you with autograph requests, hugs, and pictures. Cab drivers. No one but the insane would think it's a good idea to completely cover your dashboard with bobblehead dolls, hang fringe around the entire roof of the car, install a horn that plays music by a Mexican horn band, and think you care about his great grandmother still living in Pakistan suffering from gout and arthritis. Professional wrestler. No one this side of the barbed wire fence of a state hospital would agree that being slammed into a mat by some one the size of Goliath would make a great career.
5) You are instantly famous. If you live in a small town or are part of a neighborhood everyone knows you. People smile at you like they would a small child and say hi. They have probably given you a nickname like Mr Happy or The Empress of Little Italy. You may even have a series of urban legends explaining how you got the way you are. Maybe they think your mom used to wash her clothes in your bath, while you were still in it. Or they could think you woke up one night and butchered your family with a replica Viking battle axe causing you to go nuts. They may think you were raised by a she wolf and had a hard time assimilating back into the human population. Maybe you were abducted by aliens that conducted experiments on your body leaving you ten cards short of a full deck.
So next time you see your local crazy person don't look at them with pity or fear. Look on them with envy and respect. They have achieved what many of us want, a unique identity. They have no problem with the world because they don't live in the world, they live in a fairy world where they are the center and everyone else is just scenery.
1) You can wear anything you want. Everyone has seen the old Asian woman walking through the street market wearing polyester plaid golf pants and a rayon paisley shirt that's two sizes to big. That's not crazy, that's sad. It's a sickness really that needs its own twelve step program. When one is openly crazy you can get away with wearing a toga to the mall, a big bird costume to your kids school play, and the back end of a horse costume to get the mail. Your fashion choices are limitless. Before going crazy you really need to practice this one. You don't want to put something on that isn't in your color wheel. Crazy is great, ignorance is not.
2) You can be anyone you want to be. Part of the American dream is that if you work hard you can be whatever you want. You can be a doctor, lawyer, and if you work really hard by the time your fifty you have the chance of owning your own hot dog cart in New York City. They are all THINGS you can be, I said anyone. You can be a fictional character, someone from the future, or anyone from history. I have a few people I want to be. I want to be Queen Victoria, Marilyn Monroe, and Minnie Mouse. Their have been a lot of crazies in literature and throughout history. Take Elizabeth Bathory, she used to drain the blood from servant girls and bathe in it because she believed it would maintain her beauty. Jim Jones poisoned hundreds of his followers by forcing them to drink cyanide laced grape flavored Kool Aid. Emporer Nero. Contrary to the popular saying, Nero did not fiddle while Rome burned. He is famous for blowing all the money in the empirical treasury to build massive works of art, stadiums, and theaters where he would perform plays he wrote himself and would often last for six hours or more. When you go crazy if your avatar is a crazy from history I salute you for your dedication to the crazy cause.
3) You can say anything you want to anybody real or imaginary. I have started using this one prior to being completely crazy. It is so much fun. If I need to say something to someone I just say it. I don't try to protect their feelings. I'm quick and to the point. You'd be amazed at how well people accept this. Most of the time they like being told the truth with out the sugar coating. When you add crazy to the mix you don't have to stop with being blunt, you can be downright rude. You can say to a bride on her wedding day,"who are you kidding. Do you really think anyone is going to think you should be wearing a white wedding dress. And while I'm at it you really need take the majority of that make up off. If your trying to convince people you're a virgin, you shouldn't look like a whore." You can tell a cop that pulled you over, "what are you talking about? I wasn't speeding and if I was speeding so were you. You pulled me over for crying outloud. Oh and by the way, that bullet proof vest makes you look like a wimp. Oh yeah, I'd watch that partner of yours.He stroking the shotgun and looking at you with extreme hatred." To the little kid waiting in line to see Santa, "You know Santa's dead right? There was a riot in the toy making barn. He fell into a machine making stuffed animals and he was turned into stuffing soaked with blood and guts."
4) You can now be hired to work in a job that requires you to be nuts. Every industry has a department or fringe that commonly attract the crazy. Like kindergarten teachers, a spokeswoman for an insurance company, and people who run a bed and breakfast that's haunted or built in the middle of a lava flow. Some industries are dedicated to the crazy. Take people who dress up like characters at amusement parks. How else could they handle hundreds of screaming kids with snot running down their faces mobbing you with autograph requests, hugs, and pictures. Cab drivers. No one but the insane would think it's a good idea to completely cover your dashboard with bobblehead dolls, hang fringe around the entire roof of the car, install a horn that plays music by a Mexican horn band, and think you care about his great grandmother still living in Pakistan suffering from gout and arthritis. Professional wrestler. No one this side of the barbed wire fence of a state hospital would agree that being slammed into a mat by some one the size of Goliath would make a great career.
5) You are instantly famous. If you live in a small town or are part of a neighborhood everyone knows you. People smile at you like they would a small child and say hi. They have probably given you a nickname like Mr Happy or The Empress of Little Italy. You may even have a series of urban legends explaining how you got the way you are. Maybe they think your mom used to wash her clothes in your bath, while you were still in it. Or they could think you woke up one night and butchered your family with a replica Viking battle axe causing you to go nuts. They may think you were raised by a she wolf and had a hard time assimilating back into the human population. Maybe you were abducted by aliens that conducted experiments on your body leaving you ten cards short of a full deck.
So next time you see your local crazy person don't look at them with pity or fear. Look on them with envy and respect. They have achieved what many of us want, a unique identity. They have no problem with the world because they don't live in the world, they live in a fairy world where they are the center and everyone else is just scenery.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Children
I am Katie Drake and I love to laugh! I learned very quickly that if you don't laugh through life you will cry. I believe that everything we have comes from God and that God has a sense of humor. If he doesn't have a sense of humor, how do you explain things like the mullet, renaissance reenactors, and straight men who like Glee. I am going to talk about one of the many blessings heaped upon us by the lord, children. More specifically, about things kids think and say and how they are completely wrong.
I believe that we all lived in heaven before we were born and that before man came to the Earth we were allowed to choose our families. I took this a little bit too literally. My mom has six kids and I used to think that when she had a baby the doctor would cut open her belly and inside would be Jesus holding dozens of kids for my mom to choose. For anyone who doesn't know, I was wrong. Giving birth is not all choirs of angels and rays of sunlight. I didn't realize how true that was until I gave birth to my daughter.
For anyone expecting their first child you probably imagine the big day going something like this. It's after midnight, you and your wife are sleeping soundly in your bed. Suddenly you are awakened by a gentle tap to the shoulder. You wake up to find your beautiful glowing wife whispering in your ear, "it's time." You have a long embrace then calmly climb out of bed. The two of you get dressed (your beautiful wife even does her makeup and hair). You carefully help your wife into your four door sedan with the baby seat strapped into the back seat. You drive slowly to the hospital avoiding any pot holes and speed bumps. You put your wife in a wheel chair and roll her to the labor and delivery department. You are greeted by a team of caring professional nurses and doctors that attend to your every need and are completely humbled that you would allow them to be part of the most momentous day of your life. Shortly after your mother and mother in law arrive with smiles on their faces. They hold hands and skip into your wife's delivery suite. They kiss, hug, and cry anticipating the miracle that is to come. Your wife labors for several hours, but like the superwoman she is she never once asks for drugs or an epidural. The doctor comes in and tells you it's time to push. Your wife pushes two or three times and after months of waiting a beautiful, clean, sleeping, calm baby boy is brought into this world with a strong resemblance to his loving father. You name him after yourself and his grandfather giving him a name he can be proud of. Your wife declares she will only nurse her baby and that he will never know a bottle. You and your wife are taken to her hospital room that is filled with flowers, balloons, cards, and well wishes. The day comes to take your angel home. You wave good by to the hospital staff, that you have gotten to know so well you have invited the entire hospital over for a barbque the next weekend, and drive away with your precious cargo in the back seat. You bring the sleeping angelic child into the house and place him in his crib. His nursery, that looks like a designer was hired to decorate but really it was done by your multi talented wife, is spotless, calm, soothing, and has classical music playing softly from a built in wall speaker that doubles as a baby monitor. You stare down at your beautiful new boy then stare into each other’s eyes at last feeling whole and complete.
This is what diaper and formula companies would like you to believe because if you knew the truth no one would have babies causing the diaper and formula companies to go bankrupt and end the human race. The truth is a far more disgusting, horrifying, and disturbing than anyone can grasp until they witness it for themselves. It can be so awful that hospitals should provide post traumatic stress counseling to all doctors, nurses, parents, family members, and babies present in the delivery room or within earshot of the delivery room. Here's how it really happens.
It's after midnight, you and your wife are laying in your bed. She keeps tossing and turning making it impossible for you to sleep. The baby is pushing so hard against her stomach that she feels like that guy from Alien. You want to say something to try to comfort your wife and let her know she is keeping you up but you are to afraid. Last time you said something she tried to chew your face off with her teeth then erupted into tears because she "knows" you don't find her sexy anymore. You tried to reassure her but she knows the truth. How can you be sexually attracted to someone that looks like she ate the planet Venus for her mid afternoon snack? Your wife is five days past her due date and with each passing day she turns more and more into the fabled medussa than you thought humanly possible. She continues to toss and turn and you wonder how many days a person can go without sleep before they become completely insane. Based on your own observations you determine that was three days ago.
Suddenly your wife sits bolt upright and wraps her fingers around your upper arm in a death grip that would put Darth Vadar to shame. She yells as if she were yelling through a megaphone, "get up, you have to take me to the hospital NOW!" You have learned not to dispute her so you jump out of bed and start to change your clothes. Your wife sees what you are doing and attacks, "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!? I'm having a baby and your putting on your Sunday best! Don't even think about it! To the car now! And don't forget my suitcase!!" You grab the suitcase as your hopping on one foot trying to put your pajama bottoms back on. When you get to the door you look over your shoulder to make sure she won't catch wasting time by sliding your flip flops on and run for the car. You start the car and drive out of the garage to see your wife has beaten you to the front porch. You rush out of the car apologizing profusely for making her wait. She doesn't say anything but "DRIVE". You make it to the hospital. When you try to go in to find a wheel chair for your wife she scolds you saying it will take too long for you and your pea size brain to locate a wheel chair in a hospital and proves she can walk just fine. You don't object, you know that would be suicide. When you get to labor and delivery you walk into a triage that would not be out of place on a battlefield. Nurses and doctors are running from one end of the unit to the other ignoring you and your wife. You can hear the screams of other laboring women filling the halls. You try to stop a nurse to tell her your wife is in labor. She compassionately says, "take a number." You know you must report what the nurse said to your wife but you can't seem to move. You know if you tell her they're busy she will probably filet you right there and eat your raw flesh from your bones. You boldly grab another passing nurse by the arm and demand they admit your wife. She looks at you with distain and tells you there are no open beds so she will have to wait. You don't know what to do. If you go back to your wife with that she will probably light you on fire and parade your flaming body around the hospital as a warning to other inconsiderate husbands. You cannot let go of the nurse. She looks at the tears streaming down your face and says, "where's your wife." SALVATION!!! You would have kissed the nurse but you know your wife is using her x ray vision and if she catches you she will peel the skin off your body in long thin sheets. The nurse walks boldly up to your wife and tells her the situation. You fear for the life of the nurse and subconsciously start picking out the flower arrangement to send to her funeral. Surprisingly your wife takes it in stride and sits down. You creep back to your wife sheepishly sitting next to her. With every contraction she doubles over in pain. You try to rub her back like they taught in the birthing classes but find they left out a crucial step. They never told you to wear full hockey gear to guard you from the backhands and punches your wife throws your way.
Finally, a room is available and your wife is admitted. If you thought all your troubles were over you would be wrong. Just as the nurse leaves your wife's room she gets her first REAL contraction. She folds her body in half so much that you think her spine is going to pop through her skin. This can't be normal so you run to find the nurse to tell her you think the baby is coming. When you find a nurse she looks at you like you are still trying to grasp the complex concepts taught by Sesame Street and tells you she'll be in to see her in a minute. Thirty minutes later the nurse finds you cowered in a corner rocking back and forth as your wife's red eyes shoot daggers through your heart. Before the nurse can say anything your wife yells, "epidural, NOW!" Again you think you will be saved. You think you will be saved until the nurse says, "ok, I'll call the anesthesiologist. He should be up here in about twenty minutes." The nurse turns and leaves the room. You know that it will take divine intervention for you to last another twenty minutes. Your brain starts to fold in on itself as you gradually lose your grip on reality. A man walks through the front door, at first you think he is the angel Gabriel by the way your wife looks at him. In her eyes he is the only useful man on the planet. He is the anesthesiologist. You crawl on your hands and knees vowing to worship him forever and you promise him the child in your wife's belly as an indentured servant. He taps you on the head assuring you that wouldn't be necessary. This only deepens your devotion and you kiss the hem of his scrub pants vowing your undying loyalty. He places a plastic container of medical instruments on the table next to the bed and tells your wife she has to bend in half so he can ram a two foot long needle into her spine and that the only risks are paralization. Your wife doesn't care and immediately agrees to the procedure. He picks the needle up and jams it into your wife's spine. Your wife doesn't flinch but you almost faint. When he removes the needle a long thin tube is sticking out of your wife's back attached to a bag of medicine. He leaves and before he could close the door your wife is sleeping for the first time in months.
You use this brief lull in the excitement to gather your thoughts and try to remember why you chose to go through this. Your wife has been asleep for no more than a half hour when the doctor arrives to break her water. You expected to see the same amount of fluid as when you have to pee after a long drive in the car. What you didn't expect was the same amount of liquid that flows over Niagra Falls on any given day. The doctor tells you both to rest and he will be back shortly. He returns about an hour later to tell your wife it's time to push. You begin to weep. The past nine months have been hell on Earth but it was about to be over. Your wife pushes for the first time. Something happens that also was not discussed in the childbirth classes. You are grateful that your wife is no longer in pain but over the past nine months you never connected pushing a baby out to be the same action as evacuating your bowels. The entire contents of your wife's colon is on the table in front of the doctor. The doctor acts like someone did not almost fill his shoes with fecal material and the nurse cleans it up in under five seconds. Your wife pushes again. You don't want to know what will come out next. She pushes and pushes and pushes and pushes some more. She pushes for two entire hours. The doctor starts to worry about the safety of the baby and tells you wife they may need to do a C section. She yells "NNNOOO!" and with one final push your wife has given birth to a half alien, half old man, half rolly polly bug covered in blood, slime, and cottage cheese. The doctor quickly places the disgusting creature on top of your wife. Your wife starts to cry saying she has the most beautiful baby ever. Until that point you were hoping the thing that came out of your wife is a tumor and will be thrown into a medical waste bin, it hit's you that this is your child. This thing writhing and screaming in your wife's arms is the reason to practice abstinence. If a young teenage boy were to see this he would be scarred for life. His hair would turn white, he would stop speaking, and would only react when someone yelled "push". You are startled when the doctor orders your wife to give one final push. For a brief moment you are terrified that maybe your wife was carrying two tumors. What you see is so much worse. A huge blob of bloody tissue is expelled from your wife. Just as you start dialing the phone to call your priest to perform and exorcism the doctor tells your wife the placenta is out.
The nurses take the baby to look him over and clean him up. You fall down into the chair. Your legs could no longer bear your weight. Your mother and mother in law storm the room rushing to your wife's side. They start to argue over who he looks like more and what family member he's going to be named for. Punches start to fly and they are escorted out of the hospital by security. You ask your wife what to name him. She looks down at the baby and softly says, "Fergus." You think it an odd name but agree. A short time later you realize your wife just named your son after her junior high school boyfriend. You are to tired to care. They take your wife to her barren room. The next few days bring several more unexpected treats. What should be as natural as breathing is not. You learn that nursing a child takes work and the process has turned your wife's nipples into raw hamburger. She cries every time she tries to feed him from the pain. You ask her if she wants to use a bottle and she says "no. This is better for him." You try to figure out how being fed by hysterical crying mother everyday could lead to anything but a future therapy bill. The first night you are exhausted and you believe your wife should be as well. You fall asleep in the chair in her room, she stays awake watching tv all night. Again the child birthing class didn't tell you your wife would be so high on adrenaline she would stay awake for three straight days. You take the baby home and the real fun begins. He wakes up every hour wanting to be fed and/or changed. He cries for no reason, he vomits more than he eats, his body has the stability of jello, and no matter what the diapers say, it does not absorb baby poop. Every time you take him out it's like packing to cross the plains in a covered wagon. You have to take at least thirteen spare outfits, enough diapers to keep a retirement home supplied for ten years, toys, blankets, pacifiers, medicine, strollers, car seats, wipes, burp cloths, a camera, and a stack of pictures to show people how cute he is when they aren't around. Still it doesn't really matter how he has changed your life or upset your routine, you find yourself falling in love with the half alien half old man half roley poley bug. You start to realize that someone elses comfort takes precedents over your own needs. You realize you have the responsibility of caring, nurturing, and raising this amazing miracle. You're worried that your best won't be good enough but if you can remember the way you feel right now you will never question why you did it.
I believe that we all lived in heaven before we were born and that before man came to the Earth we were allowed to choose our families. I took this a little bit too literally. My mom has six kids and I used to think that when she had a baby the doctor would cut open her belly and inside would be Jesus holding dozens of kids for my mom to choose. For anyone who doesn't know, I was wrong. Giving birth is not all choirs of angels and rays of sunlight. I didn't realize how true that was until I gave birth to my daughter.
For anyone expecting their first child you probably imagine the big day going something like this. It's after midnight, you and your wife are sleeping soundly in your bed. Suddenly you are awakened by a gentle tap to the shoulder. You wake up to find your beautiful glowing wife whispering in your ear, "it's time." You have a long embrace then calmly climb out of bed. The two of you get dressed (your beautiful wife even does her makeup and hair). You carefully help your wife into your four door sedan with the baby seat strapped into the back seat. You drive slowly to the hospital avoiding any pot holes and speed bumps. You put your wife in a wheel chair and roll her to the labor and delivery department. You are greeted by a team of caring professional nurses and doctors that attend to your every need and are completely humbled that you would allow them to be part of the most momentous day of your life. Shortly after your mother and mother in law arrive with smiles on their faces. They hold hands and skip into your wife's delivery suite. They kiss, hug, and cry anticipating the miracle that is to come. Your wife labors for several hours, but like the superwoman she is she never once asks for drugs or an epidural. The doctor comes in and tells you it's time to push. Your wife pushes two or three times and after months of waiting a beautiful, clean, sleeping, calm baby boy is brought into this world with a strong resemblance to his loving father. You name him after yourself and his grandfather giving him a name he can be proud of. Your wife declares she will only nurse her baby and that he will never know a bottle. You and your wife are taken to her hospital room that is filled with flowers, balloons, cards, and well wishes. The day comes to take your angel home. You wave good by to the hospital staff, that you have gotten to know so well you have invited the entire hospital over for a barbque the next weekend, and drive away with your precious cargo in the back seat. You bring the sleeping angelic child into the house and place him in his crib. His nursery, that looks like a designer was hired to decorate but really it was done by your multi talented wife, is spotless, calm, soothing, and has classical music playing softly from a built in wall speaker that doubles as a baby monitor. You stare down at your beautiful new boy then stare into each other’s eyes at last feeling whole and complete.
This is what diaper and formula companies would like you to believe because if you knew the truth no one would have babies causing the diaper and formula companies to go bankrupt and end the human race. The truth is a far more disgusting, horrifying, and disturbing than anyone can grasp until they witness it for themselves. It can be so awful that hospitals should provide post traumatic stress counseling to all doctors, nurses, parents, family members, and babies present in the delivery room or within earshot of the delivery room. Here's how it really happens.
It's after midnight, you and your wife are laying in your bed. She keeps tossing and turning making it impossible for you to sleep. The baby is pushing so hard against her stomach that she feels like that guy from Alien. You want to say something to try to comfort your wife and let her know she is keeping you up but you are to afraid. Last time you said something she tried to chew your face off with her teeth then erupted into tears because she "knows" you don't find her sexy anymore. You tried to reassure her but she knows the truth. How can you be sexually attracted to someone that looks like she ate the planet Venus for her mid afternoon snack? Your wife is five days past her due date and with each passing day she turns more and more into the fabled medussa than you thought humanly possible. She continues to toss and turn and you wonder how many days a person can go without sleep before they become completely insane. Based on your own observations you determine that was three days ago.
Suddenly your wife sits bolt upright and wraps her fingers around your upper arm in a death grip that would put Darth Vadar to shame. She yells as if she were yelling through a megaphone, "get up, you have to take me to the hospital NOW!" You have learned not to dispute her so you jump out of bed and start to change your clothes. Your wife sees what you are doing and attacks, "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!? I'm having a baby and your putting on your Sunday best! Don't even think about it! To the car now! And don't forget my suitcase!!" You grab the suitcase as your hopping on one foot trying to put your pajama bottoms back on. When you get to the door you look over your shoulder to make sure she won't catch wasting time by sliding your flip flops on and run for the car. You start the car and drive out of the garage to see your wife has beaten you to the front porch. You rush out of the car apologizing profusely for making her wait. She doesn't say anything but "DRIVE". You make it to the hospital. When you try to go in to find a wheel chair for your wife she scolds you saying it will take too long for you and your pea size brain to locate a wheel chair in a hospital and proves she can walk just fine. You don't object, you know that would be suicide. When you get to labor and delivery you walk into a triage that would not be out of place on a battlefield. Nurses and doctors are running from one end of the unit to the other ignoring you and your wife. You can hear the screams of other laboring women filling the halls. You try to stop a nurse to tell her your wife is in labor. She compassionately says, "take a number." You know you must report what the nurse said to your wife but you can't seem to move. You know if you tell her they're busy she will probably filet you right there and eat your raw flesh from your bones. You boldly grab another passing nurse by the arm and demand they admit your wife. She looks at you with distain and tells you there are no open beds so she will have to wait. You don't know what to do. If you go back to your wife with that she will probably light you on fire and parade your flaming body around the hospital as a warning to other inconsiderate husbands. You cannot let go of the nurse. She looks at the tears streaming down your face and says, "where's your wife." SALVATION!!! You would have kissed the nurse but you know your wife is using her x ray vision and if she catches you she will peel the skin off your body in long thin sheets. The nurse walks boldly up to your wife and tells her the situation. You fear for the life of the nurse and subconsciously start picking out the flower arrangement to send to her funeral. Surprisingly your wife takes it in stride and sits down. You creep back to your wife sheepishly sitting next to her. With every contraction she doubles over in pain. You try to rub her back like they taught in the birthing classes but find they left out a crucial step. They never told you to wear full hockey gear to guard you from the backhands and punches your wife throws your way.
Finally, a room is available and your wife is admitted. If you thought all your troubles were over you would be wrong. Just as the nurse leaves your wife's room she gets her first REAL contraction. She folds her body in half so much that you think her spine is going to pop through her skin. This can't be normal so you run to find the nurse to tell her you think the baby is coming. When you find a nurse she looks at you like you are still trying to grasp the complex concepts taught by Sesame Street and tells you she'll be in to see her in a minute. Thirty minutes later the nurse finds you cowered in a corner rocking back and forth as your wife's red eyes shoot daggers through your heart. Before the nurse can say anything your wife yells, "epidural, NOW!" Again you think you will be saved. You think you will be saved until the nurse says, "ok, I'll call the anesthesiologist. He should be up here in about twenty minutes." The nurse turns and leaves the room. You know that it will take divine intervention for you to last another twenty minutes. Your brain starts to fold in on itself as you gradually lose your grip on reality. A man walks through the front door, at first you think he is the angel Gabriel by the way your wife looks at him. In her eyes he is the only useful man on the planet. He is the anesthesiologist. You crawl on your hands and knees vowing to worship him forever and you promise him the child in your wife's belly as an indentured servant. He taps you on the head assuring you that wouldn't be necessary. This only deepens your devotion and you kiss the hem of his scrub pants vowing your undying loyalty. He places a plastic container of medical instruments on the table next to the bed and tells your wife she has to bend in half so he can ram a two foot long needle into her spine and that the only risks are paralization. Your wife doesn't care and immediately agrees to the procedure. He picks the needle up and jams it into your wife's spine. Your wife doesn't flinch but you almost faint. When he removes the needle a long thin tube is sticking out of your wife's back attached to a bag of medicine. He leaves and before he could close the door your wife is sleeping for the first time in months.
You use this brief lull in the excitement to gather your thoughts and try to remember why you chose to go through this. Your wife has been asleep for no more than a half hour when the doctor arrives to break her water. You expected to see the same amount of fluid as when you have to pee after a long drive in the car. What you didn't expect was the same amount of liquid that flows over Niagra Falls on any given day. The doctor tells you both to rest and he will be back shortly. He returns about an hour later to tell your wife it's time to push. You begin to weep. The past nine months have been hell on Earth but it was about to be over. Your wife pushes for the first time. Something happens that also was not discussed in the childbirth classes. You are grateful that your wife is no longer in pain but over the past nine months you never connected pushing a baby out to be the same action as evacuating your bowels. The entire contents of your wife's colon is on the table in front of the doctor. The doctor acts like someone did not almost fill his shoes with fecal material and the nurse cleans it up in under five seconds. Your wife pushes again. You don't want to know what will come out next. She pushes and pushes and pushes and pushes some more. She pushes for two entire hours. The doctor starts to worry about the safety of the baby and tells you wife they may need to do a C section. She yells "NNNOOO!" and with one final push your wife has given birth to a half alien, half old man, half rolly polly bug covered in blood, slime, and cottage cheese. The doctor quickly places the disgusting creature on top of your wife. Your wife starts to cry saying she has the most beautiful baby ever. Until that point you were hoping the thing that came out of your wife is a tumor and will be thrown into a medical waste bin, it hit's you that this is your child. This thing writhing and screaming in your wife's arms is the reason to practice abstinence. If a young teenage boy were to see this he would be scarred for life. His hair would turn white, he would stop speaking, and would only react when someone yelled "push". You are startled when the doctor orders your wife to give one final push. For a brief moment you are terrified that maybe your wife was carrying two tumors. What you see is so much worse. A huge blob of bloody tissue is expelled from your wife. Just as you start dialing the phone to call your priest to perform and exorcism the doctor tells your wife the placenta is out.
The nurses take the baby to look him over and clean him up. You fall down into the chair. Your legs could no longer bear your weight. Your mother and mother in law storm the room rushing to your wife's side. They start to argue over who he looks like more and what family member he's going to be named for. Punches start to fly and they are escorted out of the hospital by security. You ask your wife what to name him. She looks down at the baby and softly says, "Fergus." You think it an odd name but agree. A short time later you realize your wife just named your son after her junior high school boyfriend. You are to tired to care. They take your wife to her barren room. The next few days bring several more unexpected treats. What should be as natural as breathing is not. You learn that nursing a child takes work and the process has turned your wife's nipples into raw hamburger. She cries every time she tries to feed him from the pain. You ask her if she wants to use a bottle and she says "no. This is better for him." You try to figure out how being fed by hysterical crying mother everyday could lead to anything but a future therapy bill. The first night you are exhausted and you believe your wife should be as well. You fall asleep in the chair in her room, she stays awake watching tv all night. Again the child birthing class didn't tell you your wife would be so high on adrenaline she would stay awake for three straight days. You take the baby home and the real fun begins. He wakes up every hour wanting to be fed and/or changed. He cries for no reason, he vomits more than he eats, his body has the stability of jello, and no matter what the diapers say, it does not absorb baby poop. Every time you take him out it's like packing to cross the plains in a covered wagon. You have to take at least thirteen spare outfits, enough diapers to keep a retirement home supplied for ten years, toys, blankets, pacifiers, medicine, strollers, car seats, wipes, burp cloths, a camera, and a stack of pictures to show people how cute he is when they aren't around. Still it doesn't really matter how he has changed your life or upset your routine, you find yourself falling in love with the half alien half old man half roley poley bug. You start to realize that someone elses comfort takes precedents over your own needs. You realize you have the responsibility of caring, nurturing, and raising this amazing miracle. You're worried that your best won't be good enough but if you can remember the way you feel right now you will never question why you did it.
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