There's a lot of information out there*. There's information available in books and magazines, from friends, family and raving lunatics on street-corners (who may or may not fall into one of the former categories) and of course, the internet. Want to know the circumference of the world's largest donut? Check the internet. Curious about the origin of the phrase "Stunned as me arse"? It's probably there somewhere. Desperate to know whether that oozing lump on your left butt-cheek is something you should have checked out? Well, you could go to the internet for that one, but I'm going to hazard a guess and say yes, go see your GP.
The doctor's office has a lot of information, too. We were there a few days ago inquiring about a) what to do if our poor baby caught my cold (which seems inevitable, really), and b) whether it is, in fact, appropriate to drug the poor lad for our upcoming flight to Ontario. Apparently it is, but that's not the issue here. The waiting room was FULL of information, most of it useless. One poster inquired, "Are you suffering from shingles? Are you over 50 years old?" I was reasonably sure I could answer "no" to both questions, so I didn't continue to read up on that particular medical study. The information's there if I want it, though.
I did, however, pick up a brochure which included a handy checklist that would tell me if I should speak to my doctor about the possibility that I might be suffering from Alzheimer's. Please bear in mind that I didn't really think I might have Alzheimer's; I'm just one of those people who has to be reading something any time I'm not otherwise completely occupied. I have stooped to reading shampoo bottles while I'm peeing just to have something to read. Once again, however, that's not the issue. Alzheimer's. I was talking about Alzheimer's, and the checklist...
1. Does the individual often repeat himself/herself or ask the same questions over and over?
(yes, but to be fair, it's only because I don't get a response the first time. Particularly if someone is watching the baseball game.)
2. Is the individual more forgetful, that is, having trouble with short-term memory?
(OK, we've been over this- it's mommy brain. Or, if you prefer, CRAFT disease: Can't Remember A Frigging Thing. I- wait, what was the question, again?)
3. Does the individual need reminders to do things like chores, shopping or taking medication?
(unusually only the unpleasant chores. Oh, wait, that's all of them. And I do keep forgetting to give the cat his antibiotics...)
....
6. Has the individual started having trouble doing calculations, managing finances or balancing the chequebook?
[ Started?! Since when did I not have trouble doing calculations? Have you seen my credit card statements this year? And doing what to the chequebook, now?]
....
11. Does the individual have difficulty finding words, finishing sentences or naming people or things?**
(That's it, I'm doomed. Last week I forgot what a "plate" was called, and I called the baby by the dog's name. This is the end.)
So, by the end of the checklist, I had (out of 11 questions) five yeses, four no's and one don't know. Hang on, that's only 10... make that 6 yeses (with an asterisk beside that one about trouble with calculations). Apparently five or more yeses means I should speak to my doctor about this, as an early diagnosis is vital to treatment success.
You know, maybe there is such a thing as too much information. I'm sure that this checklist could be helpful, even life-saving in the right circumstances. I'm also pretty sure that I don't have Alzheimer's at this time. In fact, I'm going to go ahead and say that I'm just tired, hormonal and naturally bad at math. You could go nuts with all this information, seeing pneumonia in the baby's every sniffle and Avian flu in every sneeze. New mommies are particularly susceptible to this, or so I've heard. It's good to be informed, but I think I'm going to leave diagnosis to the experts and try to get on with what's left of my life.
Now where did I put the baby?...
* Yeah, I know: Captain Obvious called, and he wants his shtick back. Thanks.
** If you're looking for the brochure, it's titled "Stay One Step Ahead" and is "Sponsored by one of Canada's leading research based pharmaceutical companies"
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Poetry
Since I've been home with my boy, I've found that life is a series of moments. I'm not being philosophical here, this is just a fact. I don't have grand, long-term plans or projects anymore; everything important, good or bad, seems to happen in little bits. The focus of my life is small, and so are the highlights of each day.
A few months ago I had a super-duper experience, and my brain turned it into a haiku (probably because I'm not a good enough writer to make any more difficult poetry). I ended up with:
Something smells awful.
Simon's ass has exploded.
Grossest poop ever.
I liked it. It spoke to me. And yes, I am aware that small things amuse small minds, so there's no need to tell me, thanks. Soon after came my next great burst of creativity:
Simon was cranky,
Then he puked all over me.
Now he is happy.
A friend suggested that I should write a book called "Gross Haikus That You Can Use", but I found out later that a mommy has already done a book of haikus about mommying (though I have to say that hers lack the lyrical vulgarity that mine have). Darned if I can think of what it's called, but it's out there. Still, I'm enjoying condensing my life into bite-sized morsels of haiku-y goodness, so I'm going to keep writing them. You can see The Daily Haiku (obviously not so good with the titles, either) at www.myhaikusthatyoucanuse.blogspot.com
Go ahead and look.
If you don't like my haikus,
you can just bite me.
Or just not look at that site again... but that didn't fit into the haiku.
A few months ago I had a super-duper experience, and my brain turned it into a haiku (probably because I'm not a good enough writer to make any more difficult poetry). I ended up with:
Something smells awful.
Simon's ass has exploded.
Grossest poop ever.
I liked it. It spoke to me. And yes, I am aware that small things amuse small minds, so there's no need to tell me, thanks. Soon after came my next great burst of creativity:
Simon was cranky,
Then he puked all over me.
Now he is happy.
A friend suggested that I should write a book called "Gross Haikus That You Can Use", but I found out later that a mommy has already done a book of haikus about mommying (though I have to say that hers lack the lyrical vulgarity that mine have). Darned if I can think of what it's called, but it's out there. Still, I'm enjoying condensing my life into bite-sized morsels of haiku-y goodness, so I'm going to keep writing them. You can see The Daily Haiku (obviously not so good with the titles, either) at www.myhaikusthatyoucanuse.blogspot.com
Go ahead and look.
If you don't like my haikus,
you can just bite me.
Or just not look at that site again... but that didn't fit into the haiku.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Man of Constant Sorrows (My Soggy-Bottom Boy)
Before I had my own baby, I couldn't change a diaper without gagging. I couldn't clean up dog poop from the back yard. I could barely clean out the litter box without wanting to barf. If I've accomplished anything in the last eight months, it's been strengthening my stomach to near super-human levels of non-gaggage. I've seen stuff that could make (and has made) grown men cry, I've been up to my elbows in messes that make the average mudslide look like an oasis of calm and purity, and it has all come out of the sweetest, most innocent looking little creature on earth- my baby boy.
Oh, the wonders I have seen. The books try to prepare you for meconium, the stuff that's not exactly poop, but which comes out of the little darling's bottom soon after birth. Apparently this mess should be greeted with happiness, as it indicates that everything is working well at that end of things. I think "shock and awe" would better describe our reaction. What the books call "greenish, slightly sticky waste" is, in fact, a thick, dark, tar-like substance that could probably be used to cover roofs and fill wall cracks in an emergency. I guess God figured that He'd just throw that at you right at the beginning, and then anything that followed would be relatively easy to deal with... that, or He just gets a good laugh out of our faces when we open that first precious package.
Even if the diaper's not dirty (which, let's face it, it probably is), the parents of a baby boy have other challenges to deal with. If you have a boy, you are officially a target. Actually, I got off easy- Daddy was the preferred target in this household when golden fountains were flowing sans diaper. There were times my little darling actually waited until Daddy was in range, smiled happily, and wheeeeee! No one has got it in the mouth yet, and I think we're almost past that stage. Famous last words...
We thought we were ready. We had bags of newborn-sized diapers all ready to go in the nursery. We had wipes. We had vaseline. We had done the obligatory giggling over how ridiculously tiny the diapers were (only to find later that they looked way too big when they were actually ON the baby). I had even put a diaper on a vaguely baby-shaped stuffed monkey to make sure I remembered how to do it, and to get the dog used to what I'd be spending so many hours doing in the near future. We were wrong. What seemed like a mountain of diapers was actually about a three-day supply, thanks to our new poop factory's charming habit of holding back just a little poo in hopes of soiling a fresh target. We weren't prepared for the rainbow-hued packages our boy would be leaving for us: green, black, even rusty-red. And the leaks- oh, the leaks! The diaper commercials promise Fort Knox security; the reality is wet sleepers, wet crib sheets, and wet Mommy. And it's not just pee leaks. No, when you get the leaks that leave poor baby with poop from neck to knees, pee leaks actually stert to look good. This, folks, is why God made babies so cute.
Just when things were getting predictable, we had to go and start giving him "real" food. Talk about weird colours!
After this much time and this much poop, I've gotten over the gagging thing. I can clean up a head-to-toe mess without cracking a window, though I still hold my breath on the big messes until I turn blue (which, coincidentally, is just about the only colour he hasn't produced yet). Daddy's not quite there; yesterday he got to change his first poop since his little buddy started eating solids, and judging by the "oh, Good Lord!"s and the gagging noises, I'd say he gained a new appreciation for my work.
Oh, but I still don't clean up the dog poop. That's just gross.
Oh, the wonders I have seen. The books try to prepare you for meconium, the stuff that's not exactly poop, but which comes out of the little darling's bottom soon after birth. Apparently this mess should be greeted with happiness, as it indicates that everything is working well at that end of things. I think "shock and awe" would better describe our reaction. What the books call "greenish, slightly sticky waste" is, in fact, a thick, dark, tar-like substance that could probably be used to cover roofs and fill wall cracks in an emergency. I guess God figured that He'd just throw that at you right at the beginning, and then anything that followed would be relatively easy to deal with... that, or He just gets a good laugh out of our faces when we open that first precious package.
Even if the diaper's not dirty (which, let's face it, it probably is), the parents of a baby boy have other challenges to deal with. If you have a boy, you are officially a target. Actually, I got off easy- Daddy was the preferred target in this household when golden fountains were flowing sans diaper. There were times my little darling actually waited until Daddy was in range, smiled happily, and wheeeeee! No one has got it in the mouth yet, and I think we're almost past that stage. Famous last words...
We thought we were ready. We had bags of newborn-sized diapers all ready to go in the nursery. We had wipes. We had vaseline. We had done the obligatory giggling over how ridiculously tiny the diapers were (only to find later that they looked way too big when they were actually ON the baby). I had even put a diaper on a vaguely baby-shaped stuffed monkey to make sure I remembered how to do it, and to get the dog used to what I'd be spending so many hours doing in the near future. We were wrong. What seemed like a mountain of diapers was actually about a three-day supply, thanks to our new poop factory's charming habit of holding back just a little poo in hopes of soiling a fresh target. We weren't prepared for the rainbow-hued packages our boy would be leaving for us: green, black, even rusty-red. And the leaks- oh, the leaks! The diaper commercials promise Fort Knox security; the reality is wet sleepers, wet crib sheets, and wet Mommy. And it's not just pee leaks. No, when you get the leaks that leave poor baby with poop from neck to knees, pee leaks actually stert to look good. This, folks, is why God made babies so cute.
Just when things were getting predictable, we had to go and start giving him "real" food. Talk about weird colours!
After this much time and this much poop, I've gotten over the gagging thing. I can clean up a head-to-toe mess without cracking a window, though I still hold my breath on the big messes until I turn blue (which, coincidentally, is just about the only colour he hasn't produced yet). Daddy's not quite there; yesterday he got to change his first poop since his little buddy started eating solids, and judging by the "oh, Good Lord!"s and the gagging noises, I'd say he gained a new appreciation for my work.
Oh, but I still don't clean up the dog poop. That's just gross.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Silly Bill
I have this fear that I'm irreversibly messing my kid up. I know that everyone has that fear from time to time- nobody's perfect, therefore we're screwing up at something at any given moment. Parents are particularly prone to having this fear, maybe because there's so much at stake when we make mistakes. I don't think the poor little guy is going to end up in a bell tower with a shotgun or bouncing on Oprah's couch or anything. But given the environment he's growing up in, he's bound to be at least a little weird.
For one thing, the poor guy will have no idea what his name is. They (ooh, the infamous They) say that when your baby is looking in a mirror, you should say "Ooh, look at baby (insert child's name here)." This will presumably promote self-awareness. Too bad we've been calling Simon's reflection "nomiS" (i.e. Simon backwards, for anyone who missed that) since the first time they met. Apparently Simon and nomiS will grow up being the best of friends, but at no time will my baby go, "hey... that's me!". Also, the little guy has more nicknames than anyone I've ever met. It started out when he was a newborn in the hospital- for various reasons we started referring to him as "little monkey" and "turtle". Next came "Fartin' Martin", "Tootin' Newton", and "Gassy Gus" (notice a theme here?). His Daddy referred to him as "anger ball" when he got fussy. Lately he's earned himself the nickname "Silly Bill", and I seem to call him a weirdo at least 3 or 4 times a day. I really do try to use his name when I think of it- I'm pretty sure I say "I love you, Simon" more than "I love you, Bill."
He may or may not also develop some confusion about the correct names for things. Yesterday he was eating some exceptionally un-appetizing cereal with prunes mixed in, the sight of which prompted Daddy to encourage him to "eat your poop!" If this continues, I can see my poor baby either a) thinking that eating poop is not only acceptable, but encouraged in our household, or b) showing up at kindergarten telling his teacher that Daddy makes him eat poop. It's probably karma, actually. I once had a toddler in my mom's daycare convinced that the wallpaper in the kitchen was called "cereal". Or "sleeliuls", as he said it. Oh, come on... it was funny at the time, OK?
Another minor issue is the stuff he hears every day. We don't swear much (aside from the occasional "Bloody Hell!" from Daddy), and we try not to watch movies or TV shows with questionable content when Bill (oops) is around. Still, there's a good chance that his first full sentence is going to be "Otis, stop that or I'll kill you!" Won't that be cute in the grocery store?
There are worse things we could be doing, though. Simon, Nomis or Bill, at least he knows he's loved. The kid already has a great (if odd) sense of humour- he thinks it's hysterically funny when you tell him to go to sleep, and his giggles make me laugh even when I'm exhausted and desperate for him to have his nap. And at least his poop has 14 essential nutrients... I don't think we're really doing all that bad a job. Good old Bill might not grow up normal, but at least he's happy.
For one thing, the poor guy will have no idea what his name is. They (ooh, the infamous They) say that when your baby is looking in a mirror, you should say "Ooh, look at baby (insert child's name here)." This will presumably promote self-awareness. Too bad we've been calling Simon's reflection "nomiS" (i.e. Simon backwards, for anyone who missed that) since the first time they met. Apparently Simon and nomiS will grow up being the best of friends, but at no time will my baby go, "hey... that's me!". Also, the little guy has more nicknames than anyone I've ever met. It started out when he was a newborn in the hospital- for various reasons we started referring to him as "little monkey" and "turtle". Next came "Fartin' Martin", "Tootin' Newton", and "Gassy Gus" (notice a theme here?). His Daddy referred to him as "anger ball" when he got fussy. Lately he's earned himself the nickname "Silly Bill", and I seem to call him a weirdo at least 3 or 4 times a day. I really do try to use his name when I think of it- I'm pretty sure I say "I love you, Simon" more than "I love you, Bill."
He may or may not also develop some confusion about the correct names for things. Yesterday he was eating some exceptionally un-appetizing cereal with prunes mixed in, the sight of which prompted Daddy to encourage him to "eat your poop!" If this continues, I can see my poor baby either a) thinking that eating poop is not only acceptable, but encouraged in our household, or b) showing up at kindergarten telling his teacher that Daddy makes him eat poop. It's probably karma, actually. I once had a toddler in my mom's daycare convinced that the wallpaper in the kitchen was called "cereal". Or "sleeliuls", as he said it. Oh, come on... it was funny at the time, OK?
Another minor issue is the stuff he hears every day. We don't swear much (aside from the occasional "Bloody Hell!" from Daddy), and we try not to watch movies or TV shows with questionable content when Bill (oops) is around. Still, there's a good chance that his first full sentence is going to be "Otis, stop that or I'll kill you!" Won't that be cute in the grocery store?
There are worse things we could be doing, though. Simon, Nomis or Bill, at least he knows he's loved. The kid already has a great (if odd) sense of humour- he thinks it's hysterically funny when you tell him to go to sleep, and his giggles make me laugh even when I'm exhausted and desperate for him to have his nap. And at least his poop has 14 essential nutrients... I don't think we're really doing all that bad a job. Good old Bill might not grow up normal, but at least he's happy.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Sick, Sick, Sick
I need a day off. If I had a real job, seven (almost 8) months without a day off would be unthinkable. I might be getting into a heck of a lawsuit... and quite frankly, I could use the money. I get time off, though. I work odd shifts (7-10, 11:30-2, 4-7, on call 7-6 and all times between shifts), but nap times are nice. I'd like a sick day, though. Today would be a good sick day. Today I have a migraine. Not a regular headache like I get once or twice every week, but a full-blown, raging, pull-down-the-blinds, no-just-leave-the-toilet-open-please, shut-that-cat-up, what-the-hell-am-I-doing-at-the-COMPUTER migraine. My mom had them a lot when I was growing up, and they were always "quiet" days, though I don't remember them ever disrupting our lives. I think I can safely assume that she would have liked a few days off, too. It's 3:00 in the afternoon and I'm still in my pajamas. To some people, pajamas in the afternoon is a luxury. For me, it's just sad.
But my little employer isn't offering to let me have the day off, and he's just a bit too young to appreciate my situation, anyway. Right now he's happily bouncing in his Jolly Jumper and probably wondering why we haven't been playing on the floor much today. The poor kid is quite likely enjoying a serious caffeine buzz; I've been consuming massive amounts of tea in an attempt to make the pain in my head go away, so he's enjoying un-deceive boobie lattes today. At least he's happy.
I won't be difficult to negotiate with on the days off thing, I swear. I don't even need regular days off; I'd probably spend them at home with my family, anyway. I'm even flexible on paid sick days- pay me the same for sick days as for regular work days, pay me nothing- it's all the same to me. No, really, it's the same. Deal? Hello? Well, think about it and get back to me. I'll be brewing a fresh pot of tea if you need me.
But my little employer isn't offering to let me have the day off, and he's just a bit too young to appreciate my situation, anyway. Right now he's happily bouncing in his Jolly Jumper and probably wondering why we haven't been playing on the floor much today. The poor kid is quite likely enjoying a serious caffeine buzz; I've been consuming massive amounts of tea in an attempt to make the pain in my head go away, so he's enjoying un-deceive boobie lattes today. At least he's happy.
I won't be difficult to negotiate with on the days off thing, I swear. I don't even need regular days off; I'd probably spend them at home with my family, anyway. I'm even flexible on paid sick days- pay me the same for sick days as for regular work days, pay me nothing- it's all the same to me. No, really, it's the same. Deal? Hello? Well, think about it and get back to me. I'll be brewing a fresh pot of tea if you need me.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Everybody's Mama
OK, so by now anyone who reads this blog (and most of you know me, anyway) knows that I am mommy to a lovely 7 1/2 month old boy who I love to bits. I realized yesterday, though, that I am actually not only his mommy, but everyone else's mommy as well.
Not everyone in the world, of course. Just in my household. The revelation hit me as I was cleaning the laundry room yesterday. It's not usually a big job, but in this case I was cleaning up after a sick cat had been shut in there for 24 hours. I'll spare you the messy details here; I'll just say that it wasn't pretty. Though I wasn't happy to be doing the job, I felt bad for my poor puss, and I wasn't angry at him for making the mess. I had visions of future nights to be spent sitting up with my own little man when he gets sick, cleaning up his messes and comforting him as best I can. It was later, while holding a sterile baby-food jar under said cat's back end, waiting for a urine sample, that I realized that this goes way beyond having an animal. I have always thought of the cat, Charlie, as sort of a furry roommate, but the truth is, I am a kitty mommy. Is there a support group for that?
And it's not just the cat, folks. I'm dealing with sibling rivalry on a daily basis from a dog who should be almost developmentally mature (please, Lord, let him be almost grown-up!), but who still acts like an 80 lb. baby. He gets attention in any way he can, whether that means lying on the baby's blanket during floor-play time or digging into the garbage while I'm busy feeding the little man. He tries to sit in my lap whenever it's free, which leads to some awkwardness (and occasional bruising).
As for the hubby... well, he doesn't read this blog, but I'm still not going to go into that today. He's not as bad as the rest, but he needs a lot of attention, too, not to mention nutritious lunches and clean clothes. At least he can tell me he appreciates it!
So I guess I'm everybody's mama. And I kind of like it that way. Yes, the dog makes me want to kill him at least four or five times a day, but he does keep the bed warm at night when he cuddles me. And though I'm not particularly fond of inhaling cat-pee fumes, it was pretty rewarding when Charlie climbed up on the sink, put his paws on my shoulders and rubbed his head under my chin- kind of a kitty hug. I'm already getting rewarding smiles from my "real" baby, and I know that while the challenges will get bigger as he grows up, so will the rewards. And the hubby- well, I don't know if he notices everything I do for him, but he tries to return the favour and take care of me when he can, and that's good enough for me... most days!
PS- Charlie has a diary... I know, I'm a big geek. If you want to see him, he's at www.catster.com/?270662
Not everyone in the world, of course. Just in my household. The revelation hit me as I was cleaning the laundry room yesterday. It's not usually a big job, but in this case I was cleaning up after a sick cat had been shut in there for 24 hours. I'll spare you the messy details here; I'll just say that it wasn't pretty. Though I wasn't happy to be doing the job, I felt bad for my poor puss, and I wasn't angry at him for making the mess. I had visions of future nights to be spent sitting up with my own little man when he gets sick, cleaning up his messes and comforting him as best I can. It was later, while holding a sterile baby-food jar under said cat's back end, waiting for a urine sample, that I realized that this goes way beyond having an animal. I have always thought of the cat, Charlie, as sort of a furry roommate, but the truth is, I am a kitty mommy. Is there a support group for that?
And it's not just the cat, folks. I'm dealing with sibling rivalry on a daily basis from a dog who should be almost developmentally mature (please, Lord, let him be almost grown-up!), but who still acts like an 80 lb. baby. He gets attention in any way he can, whether that means lying on the baby's blanket during floor-play time or digging into the garbage while I'm busy feeding the little man. He tries to sit in my lap whenever it's free, which leads to some awkwardness (and occasional bruising).
As for the hubby... well, he doesn't read this blog, but I'm still not going to go into that today. He's not as bad as the rest, but he needs a lot of attention, too, not to mention nutritious lunches and clean clothes. At least he can tell me he appreciates it!
So I guess I'm everybody's mama. And I kind of like it that way. Yes, the dog makes me want to kill him at least four or five times a day, but he does keep the bed warm at night when he cuddles me. And though I'm not particularly fond of inhaling cat-pee fumes, it was pretty rewarding when Charlie climbed up on the sink, put his paws on my shoulders and rubbed his head under my chin- kind of a kitty hug. I'm already getting rewarding smiles from my "real" baby, and I know that while the challenges will get bigger as he grows up, so will the rewards. And the hubby- well, I don't know if he notices everything I do for him, but he tries to return the favour and take care of me when he can, and that's good enough for me... most days!
PS- Charlie has a diary... I know, I'm a big geek. If you want to see him, he's at www.catster.com/?270662
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Conspiracy Theory
Listen carefully. The truth has been revealed to me in a dream. There is a conspiracy, and it concerns every woman of "child-bearing age" (ugh- I hate that term. Like you get your period and suddenly THAT's how you're defined?) and those who shop for them. What you are about to learn will shock and anger you. You have been warned.
Here's how the dream went, as far as I can remember: I'm sitting at a table at an outdoor cafe with my mom and her twin sister, Kathy. Kathy has been complaining about the back pain she has been suffering for years...
Kathy: My doctor told me there's really nothing they can do for me. They can't do surgery or anything... I guess I'll have to get my painkiller prescription refilled on the way home. I don't know what I'm going to do... [rubs her lower back]
Mom: [slamming her fist down on the table, rattling the water glasses and silverware] That's it! This has been going on way too long! I went through the same thing, Kathy, and you need to know that there is a solution to your problem, but it's not one that They are going to tell you about...
At this point in the dream, mom tells us about The Tampon Industry and their Conspiracy. The details are a little fuzzy, but what it boils down to is this: My aunt's back pain, and that of millions of other women, is caused not by a back problem, but by a uterus problem. That's why back surgery will never help the pain, you see. The obvious solution (at least according to dream-logic) is to perform a hysterectomy on women suffering from this ailment, and all will be well. But someone is standing in the way of this solution. That's right: The Tampon Industry.
See, if women are all out getting hysterectomies to cure their back pain, where will that leave the Tampon Industry (or Big Tampon, as it will now be called)? They're making billions off of their over-priced product.
You may have wondered, as I have in waking life, "why do tampons cost so much, anyway?" Two answers: 1) What the hell are we going to do, boycott the product? I think not. 2) The Tampon Tax. In the dream, my mom whips out a pie chart. It looks a lot like the ones you see on gas pumps, the ones that break down a dollar spent on gas- materials, refining costs, profit... and TAX. The big piece of the pie. Yes, the government is in on the conspiracy, people! If women aren't buying tampons, the government isn't getting its tampon tax, and that cannot be allowed to happen.
"Oh, they're all in on it," Mom tells us in a whisper, stashing the pie chart. "Big Tampon, the government, even the doctors. You don't think they're getting paid off to keep the back pain thing a secret? Please. They're making millions off of this little secret they're keeping..."
That's all that I learned in my dream, and no more details came out in the nights that followed. Weird, right? And yet strangely plausible... listen, if I suddenly disappear, you know they came to shut me up.
PS- I'm not crazy. I am fully aware that this was just a dream, and unfortunately, it was a fairly typical one for me. Some day I'll have to tell you the "A Part of our Heritage" dream, with the Chinese immigrants in the hotel room... never mind.
PPS- I am also aware that this has nothing to do with mommyhood. Except for the part about "child bearing age". But really, wasn't this more fun than me whining about teething? I thought so.
Here's how the dream went, as far as I can remember: I'm sitting at a table at an outdoor cafe with my mom and her twin sister, Kathy. Kathy has been complaining about the back pain she has been suffering for years...
Kathy: My doctor told me there's really nothing they can do for me. They can't do surgery or anything... I guess I'll have to get my painkiller prescription refilled on the way home. I don't know what I'm going to do... [rubs her lower back]
Mom: [slamming her fist down on the table, rattling the water glasses and silverware] That's it! This has been going on way too long! I went through the same thing, Kathy, and you need to know that there is a solution to your problem, but it's not one that They are going to tell you about...
At this point in the dream, mom tells us about The Tampon Industry and their Conspiracy. The details are a little fuzzy, but what it boils down to is this: My aunt's back pain, and that of millions of other women, is caused not by a back problem, but by a uterus problem. That's why back surgery will never help the pain, you see. The obvious solution (at least according to dream-logic) is to perform a hysterectomy on women suffering from this ailment, and all will be well. But someone is standing in the way of this solution. That's right: The Tampon Industry.
See, if women are all out getting hysterectomies to cure their back pain, where will that leave the Tampon Industry (or Big Tampon, as it will now be called)? They're making billions off of their over-priced product.
You may have wondered, as I have in waking life, "why do tampons cost so much, anyway?" Two answers: 1) What the hell are we going to do, boycott the product? I think not. 2) The Tampon Tax. In the dream, my mom whips out a pie chart. It looks a lot like the ones you see on gas pumps, the ones that break down a dollar spent on gas- materials, refining costs, profit... and TAX. The big piece of the pie. Yes, the government is in on the conspiracy, people! If women aren't buying tampons, the government isn't getting its tampon tax, and that cannot be allowed to happen.
"Oh, they're all in on it," Mom tells us in a whisper, stashing the pie chart. "Big Tampon, the government, even the doctors. You don't think they're getting paid off to keep the back pain thing a secret? Please. They're making millions off of this little secret they're keeping..."
That's all that I learned in my dream, and no more details came out in the nights that followed. Weird, right? And yet strangely plausible... listen, if I suddenly disappear, you know they came to shut me up.
PS- I'm not crazy. I am fully aware that this was just a dream, and unfortunately, it was a fairly typical one for me. Some day I'll have to tell you the "A Part of our Heritage" dream, with the Chinese immigrants in the hotel room... never mind.
PPS- I am also aware that this has nothing to do with mommyhood. Except for the part about "child bearing age". But really, wasn't this more fun than me whining about teething? I thought so.
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