The Fossils of My Fertility

Those are my abs. Well, they used to be my abs. They're still under there, somewhere. That photo was taken over a year ago.

Do I miss them? Yeah, they were cute. I miss the strength more than the looks. My muscles just give up the moment the sperm hits the egg and I'm left with an weakening core as pregnancy progresses. My baby was born in August and I am still very weak in the core, which isn't cool because I typically do a lot of walking and I find myself having a harder time due to the muscle weakness there and the lingering effects of the SPD I had during pregnancy. I had a few issues - SPD and high blood pressure - that kept me from keeping as fit as I would have wanted during my pregnancy. I do want to re-build that strength, again. I work as a veterinary technician and you definitely need strength when it comes to restraining animals. I haven't done much in the way of actual exercise since giving birth, but that will change soon.

This isn't just about those glorious abs. It's about skin. It's about loving that integumentary glove that I'm in. There are days when I look at myself in the mirror and my heart nearly sinks. I'm still wearing maternity jeans (the Heidi Klum super skinny jeans from Motherhood - they look like "real" jeans as they don't have a panel). I have a pretty good pooch hanging over the waistband of my jeans. I still look pregnant. Sigh. It does get to me from time to time, I won't lie. The other reason it gets to me is that I want to fit into my old clothes. Not just for superficial reasons, but financial. I really don't want to have to buy new clothes to fit my body this winter. Most of my pre-preggo sweaters and winter clothes can't handle the pooch. And I only have one single pair of jeans that fit. They get washed a lot. Back to the skin. There are plenty o' stretch marks there. It's like my son took a maroon crayon and just scribbled on my belly. My belly kinda looks like my living room walls. I got them when I was pregnant with my son. I probably would have gotten them with my second pregnancy, but miscarrying at 8 weeks means I didn't have a chance. I got them with this last pregnancy. They all crept up, like little glistening worms crawling out of the ground after a rainstorm. I never did anything to "prevent" them. I'm not sure you really can prevent them. I did moisturize my belly with coconut oil (not cocoa butter) simply because it's damn good for your skin.



I remember seeing my first stretch marks when I was pregnant with my son back in 2006. They appeared in the very last weeks of my pregnancy, along with the PUPPS rash. My first thought was, "boo-hoo, I thought I could escape them." I was sad for a moment, but I quickly got over it. I couldn't understand why I had a minor mental fuss about them. Then I realized it's because everyone makes a major fuss about them. Think about it - it's seen as some sort of badge of honor not to get stretch marks. You get high fives from fellow smooth and unmarked-skinned mothers. You earn the right to expose your bump in public without fear of scaring small children with those shiny red tummy tire tracks. Heck, you could even be a bump model. See, I would have been voted off of America's Next Top Bump Model because my my stretch marks. Just like birthing quietly and without pain, you get extra cred for having your abdomen expand to extraordinary lengths without a single bit of crime scene evidence left on your skin.

I get it. They're not the most attractive things in the world. It can be a little startling to see all those red lines scribbled across your belly. I understand that most women in this world country have issues about their bodies and appearances. I get that. It's just that these little lines are reminders that we've done something awesome. Heck, these stretch marks aren't my first. I got them on my boobs and my hips after puberty - a reminder that I was growing, curving in all those Goddess places and becoming a woman. The new marks from my pregnancy remind me of the awesomeness that is a woman's body doing the most remarkable thing in the world.

There will be a day in the future where my boobs are less full and my abs are back to their usual firm state. The dark red lines will have faded to a whisper. My body will look like it did, for the most part, before I had children. I'll have my stretch marks forever, like fossils on stone, that remind me of my fertility and the fact that my body grew, carried and nourished little lives. So when I look at myself in the mirror now, I'll have to remind myself not to roll my eyes at the muffin-top under my ill-fitting sweater. I'll remember my skin and Mother Nature's tattooed reminders of the miracle of life.

Evil, Thy Name is Seamus.

The toilet paper (which I got on super sale, with a coupon, at CVS): shredded.

My curtains: poked with holes.

Litter Box: dumped onto carpet.

Delicately placed seasonal decor: knocked over.

My favorite sweater: unraveled.

The laundry basket: spilled.

Fresh flowers in a vase: chewed.

My chicken sandwich: stolen.

My peaceful slumber: disturbed by yowling, meowing and wrestling.

You must be thinking, "girl, you've got kids." Sure do. That's not my problem. I have cats. Five of them. Five fearless felines. All of them are naughty, but one takes the cake. His name is Seamus. He's orange with some white accents, freckles and stripes. He's a year old and apparently trying out for the feline Olympics.

This past Summer we had the windows open quite a bit. The neighbors outside could occasionally hear the goings on inside. Because I'm loud. They assumed, based on what they heard, that my son's name was Seamus. They would say, "Hi, Seamus." My son would give them his best WTF look and ask them why the heck they called him "Seamus." The answer? "Well, we always hear your mom yelling, "Seamus! No!" or "Seamus, knock it off!" or "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Seamus, you'll be lucky to live another day." Yeah. Not an hour goes by without Seamus getting yelled at. Poor neighbors probably thought I was a nutcase. They probably think I'm even a bigger nutcase now that they know that was all directed at a cat.

Seamus came to me when he was a few weeks old. I had just punched out at work and walked up to the front desk to grab a piece of candy before leaving when a client brought him into the clinic after seeing him get hit by a car. He lived, she grabbed him and wrapped him in a towel. He was just a sweet little puff of orange with a bit of a road rash. We originally thought his leg was broken. We took radiographs of his whole kitten body - all 1.5 lbs of it - and found that his leg was not broken. Yay. Instead, his stomach and intestines were crammed through his diaphragm and into his chest cavity. Boo. A Diaphragmatic hernia. The lady who brought him in couldn't keep him and couldn't afford a donation to save him. The decision was made to get him a first class ticket to kitten heaven. Sigh. We know we can't save them all, no matter how heartbreaking the case. But there was something about this little bastard kitten that really got to me. It got to a co-worker, too. Before I left she was already talking about saving him. He'd need surgery to push his little intestines back where they belong and to repair his diaphragm. It can be pretty risky, especially for a tiny kitten. She talked one of the doctors into doing it. Long story (and some drama) short...we'd have the surgery done and I'd bring him home to live with us after he had recovered. His surgery was slated for the next day - all he had to do was hang on until then. His breathing got worse overnight. My friend/co-worker stayed up with him all night, keeping an eye on him and letting him sleep in her bra (it's a vet tech thing). The little bastard guy stayed strong through the night despite his difficulty breathing. The next day came and he had his surgery. I wasn't present. They called me to say he was getting started so I got ready and rushed over. By the time I got there, the surgery was done. The vet is that awesome. Seamus was recovering inside my friend's bra (seriously - it's a clinical thing - it's one of the best ways to keep the babies warm). He did well throughout the rest of the day and never looked back.

My friend kept him for a couple of weeks because I didn't want a newly sliced-open kitten in a house with a little kid and 4 other cats. I wanted him to be able to recover peacefully. The day came for him to come home and gave the pep talk that my 1st and oldest cat, Duncan, has heard many times before: "I'm bringing home a new kitten. It doesn't mean I love you any less. Mommy's heart is big and has room for all of you. I want you all to welcome him and get along." What? They're my kids, too.

That tiny, shy little kitten arrived home and took his time to bravely walk out of the carrier. He timidly checked out the room. I fed him a little and then he hid under my furniture for the rest of the day. I let him be. I've been through this many times before and I'm one of those people who will drop a new cat in the middle of the room and let them figure things out. Usually, after a day or two, everyone learns their place and there is peace in our feline kingdom. He was still hiding when I went to bed. I was so excited.

The next day, Seamus found his balls. And his personality. And his spunk. And his need to get into every little thing. He was a wild little boy, bouncing on the furniture, zig-zagging across the living room and dive-bombing any cat that crossed his path. My two girls, Amber and Amelia and one of my boys, Duncan, kept their distance. Gawain, my giant black and white boy, is just a fat lump of love who will tolerate anything, including the tiny kitten who was bouncing on his back. He'd indulge him by playing with him, letting him attack his tail or just plain snuggling him.

Seamus is Dennis the Menace in feline form. If there is trouble to be had then Seamus will have his fill. Something to get into? Seamus will be there. Humans to sabotage? Seamus is on it! Food to steal? There's Seamus. With my other cats, I never experienced walking into my bathroom to find a feline hanging upside down from the shower curtain rod. None of them would ever acknowledge human food. Seamus is like a starved dog. He begs like a dog. He steals like a raccoon. My other cats get yelled at now and then, but Seamus makes me seem like I'm auditioning for "Mommy Dearest." All of my cats know their names and will usually come when called. Seamus knows the word, "NO!" and knows it means his little butt better run. He has this attitude where he knows he survived taking on a 1 ton vehicle when he wasn't even two pounds and can, therefore, survive anything. He has swagger. Chicks dig him.

He tests my patience and my compassion for animals...And just as I'm about to lose it, he stops, looks at me with his big eyes and purrs. Heartmelt. Ever see Puss in Boots from "Shrek?" That's Seamus all the way. Just when I reach my boiling point with him, I'll look at those eyes and remember the brave little bastard kitten who had everything against him and wasn't expected to live. And I let him live another day.

Change Your Attitude With Gratitude

If you hang around on Facebook, you may have noticed that people are suddenly posting about being thankful. It started a few years ago as 30 days of Gratitude in November, or some variation of that title. Folks would post one bit of gratitude each day for the month of November. It can be something profound like saying your thankful that someone saved your life by lifting your car off a cliff. Or, it can be simple - I'm thankful that toilet paper is on sale at CVS. That's actually something I'd be thankful for, just ask my husband. He will tell you how giddy I get to find out that thr 12 pack of the CVS brand Earth Essentials toilet paper is on sale for $5 bucks. It's the little things.

The idea of naming what makes you grateful isn't knew. People have been doing it forever. Some people keep gratitude journals, an idea that gained super popularity from Oprah. Others list things on Facebook or on their blog. We're all grateful for something everyday, even if it's something as mundane as a toilet paper sale. Giving a voice to it and not holding it in your mind is very power. Many argue that sharing what you're grateful for - whether it's in a journal, on social media or being shouted across a room - brings a lot of positive energy right back to you. You give good so you get good. It's another form of Karma.

Whether you want to do it to keep positive energy or just to share the good things in your life, try to list something that you are grateful for each day. It will always add a bright spot to that moment in your day and you may find that you end up inspiring others.

Me? I'm grateful that I have at least 19 readers as I write this. It may not be much, but someone is "hearing" me and I might make some small difference somewhere.

It Hurt. I Screamed. I'm Still Legit.

Walking while in labor. Pre-screaming.

Ok, I might piss some people off with this. There is something in the natural birth community that annoys the heck out of me sometimes. I need to vent a little.

It's pain and the attitude towards it.

You see, in the natural birth world, there are many who believe that a natural birth should not be painful. It shouldn't hurt. You should only feel an intensity that is almost a relief. Something you work with. Furthermore, everything should be gentle. You should birth your baby in near silence with a serene smile on your face. Bonus points for popping an orgasm while you're at it. Pain and/or screaming is a sign that the woman is not prepared for her birth and that she is afraid. It's a sign that she has let fear take over the labor. Screaming will make the pain worse. Screaming will scare your baby and scare that precious child for life.

I call bullshit.

Now, I am not knocking how anyone else gives birth. Please know that this is not an attack on anyone who was smiling serenely or having an orgasm. I completely support a woman's right to educate herself and empower herself to have the birth of her dreams. I'm totally behind those who want to use hypnosis, orgasmic births or other techniques to help them through the process of labor and birth. What I'm knocking is the holier-than-thou attitude that can be seen in many discussions of pain in labor and birth. This idea that if you're feeling pain then you're doing it wrong.

I'm serious - those words have been typed out by some of my fellow hippie, loving, gentle natural birth comrades. You are doing it wrong if it hurts. You are too afraid. You don't know how to give into the intense sensations of labor and let your body take over. It's only painful because you are calling it, "pain." It's only painful if you don't know how to cope and if you let it "get to you." It's painful because you are not educated enough and you don't know what to expect. If you don't imagine that your vagina is a beautiful lotus flower slowly unfolding, petal by petal, then it's going to hurt. The worst I've seen is some women telling other women that normal births are not painful.

It makes me want to bang my head on my desk when I read these things - but, that would hurt. It's true that your emotional state plays a part in your labor. It is most certainly true that fear can hinder labor. And I definitely advocate for women to be educated about the birth process, partly to eliminate that fear. But having pain and even experiencing fear do not equal failure. It's not an all or nothing scenario. Birth is not black and white.

I gave birth three times. Twice to live, full term babies and once during my miscarriage @ 12 weeks (baby died at 8 weeks and, yes, that was "real" full-blown labor). Guess what? It hurt. No, it really fucking hurt. I screamed. All three times. I screamed.

My first birth was in a hospital. It was a last minute transfer. I did not have a single medical issue that needed a hospital. I was supposed to give birth in a birth center, but the head midwife closed it down that weekend because she had a horsie show to attend and didn't want her sleep interrupted. The other midwife was not able, per birth center policy (and the law, I believe) to attend my birth at the birth center on her own. So, I had to have my birth at the hospital with her. In all, it was 27 hour labor with a posterior little boy. I spent 8 hours of that labor in the hospital. My labor was fine and manageable at home. I got to the hospital and let her check me - 4 cms. Things began picking up and my contractions became more intense. They were - gasp - painful. They remained painful for the rest of my labor, until that little guy slid out (more like rocketed out) into the world. I was able to deal with the pain through position changes, a little dip in the birth pool, walking and saying "fuck" as many times as possible. I dealt with the pain. the pain had a purpose. I don't remember the actual sensations of pain, but there was pain. Pain was part of it. I screamed while pushing. Like I was being murdered. I pushed for about 45 minutes. Looking back on it, I wondered if my pain was caused by the fact that I was in the hospital. I was upset that I wasn't having the birth center birth that I had planned for nearly half my life. That could have been part of a lot of things. That may have made the pain worse. Would I still have had pain at the birth center? Would I scream at a birth center?

My second labor was to birth my angel baby, River. River died at 8 weeks, but the physical miscarriage didn't happen until 12 weeks. I had chosen to allow it to happen naturally as opposed to getting a D and E. My midwife told me to expect "real labor." It was her experience that miscarriages after 8 weeks were more likely to feel exactly like any other labor. I was prepared for that. I tried so hard to manage that labor - all 6 hours of regular contractions and actual transition - as gently as possible. Once I knew it was really happening, I got into the tub and prayed (the "Hail Mary" is my go-to labor mantra, until transition when Mary is replaced with "fuck"). It hurt like a mother fucker. Of course, I was birthing death. In a few hours, the last of my physical connection to this little baby that I had bonded with in 8 weeks would be gone. There was emotional torment like you wouldn't believe. Of course that contributed to physical pain. I later wondered, would it have been painful if I was giving birth to a live baby at home?

My third labor was just two months ago. This time, I had a homebirth attended by two midwives, one of whom is a best friend and the midwife who delivered my son. I had been telling myself for my whole pregnancy that I was going to have a pain-free, 5 hour labor with one painless push. Positive thinking, you know? I had no fears about labor. I even studied some hypnosis techniques. My labor was about 17 hours from the time my water broke until the time my daughter was born. I slept during the early part of that labor. My midwife/friend came over late in the morning and we hung out while I contracted. My contractions were definitely manageable with movement, especially belly dance. I walked, I prayed, I cursed, I ate, I took showers, I pooped. I moaned beautifully like a humpback whale in heat. All the fun stuff. There was pain and I worked through it. Then transition hit and OMG it hurt like a mo-fo. Transition is the point where I'm almost certain I will die unless I get an epidural. So I ask for an epidural. I have done this through all three labors. It feels good to me to ask for that epidural. Before the birth of my first son, I was told that the moment where I feel like I can't do it anymore and that I need an epi is when it's almost over. So, feeling like I needed that told me that I was close to the end and I embraced it. But, it still hurt like a mother and I began my usual screaming. From transition to pushing was barely an hour. I began to whine. My other midwife arrived at that point. I whined to both midwives that I was "supposed" to be that woman you see in all the natural birth videos who just smiles through labor and doesn't feel pain. I said that over and over until both midwives said, "Jenn, that's bullshit. You're doing great and this is almost over." I pushed for about 15 minutes. And screamed. I screamed that I was going to die. That I gave up. I screamed that I just knew she was going to get stuck. I screamed because pushing that baby - all 6lbs 8 ounces of her - hurt so freakin' bad. The dialogue inside my head was slightly crazy. I'm going to die. I'm not going to die. This hurts like hell. She'll be here any minute and it'll be over and you'll forget the pain. She's stuck. Oh my God, the ambulance will have to come and take me to the hospital. They'll take me out of the house on a gurney with her head halfway out and all my neighbors will see my vagina and that I missed a spot shaving and...oh God, she's going to be stuck. I'm going to die. Oh my...and she's here. That was the actual dialogue inside my head while I was screaming. And then my daughter was here and all that pain was worth it. My placenta - the part I dreaded because I remember it hurting when I gave birth to my son - slipped out 5 minutes later without so much as a single second of discomfort. Well, there was the painless birth, I guess.

My question had been answered. I gave birth at home. No hospital. My baby was full term and alive. No sadness. I was educated and empowered. It still hurt. It may just be me. That might be what I need to get motivated to push a baby out of my vagina. It's part of my physiological make-up. I experience pain in labor. It doesn't stop me from birthing naturally. Yet, I had a little nag inside my head. One one hand, I was proud of myself for having the homebirth I had desired for so long and for rocking it. I was proud of the sweet little girl nestled up to my breast. I was an awesome birthin' mama. On the other hand, I wondered why I screamed. I went into this with the specific intention of not screaming like I did with my other labor. Why did I scream? Then I felt like I failed. I felt a sense of failure for allowing myself to feel pain, for not being able to get into some peaceful, serene or hypnotic state. I felt like I failed myself and my baby for screaming. Then I worried that I scarred her because the last things she heard while in my womb were, "fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuccccckkkkk!" and my pain-induced bellowing. Within days after her birth, I actually googled to see if other natural-birthin' mamas were screamers. I came across a blog entitled "Judging Birth." I'll let you read that, and the following comments, without expanding on it too much. In essence, she says we need to stop judging how we labor and that not all of us are quiet birthers. It made me feel better to read that blog and then the comments. And then it made me mad. Why was I seeking "acceptance" for my birth behavior? Why did I feel the need to justify why I felt pain and why I screamed? I was mad that I allowed myself to feel like some sort of failure. Yet, to read many of these blog posts, comments, discussions on facebook, you will feel like a failure if you admit to feeling pain or having the slightest fraction of fear during your birth. We need to stop this.

I find it funny that the natural birth community can actually have these discussions. Aren't we the ones telling women to empower themselves to have the birth experience that's right for them? Aren't we the ones fighting to make sure women feel supported with their births? Aren't we the ones who admonish the OB who tells a woman to "hush" if she is too loud in labor? Aren't we the ones who yammer on and on and on about how birth is a normal, biological and very primal event? So why are we judging women who are, in fact, acting very primal? Why judge someone who feels pain? It's upsetting to me. We talk all about empowerment, but then we rip each other apart if our birth wasn't the right kind of natural. It's the granola wars, man. We're not helping anyone. We have mamas who are going to have natural births and feel pain and want to scream. They'll feel good because they gave birth naturally. Then they come online and read these comments that if they felt pain then something was wrong with the way they gave birth. Or you have the mamas who are pregnant and reading all of this before labor. So they hype themselves up into thinking they must have a completely painless labor. When it doesn't go that way, they feel like they failed. Those of us who feel the pain and scream it out fail Birth 101? Bullshit. This is no different than women feeling like failures because they ended up getting induced, getting epidurals and having c-sections. Only this time, we don't have an OB or evil hospital to blame. This time it's the woman's fault for allowing her psyche to take over.

Again, I have no problem with wanting a painless birth. I don't doubt that there are women who give birth without pain. I've seen it. I've seen women birth without making a peep because it wasn't hurting them. That's awesome, but those same women should never turn around and tell another woman that she failed because she felt pain...that it wasn't normal because she felt pain...that she wasn't educated enough to be pain-free. I'm very educated when it comes to birth and have been for a very long time - way before my first child was born. I grew up with a mother who worked in maternity and told me that birth is just plain old normal and natural. I know birth isn't something to passionately fear. I know all the biological, chemical, emotional and mechanical processes that are part of birth. I know what they say about high-pitched birth noises vs. low-pitched noises and I understand why that works. But, I also know that fear is a normal response. No, you shouldn't be in absolute horrified fear, but you shouldn't feel like you're doing something wrong if a moment of anxiety happens. You can't tell me that I wasn't educated or empowered. You can't tell me that I was a fraidy-cat. It's not true. Yet.I.Still.Felt.Pain. I still had moments of fear. In fact, those moments of fear may play an important role towards the end of labor. Check out this article by Michael Odent.

"A typical fetus ejection reflex is easy to recognize. It can be preceded by a sudden and transitory fear expressed in an irrational way ( “kill me”, “let me die”, etc.). In such a situation the worst attitude would be to reassure with words(5). This short and transitory expression of fear can be interpreted as a good sign of a spectacular increase of hormonal release, including adrenaline. It should be immediately followed by a series of irresistible contractions."

If you can birth with nary a fearful thought or moment of ouch then you go girl. If you start feeling the pain and you lose your rational brain toward the end then embrace it, work with it and know that your sweet little baby is so, so close. Don't feel like a failure if you didn't hypnotize as planned. Don't put yourself down for crying and telling everyone that you can't do it because you're going to die. You didn't fail. We all experience birth and pain differently and no one is better than the other because she did or didn't feel a certain way.

On another note, there is a lot of criticism of the natural birth community. There are blogs dedicated to trashing us or trying to debunk us. There are trolls who visit our blogs and facebook pages to stir up trouble and controversy. A lot of people see us as crazed hippies. They don't see that we're striving for better outcomes for mothers, babies and families. They don't see us for the good work that we're trying to do - for wanting to change such a failed maternity system. They see us as judgmental and insane. It doesn't do us any good to judge one another on this subject. It doesn't help get our message across. It just feeds the criticism and turns people off to the message.

Judging is for crappy reality shows, not childbirth.

Peace and much love.

Suffering shouldn't be silent

This article was just shared with me:

http://www.babble.com/pregnancy/my-pregnancy/coping-with-miscarriage-pregnancy-secret/

It's all about women feeling like they have to suffer in silence after we have a miscarriage because society is too afraid of the subject. It's something we need to change. NOW.

Gratitude is About More Than Turkey

Thanksgiving week is upon us. Time for stuffing our faces with...well...stuffing, turkey, veggies of all sorts and an endless assortment of pies and pastries. Of course we're thankful for the opportunity to gorge ourselves, right? Of course we're thankful for the ability to gather with our families on this holiday. There are so many out there who don't get the same perks and we must not forget them. There are some other things to be thankful for besides the local high school football game, food galore and the anticipation of your Black Friday assault. We forget that there are people out there who serve us and who don't get the luxury of always staying at home on Turkey Day or perusing Black Friday ads for the best deals. Their professions involve situations that don't care if some European folk hit a rock onto the East Coast and supposedly had some corn fritters with the Indigenous peoples. So...let's give them some love.

Midwives - don't forget these women who will be on-call throughout the holiday season in order to bring babies into this world. Babies don't care about turkey or sales. Countless midwives will be paged/called just as they are about to stuff that turkey or sit down at the table. They'll grab their supplies and head to the house, birth center or hospital where they are called to deliver a baby.

Doulas - they will be on call, too. Cellphones will ring with calls from mothers/families needing labor support right now. Rather than hold drumsticks, they will be holding a mother during her birth sway or holding a hand as she bears down.

Obstetricians - sure, a good many of them already induced their patients early in the week or scheduled non-emergent c-sections in order to avoid having their feasts interupted. Yet, babies still come on their own schedule and many OBs, regular doctors and anesthesiologists will be called into work.

Nurses - on the maternity floor, in the ER, at a desk in the CRICU...many nurses are required to work this holiday as illness, birth and death don't take a break. Placing IVs, running EKGs and ridding a drunk homeless man of fleas...

Veterinary Technicians - what? You still think all we do is cuddle puppies and clean cages? We're working this holiday season, too. Just like human medicine, the veterinary medical world doesn't stop for turkey. In fact, it gets worse because of it. Many of us will already be at the hospital that day because IV pumps need monitoring, blood will need transfusing, c-sections will be happening and someone will need to administer treatments to a variety of the non-human folk. Some of will be called in to help with emergencies like the dog who began vomiting blood after eating half a turkey carcass that afternoon. Or for the cat who got a piece of wishbone lodged in his esophagus. Pancreatitis is THE WORD of the Thanksgiving weekend as many of us in the veterinary field will work extra hours pouring over lipase and amylase results, placing feeding tubes, monitoring vomiting and diarrhea and thinking healthy pancreas thoughts. Some of us will be monitoring anesthesia and passing instruments as our veterinarians dig turkey tibias from terriers.

Veterinarians - will awake from that tryptophan slumber as their cellphone goes off with a call about a labrador who may or may not have drank a gallon of gravy with a side of eggnog. They be in the clinic ordering radiographs, bloodwork and reviving someone's precious pet. They'll be out in the field treating a farmer's cow who wandered off and came back with a furiously bleeding wound. They will be in someone's barn inserting a naso-gastric tube in order to reflux the stomach contents of a horse whose intestines decided to twist.

Lactation Consultants - babies need to eat, too. Even on Thanksgiving. Many of us will take calls from frantic mothers who can't get the baby to latch because he is too overwhelmed with the 50 new people who invaded his home that day. They will guide new moms who are worried about a decrease in supply because they were up since 3am fixing that damn turkey and baking those damn pies, not taking the time out for themselves to eat or drink enough water. Troubleshooting latches, supply issues, nursing strikes, SNS systems, letdowns galore and more requires someone 24/7/365.

Kennnel Attendants - well, you did have to drop off Fluffy and Scratch because you are visiting your beloved Mother-in-Law for the next 4 days. Who do you think will be there to walk them 6 times a day, feed them, give them medicine, change the litter box, pet them and love them? They won't be visiting family in a far off place that weekend because they will be taking care of your fur family.

Home Health Aides/Hospice Care Workers/Certified Nurse's Aides - hey. Grandma has the dementia. She doesn't even know it's Thanksgiving. We'll stop by the home in the morning for a quick visit to alleviate our guilt before joining the rest of the family for a feast at Aunt Jane's house. Besides, the home serves up a lovely mashed combo of strained turkey 'n' gravey, watered down mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, a side of "pumpkin-flavored dessert" and a healthy dose of 18 medications. The Aides will take care of giving her a sponge bath in bed, checking for bed sores, putting on a new adult diaper, dressing her, brushing her teeth and hair, change the already soiled diaper and wipe her butt with dignity, change her clothes again, slide her out of bed into her wheelchair and get her to the table for some grub and conversation. It's all good.

Priests/Pastors/Nuns/Rabbis/Priestesses/Religious Folk - you may need an emergency confession session at St. Joey the Carpenter's RCC because you may have intentionally beat your stepbrother with a drumstick after he ate the last stuffing ball. There's a priest for that. The dying don't keep calendars and some families need the comfort of a spiritual leader at the time of death, even on Thanksgiving. Last Rites don't wait until after Father McIrishskinelli has finished his mashed sweet potatoes.

Retail Workers - for some reason Americans have decided that they cannot bear the thought of all the stores being closed for one day. So, many retail stores have decided to open their doors just so you can buy a new labelmaker or Shake Weight. Millions of hardworking Americans will spend their day at their job assisting customers with carry outs, ringing them up at the cash registers and listening to them bitch that the OTHER store offers a 15% discount on all Thanksgiving Day pruchases and that you NEED to accept their expired coupons. Then, these workers will go home, jam some fowl leftovers down their throat and hit the hay early. No, not because they plan to rise early to take advantage of sales. Because their boss said all personnel MUST report to work at 2am in anticipation of greeting loud, rude and sweaty customers who will line up at 2:30 am so they can be first in the store to buy a new Wii just because it's fucking red or get a Dyson vacuum that they don't need but it's 12% off and they have a coupon for a $5.00 giftcard with purchase. And, no, just because they came in at 2am doesn't mean they get to leave by 10am. No. They are "allowed" to work overtime that day...many pulling in 12 to 18 hours during the Black Friday madness with a lunch break that was (illegally, but big boss just DARES you to report it) cut back to 1/2 hour. All to watch people squash each other in line and fight over who gets the last Deported from Arizona Dora the Explorer doll.

Rescue Workers - Cops, firefighters and paramedics are patrolling and on the ready for fights that break out between family members because your father-in-law thought it was funny to tell your sister that she needs to back off the cranberry sauce since her ass is getting wider by the minute. They will be there for Uncle Larry who downed 7 pieces of pumpkin pie before you can say, "green bean casserole," and then mistakes his resulting indigestion for a heart attack. Or to pull over the jackass who thought it was just fine to drive after drinking 14 glasses of Aunt Mary's "special" spiced eggnog. And to put out the fire that engulfs half of the patio furniture after your cousin Eddie learns that perhaps the turkey fryer wasn't the best idea.

Mom. Grandma. Aunt Bee. Uncle Floyd. Cousin Janet. Your friend, Georgia. Your husband. Your wife. Your daughter. Your son-in-law - somebody was at the helm early in the morning thawing out that "motherfucking turkey that they put in the fridge 10 days ago to thaw and they swore it was fucking thawed out yesterday" turkey, cranning the berries, pie-ing the pumkpin, snapping the peas, beaning the casserole, mashing the damn potatoes that over-boiled, candying the yams, baking the fucking cookies that burned because I just went upstairs for 10 seconds to pee and downing most of the cooking wine. After spending the last 7 hours slaving over a stove so you can stuff your mug they either pass out at the table or don't even feel like eating. Give them some love.

The Turkey - he's just chillin', killin' and practicing his gobble when BAM, next thing he knows he's on the other side watching you and your family slice his cooked body with a black and decker electric knife. Give him (or her) respect for that sacrifice. All life is sacred.

Members of our Armed Forces - Air Force, Army, Marines, Navy, National Guard - all have service men and women, gay and straight or both, of all colors and backgrounds who are missing their families....waiting on a care package, hoping the 6ABC camera man will notice them so they can send a video greeting back home, sitting in a tent with sand blowing in their faces while keeping an eye out for any suspicious activity. And keeping your American ass safe so that you can enjoy your American right to the freedom to eat your turkey 'n' trimmings and go shopping.


So let's not forget. Let's respect. I know I missed a lot of professions, but this was just a sample. Much love.

A helping hand for broken hearts

I recently came across a very important website. There is an organization called The Amethyst Network. They provide doula care to women experiencing miscarriage.

A miscarriage is a devastating time for a woman and her family. Often, we feel very alone. Since most miscarriages are just like "regular" labor, it makes sense to have a person who is trained in labor support and who, in this case, has experience with pregnancy and baby loss. The organization also advocates on behalf of family who have experienced pregnancy and baby loss. They plan to work with care providers across the country in order to get this support into the hands of families dealing with this devastation.

What an amazing group. They are new still, but growing very quickly. I urge all of my 8 followers to get the word out, donate and/or help where you can.


The Amethyst Network