Category: Blogolicious

The new Matrix movie will be out next week. I’m excited about it, and it makes me think of childbirth.

I was 28 when the movie came out. I was also fully pregnant. Aside from developing a moderate addiction to KFC and increased trips to the bathroom at the bank I worked at, my pregnancy with Daniel was easy peasy.

It was nineteen hundred and ninety nine. We could have found out the gender with systems more advanced than the whole “holding a ring on string above your belly” thing. But we chose not to. There’s so few genuine “where did that come from?” surprises left in life that I wanted to capitalize on this one. When my baby “turned on me” in the last 2 weeks of my pregnancy, I automatically assumed it was a girl. You know how passive aggressive girls can be (bwha ha).

At one of those weekly ob-gyn appointments, Dr. Desoto popped his head up from,…near the stirrups… and told me to get dressed and meet him in his office. Creepy.

“Your baby has turned breech. Do you know what that means?”

“Yea. Feet first.” Duh. I’d paid attention in class and read roughly a million books. C’mon Doc.

“Yes. But what it also means is c-section.”

I felt kind of dumb. Maybe I should have brought a handler to prevent me from missing such basic cues.

He asked me what day I wanted to have my baby born. I oddly did not want to pick a birthdate so I asked, “What day is good for you?” I also low-key didn’t want to chose a day that maybe accidentally got in the way of golf or something. Then maybe he’d be cranky as he cutting me open.

A couple days later, my parents, my in-laws, and my grandpa all showed up to see me waddle down to the hospital hall.

The nurse told me, “Your anesthisologist can’t hear well. Speak loudly if something seems wrong.” Da fuq?!

Brian was able to go in to surgery with me. It seems like there’s testing to see what kind of trainwreck you’ll be about your bride being cut open before they decide how much you get to see.

After a few moments, he was allowed to stand up and watch the entire thing. His head kept going back and froth between both sides of the vision-blocking sheet, “Are you sure you can’t feel that?!” I was sure. I was dead from the neck down. “You’re sure?! How can you not feel that?!” The marvels of modern medicine, that’s how.

His version of the story is quite more graphic. With elements like a crank that holds your body open, my guts out, and doctors having to push on my chest because the baby kept squirming away from their grasp. Meanwhile, I’m just a head laying there. “Hey guys, what’s going on?”

“It’s a boy. It’s definitely a boy.”  

Oohs, ahhs, and excitement ensued. The little human I grew was placed next to my head for me to see and have pictures with. Obviously, he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. But then he had to go do new baby things and I had to be put back together.

And this is where the Matrix ties in.

Turns out, what was a life altering experience for me was what the doctors called a Wednesday. I’m laying there, mind spinning, sad that I can’t be with Daniel. Meanwhile, they’re having watercooler chat.

“I watched the Matrix last night.”

“How was it?
“It was really interesting.”

Stich, stich, staple, staple. More movie chat. “Do they know I can hear them?”

I didn’t watch the Matrix immediately. I was very pleasantly busy with the world’s most perfect baby.

But when I did rent it later (probably as a VHS), it blew my mind. Obviously, I wanted to be bad ass like Trinity. But what stuck with me more was that silly moment when Neo can suddenly see through all the fake and see the “code” that runs the world he lives in. That is a superpower I’d love to have. Maybe it’s because all the social working, but the ability to really know what’s going on and be able to impact it sounds perfect.

This new Matrix movie could suck. I hope it doesn’t. I hope that it’s also inspires thought and conversation. Maybe even conversation over a lucky mom who’s also just had the world’s most perfect baby.

Thanks for reading!

“Is it too late now to say sorry?” I’m sure everyone who reads this is a hardcore Justin Bieber fan and recognizes that lyric. But there’s maybe some words here for the non Bel-iebers too.

Sorry is a word that’s intended to encompass a lot of power. It’s a recognition of wrong-doing, and a declaration of intent to change. I don’t know if it was the interweb, grad school, or a church billboard where I saw this; “the best apology is a changed behavior.” The way I read that was, “don’t say you’re sorry for the thing, behave in a way that is the opposite of the thing.”

For whatever reason, we live in a time when words mean more than action. Some celebrity or public figure will do some thing today that folks think is worthy of public apology. They’ll talk to their “public apology” consultant and craft the proper statement to express their responsibility for their error, and efforts to make amends.

Por ejemplo; the other day I accidentally clicked on a “news” button on Facebook. An “article” was front and center about Jennifer Love Hewitt’s heartfelt apology that because she’d been using an emoji wrong. I don’t know who she is. I don’t care. And I care even less about her use of emojis. Nevertheless, here we be still.

“But she’s just a caring celebrity who wants to make sure she’s not offensive. How dare you?!”

Maybe. So I tried to do a random search of public figures and the words “public apology.” I’m lazy when it comes to research for my blog, but I can tell you that Leonardo DiCaprio and Carlos Santana have google-able public apologies. What I can’t tell you, is how I landed on those two to search.

I think the over use of “sorry” and public apologies is a symptom of our current time when we’re operating as though everyone needs think and feel the same way. There was a time when differing opinions were accepted as just that.

If you don’t believe me, think back to the controversy when Marie Osmond was a little bit country and her brother, Donnie, was a little bit rock and roll. (bwah ha). They used diversity to their advantage. Donnie didn’t get offended that she wasn’t a little bit rock and roll, and Marie didn’t need him to apologize. It’s an oversimplification obviously, but we need diversity to make progress.

I haven’t been wronged and am waiting for an apology that is a changed behavior. And I’m not looking to get out of apologizing for anything of my own. I’m just observing that the act of apologizing has become something other than I feel it should.

Also por ejemplo; there I was,…fueling my very brakey car at the gas station. Clearly, in between fueling my car and driving away; I’d seen something shiny. I thought I heard someone call out. I opened my door and looked back to see I’d left the fuel door open. Some helpful woman had noticed it and perhaps wanted me to be spared some embarrassment. I thanked her, and she called back,…. “Sorry!”

Why? I was a dork and left my fuel door open, and she was apologizing to me. Weird.

In the midst of all this social pressure to apologize, folks have wound up saying sorry for things they don’t need to. Please don’t feel like you need to apologize just for the sake of it. And if you do, know that I may force you to listen to the Biebs “Sorry” song.

Thanks for reading!

Dirty had a real life adult activity the other night. I offered to make pack him some homemade energy bites and orange slices because:

1. It’s way past time for me to cut some apron strings, but one of us (me) seems to having trouble with that
2. I thought it would be funny (that’s how I make a lot of decisions. I do not advise this method)
3. Once a sports/activity parent, always a sports parent

Dirty flatly declined the orange slices. I’m unsure if his performance suffered as a result. If so, that’s on him.

But a couple days later I had an opportunity to recall sports mom life. A buddy co-worker’s kid was playing baseball and I invited myself along. It’s a public place. What’s she gonna do about it?!

The adventure was fun. I got home close to 8 pm and had this smacking moment of “how in the hell do sports parents pull it all off?” I called out Brian and Dirty, “Can you believe that we did all that we did when the kids were little?”

Both boys played baseball from the time they were 5 until high school. They both did summer golf programs. Dirty also ran cross country, wrestled (sort of), and played football. They were both also very active in several groups of 4H and later FFA. There were also brief showings of karate, competitive archery, and this thing called soccer. I think that covers it, but honestly there was so much activity I may have missed some. Those years were amazing, but also so crammed packed that they’re a little blurry.

Brian was able to recall with great detail his efforts in those years. He was a field truck mechanic at the time so he would leave in the wee hours of the morning and finish up jobs in exotic ports of call such as Trinity Center in time to get back in time to coach. That’s all true; and though it was very challenging for him, he was committed to doing it.

But I’m guessing that it was his  hard work in those times that clouded his memory. Maybe he thinks I was watching soap operas and eating bon-bons while the nanny readied the boys for school every morning, and then got them to those games. Or maybe my personal assistant would make the cookies or the decorate tables. And maybe our executive chef would prepare the staple busy night “food” of quesadillas while the tutor worked with boys hopped up on post-game snow-cones on their accelerated reading or whatever other stuff required of them. I mean, obviously we needed all that help because I worked full time too.

I know he didn’t mean to act like I wasn’t an important element to the kids being as active as they were. I also know that it was unfair of me to be disappointed that he didn’t follow the script I had in my head about how we should feel good about all we accomplished. Active kids does take a lot of work and sacrifice from a lot of people. Not just Brian. Not just me. Grandparents, neighbors, friend’s parents, parent’s friends, and more were required. And whether or not all that run around it is justified is up for debate.  

On the plus side, our boys are incredibly flexible and have a homeostasis that requires them to be active. They are hard workers and have a lot of cool experiences to draw from.

On the down side, they have a homeostasis that requires them to be active. They both have their own challenges with the ability to just be still. They may have gotten that from the nanny. They also had days they went to school exhausted and probably suffered nutritional deficits from a steady diet of quesadillas and sno-cones.

So yah. Not for everyone. And that’s okay too.

I loved every chaotic second of it. Since my sports mom time is over, I’m thinking of taking on sports mom sports momming.

I can thunderously ring my cow bell for you when you get the kids where they need to be. Or maybe I’ll make a banner for you to run through in celebration as you settle in for late evening homework. Or I’ll make violent little snacks to support (and counterbalance) your kids soccer team with the hypersensitive name choice (“We’ll name our league teams after natural disasters so there’s no risk of offending anyone”*eyeroll “Karen, my cousin’s hamster died in an earthquake. How insensitive of you to name a team that!”). Whatever a retired sports mom can do to support your mayhem, tag me in!

Have a great day at soccer/baseball/la crosse/robot wars/scouting/little people military things/whatever, and thanks for reading

“Do they really call you ‘Crystal’?” Yes. Yes they do. The boys haven’t always called me that, but they have for a long time.

I’m not exactly sure how it started. I don’t know if it says something about me that I don’t care. They also call their father by his first name.

My name evolution origin started the same as I suppose all moms’ did.

I was “Mommy” at the start. I had to dig in the mental archives to see if that was true. I recalled a time when toddler Daniel was talking to Daddy and said, “How big are the balls on Mommy’s pee-pee?” The home we lived in at the time was small enough for me to hear, but I couldn’t get there in time to immediately intervene. Brian’s response, “They’re really big.” *eyeroll

I don’t know when my name merged from Mommy to Mom, but I know it was for sure my moniker when young Dirty was 13.

A lot of us from work were doing a fundraising color run. You wear white clothes, run around, and people throw colorful chalk at you. It sounded like a thing Dirty and Calvin would like to do so I brought them along. We had a new deputy director who was also participating. My dedication to my agency borders on unhealthy, but still it was my hope that the deputy would think I contributed value to our work.

She and I were chatting while waiting for the race to get underway. Young Dirty excitedly ran up in front of us. He shifted and side-eyed his surroundings. He NEVER has a sense of urgency for my attention like that so Dianna and I paused as he said (and I quote), “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom…” he paused to rescan the area,… “There’s a midget over there. He’s got an iphone 6. It looks like he’s holding an ipad mini.” I stood there completely void of ideas to how to respond. He ran off as though he was content in completing some important mission.

I’ll never know if that story would have been less awkward if he’d used that weirdly deep voice to call out “Crystal” repeatedly before delivering such important news; but I do know that it was about that time my label changed.  

At the beginning, I think I tried to reclaim my title. But I realized I didn’t care. Also, I’m not in the best position to bitch about it.

My Danny started to go by “Dan” in 5^th grade. I literally have to put my brain into hyperdrive to figure out who people are talking about when they say Dan. He’s 22. He’s incredibly independent and successful. I don’t need to go out of my way to cling to the name I called him when he was still wearing diapers. One thing I loved about the name we chose for him is that it had options. And here I am short circuiting when I hear something other than “Danny.”

And then there’s Dirty. He’s been Dirty since he was about 8. I could have squished it, but instead I embraced it and have continued to hold on long after it makes sense. I was in one of those UC Davis social work trainings one time. There was a task that included sharing the names of our children. Some self-righteous instructor said that it was not a good idea for ME to refer to MY child by such a derogatory nickname. That was probably 10 years ago, and I’m still pissed about it. If I remembered who she was, I’d reach out to her and let her know that the kid named Dirty turned out pretty well.

He’d also embraced the name, but as he’s grown he’s tried to create some separation. His girlfriend’s parents knew him before they started dating. They knew the little blonde kid named Dirty. “This nickname isn’t really working in my favor,” said young Derek as he talked about trying to make sure important adults in his life knew he wasn’t a threat to their daughter.

Fair enough.

But when I try to call him by the name we chose, I sound like I’m speaking a foreign tongue. It comes out halting and unnatural, “DAAAARE-eck.”

It’s the same level of strangeness on those rare instances now when I’m harkened with “mom.”

Luckily their needs have changed concurrently with my title. I don’t think I would have liked to wake at 3 in the morning by a 8 yr old at the side of my bed to hear “Crystal, my stomach hur….” (you know what happens next). And likewise it’d be weird to hear heard  “Mom. I’m going to work” in a deep ass voice.  I know my role and purpose. And I know it doesn’t change just because what I’m called is different. And calls that start with. “Mom. I need to know your 2017 gross adjusted income for my FASFA” remind me that when the chips are down, “mom” is who I am.

Thanks for reading!