Katy Rank Lev

Fair warning: I’m going to write about my period. Stop now if you don’t want to read about my period.

Want to know my favorite thing about breastfeeding? I haven’t had my period since September, 2008. Yes. Two years. For a girl who’s had a period since fourth grade, this is a wonderful and well-earned vacation.

Until recently, when it ended. I suspect this was because Miles twice slept 11 consecutive hours and I had a bunch of evening activities last week, thus we were nursing a lot less. My body must have thought, “Hey! Who’s ready to make another baby? Let’s shed our uterine lining!”

I was kind of startled when I realized I had my period. The concept of keeping tampons in my purse had long ceased to be part of my routine. I still have some tampons at home, thankfully, but I pretty much had to set my phone alarm to remind me to change them. That is how accustomed I was to not menstruating. I promise I have an alternate point.

A few issues ago, Mothering magazine did a big feature about cloth pads and keeper cups. What is a keeper cup, you ask, nervously? It’s pretty much a plastic cup you insert in lieu of a tampon. The keeper cup collects the menses, which you then discard. Afterward, you wash the cup and re-insert. I like many things about this concept.

I can tell you are already worried about several things, so let me walk you through my own fears about the keeper.

First, my dear friend P used one and found there to be a great deal of…suction. Removal was a bit challenging for her. This would probably happen to me, because I’m unfortunate. I can just imagine the public restroom: me, grunting in futile yanking while Miles waits outside the stall in his blue car stroller-thing, beeping the horn at me.

Next, I thought for a long time about public restroom removal in general. There are a great many obstacles between that keeper cup and the sink/soap, namely the pulling up of pants, the stall handle, and faucet knobs. Gross.

Luckily, the Mothering article made me feel more comfortable about all these ideas. The author suggests keeping wet cloths in your purse and getting them ready pre-removal. I’m thinking Cottonelle moist, flushable wipes (while the author meant tea tree oil-soaked washcloths) would be a wonderful solution until I can get myself to a sink for a proper wash.

At any rate, I’m curious enough to give it a shot. I have about 80 tampons left at our house, so when those are exhausted, or maybe before, I’m going to take the plunge, so to speak. My only remaining question is whether I need the one for before or after you’ve had a baby (since I didn’t deliver vaginally). So much to think about when I go to the grocery store!

In the past month, I feel like my entire life has shifted. Almost as soon as Corey and I discovered the gaping hole in the income side of our budget, when I asked the universe to drop a lucrative part-time job in my lap, I got a call from a former professor. A colleague had phoned looking for an instructor. Would I be interested in teaching 6 credits at La Roche College this fall, he wondered.

Now, I can’t say that adjunct teaching is exactly lucrative, but it certainly provides an adequate and regular salary. Plus, the course I’m teaching is one 6-credit course, so I will have only one group of students and one class prep, which is really significantly less work than teaching two 3-credit courses. This was the part-time job I didn’t know I wished I’d find. I said yes without blinking my eyes.

It was not until I was engaged in conversations about my syllabus that I realized how much I missed talking about writing and talking about teaching and thinking about teaching writing. God, I’m excited to teach this course. It’s given me such a sense of structure and purpose. Even though I only teach from 2 until 5 in the afternoons Tuesday/Thursday, I will be on campus all day to prepare for lessons, grade papers, and use that time to also complete research and work on my freelance writing pieces.

Knowing that I won’t have to spend the other days of the week worrying about the ebb and flow of my work makes me a much better mom on those days. I’m not running to my email all the time or ignoring Miles while I fire off a pitch or proposal to a new client. This is not to say that I’m giving up these practices, I just don’t feel they are so urgent I must do them on days I’m “off.” I have designated “work time” now, which made me remember one thing that’s been really off for the past 8 months is the gaping lack of schedule or routine in my life.

I’m a creature of habit! I like predictability, routines, schedules. I have a child who resists these things, and it makes me crazy. I can barely put into words the sense of joy I feel at knowing I’ll be packing myself a sandwich at 9pm Monday night or that I know I’ll be making photocopies at 10am Tuesday morning. I can tell you where I’ll be at a specific time on a specific day! Do you know how fantastic that is??

Which sort of leads me to think about another massive change: where I won’t be on specific days. I’m not going to play rugby this fall. This is different from the past 2 years when I wasn’t playing rugby. I am not knocked up or unwell…I am just not playing. The classes I teach conflict with practice times, and I was never going to be able to swing away games anyway. So, this veteran player is taking a season off. This is a really big adjustment for me. As I said, I’m a creature of habit and schedule. Rugby requires a huge, huge commitment and dedication to schedule. So, so, so much of my time in-season is occupied by practice, scheduling games, negotiating kick-off times–not to mention warming up for, setting up the field for, and playing in games. I can easily say that 20 to 25 hours of each week go toward rugby in some capacity.

So now I’m not playing. And it’s been really amazing.

I never wanted to give up rugby when I had kids. I never wanted to give up rugby at all! I freaking love rugby. Plus, I have a truly supportive partner who would happily take up the reins with Miles while I went to practice. Corey would make sure our son was fed and bathed and rested and would probably bring him to home games.

But here I am, spending Sunday morning riding my bike, towing my baby in a trailer so we could have a picnic by the water steps on the North Shore. During rugby season, that could never happen. Sundays have to be spent cleaning and grocery shopping and getting ready for the week, because Saturdays are totally eaten up by matches and socials.

I already really miss my friends and the social aspect of rugby. I miss silly conversations in car rides and just having a beer after a hard practice. I miss the sense of being on a team and together working toward a larger goal. I’m sad that I won’t be a part of the quest for the national championship this fall. But I’m also deeply content with my decision to focus on work and family this fall.

So here I am: a non-rugby player who writes and teaches writing part-time. Miles and I are going to celebrate this week by going to sprinkler parks and story time and hiking on my days off.

My poor baby sleeps in a Pack N Play. Ever since his crib was recalled a few months ago, we’ve had him in the playpen until we “figure something else out.” Now, he only moved to the crib a few months before it got recalled, so it’s not like he had developed an attachment to it. He was only in there just long enough for me to hate that piece of furniture.

In other words, we have yet to find a sleeping space that really works for Miles. He’s been in our bed, the futon, the crib, the floor, the Pack N Play…maybe his sleep problems have to do with a rotating bed? I feel compelled to find a sleep surface solution so that I can get more rest. While I’ve come to terms with getting the same amount of sleep as General McChrystal and Barack Obama, it would still be lovely to get more.

A few days ago, I thought that I was pretty smart bringing his crib mattress up and putting it on the floor in his room. Lots of my friends have their kids sleep on a mattress on the floor. In fact, Miles slept on a mattress on the floor for a few months. I forgot to add that to the list! But this was all before he was mobile.

And he is mobile now. Oh heck, is he mobile. And climby. Even if his crib hadn’t been recalled, I betcha he’d have figured out how to climb out of it and broken his neck by now. I digress. So I brought the mattress up and put it on the floor in his room. Like, literally on the floor. Not on the box spring or something, but a mattress slapped on the ground. Really, given the condition of crib mattresses, it’s like a camp pad. I made it up with his quilt and stuck his favorite monkey in there and then made a little nest around it in case he whacked his noggin on the way out of bed that night.

At first, he was totally interested in that mattress. He kept crawling over to it and patting it or putting his head down on it for a few seconds. I thought it was going to be my best invention ever, until bed time. We nursed and rocked and listened to some songs and he was tired, but just not asleep. So I finally just put him in the bed. He sat up, but didn’t cry, and I said good night and closed the door.

I heard him crawling around in his room, not crying, and thought this was the best thing in the universe. He was awake, safe, but didn’t require me to be with him. Perfect! I could just see how well it would work at 3am. “Amuse yourself, Miles! Just crawl over to your stuff and play and let Mommy sleep!”

Eventually, the silent baby monitor told me he had fallen asleep. And then I got paranoid: had he crawled back to the bed or just collapsed on the hard wood flooring? He’s such a light sleeper that I wasn’t about to open the door and check. I mean, it would be worse if he were AWAKE than asleep with his head on the wood.

A few hours later, I did check on him and felt my heart surge. He was asleep on his knees, like he was saying his prayers, with his face resting on the mattress and his hands dangling at his sides. It’s like he knew that’s where he was supposed to sleep but just couldn’t drum up the energy to get all the way back in bed. Poor thing. I scooted his bottom half into bed and hit the sack myself.

But then we had to get up like four times throughout the night to put him back in bed. He kept rolling out, landing on the floor behind the door or just bonking his head on the hardwood. Poor thing! He is just not ready for a mattress on the ground. Which totally sucks, because I was really hoping to have him wake up at 5am, see his books, and crawl on over to entertain himself.

At any rate, we put him back in the Pack N Play the following night. Incidentally, he has a cold and I was encouraged to rub Vicks on his feet. He proceeded to sleep 11 hours in a row–a lifetime record. Was it the Vicks? The joyous return to a beloved sleeping surface? The world may never know. I feel like a million, well-rested dollars. Ask me a question; I’ll give you a coherent response!

This is a great state of mind to be in as I contemplate another possible solution to the sleep situation: Who can tell me things about toddler beds?

Today I did something that was very important to me and yet extremely difficult and scary. I asked the midwives to sit with me and review my chart from my birth. I am really glad I did.

Earlier, I had written on the ICAN blog that I have been avoiding this because I was so scared that my record would show my c-section was elective and not an emergency. I was so terrified of seeing the word elective written there that I preferred to just stay in the dark about the whole thing. That is, of course, a passive aggressive and non-adult way of handling important emotional issues. So I went in there armed with gum to chew and tissues to squeeze.

I was really, really glad that the midwife who worked with me during my labor was also there today. I confessed to not being able to remember everything that happened to me and, being in a heightened emotional state, might have remembered things differently. We reviewed the chart.

It made me so emotional to see in black and white print the objective descriptions of Miles’ heart rate. Sustained at 40 BPM for 4 minutes. Transfer to operating room. Attempted intrauterine resuscitation. I hadn’t known about that last part, nor did I know they had given me terbutaline to stop the massive, rapid contractions that were potentially putting MW in distress. I need to research this drug further, but apparently it attempts to slow contractions and makes mothers feel very disoriented and strange. Disoriented and strange are probably the two biggest adjectives for how I felt afterward, so that makes sense.

After we reviewed all the details, I told the midwife that I had been staying up at night agonizing over a question I remembered. I remember someone asking me whether I WANTED the cesarean. I don’t entirely recall what I said, but of course I didn’t. I played out a thousand scenarios as to what could have happened if I’d said no. Well, as it turns out, there wasn’t time for them to obtain written consent from me for the procedure. The question I remember them asking was not my opinion or really a multiple choice set of options, but rather them obtaining verbal consent for the surgery.

I can say now that I feel a lot of closure about what happened. I feel much more at peace with the procedure and my labor and with my body. I also feel somewhat more confident of my future ability to deliver a baby vaginally. We’ll never know what exactly caused Miles’ heart rate to drop and stay so low (later in the chart, it mentioned that his heart rate was down that low for over 10 minutes before they began operating). I feel comfortable now that I labored as best I could, and made the best decisions for him. And that is a really good way to feel after all this time.

I’m getting really crunchy, folks. Mostly, this is motivated by thrift and a fear that Miles will poison himself. But slowly, one product at a time, I’m setting my family free from name brand products and still managing to keep my home free of mold and grease buildup.

I mentioned before that I like to make things (and sometimes Corey supports this). Luckily, making things is an easy way to avoid stuffing my kid with high fructose corn syrup and trans fats. Like as soon as I discovered how easy it is to make granola, I started making double batches of that and eliminating my need to buy as much snack food. Do you know how cheap it is to make 6 cups of homemade granola? Depending which dried fruit you select, it’s cheap. Maybe $10 to fill the largest storage container we have (and most of that cost is for pecans, which could be subbed out for cheaper nuts).

But I’ve been trying to get rid of name brand cleaning products for months. Right around when I got pregnant, I stopped wanting to use bleach products in my house. Now that I have a very busy, inquisitive kiddo, it’s essential to me to not stock toxic products or use them on surfaces Miles might lick. If you’ve met my son, you know he licks EVERYTHING. After watching the kid almost lick the bio-hazard bin in his office, our pediatrician told me he’d feel more comfortable if I put the number for poison control in my contacts on my phone…

I used to not know it was even possible to make cleaning supplies yourself. It just didn’t occur to me that some things were possible without industrial machinery. But it turns out you can “make” everything from laundry detergent to counter spray to toilet bowl cleaner. My friend Rachel first informed me that laundry detergent is makeable. I had no idea! I had been spending a LOT of money for the 7th Generation detergent that kept my family’s sensitive skin rash-free and also worked with my cloth diapers. I’d love to knock out that expense and couldn’t wait to run out of the 10-gallon bucket of detergent I’d bought last November.

We had quite a stock pile of other harmful/name brand things to go through (and sometimes new containers of cleaning products just show up under our sink when we have house guests…), but now we’re pretty much out of everything. No more detergent, no more Soft Scrub, only a handful of Clorox wipes and a spurt of Scrubbing Bubbles. This is such an exciting opportunity for me to combine a love of making things with my thriftiness to make non-toxic things that Miles could potentially lick without harming himself. Oh, and I’ll be doing the environment a favor, too. What’s to lose?

My first project was making all-purpose spray. I was itching to use a “recipe” the folks at Young House Love suggested. Considering we go through about a gallon of spray per day, it didn’t take long to run out of that stuff. Can I just say that it took less time to make the cleaner than it typically takes me to remove the damn plastic wrapping and safety seals on name-brand cleaners? I didn’t even really measure the ingredients, just dumped and squirted. The counters have been stick-free, the floor doesn’t have splotchy stains, and Miles’ high chair is not gross. I can say with certainty that I will not need to buy spray cleaner ever again.

And if Miles licks the floor after I wipe it, he’s really only licked vinegar and vegetable-based soap with a bit of tea tree oil. No worse for wear, really. It gives me such peace knowing, if need be, I can turn my head for a wee second while he is playing with the cupboards.

The dirtiest things in our house are easily the stove (greasy build-up) and the shower (mildew and gunk). So far, between the vinegar, lemon juice, the borax and the tea tree oil, I’ve been cutting through the gross with the same results as the store-bought stuff.

Our next project is making laundry detergent. I have a few loads’ worth of the 7th Gen left and have one more ingredient to round up for the homemade version. Theoretically, it will keep our clothes as “clean” as they are now and even cut through grass/tomato/berry stains. The only drawback here is that none of my new solutions are appropriate for cloth diapers. I’m on the hunt for something that won’t leave residue on the dipes.

But I’m pretty proud of these efforts to keep Miles healthy and leave some more black in our bank account. The best part is that, instead of the rooms smelling bleachy (which I used to associate with “clean”), they just smell like lemon or nothing at all after I’ve cleaned them. I still have Poison Control in my phone, but this is only out of fear that Miles will eat one of his diapers. Unfortunately, he loves putting them in his mouth and there is nothing I can do to change the toxicity of THOSE chemicals.

Life is funny sometimes. The very week that we examined our finances and decided something had to change, I began applying for any and every job I could find, all the while hoping that something part-time and consistent would open up. Needless to say, I was very surprised to get a phone call late last week with one such opportunity!

One of my former professors from graduate school was looking for someone to teach basic reading and writing at another local college. A former colleague of his phoned to ask if he knew anyone who could teach such a class at short notice. He remembered my experience tutoring academically under-prepared student athletes as well as my work in composition in grad school. His recommendation was enough and I didn’t even need to interview for the gig.

It wasn’t until I set foot on the new campus (after a very long drive during which I lost my way many times) that I realized how much I’d missed teaching. I miss making lesson plans and reading essays (published and student). I miss the excitement and adrenaline rush that comes from standing in front of a room full of students. Anything could come out of anyone’s mouth at any time! The possibilities are just endless.

So my bean-counter sat at his bean counting apparatus and we looked at the numbers. There will be increased childcare and gas costs, but increased income as well. Enough of an increase to make this opportunity worth it! As a special bonus, we’ll probably be able to have a teensy bit of wiggle room in the budget. As in, maybe we can keep Netflix, not maybe we can go to Aruba. But still, progress has been made here.

The entire situation makes me feel excited on many levels. First, I’m so, so happy that I’ll continue to be home with Miles five out of every seven days. Even when he’s being a little weasel, preventing me from sleeping, and clinging to my leg the entire day, I still cherish that time I get with him. I am so lucky to have the education and skill set to afford me a part-time job.

I’m also really proud of myself for having been so memorable to my previous professor. I love that he thought of me, that I made an impression on him and was able to really express my joy in working with that specific student population. Of all the students in the world, I prefer academically under-prepared ones. A great fit for me, this new job. A great fit.

The icing on this cake has been a long-awaited freelance contract for a feature in a national publication. My dry spell these past few months had just about thrown me into despair, so I was very, very relieved to finally blow on my inky signature for this gig. I’m not mentally spending the check that comes with it, though. I know from experience that the Benjamins won’t arrive for at least six months and I live in fear of the “kill fee” clause in said contract.

So the rest of this summer finds me merrily making syllabi and researching for my article during those moments when I’m not mothering. It’s good to feel like I have some direction. I think I’m a better mom when I’m exercising those other parts of my self, too. Careerwise, this puts me in the exact same position I was in last fall. Only this time, I’m physically, mentally, and socially healthy.

Bring it on, I say.

I got formula coupons in the mail today. They came in the name “Katy Ranklev.” The only institution that has my name filed under that specific incorrect spelling is the hospital where Miles was delivered. I’ve written before about how I feel upset by their sneaky marketing of formula to new moms.

I suspect/know intuitively that the hospital gets some sort of monetary compensation from the formula company in exchange for the mailing list and demographic information they dole out about their patients. Even that idea makes me feel irritated, because the hospital is part of what is supposed to be a nonprofit organization.

I’m really angry that there is no way for women to opt out of this marketing or information sharing. I have no way of knowing how much they actually shared.** They obviously shared the date my baby was born, or the approximate time, because the formula company knew to send “toddler premium” products for my one-year-old. And the formula company is obviously tracking me, sending well-timed coupons to make sure their targeted marketing campaigns reach the right demographic.

Of course I know that I am surrounded by marketing and advertising. I know each gmail message I send or link I click adds to my online “file” or whatever and I know facebook tracks my every click and I know that Giant Eagle is monitoring the products we buy (also spitting out targeted coupons). I guess I just thought some things, like my birth experience or the delivery of my child, would be sacred somehow. Or maybe that the most vulnerable moment of my life would spare me from being treated like a commodity?

I’m just really pissed that those formula coupons are going to keep coming in the mail.

**And as a side note that seems related, why is it that they can share my information so freely with formula companies, but I have to put in three or more hours on the phone dealing with bureaucracy and various forms to release my medical information from the pervert to my new doctor? I just want the results of my damn cholesterol test and nobody seems to think it’s possible to obtain them from the DA! Yet insurance won’t pay for new blood work. Oy!

My husband is an accountant. That means, from time to time, he brings a spreadsheet to my attention and drags my eyeballs to a bright red number, indicating that we are spending more money than we bring in each month. We weren’t planning for me to reduce my income and work (very) part-time, you see. We were just gonna fold this baby into our lives and keep right on keeping on. My baby was going to sleep all day and I was going to write and interview clients and do everything just like before. Plus, I was going to sleep at night…Ha!

So right now, we are left with a few choices. We can stick Miles in daycare full-time and I can find a full-time job OR we can re-examine our lives again to find more money each month. I’ve started a full-on attack on both fronts.

It’s easy to shave off things like Netflix, sell the extra car we don’t use, and get rid of our landline. Google Voice gives us a local number that dials right into my cell phone! These sorts of savings are like adventures for us. What don’t we need? It’s like a scavenger hunt.

A huge challenge for me right now is to reduce our monthly grocery budget, which has gotten a bit out of control. I take total responsibility for this, as I’ve become transfixed by Bon Appetit magazine and load my cart full of black figs and fancy cheese and things like pomegranate molasses. Not cheap.

I also shop almost exclusively at Whole Foods. I know you must be thinking, “well no freaking wonder your grocery budget is crazy, shopping at Whole Paycheck!” But the truth is, I’ve compared my shopping bill from Giant Eagle and I actually spend less at Whole Foods. I buy TONS of things in the bulk aisle ($2 per pound of raisins? $.89 per pound of oats? Yes please!) and the 365 Everyday generic brand is pretty affordable. Add to this a conveniently short drive plus 5 cents off per bag I bring in and it’s hard to convince me to stick to the ‘Iggle. (That’s local-speak for Giant Eagle. You see? I’m very hip and now and attuned to my surroundings)

But I feel pretty confident I can knock $200 off our monthly bill by doing the following:
1. Make more meals with beans, legumes, tuna, potatoes and eggs. I haven’t been doing this because my husband hates the “mouth-feel” of those foods and boycotts dinner when I dare slip in a black-eyed pea. I figure two such meals per week alone will shave off a ton. Corey can either suck it up or just eat oatmeal for dinner. Miles and I like beans, so this is an easier change.
2. Plan out lunches and breakfasts instead of just dinner. Usually, before I shop for the week, I plan out what dinner will be each night. I tend to assume we’ll eat leftovers for lunch and just cereal for breakfast, but this doesn’t happen too often. A plan (with some wiggle room, of course) can prevent me from being tempted by endcaps of packaged, pricey things that “sound yummy.”
3. Waste less food. Apart from the meals Miles throws onto the ground (I am really trying to figure out how to reduce this, as a lot of food goes out the window this way), we have become pretty big wasters. A lot of times, I tell myself it’s ok that we didn’t finish the bread before it got moldy because I just compost it. But really, I don’t use too much of my compost. We’re bad about letting perishable condiments spoil, forgetting when we have fruit rolling around in the bottom drawer, and making new meals when there are heaps of leftovers in the fridge. I think we can do a lot better about eating what we have before we buy or make new things.

There is, of course, no easy answer to this whole scenario. I’m finding a lot of full-time jobs out there that would probably be a great fit for me. It would be nice to have enough, even extra money and to exercise my brain more regularly. But I feel really lucky to be able to stay home with Miles. I see how it benefits him and that makes it feel worth it to scrimp a bit for a few years.

This is normally a situation that would send me into some emotional eating of very expensive dark chocolate and/or ice cream. Instead, I’ll just take a deep breath and think about what to do with all the barley we have in the pantry.

This is a pretty confusing story with a lot of ins and a lot of outs. I haven’t yet figured out my final thoughts on the whole thing, but I’m pretty overwhelmed and wanted to share. It all goes back to my discomfort with doctors.

You see, I have not been to the doctor since I was in graduate school. And then, I didn’t really see a doctor. I saw several nurse practitioners at student health to deal with a pesky fungus that plagued me for much of 2005. Otherwise, I’ve been quite healthy and only went in for my lady-parts to get their annual swipe. (This is, of course, a separate matter from the knee doctor I saw for a rugby injury. Which I suppose leads me to my next tangent.)

So anyway, I got this knee injury in 2008 and went to a knee doctor. I learned that the only cure was rest. Like a whole rugby season worth of rest. Have you ever told a rugby player to take a season off? They don’t deal with that news well. The way I dealt with it was to beg my husband to impregnate me. He resisted for a few months, but nature/heaven/my ovaries prevailed and I had something to do with my “resting” time. Ha!

And then I started going to the midwives, because pregnant women need to see medical practitioners all the time. And this was a really big deal for me because I was going to the “doctor” once a month instead of twice a decade. And then I had a traumatic birth and some hip pain and rashes and nasty side effects from sleep deprivation and hormone imbalance and nerve trouble and on and on and on.

But I felt lost because by the time you deliver your baby, you’re seeing the midwives every week. Or every day if you go to 42 weeks like I did. And then you deliver and they kick you out. You don’t see them at all! It’s like your partner broke up with you. I was feeling forlorn on top of all the other crap.

By the time I got my shit together and realized I needed to see a medical doctor, it was May. As in 10 months postpartum. I began a long and very tedious practice of cobbling together my medical records so I could see this osteopath in my neighborhood. It was a nightmare! There were faxes and phone calls and I was working around nap time.

And then scheduling the appointment sucked, and going to the appointment sucked because I had to take a baby with me to the doctor’s office. Luckily, this doctor seemed pretty nice and held Miles for me while the nurse took my vitals. Then the nurse held Miles while I got examined. We talked about my hair loss and my vertigo and other stuff. He ordered some blood work.

This was another saga. I had to have a certain number of hours of sleep in a row, needed to be fasting, and needed to get in there sans baby to get blood drawn. Challenging! But I finally figured it all out.

So (finally!) three weeks ago I started wondering when they were going to call and talk about my blood work and get to the bottom of my health. I phoned and learned the office was closed. But that was cool. We were going on vacation, I assumed the doctor was on vacay, and I planned to call when I got back.

We got back, I called, still closed. Hmm, I thought. Hope he didn’t have a heart attack or die. And then I went back to parenting. I started calling every few days, getting more concerned. This morning, when I called to talk again about my vertigo (which I’ve noticed comes back when I’m tired), the office was still closed. I decided my doctor must be dead and googled him.

Lo, he is not dead. He is in jail. I seem to have missed this major news because we don’t have tv or get the newspaper and I haven’t been reading the news online. Big mistake! My pervy doctor is in jail for sex crimes. It makes me sick for the following reasons:

1. he has held my precious baby with his pervy sex hands

2. he has examined my person with his pervy sex hands

3. I now have to go through all this rigmarole again because my medical records are currently being held by the DA’s office as part of the evidence file or whatever. So I have to get more bloodwork and more results and cobble together a new record and find a new damn doctor.

4. I can’t shake the feeling that while I waited 2 hours in that man’s waiting room, he might have been having sex with a patient in one of the other examining rooms.

Today is one of those days where I have trouble feeling optimistic about humanity and want to go on a feminist rage bender. I want to lock myself in a room with back issues of Bitch. I also need to find a new doctor. Here are my requirements (apart from non-sex-pervert status):

1. woman (I just need a female practitioner right now)

2. office must have a parking lot

3. won’t give me shit because I still nurse my baby

bonus fourth requirement: this magical doctor can obtain my bloodwork and stuff from the DA so I don’t have to repeat that fiasco

Anybody have any suggestions? In the mean time, I am reading all the news I’ve been missing and subscribing to the AG’s RSS feed.

So I am the parent of a one-year-old child. That means I have survived my rookie season, as it were, and am a full-fledged expert parent. And thank god, because now people will stop offering me advice in the grocery store or at the airport. Right? And I can feel free to now be the one to hand out such advice to new parents, right?

All kidding aside, I would have to say that my first year of mothering reminded me an awful lot of junior high. I had all sorts of whacked out hormones, was sleeping on a super odd schedule (if at all), and had powerfully low self- esteem that left my questioning absolutely every move, desperate for a certain boy (talkin’ to you here, Miles) to respond to me affectionately. (Although, decidedly unlike junior high, I’ve entirely given up caring what I look like, whether I’m wearing dirty clothes, or if I remembered to comb my hair)

I often wonder if, because my birth experience was so DIS-empowering, I had a larger obstacle from the get-go. And then I decide that it doesn’t matter, I’m always going to have Mom guilt over something, and I need to just suck it up and boldly mother that kid in the way that feels right.

Just yesterday, I caught myself apologizing for Miles’ filth at the playground and holding back from taking him to the grocery store because I was embarrassed to be seen in public with a person covered in watermelon, rocks, and under-the-slide slime.

And then just as quickly, I shook myself awake and reminded myself I am a veteran parent. My child is dirty because I let him play hard. Team Lev goes hard or goes home! And sometimes even veteran parents forget a change of clothes in the diaper bag.

I also reminded myself of a trick the inspiring referee Lois Bukowski once told me: give yourself a pep talk in the car, and put yourself in [insert participle] mindset before you step into the playing field. This is great advice. As a veteran parent, I can tell myself that I am in charge, I know what is best, and I am equipped to handle the situation.

So before I put my hand on MW’s doorknob or unbuckle his car seat, I’ve begun talking to myself and making sure I’m in the mothering zone. With this perspective, I’ve been able to nap the baby, successfully entertain him, and feed him a balanced lunch so far today. As was often the case in junior high, despite my flickering self-doubt, I generally know what I’m doing and can eventually achieve a desired outcome if I just work up the ovaries to put myself out there.

I suppose it helps knowing that, unlike the boys in eighth grade, my current infatuation won’t abandon me for a scantily-clad cheerleader with bigger boobs.