On Kindergarten, Hangovers, And Hope.

A kindergarten classroom would be my last choice in which to spend a hung over morning. But at Bea's open house last month, there was desperate pleading for any parent with the desire and the time, to please volunteer in the class.

Other people's kids don't thrill me a bunch, I much prefer the over 80 crowd. And I can't say I wanted to give up one kid free weekday morning per week, but not wanting to seemed a poor excuse to not actually do it.

So I do. Wednesday mornings. Though yesterday, my post-election fog almost had me bailing, sending Bea to school with a note to her teacher claiming *sickness*.

Despite the headache and fogginess, I was feeling oddly energized and positive, given what had kept me up so late.

Tuesday had started out with yet another discussion with Bea and Owen of all things election;

Who is the President?

What is his job?

Who is the other guy?

No, they aren't actually going to be running alongside each other.

Who should we vote for Mommy?

"Well, I'm going to vote for the guy who wants everyone to love everyone. The guy who wants to help people. They guy who wants us to want to help people."

And many more questions over breakfast as we prepared to head to the high school down the street to vote. Trying to keep it simple for the five-year old, and utilizing newly obtained signs for the Deaf nine-year old.

Owen made me stop in the driveway as we were about to leave, ran into the house to fetch his encyclopedia of past presidents.

Bea became silent and appeared terrified as we made our way across the parking lot into the school;

"I'm scared. I don't want to talk to the President." So damn cute.

"Oh, I would LOVE to talk to him, but sadly he's not going to be here today."

They hovered over me while I took the sharpie to the ballot and filled in my ovals.

Then it was their turn.

How cool is my state?

The rest of our day was spent exercising our rights to get hair cuts, to eat great southwestern food, and to attend karate class.

The second the kids were tucked in, I assumed the position in the big living room chair, wielding remote control and iPhone, cross stitch project on lap, wine glass filled to brim, and election coverage on the TV.

I rather enjoyed the bumpy ride. Just ask the mostly empty wine bottle. The big one.

And then, just after 11pm, feeling more of a fun mix of relief and disbelief than of victory. And quite possibly a goofy grin.

Before I know it, I'm standing in a kindergarten classroom, cursing the flourescent light, wincing at the sound of the bell, wishing the little voices actually sounded little, as I perform my assigned tasks of cutting and folding and stapling.

Story time happens. Being the month of Thanksgiving, the focus is on family, and the book of the day visits all different kinds of families.

I find myself abandoning my cutting and turning my attention to the teacher as she reads. It went pretty much like this;

Some families have a Mommy and a Daddy. Some have only a Mommy or only a Daddy. Some families have step-parents and step-siblings.

And because I'm a dork, when she got to the next part?

Some families have two Mommies, and some have two Daddies.

I teared up.

I teared the fuck right up.

Because I know a boy in the class who has two Mommies. And not one kid on that rug thought anything of it. Not a hand raised to question, not a snicker or a giggle. A family is a family is a family. Love is love is love.

I know that this is a very small part of what Tuesday's decision means.

But in that classroom, surrounded by those kids who get to grow up with that understanding of love, I felt so stupidly hopeful.

And if things had taken a different turn on Tuesday?

I'd have been crying for a different reason.

The Dog Ate My Breast Pump; A Love Story

What attracted me initially to Al was his guyness.  His scruffy faced, beer drinking, football watching, bodily function loving guyness.  I loved that he put on Carhartt jeans and a sweatshirt to go to work, and that he came home smelling of wood, covered in dust.

It fit perfectly with this guyness, his proclamation that he would never, under any circumstances be purchasing me pads or tampons. Ever. No matter what.  Because, surely, were he to purchase such things, the cashier would ignore his thick beard and deep voice and loudly demand to know if he was also in posession of a vagina.  Surely.

Whatever.

Procurement of sanitary products not being a relationship deal breaker, we ended up married and having a baby.

I'd obtained several weeks' worth of products prior to my son's birth.  With much respect to his guyness,  I'd planned ahead.

I hadn't planned on our son spending his first two months barely alive in an ICU hundreds of miles away from the home we'd made for him.

During those months, Al and I lived with his brother Don and his wife Penny only a half hour from Children's Hospital.  They graciously opened up their home to us and our dog Olive. They fed us, kept us in beer and wine, and tended to the dog when we couldn't.

Owen was born on a Monday.  My milk came in on Thursday.

I'd dreaded it happening.  I'd hoped that my body would somehow know that no baby would be coming anywhere near my breast, spare me that reminder, and stay dry.

But that Thursday morning, as I showered, I felt the tingle, and looked down in horror at the milk flowing down my body.

I started crying.  The screaming choking kind.   The cartoon geyser spurts which led to the irrational thought that my tears would deplete the liquid life that I knew I'd have to pump and deliver to the hospital.

I left the bathroom and called for Al.  I hated the thought of pumping instead of nursing, and there was no way in hell I was doing it alone.

He was still that guy, but he'd seen me birth a human, and then witnessed the emotional disembowelment that followed.  He could watch me do this.

And for the next several weeks he did.  Each morning before I left for the hospital, each night before bed. 

Every two hours, I'd leave Owen's bedside to pump. I filled the freezer in the ICU, and the one in Don and Penny's kitchen, with the little bottles of milk, as for many of those weeks, Owen was too sick even to recieve it.

I couldn't hold him or touch him or change him or soothe him.  My sole purpose, my reason for existence, was to collect and save this nourishment in hopes that he would one day benefit from it.

One Friday night, Al and I happened to be feeling up to going out to dinner with Don and Penny. It was nice to do a normal thing in the midst of the surreal turn our lives had taken.

I'd gone hours without pumping by the time we got home and headed upstairs to do my business. As soon as I walked into our room I saw the carnage;

The Dog Ate The Breast Pump.

All the cups and shields and tubing were completely chewed to shreds. Not a thing could be salvaged.  I didn't have any extras.

I lost it. Snapped. Hysterical crying, screaming at the dog. I could not go all night without pumping. Still carrying my free pass for irrational thoughts, I worried that my milk supply would suffer irrevocably if I had to wait until the next day to pump.

Don and Penny just so happened to live across the street from a hospital. The second this realization hit Al, he dashed out the door and ran over to see if he could find me some supplies.

There went my guy, on a mission to ask a bunch of strangers for breast pump supplies.

A minute after he left, Penny gasped, and told Don and me;

"That hospital doesn't have a maternity department."

As we waited, we imagined poor Al, explaining our situation to who knows how many people, and likely people who wouldn't be able to help.

He returned after an hour or so, head hanging in defeat. The people whom he met at the hospital were brought to tears, touched by our story.  They tried very hard to locate the supplies, phone calls were made, Al was sent to different floors, to tell the tale to more tender hearts who would have to disappoint him.

Poor Al felt so helpless, he just wanted to make it all better for me. As I tried to reassure him that I'd be ok until the morning, Don shook his head, and giving his brother a proud pat on the back said;

"You took one for the team dude, you took one for the team."