Something imporant to care about, Vol. 3

This topic qualifies as more than just paranoia. Sexual offenses against our children, no matter their age, is probably one of the greatest fears of many parents. And I feel like I failed my first test.

I have had this fantastic website, the Family Watchdog, forwarded to me a few times by family and friends. If you enter in any address, they will show you a map of sexual offenders’ homes and workplaces with icons on a map. If you click on the icon, you can see a mug shot of the offender, and find out more about their conviction.

The first time I did it, I found a few offenders a few miles away or more. I live on the edge of a highly populated area. I was actually pretty happy with how far I was from the closest offender.

The next time it was forwarded to me, I did another search. I clicked on the icon for my house, and brought up a mug shot. There is an offender who lives so close to my home, it looks like his icon is inside our little house icon. He lives .03 miles away. Two houses down.

I have stared as his picture. I glare at his red BMW every time I walk my son to the bus stop. He made the first appearance outside of his house in six months last week to play with a new puppy in the front yard. He lives with his girlfriend, has a pet, and never leaves the house. He probably works over the internet, like me.

*Shudder*

I have examined his conviction: “Use Internet to solicit/attempt solicit etc. a child for sex/lewdness etc; F.S. 847.0135(3) (PRINCIPAL).” I assume that means he used the internet to try to meet up with a child for sex. I don’t know if it was a male or a female child, which is pure selfishness on my part to want to know. I have two boys. My roommate has a girl. There are many more children, boys and girls of all ages on the block. I don’t know how old the child was. Probably older than my oldest, who is seven, and only goes on Neopets on the internet, and that is supervised. But, my kids are getting older every day.

I talked to my neighbor who lives in the house in between. I told him what I found, and asked him to tell me if he ever saw anything suspicious. I fretted about what to say to my older son. I ended up saying nothing other than the same general comments on his private parts being his own, and to tell me if anyone wanted to touch them. I dreamed up letters I could put in the mailboxes on the street, DVDs I would order to show my sons, but I did nothing.

When we were on our way home from the bus stop last week, he pointed out the house with the red BMW out front, and said, “A bad man lives there.” I tried not to show the terror in my eyes.

“How do you know?” I asked quickly.

“Oh, Luis’s mom told us to watch out, that a bad man lived there.”

Luis’s mom. Luis’s mom who I underestimate constantly, who barely speaks English, is the one who prepared my son against this sexual offender. I was frozen with fear, fear of saying the wrong thing, of having to explain rape and molestation to a seven year old. So, I didn’t tell him or any of his friends or their parents about the threat in the neighborhood. I am glad Luis’s mom stepped up.

I hope all of our children’s first and every experience with sex are voluntary and wonderful.

Here are some more websites that parents and kids may find useful:

National Coalition Against Domestic Violence – External Links Page – includes many hotlines and regional resources

http://www.ncadv.org/resources/ExternalLinks_68.html

Safer Child, Inc.- Help with an Abusive Situation - Hotlines for rape, child abuse, domestic abuse

http://www.saferchild.org/domestic.htm

Nemours Foundation – KidsHealth – Dealing with problems: Rape

http://www.kidshealth.org/teen/your_mind/problems/rape_what_to_do.html

Nemours Foundation – KidsHealth – Internet safety

http://www.kidshealth.org/teen/safety/safebasics/internet_safety.html

The power of suggestion

My boys never cease to amaze me. Even though I am convinced that they are both special little brilliant geniuses, I still underestimate them all the time.

I found a version of some older software for toddlers that S used to love playing. When I first put Z in front of it, I figured he would be hitting the keyboard randomly for a while, and it would be forever before he started pointing and clicking the mouse, and even longer before he actually understood that it corresponded to something on the screen in front of him.

Well, he was pointing, clicking and dragging within about 2 days.

The other thing I underestimated was the ability of Z to be influenced by what he was looking at on a screen. When he pointed and clicked on the number seven, seven apples popped up and he said “Caco!” (his word for apple…it actually is short for avocado…long story). He ran to the refrigerator, grabbed himself an apple, and proceeded to eat it. Ten minutes later, a similar situation happened with bananas showing up in the game. He chirped “ ‘nana!”, jumped up, and insisted on eating a banana.

Luckily, he doesn’t watch much TV, and what he does watch has few commercials. But, the power of image to be converted instantly into want and then action made my head spin. And, of course, it made me paranoid about what future effects advertising will have on his mind and on his waistline.

I found a good site from PBS called Don’t Buy It. This site is geared more towards kids S’s age (7 ½) than Z’s age (2). I will try it out on his older brother first. But, who knows, he may be ready for it. I may just be underestimating him again.

Photo credit: anissat at www.sxc.hu

Just snort it up, why doncha?

I am taking a break from transferring blog entires from my old site (boo! hiss!) and writing a new entry. I have a few bouncing around in my head to write, but this one needs to show up now to say:

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!!

We have avoided sending out cheap crap with some TV or movie character on them to S's class for three years going with this cute little idea! Take the picture, paste it on construction paper, and we are set to go.

So, the people who only know me online get used to my rants and liberal use of the word "crap" when it comes to junk food. Twice today on a board I frequent people made jokes about me judging them for discussing eating / giving their kids crap food. OK, so I am building a reputation. I feel like Julia Child when she said (I am paraphrasing) that everyone thinks she eats quail eggs constantly, but every now and then she is in a hurry and drives through for a burger.

Case in point: My sons are fighting over S's Valentine's Day candy as I type. My 2 year old Z asked me to open up Fun Dip for him. Fun Dip! (I didn't let him have it. I may throw it away if S doesn't eat it in a few days.) I haven't eaten that since I was in college, and my hair was purple at the time, if that was any indication of my judgment.

S's new favorite candy is Pixy Stix. Someone gave this kiddie crack candy out to his second grade class. He keeps on pouring stick after stick down his throat and exclaiming "Wow! I reeeeeeally like this!" with a crazed, glazed look in his eye. I half expect to find him cutting it in lines and snorting on the dining room table after dinner tonight.

So, point is, yes, I complain, but I am a hypocrite. I value healthy food, but I know what it's like to have a sweet tooth, or to have kids who get handed crap at school once a week for one reason or another.

Don't worry, no judgment here. I don't hate the player, I hate the game.

The nicotine monkey becomes a gorilla

My name is Hilary, and I am an addict. A recovered addict, anyway. I was a nicotine junkie for almost ten years.

I started smoking cigarettes when I was 16. I was around people who seemed cool, and they smoked and seemed to enjoy it. My mom and most of her friends smoked when I was a kid in the 70’s. I had been around cigarettes a lot.

I hated it when my mom smoked when I was little. I would hide her cigarettes, break them and put them back in the package. Once I even sprayed them with laundry starch.

My mom eventually quit, or hid her occasional smoking a lot better. Years passed, and I became an invincible, immortal, omniscient teenager. I started smoking while at a summer debate institute at Dartmouth.

(Anyone who makes a comment about me being a former debater in a future argument gets a virtual kick in the shin. I. have. heard. it. before.)

My occasional bum of a smoke off of a friend quickly bloomed into a pack a day habit. I couldn’t laugh without coughing up a wad of black gunk after smoking for almost ten years. I was stalling on trying to quit for the fourth time when I found out I was pregnant with S. I cut down and quit within two weeks. That was 8 years ago.

Apparently only 20% of pregnant women who smoke quit. Most people who want to quit, can’t. I know I tried several times, and it is a strong physical addiction. Well, The Washington Post reported that the Massachusetts Department of Public Health proved cigarette companies have been steadily increasing the amount of nicotine in their cigarettes. More than half of the brands have increased the levels more than 10% in the past decade, and some have raised them more than 30%.

The cigarette companies definitely scare me. They make me want to reach for a tinfoil hat and put a forcefield around my kids. My free spirited and independent boy S already reminds me too much of me. I was no match for the addictiveness of the cigarettes of ten years ago. What will he have waiting for him in ten years?

Phooey to the avian flu

Summer is coming to an end. I love the boys in my life, don't get me wrong. But it is hard enough to work and study with a toddler crawling all over me. Coach Stu and S have been home for going on ten weeks now. I vaguely remember looking forward to having them home for the summer, thinking I would get so much done with them around to help me. HA. I am counting down the days until I send them off with a lunch and a kiss in the morning. My mother just informed me that in the event of an outbreak of pandemic avian flu, students and teachers may be advised to stay home from school, since any parent knows how schools are a veritable Petri dish for incubating germs.

Please. Please, please, please, not just because I am paranoid about pandemic disease. Please. Keep those birdies clean.

Another angry mom

I had a proud mama moment today. My older son S told me that while his stepdad Coach Stu and little brother Z were sleeping and I was at the birth center, he bought an ice cream from the friendly neighborhood kiddie crack dealer ice cream truck. He did not eat it, but put it in the freezer to have after dinner. (That's the proud part.) He bought a repeat of the same crap he bought last time. Rich's Ice Cream, Big Banana.

The first time he brought one of these home, I confiscated it immediately, and told him it was for after dinner. As I walked the contraband to the freezer, I flipped over the label casually, thinking, "There is no way this thing has more fruit than sugar in it."

I scanned the label again and again. All the regular offenders were there: sugar, corn syrup (like they need both) artificial flavors and two artificial colors (Yellow #5 and #6. I guess they don't make a Yellow #5 1/2.) But one thing was missing: the fruit. Could this actually contain none of its namesake banana?

I checked the entire label. It didn't say "Banana flavored" or "Contains 0% real banana" or any other such disclaimers anywhere.

I know my son S. He is desperately eager to please. He has known how to earn mega mom points since the first time he asked "Is this healfee?" and I beamed. I like to imagine that he stood in front of the friendly neighborhood kiddie crack dealer ice cream truck and thought, "Banana. Fruit. OK, mom hates the ice cream truck, but she loves fruit! Maybe she won't be AS annoyed."

So, after a quick look over food labeling laws, I realized that there is absolutely no requirement that a food marketed to children actually has to contain to have a healthy ingredient on its label (or in its frickin name!) As long the kiddie crack kingpins junk food manufacturers didn't try to slap a health claim on the label such as "Healthy!" or "Fights cardiovascular disease!" then apparently they can call the crap anything they want.

When someone wrote in wondering if they could follow in the same vein as Rich's Big Banana and Grape-Nuts and come up with a food product with a wildly bogus name, The Straight Dope claims the FTC "would promptly slap you with a cease-and-desist order for promulgating advertising with a "tendency to deceive." (Although you never know. The way things have been going lately, they might give you an award and appoint you commissioner.)"

I would agree more with the commissioner part.

I need to follow in the footsteps of these Two Angry Moms and channel my anger about junk food aimed at kids. They are making a movie about how annoyed they are at the poor selection in school cafeterias.

Just another hippie Saturday

I had to poke a little fun at my crunchy self. This Saturday I used my friend's (thanks, Summer!) present to me: a push lawnmower! This is the second time I used it. It ROCKS. No noise, no dangerous whirling mechanical blades, no gas, no money to OPEC, no addition to global warming....

I love it. As part of my paranoia, I am afraid of global warming. I thought An Inconvenient Truth was a fantastic, well made movie. I wish Gore could have been that compelling in the lead up to 2000, but that is another blog.

My mother-in-law grew up in a house her father built on beautiful Sugar Loaf Key in the 1950's. Last year,
Hurricane Wilma, only a paltry category 3 hurricane, left the entire island under several feet of salt water. After New Orleans and Katrina, the submerged island didn't really make a lot of news. Every car on the island was a loss. My mother-in-law's beautiful house was flooded. Salt water corroding and ruining every piece of furniture, every appliance, every book.

If you can look beyond my strikingly handsome boys, take a gander at the water line on the wall behind them. Something tells me that fifty years ago, this may not have happened. At least not both in the same hurricane season. I have lived in Florida almost as long as my mother-in-law, and I cannot remember hurricanes ripping through here like they have in 2004 and 2005, our worst years yet, except for possibly Hurricane Andrew.

I was due with baby Z during the 2004 hurricane season, and we endured three successive hurricane hits within a month of his birth. Our direct hit by Wilma's screaming eye last year was far more frightening for me, however.


Anyway *shaking head and blinking* what were we talking about? Oh, right. My crunchy hippie self. So, this Saturday, I ate some organic blueberry granola with organic kefir, went out and used my push lawn mower, popping my head back in every now and then to check on how my home made yogurt was doing. I looked back on the afternoon and felt compelled to go buy some patchouli and stop wearing deodorant. Oh, wait, I did forget.....Don't worry. I showered after the lawn mowing. And there was no money hidden under the soap.


I checked my email inbox later, and apparently my tinfoil hat did not prevent the spam email advertising people from reading my hippie vibes. I had these two ads in various news letters today. Enjoy, fellow hippies:


Peace blocks


Organic Gift Shop


And both have reasonably priced items!


Here is a hippie-friendly new blog called
Emerald Market by a friend of StephaniaPButler

Day seven...doing good

Hell Week is finally over. I talked to my older son S. We only spoke once previously during Hell Week.

He was staying at his real dad's house. His father and I normally trade off custody every other week over the summer anyway, so it was not unusual for him to be away from me for a week at a time. I generally would try to come up for a meal or talk to him on the phone a little more often, but Hell Week probably didn't have as much of an effect on him as it did on Z, who wasn't even two years old yet, and only had been separated from me for my weekly overnight shifts at the birth center.

I called S today, and we chatted a bit. He was learning to play poker with his dad, and had been to see the new Superman movie. He is coming home tomorrow, and the whole family is going on a weeklong trip to a time share at the beach.

He was about to hand the phone back to his dad, when he said, "Wait mom, I just have to ask you one question."

"Yes?"

"Did you do good at Hell Week?"

I sighed. "Well, sweetie, it was hard, and I was really tired."

"Yes, mom, but did you do good?"

I paused as it sunk in. "Yes, sweetie. I think I did. I did a lot of good."

"OK mom. Then I just wanted to say congratulations."

Congratulations indeed. I had my true mettle tested, stared my birth demons in the face, reaffirmed that I do want to be a midwife even after such a difficult week, and helped eight moms bring babies into the world and begin their journey of motherhood with each. Oh, and I did some good.

Day three...well, technically, day four

I wanted to check in before now, but I have been at three births, one clinic, and actually got to sleep for about 6 hours. Not bad for almost 72 hours.

I wish I could say the homebirth was easy and beautiful and idyllic. If this was fiction, I would have laidthe foundation of the perfect situation, the wonderful couple, the right support system, and then the birth happens the way we all wanted, and I made my point about natural birth. Don't get me wrong, the labor was probably the most fun I have ever had at a labor, and that is saying a lot for being up for a day and a half. However, the birth was hard, and it shook me pretty deeply.

The most important of the physiological changes in labor to allow for a vaginal birth is the a dilation of the cervix. "10 centimeters. Complete." Those are the magic words that every woman who has suffered through labor is longing to hear. Homebirth Mom was having great contractions, which is one mechanism that encourages the cervix to dilate. However, Homebirth Baby was coming down with her little head a little cockeyed. The pressure of the baby's head against the cervix also encourages the cervix to dilate, but a crooked head does not descend or dilate well.

The labor was long. None of us, least of all the mom and I, got much sleep. Her spirits remained astonishingly high. She danced, she laughed, she played between contractions, and she focused and breathed through them. However, her dilation stalled and stalled. Finally, her cervix was almost complete. However, one portion of it stubbornly remained thicker than the rest. This is known as a "lip". It is rare, it holds up the transition from labor to pushing, and I had one during my first labor with S seven years earlier.

I watched as the midwife rubbed out the cervix with her gloved fingers as the woman screeched and moaned. Homebirth Mom never pulled away, she never sobbed "NO! No, please stop, it hurts SO MUCH!" as I remember doing. I had a day long labor too, but I was in a cold hospital room, strapped to monitors and with an IV full of pitocin to make my contractions harder. No epidural, no best friend, no doula with lavender aromatherapy spritzer, no team of midwifery students. One midwife with the bedside manner of Dr. Frankenstein, one labor nurse who was wonderful, but who I had never met before, and my shell shocked husband and mother who were not that into the natural birth thing.

Homebirth Mom endured the midwife manipulating her lip for a good two hours. It took my midwife about three and a half hours to get rid of mine as I pushed and screamed. My mom kept waiting for the nonexistent doctor to come in, put me under and take out the baby.

When I graduated from high school, I initially became an education major because I was so disgruntled with my high school administrators. I switched to being a fashion design major because I hated the way the mainstream clothing industry seemed to not be able to make cool yet comfortable clothing. I was suddenly afraid I was training to be a midwife because I hated the way my first birth went, and I thought I could (eventually) do better than my midwife. But apparently, midwifes rub out cervical lips. Some of them, including the one at my center and the one who attended my first birth, did so with no anesthetic or ice or anything. And it hurts the mom. Would I be able to do that for a mom while she screamed and I flashed back to the intense, excrutiating pain I felt?

I sobbed as I drove a car full of homebirth supplies and the placenta back to the car. Oh wait, you wanted to hear about the birth. The baby finally came out, and was perfectly fine. The mom and dad were ecstatic, and I am sure they do not regret their choice of having a natural birth. She may even have another baby and may choose to do it naturally again, as I did. But I was shaken to the bone. I was thinking how an epidural would have probably been pure mercy for her, and for me. However, about 5 % of moms have persistent lips like that. I have probably only seen a midwife have to rub out the cervix on a screaming woman twice in the roughly 50 births I have been to.

So, without my crystal ball, I will not be able to predict who will have a lip, or any other complication. I got to see two more births today, after a solid six hours of sleep and a lot of thinking. I love talking with moms and doing prenatals. I love the post partum checks with the brand new babies and cheery but sleepy new parents. Believe it or not, I love the labors, even the long ones. And I love the easy births. And the medium births. It's the hard ones that really shake you. Especially if they remind you of your own. But, that's OK. It's not really the easy births that women really need midwives for anyway. As Shari says, most of those babies would eventually fall out on their own anyway.

I wouldn't go back in time and choose an epidural for my first birth, and I really doubt Homebirth Mom would either. And women who are willing to take the hard road need midwives who are willing to walk with them. I hope to be that one day.

How I learned to love my tinfoil hat

I hope most of you are in the group who laughed uproariously and said "What a funny name!" when you read the title My Tinfoil Hat, as opposed to the few who gave me a puzzled look and said "Um, what is that about?"

The has been touted by concerned people as being a layer of defense against unseen threats such as mind reading, electromagnetic fields, alien transmissions and radiation. This hip fashion accessory has also become a symbol for protection among the paranoid.

I am not what many would call paranoid in all of my parenting choices. I let my kids run around barefoot outdoors. My older son S voluntarily told me he's not so sure it's such a great idea, since he has had more than one painful splinter digging expedition into his tender feet. He rides his bike, plays with his friends with intermittent supervision, and sometimes even walks to the bus stop with me waving from the front door, hoping to crawl back into bed with my toddler Z instead of walking the whole crew up the street.

Z is a daredevil child, climbing up onto windowsills and scaling the backs of furniture. He stands on the back of his rocking horse. I smile, and take it in stride. When one of them coughs or sneezes, I am not immediately booking the next appointment at the pediatrician's. No anxiety attacks, no wild parental fear.

However, when it comes to the lurking synthetic dangers, that's where you get me thinking THEY are out to get me. You can find me in grocery stores, scanning ingredient labels for the latest threatening additive the mad scientists of the food industry have invented. I prefer the genes of my organisms unmodified, thank you very much. I worry about a cell phone tower being built in my neighborhood. What exactly do they beam out of those things? Is THAT why Z isn't sleeping through the night yet?

So, My Tinfoil Hat is a place for me to document my paranoid research into what won't kill my kids, but may make them stronger. Or, give us all cancer. Who knows? Stay tuned and find out.