Still wearing my favorite maternity shirt complete with a "what the hell just happened" expression.

A scream that the baby is coming. Tires squealing out of the driveway. Racing to the freeway. Running red lights. Barreling towards the hospital at 100 miles an hour. Throwing the car keys at the ER valet. Getting rushed to a hospital room. Nurses scrambling and the doctor rushing in mid-push.

These things aren’t supposed to happen during labor. The birth of a baby isn’t usually a crazy emergency situation…or, at least, that’s what they tell us in all those birthing classes. But it can happen like that. I know, because it happened to me.

It’s a good thing I didn’t have a birth plan for my baby boy. Because no amount of planning could have prepared me for what happened the night my son “E” was born. My son was born on October 14th, his initial due date, at 11:27 pm. We arrived at the hospital at 11:20 pm. Want to know how that happened? Read on:

Knowing that my doctor would plan an induction if I went past my due date, I spent the week leading up to 14th trying out some natural induction methods. The past few weeks had been filled with a surge of Braxton Hicks contractions and I felt optimistic that I could go into natural labor before the doctor broke out the pitocin. So, I visited my acupuncturist/chiropractor. I ate eggplant parmigiana and pineapple. I went for long walks and bribed seduced my husband. A friend of mine swore by the breast pump to kick-start things, which I tried the morning on October 13th. Later that afternoon, I visited a reflexologist for an hour long massage. By that evening my contractions were coming along more steadily and intensely, but never painfully. I didn’t think much of it since I had been dealing with pre-labor signs for weeks.

The morning of the 14th, I had two appointments – one with my OB/GYN and another with a Maternal Fetal Health Clinic. Due to my elderly maternal age of 35 and Pregnancy-Induced Hypertension, I had been deemed “high-risk” and had been monitored with NST and ultrasound exams twice a week since early September. My doctor checked me and I was barely dilated nor effaced, which wasn’t a total surprise. I was barely dilated with my first son 90 minutes before he was born. We discussed my previous labor, which we had discussed many times already, and talked about the plan to induce the following week if the baby didn’t arrive on his own. I then headed to another floor for my NST exam. The nurses noticed a decrease in the baby’s movement. I had felt him several times that morning and even during the exam, but their concern had me worried. After a discussion with my doctor, they scheduled me to go to L&D the next morning for further monitoring. I knew there was a good chance that they would keep me in L&D and induce me at the first sign of a problem. I silently begged my body and my baby to get things rolling.

I was home by 1:00pm and started timing my still relatively painless contractions. The Dude had stayed home from work that day and my mom stopped by to watch the Monkey.  We took our dog for a long walk, which got the contractions coming a little more consistently and intensely. By 5:00 pm, my mom had left and I was getting restless so I decided to go to Trader Joe’s with the Monkey. While waiting in line to check out, a woman with three small children started chatting me up. A contraction came during that time and she must have read my expression because she asked if I was in labor. I replied that I didn’t think so because the contractions didn’t really hurt. She gave me a look as if to say “uh, yeah you are!” and wished my luck.  When I returned home, the Dude decided to run out and grab us some Indian take-out. By the time he returned at 7:00pm, I felt things were moving more quickly and that we needed to visit the hospital. When he pulled the car in the drive way, I yelled out to him to leave the car there and not bother pulling it into the garage – we were going soon. While the Dude quickly ate, we called his mom to come over and watch the Monkey. She was there within minutes and we took off. We arrived at the hospital at 7:30 pm.

The admitting nurse checked me and I was at 2cm dilated and 60% effaced. My mom had met us at the hospital since I thought for sure things would be moving quickly. The contractions were coming along between 2-4 minutes apart and had become stronger and somewhat painful. I walked around the halls with the Dude. I would brace myself against a wall during a contraction while he massaged the pain in my lower back. The nurse checked me again after an hour. No change. My doctor stopped by at that point and could see that I was in pain and the contractions were coming on more regularly. She ordered a shot of Demoral to take the edge off  and then told me that I should go home and labor for a few more hours and then come back. She also told me that she would probably see me later that night or early the next morning but, because I was still at 2cm, they couldn’t admit me yet unless I was in a serious amount of pain. My contractions were painful, but not unbearable, however the Demoral did nothing for me except make me a little woozy. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep through the contractions, but I thought I could at least go home and be comfortable while I labored. I joked about getting some Krispy Kreme donuts on the way home as a last calorie-busting hurrah before starting my post-baby diet. The nurse kept asking me my pain scale number and mentioned a few times that she thought I had a high tolerance for pain. I thought it was a weird comment since I was only at 2cm but, looking back, I realize she was trying to clue me into saying that my pain level was higher than I said so they would have to admit me. I wish I had.

We left the hospital at 10:30pm. I would be giving birth in less than an hour.

A block from the hospital the contractions were rapidly becoming stronger and painful, but they were still manageable. Considering we live so close to the hospital, we still decided to go home and wait it out a bit longer. Big mistake. We got back home and I went upstairs thinking I needed to use the bathroom. The contractions had become so powerful that I remember thinking that I could actually be in the transition stage of labor. I could do nothing but moan in a primal tone and brace myself during each hit. Between contractions, I sat down on the toilet and quickly realized that I didn’t need to use the bathroom after all – the pressure I was feeling was the urge to push! I screamed for the Dude and he rushed in to help me pull my pants back on. I yelled that we needed to go back to the hospital  and fast – I didn’t want to have my baby on my bathroom floor! His mom heard the commotion and asked if she should call 911. The Dude yelled back no as we rushed out the door and into the car. He opened the passenger door as I ran to the back seat. There was no way I could sit upright. As he peeled out of the driveway, knowing that he was about to drive much more recklessly than usual, he asked in a somewhat panicked tone for me to put my seat-belt on. I yelled back “DRIVE!!!” which he did both dangerously and beautifully. Thankfully, it was late at night and there were very few cars on the road. We arrived at the hospital at 11:20pm.

The Dude threw his car keys at the ER valet, who caught them as if he had seen this situation a few times before. A wheelchair came out of nowhere and they ran me to the elevator to head to L&D. I could only half-sit because of the pressure, so I held up my body on the wheelchair arms. The ER was filled with people and I could see a few nervous faces.  A woman called out, “looks like it’s time – congrats!” The wheelchair attendant, a teenage volunteer, happily talked about how this was his favorite part of the job. The Dude asked him to pick up the pace and that we needed a room fast. We got to L&D admitting where I could no longer sit down because I could feel the baby in the birth canal. I yelled “the only thing keeping this baby in is me keeping my legs closed!” An off-duty nurse heard the commotion and waved us all into an empty room. At least 8 other nurses rushed in at that time and I somehow got onto the table and out of my pants. My doctor was nowhere to be found so the nurses yelled out that they were ready to deliver. The instinct to keep my legs closed was overwhelming, probably because I was in shock about what was happening, and I remember a few nurses prying my legs open. I yelled out “wait, I need an epidural!” and everyone laughed. One nurse replied, “honey, you’ve done the work already – the baby’s head is here!”  The Dude was looking down at me, telling me that it was time and that our baby would be here soon. I focused on him and his words. The urge to push became incredibly intense and I looked down to see my doctor arrive as I pushed for the first and only time. I felt the baby rapidly descend from my body and out of my womb, a feeling I vividly remember with my first son. An incredible and euphoric feeling that is unlike anything else in the world. I didn’t feel any pain, only relief and awe. I was still wearing my own shirt, so they laid a blanket on my chest and placed my new baby boy on me for a matter of seconds before they rushed to check him. The Dude later told me that immediately after I delivered, they gave me a shot of pitocin in my leg to reduce the chance of hemorrhaging. I don’t remember that. The entire chaotic scene was a blur of activity with nurses running around and my doctor yelling about how she couldn’t find me.

I was in a state of surreal shock. I heard the baby cry, which made me happy to hear, but I didn’t feel anything else at all. I could not wrap my head around what just happened. The past hour had become the most intense and crazy hour of my life and it was hard to believe that my baby boy was here and in my arms. When my first son was born, I immediately burst into tears of joy after his birth. With this experience, the shock didn’t wear off until the following morning, which is when I finally became an emotional mess. My boy was here. He was healthy and safe. Looking down at his beautiful scrunched up face with folded down ears and a crease around his forehead from the birth canal, I whispered that I would do it all again in a heartbeat for him. For the rest of my life, I would do anything for him.

He had spent a weekend at home and was headed back to college, where he is a pre-med student. It was obvious that he is very passionate about his studies and career choice and had already decided on what field of medicine he wanted to study (cardiology). I was intrigued by this 20 year old man because he seemed so confident and self-aware. He told me that he has known he wanted to be a doctor since he was very young and had been preparing himself his whole life for the challenge. The sacrifices, the studying, the long hours, and lack of social life…he said he was ready for all of it. I believed him. But I was curious. Where did his drive come from? Who or what inspired him? And did he feel any pressure to become a doctor? His Asian ethnicity made me immediately think of the recent Wall Street Journal article about Chinese Mothers and I could not help but ask questions about the mother who raised him.

His mother was an immigrant from Vietnam and, although she encouraged him and his brother to do their best, there was never any pressure to study for a certain career. While he is studying to be a doctor, his brother is studying to be a filmmaker at a local art school, something that their mother supports and encourages equally. They were allowed to play sports, play any instrument of their choice, spend plenty of time with friends, and pursue whatever interested them. I said that his mother must be so proud of him and his accomplishments and goals, to which he replied with a modest shrug. His mother worries, he told me.  She worries that he works too hard and encourages him to spend more time with his girlfriend, friends, and to enjoy his college years. He brushes off her concerns, saying that if he doesn’t work hard enough, he will not achieve his goals. She certainly didn’t sound like a “Chinese Mother” to me.

He asked about my son and joked if I’m already putting any pressure on him to pursue a certain career. As we laughed about the idea of toddler LSAT and MCAT tests, I started thinking about the role I play as a mother. In reality, I don’t encourage the Monkey to do anything other than eat his veggies and share but, one day, I’ll be paying close attention to his interests and studies. Ideally, he will develop interests and find studies that he is passionate about and will pursue them to the best of his ability, but I know that’s not always the case. Children often have to be coaxed and nagged to study or practice. I can easily recall my childhood desires to stop swim practice, finish my piano lessons, and my impatience for certain classes to end. But how much is too much? When do we stop making a daughter practice the piano when it clearly no longer interests her or agree for a son to drop AP Biology when he prefers to work harder in History? Even when they nail a test or do well playing certain notes, does it even matter if they don’t find it that interesting or meaningful?

I saw the spark in the young man’s eyes when he spoke of his dreams of being a doctor, a spark his mother surely sees as well.  I hope to see that spark in my own son’s eyes one day as well, whether it’s because he wants to be a doctor, a lawyer, or an engineer. Or an artist, a writer, or an electrician. It truly doesn’t matter to me. Because without that spark, it won’t matter how hard a parent pushes. The spark cannot be generated artificially. It cannot be handed down or prompted by parents, “Chinese” or otherwise.  The spark is created from within.  And from within is the only place where that spark can truly be fueled and free to build and glow.

The Dude photographs monkeys of all kinds.

One Sunday morning at the beginning of last year, I read this piece in the New York Times Magazine, which postulates that parenting today is defined by the process of archiving digital media of our children.  More morosely, it explains that

American children in 2010 have a bright, clear reason for being. They exist to furnish subjects for digital photographs that can be corrected, cropped, captioned, organized, categorized, albumized, broadcast, turned into screen savers and brandished on online social networks.

Tongue even more firmly in cheek, the article describes the initiation process into digital parenthood:

The marching orders come immediately, with the newborn photo, which must be e-mailed to friends before a baby has left the maternity ward. A conscientious father . . . must snap dozens of shots of the modestly wrapped newborn. . . . Back at a laptop, he uploads the haul, scrutinizing pixels. . . . He selects a becoming one. The mother signs off, often via e-mail, from her hospital bed. . . . Thus a parent is minted.

Indeed.  And it doesn’t stop at the hospital. We all take virtual piles of pictures now that digital cameras have become nearly disposable in price and cameraphones ubiquitious.  But for all of the advantages of digital media — immediacy, bottomless storage, etc. — there is one serious disadvantage: It takes but a small computer problem to lose it all.  Anyone who’s experienced a hard drive crash can attest to just how many precious memories can be lost in an instant.  And, disaster aside, I think we’ve all grown a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of files and sources of our digital media.

So, given my role as Archivist-in-Chief in our household, Aimee thought I might be able to give AYMB readers some helpful advice by describing what we do in terms of documenting the Monkey, how we archive/curate it all, and how we secure and back it up.  But first, some background.

The Dude, Digital Archivist
If digital archiving is the hallmark of 21st century parenting, then I had been minted as Dad long before biologically becoming one.  For reasons only a psychiatrist could explain, I’ve always been a bit of a digital archivist.  By the time I graduated law school, I had stored on my computer not only every paper I had written since high school, but also, freakishly, every email I had ever written and every digital picture I had ever taken.  Then, I undertook the project of digitizing my collection of thousands of CDs.  Throw in, over the next few years, a concert photography hobby, a side-gig as live-show archivist for a band, and another pile of music, and I was juggling a few terrabytes of data before the Monkey was even a proverbial glimmer.

In short, I was well prepared for tackling the project of documenting, archiving, and curating all things Monkey.  I packed for the Monkey’s birth as I did for any other adventure: neatly stuffing into my camera bag 2 digital SLR bodies, 4 lenses, an external flash, gig after gig of memory cards, more chargers and batteries than you could imagine, and a digital HD video camera.  My bag weighed more than the Monkey at birth — and the replacement value eclipsed the hospital bill.  But it was worth it in every way. Aimee did indeed sign off on a picture, and we used it to announce the Monkey to the world before even leaving the hospital.

Parenting by 1s and 0s
I’d bet dollars to donuts that this long walk down a short digital pier resonates with many AYMB readers — if not in scale, then at least in theme.  If it does, consider following advice for managing your digital memories:

1. Take lots of pictures and video (and voice memos). Memory and storage is cheap these days.  A 4GB SD card can be had for $25 bucks.  4GB!?!  That’ll hold thousands of pics.  Snap away.  Don’t be shy.  You can delete later, but you can’t recapture lost moments.

2. Dont forget about your smart phone. With smart phones getting much cheaper, we have access to a lot more ways to record life.  That iPhone (or equivalent) in your pocket takes pretty darn good pictures, records pretty good sound files, and (the newest generation, at least) shoots some pretty incredible video.  Your phone is the one electronic device you almost always have with you.  Don’t forget it’s there.

3. Find a workflow that works . . . and stick to it. As with anything in life, you will be more likely to stick to it if you can find a routine that works for you.  On a computer, we call that “workflow.”  It’s what you do, start to finish, to get your media off your devices, onto your computer, onto the web, and backed up safely.  Everyone’s workflow will be different, and you need to find the one that works for you.  Here’s mine:

• I create a topical folder for each photgraphed “event.”  For example, we took The Monkey to play in the snow over the weekend, bringing with our two iPhones, Aimee’s point-and-shoot, and my SLR.  When we got back, I dumped the media from each of those four sources into one folder entitled “2011-01-08 (snow-day).”
• I generally sift and edit photos in Picasa.  Although I use Lightroom and Aperture for more extensive editing jobs, I find Picasa to be the most intuitive, fastest, and most complete program (especially because I use Picasa for online storage and sharing).  Picasa is free and, for those who care, non-destructive.  iPhoto is great, I’m sure; I’ve never used it.
• I take a couple “laps” through a set of pictures.  During the first lap I flag (in Picasa, I use the star system) the pics that should be deleted.  Those are the ones that are just plain bad — bad exposure, bad framing, blur, someone eating with their mouth open, etc.  I would guess that I delete almost 2/3 of all pictures in this first lap.  After deleting those, the next lap is dedicated to culling the pics that are passable and worth editing and sharing.  Generally, I’d say about half of the pictures make it out of this lap and into a “final” subfolder (and then online for sharing with family and friends).  This time, I don’t delete the “non-final” ones; I keep them for future re-editing, alternate versions, etc.  Again, storage is pretty cheap.
• I finish up by dragging that folder onto my external storage device for backing up and safe keeping.

4. Use effective naming conventions and folder structures. This one sounds dorky, but it helps a ton.  As I mentioned, I organize my photos by “events.”  I always use the YYYY-MM-DD (event name) convention because it will sort/alphabetize property, and because it allows quick identification.  I then place those topical/event folders within folders by year.  2008, 2009, 2010, etc.  If you don’t take a lot of pictures, these yearly folders might not be necessary.  It helps me a lot.

5. Backup early and often. I have literally hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars invested into my photos.  And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.  Their sentimental and historical value is truly beyond measure.  And it could take as little as a three-year-old spilling water, electrical spike, or hard drive crash to wipe it all out.  Everything.  In a second.  And, yes, hard drives do fail.  Often.  They’re tiny magnetic discs that spin400,000 times per hour.  Even the best ones eventually break.

So, I remain vigilant about backups.  I’ll describe my backup system below, but mine is almost certainly more complicated than yours needs to be.  The casual photographer probably can get away with a simple external hard drive; amazon.com has several 500GB ones for much less than $100.  You can manually drag your prized data onto it, or could use any number of free or cheap backup programs.  Apple users should consider Time Machine, for example.  For those into idiot-proof solutions, I’ve found the Click-Free auto-backup external drive to be a nice solution.  My mom has used one for a couple years now, with not one complaint.  (And she set it up without me!)

If you’re as paranoid as I am, you might consider a bulkier setup.  I have a 6TB RAID-configured Network Attached Storage device in the closet with our networking and stereo equipment.  That’s a fancy way of saying that I have a very big, very reliable hard drive stored out of harm’s way.  The Monkey can’t spill on it.  I can’t accidentally drop it.  And, because it’s attached to a $40 UPS (uninterruptible power supply), it can shut down safely in the event of a power outage.  As soon as I’m done sifting/editing, my pictures get stored on that drive.  And then, because I’m truly paranoid, I have a second drive that I store at my office and bring home once/month to clone the home drive.  The off-site drive gives me a second backup that should add protection against theft, fire, flood, earthquake etc.

Your Tips?
Do you have any tips you’d like to share with AYMB readers?  We’d love to hear from you.

Happy shutterbugging.

It’s pretty common for those who work a 9-5 job to get some kind of annual year-end review. For those of us who work the 24/7  job, otherwise known as stay-at-home parents, it’s my belief that we should get a year-end review, too. The only problem is that our bosses typically lack the verbal skills to express a year’s worth of achievements, failures, and everything in between. If my 3 year old boss could actually give me a year-end review, I’m guessing it would go something like this:

Well, Mom, here we are again. Another year is over and it’s safe to say that it’s been an interesting ride. I’ve developed into a fairly typical 3 year old boy.  I am obsessed with trains, planes, cars, and anything else that has wheels. I like splashing in puddles and playing in dirt. I like bugs but hate worms. I could live on peanut butter sandwiches, french fries, and chocolate covered pretzels, if you let me. I’m a little shy, especially around girls, but once I get to know someone I don’t want them to leave. I don’t like to share my toys or leave the playground. And I definitely let you know when I’m pissed. I still treat you like a servant yet you STILL smother me to death with love and kisses. I have to admit that I still love the kisses, hugs, and snuggling and I think I’ll still be OK with all that for at least another year or two. So enjoy it while it lasts. We had a lot of hits and misses this past year in terms of behavioral training.

You have to admit, for someone that has supposedly been educated and trained in behavior modification, you’re not perfect when it comes to modifying the behavior of your own 3 year old kid. I throw tantrums when I don’t get my way, I still don’t use the potty, and there is no way in hell you’re going to make me eat that. But, hey, I’m 3 and no “expert” is going to make me do anything I don’t want to do. You can play all the reinforcement games, give me time-outs, and deprive me of my toys and treats, but as you and that Daddy guy have quickly learned, I’m not going to always give in to your demands. Yes, I do believe that I’m smarter and more savvy than you and I will always find a way to get what I want. Oh, you want to give me a time-out? Yes, please! I really enjoy my “me time.” And that toy you just took away? I didn’t care about that either. You really don’t get it, do you. I am perfectly content with playing with a paper towel roll or just sitting in a corner talking to myself and my imaginary friends. Let’s face it, I might get upset about that stuff for a minute or two but then I’ll get distracted and behave nicely as I focus on something else. Oh, that’s the whole point?!? Huh, guess you’re smarter than I thought. Before we end this review, we should go over a few of the goals we had established for the year and see how you fared:

1. Wean me off the binkies: Accomplished!
2. Wean me off the bottle: Accomplished!
3. Wean me off a night bottle: Half-accomplished. It changed from a bottle of milk to a sippy cup of seltzer water
4. Potty-train me: Big FAIL. Going once in the potty doesn’t count. I told you that I’ll let you know when I’m ready!
5. Learn the alphabet: Somewhat accomplished. I get to G really well and then I skip to O.
6. Learn to count to 3: I can count to 10. Well done!
7. Stop throwing food: Uh, FAIL. My aim has only improved in the last year.
8. Learn to say I LOVE YOU: Accomplished! And, yes, I do mean it.

The upcoming year will be a year filled with big changes. I’m starting preschool next week, so we’ll see how that goes. We talk about it a lot and I’ve met my teacher and new friends, so I think it will go well. I’m sure it’s a bittersweet time for you but I’m sure you’ll enjoy the few extra hours you get a week for yourself. I also know that you’re starting some part-time work with a non-profit philanthropic organization, whatever that means, but I certainly hope that doesn’t impact your work here with me! I’m sure you’ll do just fine. It’ll be good for you to do something new and exciting and have adult conversations that don’t revolve around diapers, tantrums, and your favorite products at Trader Joe’s.

In conclusion, I think you’ve done a great job this year and I’m excited for the future. I think that in addition to that Daddy Dude, we’re a great team. Keep up the good work! Uh, no, there isn’t a raise or a bonus. What? No, I won’t be hiring any additional support staff this year.  Sorry, I thought you knew this when you took the position. You and Daddy are the only staff with the occasional help from a “Nana.” Isn’t this job getting easier for you anyways? You’ve been doing it for 3 years! No? It was easier when I was less opinionated, verbal, and active? Ha! Just wait until I’m 13. Happy New Year, readers! May 2011 bring you much joy, love, and happiness.

As a huge fan of Swedish Chefs and Iron Chefs, I was thrilled with the invite and opportunity. The Muppets Kitchen is a wonderful new online video series starring celebrity chef Cat Cora and Muppet Chef Angelo (who, with his thick Italian accent, is clearly not Swedish). However, Chef Angelo is a close friend and apprentice to the Swedish Chef and, as I quickly learned, is just as entertaining and lovable.  His cooking skills, however, are questionable.

The online videos, which are featured on Disney’s Family.com and Disney.go.com websites, are not only entertaining to watch but are filled with helpful cooking tips and ideas for little eaters. As a mom herself, Cat Cora has a ton of ideas for healthy and delicious food that even the pickiest eater will enjoy. There are no surprises and sneaky methods with her recipes. Cat believes that educating your children about what’s in their food and where it’s from is the best way to go. As she explained to the audience, knowing the ingredients of her food and trying everything at least once has not only expanded her own palate but helped her become the incredible chef she is today.

Watching Cat Cora, Chef Angelo, and Pepe explain how to make trail mix popcorn

Cat and Angelo demonstrated how to make a delicious snack called Trail Mix Popcorn. You can make the popcorn with the nuts and dried fruit on their own or add the melted sugar, corn syrup, and butter for an extra treat. Either way, it’s going to taste great! It’s a Moms and Muppets approved snack. Check it out!

Cat Cora and Chef Angelo’s Trail Mix Popcorn

Yield: About 10 cups

Ingredients

1 (2.9 oz.) bag microwave popcorn, popped according to package instructions (or 6 oz. store-bought pre-popped popcorn)
1 cup raisins
1/2 cup dried apricots, chopped into 1/4-inch pieces
1/2 cup dried cranberries or dried cherries
1 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup light corn syrup
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/4 cup finely chopped pecans, walnuts, or peanuts
1/4 cup raw sunflower seeds
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Directions

1. In a large bowl sprayed with non-stick cooking spray, add the popped popcorn along with the raisins, apricots and cranberries. Set aside.
2. In a medium saucepan over low heat, melt the sugar and corn syrup. Once melted, stir in the butter, nuts, sunflower seeds, and cinnamon until combined. Remove the pan from the heat.
3. Carefully drizzle the melted sugar mixture over the popcorn, stirring constantly until all ingredients are fully combined and coated.
4. Allow to cool completely before serving. Note, the popcorn will be a sticky treat.

Please click on the video to see more of Cat Cora and Chef Angelo in action!

His & Her jeans. Guess which is which.

The Dude is about 2 inches shorter than me. On a good day.

There are days when we’re about the same height, like when I’m in flats and he’s wearing his fancy Cole Haans. And then there are days when I’m about 5 inches taller. Those are the days I wear heels. Those days are few and far between. It’s not because I care about being so much taller than the Dude. It’s because I’m clumsy enough as it is wearing flats.

I’m 5’9 and, before I met the Dude, I usually only dated men taller than me. I didn’t have anything against dating shorter men. Really. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Shorter guys never approached me and I was much too shy to approach anyone, let alone a cute shorter dude that didn’t even look my way. As soon as I sprouted in junior high to become the 2nd tallest girl in the class, the guys immediately stopped teasing and flirting with me. Instead, they asked me to play on their recess basketball teams. In high school, the cute short girls snagged all of my crushes, many of whom were my height or shorter. I never saw tall girls and short boys together. It was only when Tom Cruise married Nicole Kidman that I believed that there were people out there that didn’t give a crap about height.

How many times have you heard a woman say that she would never date a man shorter than her or a man say that he only likes women a certain height?  It’s the kind of stuff I heard in high school and continue to hear well into my 30′s. What gives?

I suppose there is some sort of biological or societal instinct for women to date taller and bigger men. Big and tall men are seen as protectors and women like feeling secure in their man’s arms. Many men also have that urge to protect and shelter their woman. Is this need based on the hunter-gatherer mentality passed down through the generations, is it something biologically driven, or is it founded on simple vanity influenced by media images and societal standards? The only thing I left out is simply this – men, on average, are taller than women. Heterosexual couples usually include a taller man and a shorter woman because that is what is usually available. But what if the best man or woman for you comes in a package that’s shorter or taller than you expected?

Here’s the thing I wonder about – how many amazing people have  been ignored by others only because they didn’t meet a certain height criteria.  How many incredible love stories have never been told because a man or woman was too short or too tall.  If I had cared that much about height difference, then there is a good chance I never would have dated the Dude. He clearly didn’t care about the height difference and pursued me anyways. That kind of confidence was something I had never seen before in another man. Getting to know him early on our relationship, I found everything I had been looking for in a man (and then some) but had never found. We’ve been together over 7 years now and the only time the height difference comes up is when we joke around about me keeping stuff out of his reach on the high kitchen shelves.

I see a lot more couples these days that don’t care about height. Every time I see another taller woman/shorter man couple on the street, I want to give them a high-five. I have to be honest, it’s very cool to see. Thanks to Tom Cruise and other celebs, we’re seeing it a lot more in the media as well. As soon as I see a love story in a movie about a much taller woman and a shorter man (and not one portrayed by actors that really are but have been disguised for us to think otherwise), I’ll know that our society has moved forward with this whole height difference hang-up.

All of this is to say that if your height criteria is the first thing you assess (and then reject) in a potential partner, you have no idea what you might be missing out on. Reject someone because they don’t treat you well or have an attitude problem, not because they’re two inches shorter than your standards. If you’re looking for love, don’t initially discriminate against those aren’t as tall or short as you had hoped.  The love of your life might be right under your nose. Literally.

(photo courtesy of Think Progress)

Islamic Fundamentalism is to Islam as  ________________  is to Christianity.

This nation has a long history of persecuting various religious, racial, and ethnic groups, something that goes against the very core of the origin of the United States. It is constitutionally and ethically wrong and unjust to persecute the Muslim people. Muslims are not responsible for 9/11 and they should not be held accountable for the Islamic fundamentalists responsible for terrorizing our nation. We need to stop protesting their community centers and Mosques. Instead, we need to help build them.

As we take the time to observe September 11th, we need to work harder to eradicate the ignorance and fear that lurks behind outward hateful discrimination. We need to counter the hate-mongers and the political and religious leaders and media outlets that ignite these firestorms of hate and fear. Apathy will not work here anymore. If we want to coexist more peacefully, we need to act like it.

I was 20 years old and away at college when my brother was born. I was in graduate school when my sister was born. Since we’re decades of age apart, didn’t grow up together, and live across the country from each other, I obviously don’t have a normal sisterly relationship with them. I love them as I do the sister and brother I grew up with, but it’s a very different relationship.  Over time, I have developed a dynamic with them that seems half-mother/half-sister. When you’re old enough to be the mother of your siblings (and often get mistaken for the mom…ugh), it’s easy to find yourself playing the mom role just as easily as it is to be the sister.

During our visits, I find myself shifting between this mother role and the sister role. I can ask my brother and sister to help with dinner, stop running down the hardwood stairs in slippery socks, or clean up after themselves just as easily as I can find myself on the couch with them playing DJ Hero, teasing and giggling with them as if I were their age.  At the same time, I need to monitor myself like I would with any other kids around, like watch my language and avoid inappropriate topics.  And when topics come up that aren’t necessarily inappropriate, but definitely on the serious side, it can be confusing as to how to handle it. For one thing, my sister and brother aren’t even half as sheltered as I was growing up. It’s not because of how they are parented but rather it’s due to the world they and their friends live in. Their access to the world is staggering and their precociousness is reminiscent of my young adult self and certainly not my tween and teen self.

As I walked along with my 10 year old sister one day last week, we got to talking about marriage. As we passed by a gay couple on the street, our conversation led to gay relationships and marriage. When I mentioned that gay marriage is not legal here in California, she stopped walking. Looking incredulous and surprised, she looked up at me and said, “Wait, gay marriage isn’t legal here?!?” I could only respond, “No, it isn’t.” She was silent for a few minutes, which is unusual for her, and pondered that.

Perhaps it was my tone that ended the conversation. It was a tone that took me back to my own youth when I asked questions of my parents that could not easily be explained. I became a mother in that tone, even though I wanted to talk like a sister. But I couldn’t do that. How could I possibly respond to a 10 year old that lives in a State where gay marriage is legal and explain why it isn’t legal everywhere? How could I explain to her that those of us who support gay rights and equality were outvoted by those who do not. I didn’t necessarily want to have that conversation, only because it makes me angry and upset. I didn’t want to put that on my 10 year old sister when, even though she is shockingly mature and smart, she’s simply not old enough to listen to what I have to say about the subject. One day, we’ll have that conversation. But, at that moment in time, I simply changed the subject and started teasing her like any other big sister.

For my family, this meant two things.  My brother, an Army psychologist, had to leave his base in Europe and say goodbye to his pregnant wife and two year old son for the next year. It also meant that, as of the 4th of July, both my brother and sister are now living in Afghanistan.

As I spent the long holiday weekend at the beach, enjoying the company of my family and good friends, my mind was elsewhere. It was on a military plane that was flying my brother to a war zone. It was in the isolated desert compound where my sister lives and in the helicopter that transports her to various work assignments. It was with her husband, my brother-in-law, patiently waiting for his wife to return home to him. It was with my pregnant sister-in-law, living alone in Europe with her toddler, missing her husband tremendously. It was with my two year old nephew, not old enough to grasp that his daddy won’t be there every night to read him a story before going to sleep.

My brother and sister, the two people I grew up with fighting and loving along the way, do not live typical American lives. And when people you love are living an extraordinary life, it makes you appreciate your ordinary life all the more.

A few months ago, my sister called to say hello. It was 2 am her time and she had been watching her DVD’s of the TV show 30 Rock. While watching the show, she had become homesick. There is always a little ache within her – she always misses her husband and her family. But what surprised her were the little things that caused her to miss home even more, like watching a TV character drink a Starbucks coffee while casually walking down a busy city street. It was a simple reminder of her former life. She longed to do those little things that most of us take for granted, the simple things that provide normalcy. We don’t give walking down the street with a coffee in our hand a second thought. We don’t consider going to the grocery store to buy fresh food or go window shopping at the mall a big deal. Why would we? Living ordinary lives gives us the power and freedom to ignore everyday things.

When families are separated for a while, for whatever reason, it’s not just the big events that will be missed. My sister has had to miss wedding anniversaries, birthdays, and funerals. My brother will miss the birth of his second child and  his son’s third birthday. But, perhaps even more importantly, is that they will also miss the normal everyday family stuff like cooking and eating meals together, going on a walk around the neighborhood, enjoying a fun day at the park or beach, or reading a story to your child at bedtime and giving him a kiss goodnight.

I spent the 4th doing what most American families were doing, spending the day with family and friends and enjoying the fireworks. My normal and simple life will continue as usual, but a big part of my mind and heart will be in Afghanistan for a while. I will be waiting for my brother and sister. Waiting for them to return back to an ordinary life.

The best moments in life are not filled with words. Only love. The Dude and The Monkey, on vacation, in 2008.

Seven years ago, this week, I was introduced to the Dude by my sister.

Before I met him, there was a trend with most of the guys I dated. The more I got to know them, the less I liked them. The opposite was true with the Dude. After every e-mail, phone call, or date, I liked him even more. Within a month, I knew this guy had *The One* potential. But what really locked my heart up was something he said to me shortly after we started dating.

During one of our many conversations about life ambitions, goals, and dreams, the Dude mentioned that he could not wait to be a father. That really floored me, mostly because having kids was the last thing on my mind. I had too many other important things to do, like finish my graduate degree and get a promotion. But here was this highly ambitious and successful 26 year old man telling me that the most important thing he ever wanted to become was a good dad. In that same conversation, he questioned how he would be able to handle the task of working grueling hours at a law firm and being present for his future kids.  He wanted to be there for every milestone, every first day of school, every parent-teacher meeting, and every soccer game. In fact, he wanted to coach the soccer team.  He told me right then and there that he would quit his job if it meant he couldn’t be there for his kids. Despite not knowing him very well at the time, I believed him. Seven years and one kid later, I still believe him. Because it’s true.

When I became pregnant with the Monkey, the Dude became more and more anxious. He was a fast-rising star in his San Francisco law firm, but he (and we) paid the consequences for it. Working late hours and all weekend became the norm. Dinner reservations would be canceled, trips would be postponed, and many hot meals that I cooked became cold leftovers for the next day. It was a miracle if we could get to bed at the same time. We were not able to spend quality time together and neither one of us was happy about it. When our Monkey was born, the Dude took 2 months off of work to help with the baby. It was a financial and career sacrifice, but it was something the Dude insisted on doing for our family. Being with his newborn son 24 hours a day was an incredibly special time for all of us, which made it all the harder when he finally went back to work. Once again, the late nights at the office and working weekends became our routine.  We started talking about Plan B but, what that plan was, we didn’t know. All we knew was that something had to change.

Something did change. When the Monkey was 5 months old, the Dude received a job offer in Southern California. It meant that he could work normal business hours. It meant dinner at home every night and family weekends. It meant that vacations didn’t need to be postponed. It meant that family life was the priority and that the Dude no longer had to worry about missing anything. It also meant a pay-cut and that he was no longer on partner-track at a law firm. But, if you ask him, that wasn’t much of a sacrifice. The ultimate sacrifice in life is when you’re sacrificing valuable time with your kids and family.

I know now why I never anticipated having a child. It’s only because I had never met anyone I wanted to have a child with until I met the Dude.  I knew from the start that he would make a good dad and I was right. It’s the best thing I’ve ever been right about. He is a good dad and one that only gets better at it each and every day. That alone makes me love him more every day.

Happy Father’s Day to the Dude, my own wonderful father, grandfather, father-in-law, brother and all the other good dads out there. You are loved and appreciated. Keep doing what you’re doing…and continue to help inspire the next generation of good dads.