It's now official.

As of today, I can't legally abort my child in Michigan.

On April 23, my period didn't arrive, I had no PMS, and I knew I was pregnant. The next morning I confirmed with a test. His heart, though only two chambers, was beating.
I could have aborted.

On April 30, I saw my OB where she confirmed the pregnancy and drew blood to check how far along I was. We scheduled a preliminary ultrasound to check for a fetal pull.
I could have aborted.

On May 10, we all went in together. The tech found the tiny but growing white smudge. That was the awaited fetal pull. This 4.5 millimeter being in my womb had arm and leg buds, eye and nasal pits, and the somites that would mature into his spinal cord.
I could have aborted.

On June 8, I heard the tiny heart beating via doppler. The medical assistant had warned that it was on the early side to try but she succeeded. His heart was beating strongly enough to be heard at that point.
I could have aborted.

On August 6, we went for the "real" ultrasound. Louis waved the physical evidence of his masculinity at us with pride; we saw his fingers, toes, and face. The doc told us that despite my age, the pictures and my blood test results gave us a 1 in 15,000 chance of a Down syndrome child. Age gave us a 1 in 350.
I could have aborted.

Our other children have kept track of how big he is. "About as big as my hand now." Or "Maybe as big as your Beast doll." They have sat in my lap and felt him kick. They have been talking to him, singing to him, planning books to read to him for weeks.

Now it's official. We'll keep him.

Fulfillment at home?

I've recently joined a Catholic homeschool moms' Bible study (can you say 'subset of a subset,' Gentle Reader?). One of the questions we discussed at our last meeting was the question of fulfillment. It was assumed, with reason, that none of us are really struggling with the issue of returning to or getting a career. Why do we feel fulfilled at home and other women don't?
I, in my usual thoughtful, quiet manner blurted out, "They've bought into society's lie."
Which "lie" do I mean? The one that tells you "Any idiot can take care of kids/keep house/cook meals. Real jobs involve getting out of your house away from all that."
Snarky answer #1: Tell that to daycare workers, employed maids, and restaurant cooks. They'll LOVE you.
Snarky answer #2: Which of those would YOU hire an idiot to do?

Seriously, that's the mindset. If you doubt me, check into your local high school's child care courses--should they exist; I think most are getting channeled into the "alternative education" programs. You won't see that many honor roll girls; you'll see ones two steps from dropping out either looking for an easy diploma or tracked in there by low-expectation guidance counselors.
[While I'm off on a tangent, I'll say another thing: this is NOT intended as a diatribe against mothers working outside the home (woths). You ladies deal with enough; you have as many expectations at home as I do and fewer hours to do them. This is a diatribe against our society that lies to you. I was one of you for a year and a half--possibly the most miserable year and a half of my married life, with the exception of summer break.]

So. Back to fulfillment. Do I find it in washing dishes, or changing diapers, or vacuuming, or making beds, or doing laundry? ARE YOU NUTS? Honestly, there are moments any one of those makes me want to give myself the Egyptian brain treatment.
What keeps me sane while doing them? The fact that they are important. If I don't perform these tasks, who will? Thus, my work is important. More important than other kids' report cards or academic records. More important than someone else's legal problems or advertising slogans. More important than a master's degree or, much as it pains me to say it, seeing Notre-Dame cathedral again.
That's the lie. Telling women, specifically mothers, that the work they do in the home is unimportant and therefore unfulfilling. When it's unimportant, it doesn't matter whether it gets done or not, right? Or if it does get done, it doesn't matter who does it.
Who will play with the child while changing a diaper? Who will listen to and answer the zillionth question while scraping the breakfast dishes? Who will do all the voices to Goldilocks and the Three Bears?
Sure, you can hire those out. But are those things you want done for love... or money?

Casual-ties

Spread-eagled like old hookers in the sack,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge
Till on the smoky bars we turned our backs
And toward some stranger's bed began to trudge.
We screwed asleep. Many had lost the thrill
But screwed on, a fraud. All went numb, all blind,
Drunk with fatigue, deaf even to the kill
of deadly HIV he left behind.

Sex! SEX! Quick, girls! An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting on the clumsy condoms just in time.
But someone was still holding out and waiting
And looking afraid she'd run out of time.
Dim, through the drunken haze and culture lies,
Another girl like me, I saw her drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
She plunges from me, smothering, choking, drowning.

If in some college dorm room you too could pace
Behind the student that was taken in
And watch the salt tears rolling down her face,
Her hopeful face, dreaming that she'd hear from him
If you could hear at every jolt the blood
Come gargling from the fun-corrupted wombs
Of us deceived, our babies less than mud
Our bodies scarred, small secrets taken to our tombs
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To women ardent for some interesting story
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
pro voluptate mori.

With acknowledgement to the late Wilfred Owen

You can choose to be anything...

Except a stay-at-home mom!

Okay, I'll admit something. Housework is tedious. Dishes, laundry, vacuum, sweep, repeat. I've heard it called "cyclical," and that's all well and good, but in the short term it's repetitive. None of it is intrinsically rewarding unless you're obsessive-compulsive. I don't get that much pleasure out of a load of sparkling dishes or clean rug. What *I* like is my children having something clean to play on or eat from. So yeah, that much of being a stay-at-home mom is not fully using my capacity. It is mind-numbing drudgery.
But aren't all jobs rife with it? My husband works in an office. Do you think he likes filling out all the paperwork? Rachel's godfather works for one of the Big 3. More than once I've talked with his wife, her godmother, and Daddy is returning from out-of-state, multi-day travel. For whom is that fun? Or is the fun in waiting to see where the ax falls this quarter?

I don't understand the rest of her diatribe, though. What kind of careers are these women walking away from? Are they all six-figure cancer-curing doctors? How many are CEO's at corporations, making life-altering decisions on a global scale? Do I fall into her category, with my international bachelor's degree and start on a master's?
Reality check for Ms. Hirshman: I taught French and Spanish to young adolescents in a suburb in flyover country. Why is taking care of someone else's children an approved choice while taking care of my own is a betrayal?

I also plan and prepare roughly 2/3 of the meals at our house (Daddy gets breakfast most days). Now, if that's not moral, is managing a restaurant? Why would planning and preparing meals for strangers be a good decision but doing it for my nearest and dearest is bad?

Okay, if all children were perpetually two (instead of just some, and I'm not referring to Down's syndrome), I can see where one would get brain-rot. If they never advanced beyond "MINE!", "GIMME!", and "MORE!" they would try the patience of the pope. But they don't. They grow and change and learn things. It's exciting to watch.

I'll admit another thing, since I'm truth-telling. One of the reasons we're homeschooling is to fend off brain rot in me. I get all of the joys of teaching without the negatives. I get to plan what we cover next, figure out how best to present the material, check for understanding, see the light click on over her head. I have to know where we're going next, be prepared to advance, develop new ways to show...
I don't have to deal with 150 report cards or progress reports every 5 weeks. I don't see weekly athletic eligibility rosters. Parent-teacher conferences are over in a snap. I never have to adjust my schedule for fire drills, lockdowns, or assemblies. Forget reading 50 error-riddled, two-paragraph essays on an 8th grader's ideal house or family. Or spending hours checking tests when I'd rather be doing anything (including washing dishes).

Then again, maybe I've been brainwashed into thinking how my children are raised matters.