Fun With Play-Dough

Stop telling Hillary to quit! There’s only one person who can tell Hillary to quit the race, and that’s Hillary herself. And since she doesn’t seem to be saying anything of the kind, we should all allow her to finish what she’s started.  That includes the press.

Frankly, I think this whole business is a bit insulting.  Here we finally have a woman running for office, and at the first sign she might not make it, everybody’s telling her to leave the race. What, women quit when it’s hard? Women quit when things seems impossible? I don’t think so. Women never quit. Hillary may not get the nomination; fine, but that decision will be made at the last possible moment, and it will be made by the voters, not by a bunch of whiny journalists and delegates who want their two seconds of fame.

I sincerely hope Hill will fight on, until the bitter end. Obama can handle it, trust me. It will be a sad day when the first serious female candidate listens to the naysayers and gives up the fight before it is well and truly lost. She’s not some little girl who didn’t know what she got herself into; she’s Xena, Warrior Princess. Deal with it!

Every day at 3:15, it is time for me to get in the car and drive to my daughter’s school. She has been in school for almost two full years, and this pick-up business should be routine by now. Alas, it’s not that easy. The reason for that is simple: I have another child. This other child is three-year-old Mendel, and he has a routine of his own. His routine consists of taking off all his clothes, and refusing to put them back on. I let this go during most of the day; it’s easier than fighting it, and if I put his clothes back on he’ll immediately strip again, so what’s the use?

Except, when it’s time to leave, he needs to wear something; people frown on leaving the house with naked children; plus, his car seat chafes.  So we battle; I have to watch the clock and make sure he is dressed in time to make it to school, without leaving him enough time to undress again. I’ve got it down to a science.

I can’t bribe him; he’ll remember tomorrow and punish me. Threats don’t work either; he knows I have to feed him anyway. You see, Mendel doesn’t think there’s any use to getting dressed, unless something really cool is about to happen. Tell him ”Playground” and he’ll run for his pants; say “Zoo” and he’ll practically dress himself. I miss those days when he couldn’t really move by himself (meaning, he couldn’t run away and hide) and would wear whatever I wanted him to.

Of course, things will get worse. Now, he merely protests the act of getting dressed, whereas our six-year-old Isabella has opinions about everything from the color of her tights to the where we purchase her underwear.  

This causes a whole different set of problems. On Saturdays, when we go to Synagogue, we ask that she wear a dress and long sleeves. I don’t care if people call us old-fashioned; we’ve been called worse. It is simply a sign of respect, and respect is something children have to learn one way or another. This is easier said than done, which is the case with most parenting issues. Every Saturday, Isabella comes downstairs in jeans, a mini skirt, or simply in her jammies. She then feigns surprise when we tell her: it’s Shabbes. Get dressed. Some days she complies, on other days, she refuses and a battle ensues. I’ve thought about simply extending the school week, and telling her she needs to wear her school uniform 100% of the time, since even on the coldest of days, she refuses to wear pants to school. Oh well. We’ll probably think back on all this with a heavy dose of nostalgia by the time they’re both teenagers.

You’ve had that baby, you’re sore and split in half, but oh-so proud, and can kick back in the knowledge that you’ve completed your mission. But before you congratulate yourself too heartily with a job-well-done, the knowledge sinks in: people want to visit.

You haven’t thought about that during the past nine months, and are thus wildly unprepared for the onslaught of family members, friends, neighbors, and complete strangers that want to pass by your bedside.

Truth be told, it sucks. Sure, you want to share you happiness with your loved ones; the problem is, those first days after your baby’s birth, your list of ‘loved ones’ is shorter than you anticipated. It consists of your husband and you; the end. Okay, maybe a nurse or two, since they seem to know where the warm blankets are kept and can help you change diapers.  Your husband can hold your hand and put the pictures on line, where interested ‘others’ can view them and leave messages about how cute your baby is.

Unfortunately, people don’t play by the rules; they have no sympathy for the fact that you look like crap and all you want to do is sleep and be left alone. They crowd your hospital room and expect you to be social. Social? You’ve never felt less social in your life! Why do the pregnancy books not prepare you for this? Oh wait; they haven’t prepared you for anything else, why should this be any different?

What’s worse, now that baby has made her entrance, nobody is interested in you anymore. They only want to talk about the baby, and that’s a hard truth to get used to after nine months of pampering.  Here you are, bleeding and bloated, and nobody asks how you’re doing. All those gift baggies, and all they contain is ‘stuff for baby’, just when a nice spa-certificate, or some great perfume-counter gift pack would be more than welcome. Not a single loofah is to be found amidst the booties, diapers, and cute little onesies. Bah. Maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who have a single good friend that drops off a bottle of wine, but honestly, one bottle? That isn’t going to make a dent.

Someone should provide visitors with a guide of appropriate gifts and behavior for the post-birth visit. First of all; ask how the mother is doing. Don’t go straight for the baby; pay the mother some attention, please. She is the one who did all the work; nobody should forget that. And hard work it is; gifts for the mother are appropriate. All that baby stuff –you can assume- has been bought and paid for; now it’s time to spoil the mom. That means: buy things mom likes. Booze, magazines, books, and R-rated movies she can watch while she has to get up 5 times a night to feed baby.  Donate your air miles and vow to baby sit; she can use a vacation; trust me. Cold hard cash is always welcome, but, for god’s sake; don’t tell a new mom to ‘buy something for baby’.  And if you do, don’t be surprised if this new mother bursts out crying. It’s not baby-blues, it’s just exasperation. That, and the newfound allergy to the visitor, who forgot she was already somebody before she became a mom.

Here’s a lovely story about why it isn’t a good idea to show appreciation to the members of the Marine Corps. South Florida businessman T. Gonzales, who has more money than he knows what to do with, recently thought it might be nice to say ‘thank you’ to some members of the USMC. He invited several marines and their wives onto his 35 million dollar yacht for an evening of festivities, after which he gave each a certain amount of money. According to Gonzales, he had checked with the Corps beforehand, and everything was fine; however, 1^st Sgt, William Barnes, an 18-year veteran of the Corps with 3 tours of duty in Iraq under his belt, is now under investigation for accepting said money.

What?

Is it just me, or could the Corps have dealt with this in a more humane fashion? If it really is against the rules to accept this money, have him give it back and call it good. After 18 years of loyal service, after three (!) tours to Iraq, I would think Sgt. Barnes deserves that much.

Bad form.