Three is a Magic Number

Birds and bees and... well... other things

Item the first:

Boo and I were watching an episode of "The Little Couple," which happened to deal with IVF. The couple is using a gestational surrogate because the wife cannot safely carry a child. The doctor was explaining (more for us than for the couple - the woman's a doctor, I'm sure she knows how this works) that the egg and sperm would be united outside of the body and then the embryo would be transferred into the surrogate.

Boo and I had the following conversation.

"How can they physically do that?"

"Well, like they said, they'll take the egg and the sperm. You know how the egg and sperm usually meet up inside the mother's body, right? Well, they'll take them out, and put them together, and make an embryo, then they'll put it inside another woman so she can have the baby."

"But why would they do that?"

"Well, she's so small, she can't carry a baby. So the other woman will do it for them. But it will come from her egg and his sperm so it will be their baby."

"But how can they physically do that?"

"Well, it's funny you should ask, because that's how you came about. That's what Daddy and I did to get pregnant. Except we didn't use a surrogate - they put the embryo back into me."

Pause. Extremely puzzled look. "Why???"

"Because it was the only way we could get pregnant."

Another pause. Furrowed brow.

"But how can they physically DO that?"

Never mind. Some day it won't seem that weird.

Item the second:

About a week later we were watching "America's Next Top Model." Occasionally some network (I couldn't even tell you which one) runs a whole season at a time, and that's the only time I watch it. But I love it so.* Anyway, this was the season that had a transgendered model wannabe, which naturally piqued Boo's interest.

"She's a guy?"

"Well, she's kind of between a guy and girl right now. She's taking hormones and having surgery to change her from a girl to a guy."

"How can they do that?"

"Oh, they cut off her penis, and the hormones she's taking will cause her to grow breasts and look more like a woman."

"Why would a guy want to do that?"

"Sometimes you're born as a boy but inside you feel like you're a girl. So you want to turn yourself into a girl, because that's what your brain says you are."

"But he's a guy!"

"On the outside. But he feels like he's a girl. It's like if we told you one day that we were wrong, and you were actually a boy. You'd still feel like a girl. You'd still like girl things and want to be a girl."

Pause. "Yuck."

Yeah, well, life's not as simple as the Human Growth and Development video makes it out to be. At least we're not talking about wet dreams.

*This is my imitation of Tyra Banks: "Blah blah blah blah crazy shit crazy shit." Good, isn't it?

Things I'm not prepared to hear from my daughter

"So, how was The Video? Was there anything different from the one they showed you last year?"

"No, it was pretty much the same thing. But they showed us part of the boy's video. I didn't know boys go through puberty too."

"Yeah, everybody goes through puberty. But theirs isn't as dramatic as ours. They don't have a period."

"No, just wet dreams."

Aaaahhhh!!!!!

The view from here

Seeing a lot of this since Boo got her Nintendo DS for Christmas. If
we ever want to see her face again I guess we"ll have to put a picture
on the back of it.



Sent from my iPhone

To believe, or not to believe?

I was never really into Santa Claus. I don't even remember believing in Santa as a child (I may have at one point, but I don't remember stopping believing, so it must have happened at an early age), and I do remember mocking my older cousins who did believe. Behind their backs, of course. Because that makes it okay. So I would have been happy not doing the whole Santa thing with Boo, but J wanted to do it, and who am I to deny someone Santa Claus just because I'm an old curmudgeon. So here we are, 10 years later, facing the question: "When do we stop this?"

Boo has been suspicious for the last couple of years. Whenever she asks if Santa is real, I give her a noncommittal "What do you think?" And it usually stops there, and considering her usual zest for disputing questioning everything I say, I think that means she's already made her decision. Last year she took it a step further and said "Some kids at school think Santa is really the parents. I was thinking that I could ask Santa for something and not tell you guys about it. (pause) No, I wouldn't do that." For all I know, she actually did do that.

The Santa rules have always been:

• Santa never brings The Big Gift. I didn't want to end up in the position where she wanted something expensive or impossible to attain and expected Santa to bring it, because I didn't want her to have expectations that couldn't be met. "That's okay that you couldn't find This Year's Hot Toy. I'll ask Santa!" Nope. (Also, I like getting recognition for giving The Big Gift. If that makes me a bad person, so be it.)
• Santa generally brings things you asked for. He sometimes brings things that weren't on your list if they go with what you asked for, or if he happens to know you'll like them (maybe because he goes shopping with you.) However, if you change your wish list after Santa goes shopping makes the toys but before he makes his delivery, you are likely to get things that are no longer on your list. Deal with it.
• Santa doesn't wrap. Why? I don't know. Santa didn't wrap Daddy's gifts either. Santa is busy. Oh, so Santa wraps your friends' gifts? Maybe because they clean their rooms. Maybe if you cleaned your room, Santa would wrap your gifts. Let's give it a whirl. (No, I haven't said that, but I've been sorely tempted.)
• If we're going to be at Grandma's house for Christmas, we tell Santa and he delivers the gifts there.

(Hey, is that something I can eat? Or maybe just chew on?)

So, this year it's getting a little tricky. Her wish list (which she has not even mentioned sending to Santa) only had four items. One is The Big Gift so Santa won't bring it. One is This Year's Hot Toy which Santa could bring, because it was cheap (as long as you were lucky enough to find it at Walmart instead of buying it on eBay). One I haven't been able to get, because I can only buy it in person in The Big Town and I never seem to get to The Big Town without Boo, so buying it has been impossible. And one, I can't even remember what it was, but she said it was an alternate gift, if I couldn't find This Year's Hot Toy. So our options are:

1. Give her one gift from her list from Santa, and other gifts that I know she'll like, but were not specifically on her wish list.
2. Dig out the wish list and find out what the alternate gift was, and give her two gifts on her list from Santa.
3. Do away with Santa.

Personally, I'm leaning toward C. I think she already knows. After all, she caught the Tooth Fairy recently. Surely she's made the connection that if Daddy is the Tooth Fairy, he's probably Santa too.

(See? Santa doesn't wrap. Goodness, look at the hair. And all those pink gifts.)

On a related note, a friend told me her kids are in some kind of activity that includes a lot of homeschooled children as well, and most (all?) of them do not believe in Santa Claus. Their parents say that if you tell them Santa is real and then tell them he isn't, why are they going to believe you when you tell them Jesus is real? Interesting. I never looked at it that way.

Endings, beginnings, and Tootsie Rolls

Twenty-seven years ago today my father-in-law died. He wasn't my father-in-law at the time; he was my boyfriend's father. But I had met him and liked him. He wasn't J's biological father, but he'd adopted the kids when he married J's mother, and they were all greatly affected by his sudden loss.

Eleven years ago today my sister-in-law gave birth to her second child. It was a scheduled c-section, and when they offered October 28 as an option, she was glad to have the opportunity to turn a dark day into a cause for celebration. However, since it's All About Me, my response was "shit!" Because that was the day I was scheduled for a pregnancy test after my one-and-only IVF cycle. And of course that meant it would be negative, for a couple of reasons.

First, because we were planning to stop treatment and move on to adoption if the IVF didn't work, and having the test the day her child was born would mean my entire infertility saga had been neatly bookmarked by her own life events. We had decided to start trying right before she got engaged, and we decided we'd wait until after her wedding because I didn't want to try to manage pregnancy and a bridesmaid dress (oh, such naive assumptions). It was only a few months, right? But then they broke up, the wedding was canceled, she met someone else, and they got married. In the meanwhile, we've spent our required "year of trying on your own," have seen one infertility specialist, have run out of money and taken a break, and then have moved to a different specialist and are finally having some luck - I ovulated! It's just a matter of time! Except... it's not working. She, who was "not really trying but not not-trying either and we'll just see what happens," was having her second child. So it seemed fitting that my entire attempt would start with her engagement and end with her last child. Fitting in a "the universe has a mean sense of humor" kind of way.

Second, I knew from experience that if anyone I knew had any kind of pregnancy or childbirth event during one of my cycles, my cycle would fail. Yes, I know this is ridiculous. But it really seemed that every time I had a breakthrough, everytime an IUI seemed promising, someone else got knocked up instead. For example, when I started seeing the second doctor and finally ovulated? Someone got pregnant that month, but it wasn't me. It was my sister-in-law.

So, for these ridiculous reasons, and for other more logical reasons, I was convinced I'd be getting a negative test result that day. I was so convinced that I wouldn't even let the doctor's office call me at work. They called J instead. And the answer was... "possibly." The test was positive, but the numbers were so low that they were reluctant to put a whole lot of faith in the outcome. It took two more tests (and six agonizing days) to upgrade to "probably," and then "posivitely" pregnant.

So... eleven years ago today, we found out we were "possibly" expecting a child. It was the closest we'd ever been.

We were having a Halloween party at work that day, and someone left a handful of Tootsie Rolls on my desk. I ate them over the next few days until I suddenly realized that they must have some kind of significance, and I couldn't let them all go. This one has been sitting in my desk since October 28, 1998. It's an odd little talisman, but one does not pick these things out - they make themselves known to you.

My sister-in-law's second child is her last child. So she got engaged, broke off that engagement, met someone else, fell in love, got engaged, got married and had all of her children during the entire time we were trying to conceive our one child. Almost to the day. Like I said, neatly bookmarked.

This is why I got an English degree

I remember hearing about "new math" when I was in school back in the 70s (yes, that long ago, we rode dinosaurs to school and did our homework on stone tablets and the bathroom pass was a mammoth bone, shut up) and wondering what "old math" could have been. I mean, what can change about math? Did somebody discover, in the late 60s, that 2 + 2 = 4? What on earth were they doing before "new math?" Why was "new math" supposedly so difficult for parents to decipher?

Now I know how those parents felt, because we have a New and Improved Math. It's called Math Investigation, or Math Exploration, or something like that. Right away you can tell it's going to be bad. Math is not something to be explored, like the Amazon, hoping you might find something new. 2 + 2 will always equal 4, and you do not need New and Improved methods of discovering that fact. Or so I thought.

It turns out that much of New and Improved Math is things I used to do in my head. For example, here's an equation using the Old New Math:

3 X 5 is 15, carry the 1, 2 X 5 is 10, add the 1, there you go. Easy peasy. But with New and Improved Math, you break it down into smaller chunks. This makes sense. It's something I do if I don't have a pencil and paper handy. But really, is it any easier than Old New Math?

3 X 15 is 15. 20 X 5 is 100. Add 100 and 15 and you get 115. Seems easy enough. But what about when you get into larger numbers?

Old New Math seems logical and simple to me. Carry your 4s, add your columns, there's your answer. But with New and Improved math... I swear to God, this is how Boo is trying to multiply:

It makes my head hurt. They break it into little chunks and then try to put those chunks together. They haven't learned to carry a number. What is wrong with carrying a number? And don't even get me started on long division. Oh my freaking God.

Boo has been rocking right along on all of her progress reports, until the Big Math Evaluation last spring. And now I understand... it's because the child finally hit the limit of what she could do with New and Improved Math. In the school's defense, they have supposedly taught other methods as well, and this is the one Boo latched onto. But they should know this simply doesn't work with larger numbers. They should encourage the kids to use different methods at this point. Her teacher doesn't seem to thrilled with New and Improved Math. When it came up on Curriculum Night, his response was basically "this is what the state requires, so this is what we teach." Not exactly a ringing endorsement.

<sigh> Next thing on my to-do list... teach the girl some Oldie but Goodie math!

Full of ordealy goodness

Back to square one. Boo and I arrived at the piercing shop and she was already nervous. She got increasingly nervous as I filled out the paperwork and we waited to be called back. I asked if both of her ears could be done at the same time and was told no, because "all of our piercers are a little bit different and we can't guarantee that both holes would be the same." Okay, seriously? You bill yourselves as the most professional, most certified shop in Big City, and you don't think two of your staff could make matching holes? Should I be concerned? Does one guy like to pierce at a 45 degree angle or something? Seriously, how could you possibly screw this up? 

Anyway, we went into the back room with Piercing Boy, whose tattoos and piercings were a little intimidating to Boo. She wanted me to go first, so I did, and it turned out my holes have not grown together; they just had a layer of skin that needed to be punctured. So I've been wearing earrings for a week now with no itching or irritation - yay! Looks like titanium is the answer. Then it was Boo's turn. She stood in the corner and said she was scared. I said I know you're scared, but it will only hurt a tiny bit and not for very long. Piercing Boy pointed out that he would not do it unless she wanted it. As if I had dragged her in, kicking and screaming. I kept trying to convince her. She was getting a little teary-eyed but she finally agreed to get up on the table. I recognized this as a huge leap for her. Unfortunately, Piercing Boy did not, and he chose this time to say "I'm not comfortable doing this." I asked if she could have a female piercer (this was an issue for her) and he said no, no one would do it today, but maybe we could come back tomorrow. Yeah, cause it's going to be way different tomorrow (sigh). 

So, I got a big chunk of my money back and probably got put on the Association of Professional Piercer's list of Bad, Pushy Parents. I guess we're going to Claire's after all. On the bright side, I have pretty sparkly earrings. Squeeeeee!

 

The ordeal, part 2

I must be honest, I was indulging in a little hyperbole when I said I expected the ear piercing to be an ordeal, but it is definitely trying to be as difficult as possible.

Yesterday, Boo and I went to the tag agency right after school. I knew it would be busy, since it's close to the end of the month and this was the day they're open late. We took a number (87) and sat down.

"Number 69?"

Oh dear. This is going to be a long wait.* I pulled out my iPhone for Boo to play tic tac toe and settled in for the long haul. After 10 or 15 minutes, the owner** of the agency walked into the waiting area, waving a sheath of blue forms, and announced that if anyone was here to renew their driver's license, they could go ahead and fill out their forms while they wait. I told her that my child needed an ID for the first time and asked if there was a form I could start filling out.

Now, here is where I must confess that I made a major error. Because when I called the tag agency previously and asked about the affidavit, and was told "you can just come in and sign it," I neglected to ask "When you say 'come in,' do you mean come to the building where you are right now? Or do you mean come to some completely different building on the other side of town?" Because if I had asked that question, I would not have been so surprised at the owner's response.

"Oh, this is a two-step process. You have to go to the driver's license testing facility first."

You're kidding. Why didn't anyone tell me this when I called yesterday?

"I don't know (and I'm not going to say I'm sorry, you can't make me!) but you have to go there first. It's on FarFromHere Street."

(I do have to admit that I knew about the testing facility and knew I would have to go there first to get a driver's license. Was I really supposed to make the leap that if I simply needed an ID that didn't involve permission to drive that I still had to go to the facility that exists for the purpose of testing people for their driver's license? Is it me?) Luckily, Mayberry is small enough that FarFromHere Street, while being on a different edge of town, was still not too far. If we had waited until Number 87 was called, and then found out that we were in the wrong place, we probably wouldn't have made it there before they closed. But since our tag agency is All About The Customer Service, we were in luck. So, in we go, birth certificate in hand, ready to get this taken care of.

"Do you have her social security card?"

No, I was told I didn't need to have it, they said I could sign an affidavit-

"No, that's fine. You don't have to have her card. I just need her number. I can't start a file without her social security number."

Oh, crap. This one is totally on me. I should have known I'd need that (even though our state no longer allows you to use your SSN as your DLN).

"Is there anyone you can call? Your tax accountant or something?"

Yeah, my tax accountant, right. Hello, Mr. Turbo Tax? However, I can call my dad, who needed her SSN at one point for a college fund. Please be home. And he is. Do you happen to have Boo's SSN handy?

"Yef, burble murfle."

What?

"Holon, godda durna puteron."

You're breaking up, I can barely understand you.

"Dat's caweye wenna dennif."

Dentist? I'm sorry. What did you get done?

"A wot!" (And I inherited my dad's teeth... straight but seriously flawed... so this is what I have to look forward to.) But he has managed to durna puteron and look up Boo's SSN. I suppose at some point I'll have to look up an old tax return (because I looked for her social security card and that is simply Not Going To Happen) and see if the number I heard bears any resemblance to her actual number. Anyway! Her picture is taken, her fingerprints are taken (boy, this is going to be awkward if the person whose SSN we actually used decides to commit a crime), she signs the electronic line, and we are ready to go. She is rather hesitant to put her finger on the scanner, and keeps examining her fingertip after we leave, as if looking for evidence that it was burned.

Back to the tag agency! On the way there, I speculate that I should have kept Number 87 because they probably didn't get to it yet. But when we get there, we pick up Number 100 and see that they are already on Number 95. Things are looking up! The gods continue to smile upon us when our number is called, as the clerk is someone I know from when I was her frequent customer at Moto Photo. She is as sweet as can be, comments on how much Boo has grown, actually apologizes for having to have my driver's license number when I write a check, and just generally makes the whole experience a lot more pleasant. (And as a small bit of serendipitious Small Town Syndrome, she is also the sister of my father's dentist.)

So, the ID is obtained. The trip to the Big City where the Grand Piercings shall take place is planned for tomorrow. Let's see if our good fortune continues.

*It would have been an even longer wait than our number suggested. While there, I saw a colleage who pointed out that she'd seen several people pointedly ignore the number system, go up to the counter to "ask a question," and then get served while they were there, thereby jumping the line. I think the only appropriate way to deal with these people is to allow those who actually waited in line to take that pile of license plates behind the counter and use them to inflict countless small but very painful cuts on the perpetrators. Or, you know, just shoot them.

**Yes, you'd think a tag agency would be run by the government, but it's not. It's owned by an individual who collects the fees and taxes and somehow makes a profit. It's a Bad Thing. And if you think it would be less efficient and more ridiculously bureaucratic if run by the government, you are sorely mistaken, my friend.

What may end up being the first of many posts about a particular rite of passage

I remember, 16 or 17 years ago, filling my first Clomid prescription and thinking "This is going to be the start of a major ordeal." And it was. And now I have that same sense of foreboding...

Boo wants to get her ears pierced.

She's actually wanted it for several years, but freely admitted that she was too afraid. And I wasn't quite ready for her to do it because I didn't think she was ready to take care of them, so I have to confess that I took advantage of her fears.

Boo: <whine>I wish I could have pierced ears! </whine>
Me: Well, honey, you can you can have them whenever you want.
J: Are you serious?
Me: Boo, do you want to go get your ears pierced? Right now?
Boo: No.
Me: <triumphantly to J> See? Nothing to worry about.

But she's older - almost as old as I was when I got mine pierced - and I think she can handle it now. Also, I'm going to get mine re-pierced, as I lost the ability to wear earrings about a decade ago and I'm going to give it another shot. So we're going it together. Mother/daughter bonding! It rocks! And now, llet the ordeal begin.

First, there's the fact that I will not take her to someplace like Claire's that uses a gun. It's fairly well documented that the guns cannot be sterilized, and that they actually cause more painful crushing than piercing with a needle. So I decided we're going to a piercing shop instead. We visited the one shop I know about here in Mayberry and spent an uncomfortable 20 minutes in the waiting room listening to Profane McHoleyface rant and bitch (using a dialect normally attributed to sailors) about politics while he pierced a college-age guy someplace other than his ear. After that, we were rather uncomfortable (especially Boo) so I asked a few questions ("If I get my ears re-pierced, is there a chance they won't get itchy and irritated every time I wear earrings?" "Yes, if you don't use that @#$% from Claire's!") and we politely excused ourselves, ostensibly to come back at another time (not).

Next step was to call a shop in The Big City and ask if they'll pierce a 10-year-old's ears. "Yes, but she'll need proof of age." Okay, what counts as proof of age for a 10 year old? Her birth certificate and a photo ID. Photo ID? For a 10 year old? What do most people use?"

"Oh, you know. A passport, government-issued ID, or a driver's license."

Driver's license? Seriously?

"Well, you know, a state ID that's like a driver's license. It just has to be government-issued."

Okay, don't have that. Will anything else work? I mean, this is kind of a strict requirement.

"It's not our requirement, it's the state law.* A lot of schools issue IDs, so we can take that."

I'm not sure that "school ID" is the same as "government-issued ID," but there is nothing to be gained by bringing that up. What about a yearbook? It's issued by her school. Would that count?

Brief consultation with someone in the background. "Yeah, I think that will work."

I'm not bowled over with the confidence in this scheme, so I decide to get her an official gubmint-issued state ID (like a license, but without the whole permission-to-drive part). According to the internets, we'll need a primary form of identification (birth certificate) and a secondary form (long list of things I don't have). Oh, but one secondary form of ID is an affadavit from the parent. I call the tag agency and ask what this affadavit needs to say.

"It's just a signed form saying blah blah blah. You don't need to bring anything - if they need one, they'll have you sign one." So let me get this straight - to get my child's ears pierced, I need (according to state law) a birth certificate and official gubmint-issued photo ID. But to get that actual official gubmint-issued photo ID, all I need is a birth certificate and my own signature. Something is wrong here. Anyway, we're planning to get the official gubmint-issued photo ID today. Knock on wood.

*And of course this begs the question... How is it that I could take a month-old baby into Claire's and get her ears pierced (not that I would), but for a child who is actually old enough to say "Yes, I want my ears pierced" we have to jump through all sorts of hoops?

A fifth of something

My baby starts 5th grade tomorrow. Her last year of elementary school. I realize this is a cliche, but I don't know if I'm ever going to be ready to let my little bird leave the nest. I have gotten past the point where I checked on her every time I woke up in the middle of the night (I think got over that by the time she was 5 or 6). But I want to constantly run behind her, as if she were learning to ride a bicycle*, with my arms outstretched ready to catch her if she falls. I want to be there for her at recess when no one else wants to play with her.** I want to pick out her clothes and comb her hair in the morning. I want to hold her hand in the hall. 

Next year, when she starts middle school, there will be no "after school fun club" for children of working parents, and she will get out too early for me to pick her up. If she rides the bus home, she will be home alone for about 15 minutes. There is a work-at-home parent on one side of us, and a stay-at-home parent on the other. She is smart and trustworthy. She will be fine. So why does my heart hurt when I think about it? Why was J's first response to this proposed scenario "I don't know about that?"

I am trying. We were driving past the college dorms, and she pointed out that if she stayed at home and went to Hometown University, she wouldn't have to live in the dorm. My head and my lips said "That's true, but you might want to live in the dorms. Or you might want to go to a different university." But my heart said "That's right, baby. You should just stay at home where you're safe."

*Ironic, since I wasn't even there when she learned how to ride a bicycle. She was spending the day at my parents' house, and my sister taught her. So apparently I can let go.

**Even though I know it's mostly her fault, since she can be pretty stubborn when she wants to play a particular game and will refuse to play what her friends are playing.