I remember the first time my brother told me he was worried about my eternal destination. I was nineteen, he was twenty-one, and we were standing outside our mother's condo in northern Los Angeles. I thought we were bonding over our Marlboros and a momentary escape from the familial cacophony that is a Christmas vacation, but he had other plans. We shared a lifetime of family joys and frustrations, but it was at that moment that I realized how completely our paths diverged as we entered our adult years.
We both grew up in a more or less secular household. We had been Catholic for about six months - just long enough to get baptized and confirmed and then stop attending - and our mother had experimented in Pagan and Wiccan practices, but overall we weren't all that concerned with how we got here or where we would go next. I, armed with the theory of evolution and the worldly feeling of unparalleled omniscience befitting any teenager who called herself an adult, was certain that my existence was limited to my physical presence, however long that should be. As an adult, however, my brother began dating a young woman whose faith was the basis for all parts of her life. They fell in love faster than most people can fall down a water slide, and so his journey with Christ began. With his newfound faith came the oft-seen born-again Christian determination to evangelize loudly and frequently, and apparent I was no exception to his audience.
On this particular night we began by discussing how much life we were sacrificing by smoking, a prospect that did not garner any serious attention from either of us. Imagine my surprise when my brother followed with, "But I know my death will be celebrated because I will return to Our Lord. Where will you be?" Um . . . in an unmarked grave in England? Cast out to sea in the gulf of Mexico? Strapped to a laboratory table at a prestigious medical school in the New England tri-state area? I could see plenty of possibilities, but none were what he had in mind. He began speaking through scripture and perception about my final destination and the inevitability of hell for anyone who was not a believer. I made the typical arguments for a while - if God is all-loving, he will forgive my lack of faith, I'm a good person even if I don't label my values as "Christian," etc. - but he was ready for all of my arguments. He framed his own arguments in the brotherly sentiment that he loved me and did not want me to spend eternity in hell - a sentiment I appreciated even in my atheistic position.
At that point I stopped trying to argue with him spiritually and decided instead to discuss my idea of the physical reality of the moment. I was in hell. I was behind the wheel of a car when my friend was killed. I sat next to her, unconscious and on the verge of my own death, when she died. I lived everyday knowing my legs would never be the same, my brain would never be the same, and yet all of that was meaningless compared to the reality that Nicole would never be back. Every day I lived was one more day she never lived, one more event she never experienced, one more emotion she never felt, one more milestone she never reached. And I was the one driving. That, I told my brother, living with all of that . . . that was my personal hell. For once, he had no response.
I took that argument with me through the next several years of my life. I hardened myself to the idea of religion - partly because I couldn't bring myself to believe in a God who put all of this in my life, partly because I wasn't convinced religion held any answers for me anyway, and partly because I figured if there was a hell, they had a spot all ready for me when my time came.
End of Part 1.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Monday, September 24, 2012
When Is Someone Ready to Die?
I am twenty-nine years old and I have attended nearly two dozen funerals. I have said goodbye to grandparents, friends, relatives, and acquaintances. I consider myself blessed to still have so many people in my life, so many funerals I have not had to attend. I consider myself blessed to still be alive to attend the funerals of others, but I don't consider funerals a blessing. I don't want to say goodbye. I don't want to mourn, and I don't want to be confronted with the ugly reality of the people they've left behind. Does this sound selfish? Absolutely. It is without a doubt a selfish sentiment expressed by someone who has rarely had to experience the true pain of the people who are closest to the deceased. On Saturday, I had a new experience with these realizations and what it means when we say goodbye. On Saturday I attended the funeral of a friend who was so much more than a friend. She was a Christ-follower, a wife, a mother, a sister, a crusader, and so much more. She was a living, breathing example of the kind of faith I want to have and the kind of determination I want to express, and I'm still stunned that something as minute as her own mortality has managed to take her away.
When I think about Debbie, I think about her unbreakable faith. I think about how often we hear people say "When I die, I want to have nothing left to offer because that will mean I used every gift God gave me." It's an amazing sentiment full of compassion and dedication to His plan and His work. Yet I think Debbie is a perfect example of how much more I would want to say.
When I die, I want my children to be grown, happy, safe, and settled. The first time I cried over Debbie's death was not because of her death directly, but because of the family she left behind. She wanted to raise her children. She wanted to be a mother. Given the choice, I have to believe she would still be here today with her husband and son.
When I die, I want everyone to know I am ready. I want to have achieved what I set out to achieve in my work, and I want my family and friends to know that I am happy and ready to return to the Lord. I told my senior pastor how lost I felt over Debbie's death, and he told me that the hardest part of life is being separated from the Lord. The natural follow-up to this statement would then be that the best part of death is being reunited with the Lord, but I want whomever I leave on earth to know that when I return to the Lord, I am ready to return.
When I die, I want my husband to be ready for me to go. I want him to be a man of faith, but I also want him to be completely aware of how much I love him, how grateful I am for him, and how sure I am that we will be reunited in heaven. I know that Debbie and Jason were separated far too young, but I also know they will be together again one day.
My list could go on, but how can we ever think of everything? I want the world I leave behind to be a better place. I want to know that somewhere along the way I made life better for someone else. I want to know my family, my friends, and my dogs will be able to celebrate more than mourn. I don't need to be famous and I don't need memorials in my honor. If forty years pass and no one remembers who I am, that's okay, too. But I want to leave my mark. I don't want a headstone or plaque. I want to have worked in a wife that will continue to help people. I want to leave a legacy of love behind.
I think about all of this and the amazing work Debbie did, and I know she did so much in so little time. She was an activist, a mother, a believer, and I can't bring myself to believe she was ready to die. I have no way of knowing for sure, so all I can do is look at what she left behind. In listening to my senior pastor again at her funeral he said, "When I heard she had died, I looked directly to the Lord and asked, 'Where are you in all of this?'" Where is He? Why did He take her away so soon? I don't know the answer. I don't know where God was in Debbie's life nor in her death. But I know where he is now. He is with her survivors. He is with her husband and son. He is with her friends, her coworkers, and all of the other people she left behind. I say all of this because it brings me to my final desire. When I die, I want the people in my life to be ready to move on without me.
When I think of Debbie, I think of how she survived her sons. I can't even begin to wrap my mind around the level of grief and sadness she must have experienced, and I pray my family and I will never experience that kind of hurt. But Debbie survived. She took what happened to her oldest son and she made that her life's work. She dedicated herself that much more to her family, her work, and her church. She continued to live her life in a way that I can't even begin to comprehend, and that is just one more reason I am in awe of her. She was not ready to outlive her sons, but she didn't stop living because of their deaths. She taught so many people about how to take a tragedy and continue living, and we are all better for having known her and having learned from her. As so many people looked around at her funeral and saw the grief and despair of her survivors, I firmly believe they also saw a small piece of how to move on because they saw the way Debbie moved on in her own life.
Debbie was amazing. She still is amazing, and I think she always will be. I don't understand how she died, what happened to her heart, or whether or not this was part of His plan. I don't know where He was in her final moments, but I know she is with Him now, and I know He is with us. I think these are all the answers I can hope for today,
When I think about Debbie, I think about her unbreakable faith. I think about how often we hear people say "When I die, I want to have nothing left to offer because that will mean I used every gift God gave me." It's an amazing sentiment full of compassion and dedication to His plan and His work. Yet I think Debbie is a perfect example of how much more I would want to say.
When I die, I want my children to be grown, happy, safe, and settled. The first time I cried over Debbie's death was not because of her death directly, but because of the family she left behind. She wanted to raise her children. She wanted to be a mother. Given the choice, I have to believe she would still be here today with her husband and son.
When I die, I want everyone to know I am ready. I want to have achieved what I set out to achieve in my work, and I want my family and friends to know that I am happy and ready to return to the Lord. I told my senior pastor how lost I felt over Debbie's death, and he told me that the hardest part of life is being separated from the Lord. The natural follow-up to this statement would then be that the best part of death is being reunited with the Lord, but I want whomever I leave on earth to know that when I return to the Lord, I am ready to return.
When I die, I want my husband to be ready for me to go. I want him to be a man of faith, but I also want him to be completely aware of how much I love him, how grateful I am for him, and how sure I am that we will be reunited in heaven. I know that Debbie and Jason were separated far too young, but I also know they will be together again one day.
My list could go on, but how can we ever think of everything? I want the world I leave behind to be a better place. I want to know that somewhere along the way I made life better for someone else. I want to know my family, my friends, and my dogs will be able to celebrate more than mourn. I don't need to be famous and I don't need memorials in my honor. If forty years pass and no one remembers who I am, that's okay, too. But I want to leave my mark. I don't want a headstone or plaque. I want to have worked in a wife that will continue to help people. I want to leave a legacy of love behind.
I think about all of this and the amazing work Debbie did, and I know she did so much in so little time. She was an activist, a mother, a believer, and I can't bring myself to believe she was ready to die. I have no way of knowing for sure, so all I can do is look at what she left behind. In listening to my senior pastor again at her funeral he said, "When I heard she had died, I looked directly to the Lord and asked, 'Where are you in all of this?'" Where is He? Why did He take her away so soon? I don't know the answer. I don't know where God was in Debbie's life nor in her death. But I know where he is now. He is with her survivors. He is with her husband and son. He is with her friends, her coworkers, and all of the other people she left behind. I say all of this because it brings me to my final desire. When I die, I want the people in my life to be ready to move on without me.
When I think of Debbie, I think of how she survived her sons. I can't even begin to wrap my mind around the level of grief and sadness she must have experienced, and I pray my family and I will never experience that kind of hurt. But Debbie survived. She took what happened to her oldest son and she made that her life's work. She dedicated herself that much more to her family, her work, and her church. She continued to live her life in a way that I can't even begin to comprehend, and that is just one more reason I am in awe of her. She was not ready to outlive her sons, but she didn't stop living because of their deaths. She taught so many people about how to take a tragedy and continue living, and we are all better for having known her and having learned from her. As so many people looked around at her funeral and saw the grief and despair of her survivors, I firmly believe they also saw a small piece of how to move on because they saw the way Debbie moved on in her own life.
Debbie was amazing. She still is amazing, and I think she always will be. I don't understand how she died, what happened to her heart, or whether or not this was part of His plan. I don't know where He was in her final moments, but I know she is with Him now, and I know He is with us. I think these are all the answers I can hope for today,
Friday, February 10, 2012
Organic Parenting Doesn't Work for Me (aka Why I Can See Myself Shooting A Laptop)
"Baby, you need to stop playing with Mommy's jewelry."
She continues.
"Baby, I said stop playing with Mommy's jewelry! Wouldn't you rather get a toy?"
She continues.
"BABY! I said STOP. PLAYING. with MOMMY'S jewelry. It's time to leave this room."
She continues.
"ARGLESPLATTENDORFENFRUGGEMONSTER!"
With this final command in place, my pint-sized dictator places one more of "Mommy's" necklaces around her waist before sweeping out of the room in a tyrannical gust of beads and Goldfish crackers.
You think I'm kidding. I wish you were right.
When my beautiful baby was born four years ago, I was far from new to being around children. I paid my dues in several years of babysitting, acquired a few young cousins, nephews, and one niece along the way, and in general I did not live in a hole so thus saw children in public on a regular basis. My husband and I had discussed our parenting styles at length long before we even considered conceiving, and we had the basic outline in mind:
-No spanking (just doesn't suit us, but we understand why it does suit others)
-No children sleeping in our bedroom/bed
-No eating out after 5pm until she's ten
-Discipline through time-outs, revoking privileges, and positive redirecting as necessary
-Primarily formula-fed in the beginning
-No chicken nuggets and macaroni & cheese diets! She will eat what we eat.
You can see where this list is going. The first round of disruptions came long before I gave birth. Every mother I knew had at least one part of our plan that she laughed at, and every mother had a suggestion for why at least one choice was not the best choice (i.e. not what she chose). Surprisingly, my own mother and grandmother kept most unsolicited advice to themselves (thanks in large part to the comparatively recent arrival of my youngest cousin; I think they wore themselves out offering all their advice to his mother). Here's what I learned:
Everybody spanks. No, really, I have yet to find a parent who could honestly tell me that they had never, ever spanked their child. My daughter is currently four years-old and yet to be spanked. However, I went through an incredibly turbulent period of about five weeks when I was absolutely convinced that spanking was the only way to reel in my little hellion. That period passed, but I've years to go before I can honestly say that I raised a child without ever spanking.
No children sleeping in our bed/bedroom? I had good intentions. Because she was in the NICU, I never experienced having my daughter sleep in the same room as me in the hospital. She stayed there on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights. We took her home Thursday morning, and by Thursday afternoon I had sent my husband to the nearest big box store to purchase a bassinet that would spend the next 4-6 months pushed so closely against my bed that I could sleep with one hand on my daughter's stomach. At about the same time that my daughter outgrew her bassinet, my sisters-in-law on my husband's side came to visit and vowed they would convince me to move the baby out of my room before they left. They claimed that then would be the perfect time because she was really too big for her bassinet anyway. I told my husband that was the perfect time to ask his brother to help him move the crib into our room, thus ensuring me several additional months of keeping my baby by my bedside.
That, of course, is very different from sharing our bed. My daughter has yet to get to start her night in my bed. She has ended up there various times in the past, but my husband and I both agreed that it's more important to get her clean, pacified, and back to sleep after a 3am bedwetting nightmare than it is to maintain our solitude for those precious few remaining hours of sleep. It's a nice compromise of taking the easy way out in the middle of the night without giving up the peace and privacy of going to bed with only my spouse (and he agrees).
While we have given in these areas, we have rarely given in on our restaurant vow. I don't know if this is the result of too many nightmarish tables when I was a server or too many embarrassing experiences with other children, but we've remained largely committed to this rule. We've certainly made exceptions for large family dinners and special occasions, but we've also used take-away services almost exclusively when dinner is just the three of us. I know plenty of people who have been disappointed and even offended that we have elected not to eat out with them if it means taking Ellie, but trust me, most of the other patrons are happier this way.
I could keep going through the list, but the general breakdown of our rules is evident. Meanwhile, I've received endless articles on why we should never say "no" to the precious snowflakes of our daughter's generation. We should only feed her breastmilk, even if it means purchasing the milk online rather than formula in a store. We should co-sleep whenever possible, and I should be staying at home for at least the first ten years. We should follow her lead on when it's time for her to eat and sleep. We should look at tantrums as grand expressions of personality, intelligence, and individuality. And on, and on, and on it goes. Of course, the many, many conflicts that exissted between the advice we received and the plans we had made left me with two real choices: I could follow the advice and possibly raise the next Picasso, or I could follow my plans, thus damaging her freedom and breaking her spirit, but at least I would still be able to take her in public with me without having to ask her where our first stop should be.
I exaggerrate on the outcome, of course, but the choices were really quite confusing. In my opening example, I did try to avoid saying no. Obviously that didn't work, and I can't really say that I tried it again. Instead, I quickly realized that I didn't want to achieve an organic parenting style. I wanted a child who would call her elders "sir" and "ma'am." I wanted a daughter who would sit quietly in a restaurant or theater, and I wanted that more than I wanted a daughter who would try escargot on her third birthday (she would have been the only person eating that anyway). I wanted a child who understood a basic set of rules, slept in her own bedroom, said "please," "thank you," "excuse me," and more. I wanted a daughter who would give up her seat for an adult because she realizes that is a sign of respecting her elders and not in anyway a question of her value as a person. I wanted a daughter who would be ready to face the world and deal with what she would see when she grew up. Now then, which set of rules would make that person happen?
My daughter is four years-old now, and the reality is that I'm still learning which rules work best. She still gets mouthy sometimes, but she also shows genuine appreciation for everything from a new toy to freshly cleaned laundry. She doesn't always listen the first time I ask her to do something (or second or third time . . .), but she understands that not listening means she has earned her consequences. Meanwhile, I have accepted the possibility that turning down her nail-polish-mural-on-the-bedroom-wall idea may reappear in therapy a few decades from now as the sole reason why her painting career will never really take off - and it turns out I'm okay with that.
"Baby, no. You know you are not supposed to play with Mommy's jewelry without asking."
She stops. "Okay, I'm sorry."
"So what do you need to do now?"
She thinks. "I need to put the jewelry back where I found it?"
"Good! Then what do you need to do?"
She thinks again. "Probably hug my mommy because she loves me an awful lot?"
"Now THAT sounds like a plan I can live with!"
She continues.
"Baby, I said stop playing with Mommy's jewelry! Wouldn't you rather get a toy?"
She continues.
"BABY! I said STOP. PLAYING. with MOMMY'S jewelry. It's time to leave this room."
She continues.
"ARGLESPLATTENDORFENFRUGGEMONSTER!"
With this final command in place, my pint-sized dictator places one more of "Mommy's" necklaces around her waist before sweeping out of the room in a tyrannical gust of beads and Goldfish crackers.
You think I'm kidding. I wish you were right.
When my beautiful baby was born four years ago, I was far from new to being around children. I paid my dues in several years of babysitting, acquired a few young cousins, nephews, and one niece along the way, and in general I did not live in a hole so thus saw children in public on a regular basis. My husband and I had discussed our parenting styles at length long before we even considered conceiving, and we had the basic outline in mind:
-No spanking (just doesn't suit us, but we understand why it does suit others)
-No children sleeping in our bedroom/bed
-No eating out after 5pm until she's ten
-Discipline through time-outs, revoking privileges, and positive redirecting as necessary
-Primarily formula-fed in the beginning
-No chicken nuggets and macaroni & cheese diets! She will eat what we eat.
You can see where this list is going. The first round of disruptions came long before I gave birth. Every mother I knew had at least one part of our plan that she laughed at, and every mother had a suggestion for why at least one choice was not the best choice (i.e. not what she chose). Surprisingly, my own mother and grandmother kept most unsolicited advice to themselves (thanks in large part to the comparatively recent arrival of my youngest cousin; I think they wore themselves out offering all their advice to his mother). Here's what I learned:
Everybody spanks. No, really, I have yet to find a parent who could honestly tell me that they had never, ever spanked their child. My daughter is currently four years-old and yet to be spanked. However, I went through an incredibly turbulent period of about five weeks when I was absolutely convinced that spanking was the only way to reel in my little hellion. That period passed, but I've years to go before I can honestly say that I raised a child without ever spanking.
No children sleeping in our bed/bedroom? I had good intentions. Because she was in the NICU, I never experienced having my daughter sleep in the same room as me in the hospital. She stayed there on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights. We took her home Thursday morning, and by Thursday afternoon I had sent my husband to the nearest big box store to purchase a bassinet that would spend the next 4-6 months pushed so closely against my bed that I could sleep with one hand on my daughter's stomach. At about the same time that my daughter outgrew her bassinet, my sisters-in-law on my husband's side came to visit and vowed they would convince me to move the baby out of my room before they left. They claimed that then would be the perfect time because she was really too big for her bassinet anyway. I told my husband that was the perfect time to ask his brother to help him move the crib into our room, thus ensuring me several additional months of keeping my baby by my bedside.
That, of course, is very different from sharing our bed. My daughter has yet to get to start her night in my bed. She has ended up there various times in the past, but my husband and I both agreed that it's more important to get her clean, pacified, and back to sleep after a 3am bedwetting nightmare than it is to maintain our solitude for those precious few remaining hours of sleep. It's a nice compromise of taking the easy way out in the middle of the night without giving up the peace and privacy of going to bed with only my spouse (and he agrees).
While we have given in these areas, we have rarely given in on our restaurant vow. I don't know if this is the result of too many nightmarish tables when I was a server or too many embarrassing experiences with other children, but we've remained largely committed to this rule. We've certainly made exceptions for large family dinners and special occasions, but we've also used take-away services almost exclusively when dinner is just the three of us. I know plenty of people who have been disappointed and even offended that we have elected not to eat out with them if it means taking Ellie, but trust me, most of the other patrons are happier this way.
I could keep going through the list, but the general breakdown of our rules is evident. Meanwhile, I've received endless articles on why we should never say "no" to the precious snowflakes of our daughter's generation. We should only feed her breastmilk, even if it means purchasing the milk online rather than formula in a store. We should co-sleep whenever possible, and I should be staying at home for at least the first ten years. We should follow her lead on when it's time for her to eat and sleep. We should look at tantrums as grand expressions of personality, intelligence, and individuality. And on, and on, and on it goes. Of course, the many, many conflicts that exissted between the advice we received and the plans we had made left me with two real choices: I could follow the advice and possibly raise the next Picasso, or I could follow my plans, thus damaging her freedom and breaking her spirit, but at least I would still be able to take her in public with me without having to ask her where our first stop should be.
I exaggerrate on the outcome, of course, but the choices were really quite confusing. In my opening example, I did try to avoid saying no. Obviously that didn't work, and I can't really say that I tried it again. Instead, I quickly realized that I didn't want to achieve an organic parenting style. I wanted a child who would call her elders "sir" and "ma'am." I wanted a daughter who would sit quietly in a restaurant or theater, and I wanted that more than I wanted a daughter who would try escargot on her third birthday (she would have been the only person eating that anyway). I wanted a child who understood a basic set of rules, slept in her own bedroom, said "please," "thank you," "excuse me," and more. I wanted a daughter who would give up her seat for an adult because she realizes that is a sign of respecting her elders and not in anyway a question of her value as a person. I wanted a daughter who would be ready to face the world and deal with what she would see when she grew up. Now then, which set of rules would make that person happen?
My daughter is four years-old now, and the reality is that I'm still learning which rules work best. She still gets mouthy sometimes, but she also shows genuine appreciation for everything from a new toy to freshly cleaned laundry. She doesn't always listen the first time I ask her to do something (or second or third time . . .), but she understands that not listening means she has earned her consequences. Meanwhile, I have accepted the possibility that turning down her nail-polish-mural-on-the-bedroom-wall idea may reappear in therapy a few decades from now as the sole reason why her painting career will never really take off - and it turns out I'm okay with that.
"Baby, no. You know you are not supposed to play with Mommy's jewelry without asking."
She stops. "Okay, I'm sorry."
"So what do you need to do now?"
She thinks. "I need to put the jewelry back where I found it?"
"Good! Then what do you need to do?"
She thinks again. "Probably hug my mommy because she loves me an awful lot?"
"Now THAT sounds like a plan I can live with!"
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
I'm One of "Those" Parents
I'm a parent. As a parent, I read a wide variety of parenting sites. I also read the news everyday - on Fox and ABC to try to keep my political spectrum covered. I read, I do research, and I make the best decisions I can for my daughter. As a parent, I think that's all we can really ask anyone to do: make the best decisions you can for your child. If we are being the best parents we can be, we're doing the job right.
To me, part of doing the best job I can is being informed. I have the privilege of having a good education and endless resources at my disposal to continue my education, and I take full advantage of these privileges. I'm not as smart as I could be, but no one has ever (to my knowledge) called me dumb, either. When I don't understand something, I ask questions. I read more about it. I'm forever curious and never willing to just let my curiousity go (much to the chagrin of some of my peers). In other words, I'll never be the smartest person I know, or even in the top ten, but I do what I can.
Meanwhile, my reading and research often bring extraordinarily negative comments to my attention. I read endless articles, blogs, and commentaries about the "morons" who are so "ignorant" as to "refuse" to vaccinate their children. The nonstop derogation of these parents inevitably insists the parents have made their decisions based on the limited findings of Jenny McCarthy and Dr. Wakefield and, of course, rely on "herd immunity" to let them leave their children vaccine-free. The bitter diatribes against these parents are highly populated and never-ending as they witheringly discuss the uneducated choices of the parents who don't vaccinate.
Allow me to introduce myself now. I have several degrees. I have published a book. I have taught at a respected state university for six years. Oh, yes, one more thing. I'm a parent who chooses to not vaccinate. If you've read this far, please spare me a few more minutes before your condemnation begins and consider the following:
1. I have never based a decision on the findings of Jenny McCarthy. I know her position, but that is not the basis for my position.
2. I have never refused a vaccine without knowing the ingredients, the potential side effects, the history of the vaccine, the presence of the disease, and the risks on both sides of the injection.
3. I have never had my daughter receive a vaccine without knowing all of the information from #2 as well.
4. I am not relying on herd immunity. I have made a conscious decision to risk certain illnesses rather than risk the vaccine - in my daughter and in myself.
5. I have never judged another parent for vaccinating or not vaccinating. You can have your child get all the vaccines as fast as possible or none of the vaccines ever, and I will not judge you. Again, the only thing we can really expect of parents is that we will do the best job we can for our children.
6. I have discussed our choices at length with our pediatrician. When I am missing information, she tells me. When we aren't getting a vaccine, I talk to her. I tell her my concerns. We discuss them long before we make a final decision.
7. I am not making my choices based entirely on a fear of autism. I don't deny that autism contributes to my fears, but autism is not even one of the biggest fears I have where vaccines are concerned.
8. I'm not a moron. I'm not ignorant. I believe every parent should get as much information as possible before having something injected in their child, but I won't judge parents who don't. I do, however, ask that my decisions are respected. Even if you don't agree. Even if you think I'm crazy. Even if you cannot fathom making the choices I've made, I ask that you treat me with enough respect to realize that I am making knowledgeable decisions for my daughter.
9. Schools do not legally require children to be vaccinated. You have to follow certain steps to send an unvaccinated child to school, but it is not difficult and not illegal. Trust me. I've done the research.
10. My daughter has had most vaccines, but she has them on an alternative schedule and still does not receive all vaccines. Again, we discussed all of this at length with her pediatrician.
At this point I could go into a lengthy explanation of which vaccines we do and don't give, but I'm not going to because that isn't the point. The point is that I did make educated choices, and that is the best I can do for my daughter. I did not make any decisions hastily, and I'm not done making decisions where her health is concerned. I'm also not done getting more information. However, I've never walked up to a parent and asked them to give me the laundry list of articles they read from the CDC and the APA in order to justify their choices, and I'm asking them to treat me with the same respect. I trust my parenting friends. I trust them to make the best decisions they can for their children, and I hope they will trust me to do the same.
At the end of the day, if we fully believe that parents are making the best decisions they can for their children, then we should also believe they are making the right decisions. If they are making the right decisions, perhaps we can let the condemnation, the snide remarks, the angry judgments go, and instead be thankful that we're all just doing the best we can - whatever that may be.
To me, part of doing the best job I can is being informed. I have the privilege of having a good education and endless resources at my disposal to continue my education, and I take full advantage of these privileges. I'm not as smart as I could be, but no one has ever (to my knowledge) called me dumb, either. When I don't understand something, I ask questions. I read more about it. I'm forever curious and never willing to just let my curiousity go (much to the chagrin of some of my peers). In other words, I'll never be the smartest person I know, or even in the top ten, but I do what I can.
Meanwhile, my reading and research often bring extraordinarily negative comments to my attention. I read endless articles, blogs, and commentaries about the "morons" who are so "ignorant" as to "refuse" to vaccinate their children. The nonstop derogation of these parents inevitably insists the parents have made their decisions based on the limited findings of Jenny McCarthy and Dr. Wakefield and, of course, rely on "herd immunity" to let them leave their children vaccine-free. The bitter diatribes against these parents are highly populated and never-ending as they witheringly discuss the uneducated choices of the parents who don't vaccinate.
Allow me to introduce myself now. I have several degrees. I have published a book. I have taught at a respected state university for six years. Oh, yes, one more thing. I'm a parent who chooses to not vaccinate. If you've read this far, please spare me a few more minutes before your condemnation begins and consider the following:
1. I have never based a decision on the findings of Jenny McCarthy. I know her position, but that is not the basis for my position.
2. I have never refused a vaccine without knowing the ingredients, the potential side effects, the history of the vaccine, the presence of the disease, and the risks on both sides of the injection.
3. I have never had my daughter receive a vaccine without knowing all of the information from #2 as well.
4. I am not relying on herd immunity. I have made a conscious decision to risk certain illnesses rather than risk the vaccine - in my daughter and in myself.
5. I have never judged another parent for vaccinating or not vaccinating. You can have your child get all the vaccines as fast as possible or none of the vaccines ever, and I will not judge you. Again, the only thing we can really expect of parents is that we will do the best job we can for our children.
6. I have discussed our choices at length with our pediatrician. When I am missing information, she tells me. When we aren't getting a vaccine, I talk to her. I tell her my concerns. We discuss them long before we make a final decision.
7. I am not making my choices based entirely on a fear of autism. I don't deny that autism contributes to my fears, but autism is not even one of the biggest fears I have where vaccines are concerned.
8. I'm not a moron. I'm not ignorant. I believe every parent should get as much information as possible before having something injected in their child, but I won't judge parents who don't. I do, however, ask that my decisions are respected. Even if you don't agree. Even if you think I'm crazy. Even if you cannot fathom making the choices I've made, I ask that you treat me with enough respect to realize that I am making knowledgeable decisions for my daughter.
9. Schools do not legally require children to be vaccinated. You have to follow certain steps to send an unvaccinated child to school, but it is not difficult and not illegal. Trust me. I've done the research.
10. My daughter has had most vaccines, but she has them on an alternative schedule and still does not receive all vaccines. Again, we discussed all of this at length with her pediatrician.
At this point I could go into a lengthy explanation of which vaccines we do and don't give, but I'm not going to because that isn't the point. The point is that I did make educated choices, and that is the best I can do for my daughter. I did not make any decisions hastily, and I'm not done making decisions where her health is concerned. I'm also not done getting more information. However, I've never walked up to a parent and asked them to give me the laundry list of articles they read from the CDC and the APA in order to justify their choices, and I'm asking them to treat me with the same respect. I trust my parenting friends. I trust them to make the best decisions they can for their children, and I hope they will trust me to do the same.
At the end of the day, if we fully believe that parents are making the best decisions they can for their children, then we should also believe they are making the right decisions. If they are making the right decisions, perhaps we can let the condemnation, the snide remarks, the angry judgments go, and instead be thankful that we're all just doing the best we can - whatever that may be.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Canine Cacophony aka Why Shouldn't I Get Another Dog?
I think we can all agree that 2011 was a difficult year. My grandfather, an amazing, incredible, funny, intelligent octagenarian, passed away in March. I miss him more than words can say. However, this post isn't about him. Instead, it's about my dogs. At the start of 2011 I had four dogs. By March I had five, and I was in a near-constant state of utopia. Emma had been in my family for eight years by then, Rebel for seven, Rosie for five, and Luke for about two. When Eli joined us, it seemed like we had the perfect set. The "Big Kids" (as we called them) were Rosie and Rebel, and Rosie was as dedicated to looking out for the other dogs as Rebel was to looking out for me. The "Snowballs" were Luke and Eli, always a good source for funny new observations on dog behaviors we'd never seen before. I think every dog secretly wants to be a lapdog at some point in his life, but there is something particularly endearing when said dog is actually 140 pounds of fat and fur.
In any case, pet life was good at my house. Obviously we knew it wouldn't last forever, but we were fairly certain we had at least another year. We were all grateful for at least one more Christmas as a family, and we were so certain of our stability that we failed to be as grateful as we should have been. We made regular trips to the vet, of course, but it didn't occur to us that even the most conscientious pet parenting cannot prevent the unpredictable. We lived our lives in a glorious round of food, prescriptions for the dogs, and more dog food, and we didn't think anything else of it.
July 28, 2011 seemed like any other day, and each of our dogs settled in for naps after their evening bowls of food. We had our usual evening of tv shows, mindless chatter, and cuddling our daughter. It wasn't until we were preparing for bed that we realized Rosie's nap had taken on a permanent status. She wasn't sick. She wasn't injured. She'd simply gone to sleep for the last time, laying on a rug right outside our doggy door. Without warning, she was gone.
Losing Rosie was devastating, and I can't honestly say we're over it. I don't think we ever will be, really. By the end of September we knew we needed to keep moving, however, and so we agreed to let my dad give Ellie a puppy for her fourth birthday. Enter Henry. Henry is the only non-rescue dog in our home, and he is a handful in the many ways that every puppy is for at least a few months. Henry is also deceptive. He house-trained faster than any other dog I've met, but I think he knew, in his crafty-German Shepherd brains, that house-training would buy him extra time to refuse to chew-train. His chewy list is long: books, shoes, diet Coke, Ellie. You have it, he'll chew it. My dad swears that he'll stop chewing as soon as his puppy teeth fall out. In the meantime, I spend at least a few minutes everyday trying to make sure Tracey doesn't "help" evict his baby teeth. So far so good.
Five weeks after Henry moved in, Rebel passed on. Everyone who would even consider reading this blog more than likely knows at least part of Rebel's story. Rebel was my best friend, my soul mate, my partner, my security blanket. Rebel was everything I ever wanted in my life. For the last four weeks of his life, Rebel could not really walk. We carried him wherever he needed to go, comforted him in everyway possible, and vowed not to put him to sleep as long as he was not in pain. After explaining this to people on numerous occasions, I gave in and wrote a blog about letting Rebel go when God was ready to take him. Sometimes I wonder if that blog wasn't a sign that I had finally, fully accepted Rebel's situation. In any case, Rebel took a turn for the worse that afternoon. I called the vet to describe his symptoms, and she said he was not getting enough oxygen and the time had come to bring him in. I sobbed. I sobbed while I called my husband, I sobbed while I carried him to the car, and I sobbed the entire way to the vet. I continued along this vein while they explained what they would do and I agreed to stay in the room with him. While the nurse went to prepare his medicine, I finally stopped crying. I told my baby boy that I loved him, that I was so sorry that I couldn't save him, and that I was sorry I needed him to go. I told him we had waited as long as we could, and we did not want to make that decision. In reality, I begged him not to make me make the decision to end his life. Rebel was as loyal as ever, and in the few moments the nurse was gone, Rebel died. I didn't have to make any decisions, and I still got to be with him in the final moments. I will never forget that time.
We moved quickly after that and decided to get another dog right away. We are a sentimental family (to say the least) and knew that if we waited too long to get a new dog, it would become a big "thing" to make the decision to get a new dog after Rebel died. If we moved right away, it wouldn't be so significant after all. Cue a new round of questions! Why would we possibly want another? Wasn't four enough? Where would we put a fifth dog? Didn't we have our hands full with Henry? The short answer to all these questions is, "Everybody's gotta be doing something."
However, I do have a longer answer available. Dogs need to be saved. Someone needs to save them. I happen to be in a position to save another dog, so why wouldn't I? Honestly, I think helping others gets infinitely easier if we ask why we shouldn't rather than ask why we should. The answers for why should help others is endless. Because we can. Because it's the right thing to do. Because we would want people to help us if we were in need. Because it's the Christian thing to do. Because we want to be good people. Because we get a tax break for donations. Because it's Wednesday. Really, regardless of what motivates you, there's always a good reason to help others. However, it's an incredibly different moment if you stop to ask why you shouldn't instead.
In those situations, I've found one of two things will happen. The first possibility is that you will start to answer that question. You'll list all the reasons the potential recipient isn't worthy, why you need your time/money/energy for something else, how it isn't the right time for you, and the list goes on. In reality, you already had your answer the second you started making a list. You shouldn't help in that circumstance because you don't really want to help in that regard anyway. If you did, you wouldn't make the list. The second possibility is that you will treat the query as a rhetorical question and move forward with your purpose. In that respect, you realize the answers to either question on motivation aren't so important after all. Your recipient will be all the better for it, and you just saved yourself several hours of potential list-making. In any case, this is how these questions work for me.
Now I'll be the first to admit that Tracey doesn't always see dog rescuing as I do. Likewise, not everyone considers saving dogs to be the worthwhile venture that I consider it to be. Despite these potential obstacles, the reality is that millions of dogs are euthanized every year. Cats and dogs outnumber people in the United States by ten to one. I can't save every dog. I can't help every person, and I can't always say that my motivations are completely altruistic. However, I can say that I'm saving dogs because it's what Rebel and Rosie would want me to do. I'm saving dogs because I can. I'm saving dogs because it's what my husband wants to do as well, even if he doesn't approach our animal rescues with the same zealous enthusiasm that I do. For whatever it's worth, when he puts up his biggest protests I find myself answering in one of two ways. Sometimes, occasionally, I listen. I let it go, and I accept the fact that we have at least another year before he's ready for another dog. When that doesn't work, I just point out to him that to *really* do our part, we should have thirty dogs (ten per one person) in our home, and compared to that I'm not really asking all that much. I can't say this argument works on him completely, but I can say that he realizes the possibility of me asking for thirty dogs is not quite the impossibility he wants it to be.
After all, why shouldn't we have thirty dogs?
In any case, pet life was good at my house. Obviously we knew it wouldn't last forever, but we were fairly certain we had at least another year. We were all grateful for at least one more Christmas as a family, and we were so certain of our stability that we failed to be as grateful as we should have been. We made regular trips to the vet, of course, but it didn't occur to us that even the most conscientious pet parenting cannot prevent the unpredictable. We lived our lives in a glorious round of food, prescriptions for the dogs, and more dog food, and we didn't think anything else of it.
July 28, 2011 seemed like any other day, and each of our dogs settled in for naps after their evening bowls of food. We had our usual evening of tv shows, mindless chatter, and cuddling our daughter. It wasn't until we were preparing for bed that we realized Rosie's nap had taken on a permanent status. She wasn't sick. She wasn't injured. She'd simply gone to sleep for the last time, laying on a rug right outside our doggy door. Without warning, she was gone.
Losing Rosie was devastating, and I can't honestly say we're over it. I don't think we ever will be, really. By the end of September we knew we needed to keep moving, however, and so we agreed to let my dad give Ellie a puppy for her fourth birthday. Enter Henry. Henry is the only non-rescue dog in our home, and he is a handful in the many ways that every puppy is for at least a few months. Henry is also deceptive. He house-trained faster than any other dog I've met, but I think he knew, in his crafty-German Shepherd brains, that house-training would buy him extra time to refuse to chew-train. His chewy list is long: books, shoes, diet Coke, Ellie. You have it, he'll chew it. My dad swears that he'll stop chewing as soon as his puppy teeth fall out. In the meantime, I spend at least a few minutes everyday trying to make sure Tracey doesn't "help" evict his baby teeth. So far so good.
Five weeks after Henry moved in, Rebel passed on. Everyone who would even consider reading this blog more than likely knows at least part of Rebel's story. Rebel was my best friend, my soul mate, my partner, my security blanket. Rebel was everything I ever wanted in my life. For the last four weeks of his life, Rebel could not really walk. We carried him wherever he needed to go, comforted him in everyway possible, and vowed not to put him to sleep as long as he was not in pain. After explaining this to people on numerous occasions, I gave in and wrote a blog about letting Rebel go when God was ready to take him. Sometimes I wonder if that blog wasn't a sign that I had finally, fully accepted Rebel's situation. In any case, Rebel took a turn for the worse that afternoon. I called the vet to describe his symptoms, and she said he was not getting enough oxygen and the time had come to bring him in. I sobbed. I sobbed while I called my husband, I sobbed while I carried him to the car, and I sobbed the entire way to the vet. I continued along this vein while they explained what they would do and I agreed to stay in the room with him. While the nurse went to prepare his medicine, I finally stopped crying. I told my baby boy that I loved him, that I was so sorry that I couldn't save him, and that I was sorry I needed him to go. I told him we had waited as long as we could, and we did not want to make that decision. In reality, I begged him not to make me make the decision to end his life. Rebel was as loyal as ever, and in the few moments the nurse was gone, Rebel died. I didn't have to make any decisions, and I still got to be with him in the final moments. I will never forget that time.
We moved quickly after that and decided to get another dog right away. We are a sentimental family (to say the least) and knew that if we waited too long to get a new dog, it would become a big "thing" to make the decision to get a new dog after Rebel died. If we moved right away, it wouldn't be so significant after all. Cue a new round of questions! Why would we possibly want another? Wasn't four enough? Where would we put a fifth dog? Didn't we have our hands full with Henry? The short answer to all these questions is, "Everybody's gotta be doing something."
However, I do have a longer answer available. Dogs need to be saved. Someone needs to save them. I happen to be in a position to save another dog, so why wouldn't I? Honestly, I think helping others gets infinitely easier if we ask why we shouldn't rather than ask why we should. The answers for why should help others is endless. Because we can. Because it's the right thing to do. Because we would want people to help us if we were in need. Because it's the Christian thing to do. Because we want to be good people. Because we get a tax break for donations. Because it's Wednesday. Really, regardless of what motivates you, there's always a good reason to help others. However, it's an incredibly different moment if you stop to ask why you shouldn't instead.
In those situations, I've found one of two things will happen. The first possibility is that you will start to answer that question. You'll list all the reasons the potential recipient isn't worthy, why you need your time/money/energy for something else, how it isn't the right time for you, and the list goes on. In reality, you already had your answer the second you started making a list. You shouldn't help in that circumstance because you don't really want to help in that regard anyway. If you did, you wouldn't make the list. The second possibility is that you will treat the query as a rhetorical question and move forward with your purpose. In that respect, you realize the answers to either question on motivation aren't so important after all. Your recipient will be all the better for it, and you just saved yourself several hours of potential list-making. In any case, this is how these questions work for me.
Now I'll be the first to admit that Tracey doesn't always see dog rescuing as I do. Likewise, not everyone considers saving dogs to be the worthwhile venture that I consider it to be. Despite these potential obstacles, the reality is that millions of dogs are euthanized every year. Cats and dogs outnumber people in the United States by ten to one. I can't save every dog. I can't help every person, and I can't always say that my motivations are completely altruistic. However, I can say that I'm saving dogs because it's what Rebel and Rosie would want me to do. I'm saving dogs because I can. I'm saving dogs because it's what my husband wants to do as well, even if he doesn't approach our animal rescues with the same zealous enthusiasm that I do. For whatever it's worth, when he puts up his biggest protests I find myself answering in one of two ways. Sometimes, occasionally, I listen. I let it go, and I accept the fact that we have at least another year before he's ready for another dog. When that doesn't work, I just point out to him that to *really* do our part, we should have thirty dogs (ten per one person) in our home, and compared to that I'm not really asking all that much. I can't say this argument works on him completely, but I can say that he realizes the possibility of me asking for thirty dogs is not quite the impossibility he wants it to be.
After all, why shouldn't we have thirty dogs?
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