Five, Six, Seven O'clock, Eight O'clock Rock

I realize that my posts of late have been very mom-centric and not so secret agent-y, so I thought I should pop in and mention some of the stuff coming up around Skinny River HQ. Otherlands has really been putting together some great shows, and considering that they're early (doors at 7pm), smoke-free and always $5 or less, it's a pretty parent-friendly option for a night out. I'm hoping to take advantage of that friendliness this Sunday, April 1 when Jimmy and his buddies Eric Lewis and Tommy Burroughs hit the stage for a pickin' party that, I feel completely safe in saying, will blow the ever-loving acoustic roof off. Those boys can play.

About this time next week - that being Friday, April 6 - Cory will be doing a full evening at Otherlands. I haven't had a chance to see him in his Marlboro-infused natural habitat since I got knocked up, so I'm really looking forward to hearing the new stuff in a pregnancy-safe zone. And eating giant chocolate chip cookies at the same time.

I hope to see some of your lovely faces there. I know it seems disingenuous to say so, but with a schedule as harried as mine, I've had to be very selective about the artists I work with, so it just naturally happens that they're all really quite good. There isn't a soul on that list over there to the right that I wouldn't wholeheartedly exhort you to check out. I know I'm supposed to be the jaded, calculating agent, but really, I'm just terribly thrilled that they let me be a part of what they do.

Oh, and in a sidenote not relating in any way to my income, some of us monkey-wranglers will be heading out to Shangri-La to catch Vending Machine play a quick, free show starting at 5:00 this evening (or as soon as Miss M finishes her ice cream cup at Huey's).

Don't Know When I'll Be Back Again

There was a time, not all that long ago, when I traveled. As a telecommuter, I made regular trips between Memphis and Chicago. I had work assignments in locales like Boston, Orlando, New Orleans and Las Vegas. I frequently visited friends in Los Angeles, and family in San Diego and Minneapolis. I usually made these trips alone, and if it were possible to get into the wayback machine and drop in on my pre-maternal self, the first thing I would say to myself would be, "Hey! Get the hell out of the hotel!"

I squandered most of these trips, I realize that now. My most distinct memory of my time in Boston is staring longingly at a row of one-of-a-kind boutiques as my co-workers and I hurried toward T.G.I. Friday's. My takeaway from Las Vegas is the food court at the Venetian (where, despite what might be expected, the Sbarro is really no better than anywhere else). And even three weeks in Orlando didn't bring me any closer to seeing an inch of DisneyWorld or Universal Studios (although I had a really spectacular anxiety attack at a work-sponsored outing to Sea World). I was too young and too timid to really get out and appreciate these cities. I clung to the familiar, hovered around the few people I knew, and ate a lot of really unnecessarily awful food.

There were some bright spots in my solo world travels, like the film-making road trip to Massachusetts that garnered me a scar that I swear is from a cougar attack and not from a very awkward attempt at leaping over a barbed wire fence. Or the trek to L.A. for my bowling alley baby shower, where in one of the most bizarre coincidences of my life, my college boyfriend was kicking off his bachelor party. But in general, I wasted most of my freewheeling, jet-setting days.

As I near both the end of the "safe air travel" period of pregnancy and my current non-lactating era, I'm feeling a very strong urge to make up for all these under-appreciated journeys. I've been thinking about taking a trip out to San Diego to see my sister, lie on the beach, and read my way through the backlog of novels and New Yorkers on my nightstand. Only downside - and this wouldn't normally be one, but for me wanting to enjoy just a few child-free days - is that my 10-month-old niece would be in the same digs. And as much as I really want to see her, the idea of a vacation involving mashed food of any sort just isn't exactly what I'm looking for. So then I thought about taking a weekend at The Admiral's ancestral condo, eating at Captain Charlie's, reading, lying on the beach (and I don't even like the beach). But the condo is, technically, an over-55 community, and ... well, like I said about the mashed food. I need to figure something out quick, though, because my window of relative freedom is about to slam shut, and at this point, three days of maid service, room service and free HBO doesn't sound like such a waste of time.

Little Sister, Don't You

We were gathered together in our usual weekend potpourri of parents and children when I overheard two small people discussing Miss M's speech. "Do you know how Miss M says fishy? She says sishy!" "Yeah! Sishy! That's dumb!" I could feel my spine go rigid as I looked at my daughter, who clearly heard the conversation. She was just sitting there quietly, taking it in, not objecting or defending. Before the mama bear in me had a chance to emerge, another parent gracefully stepped in and explained why such comments were inappropriate. I'm sure it's happened before, but it was the first time I really heard other kids picking on mine. Not just the usual "you're a stupidhead poopoo-face" kind of stuff, but actually singling out a mockable trait and digging in. And of course, it had to be the one thing that I'm most sensitive about.

I know that it's completely normal for a three-year-old to have speech quirks. I'm not stressed about it, and I'm actually reluctant for her to leave her personal lingo behind as she grows older. I smile when she asks to borrow my "sundasses" and pout when she refuses to give me a "tiss." But because I spent the entirety of my formative years as a spectator to my sister's speech therapy sessions, I immediately bristle when I feel that anyone else is poking fun at the way Miss M talks. Due to her cleft lip and palate, my sister spent over ten years being coached on her pronunciation. She was pulled out of her classes to see her school's speech therapist on a regular basis, inciting a weird sort of curiosity and derision from her classmates. And then there were the intensive annual evaluations at the local university hospital where, among other high-pressure activities, she'd have to recite words back with a mirror under her nose to make sure she was exhaling correctly.

As much as I diligently fulfilled my little sister role as her constant tormentor, I instinctively knew what was off-limits: scars and sibilance. I lived in my sister's hand-me-downs but not her shoes, so I don't know for sure how much she was teased for the way she looked or talked. But I know that she was, and I know that it hurt. Fortunately, she took those way-too-early challenges and pushed her way through every one, eventually growing into the kickass woman she is today. But if I'd had any power to suppress even a single unkind remark, I would have. There are lots of ways to build character. Making a little kid feel even smaller isn't an essential one.

I know that if it weren't her refusal to pronounce Fs, there would be something else that other kids would tease Miss M about. Like the obnoxiously perfect bow of her mouth, or her devastating gift for joke-telling, or how aggravatingly smart she is. But of course, thanks to the ever-ironic Universe's sense of humor, it's something that hearkens back my own trove of childhood issues, albeit second-hand ones. All I can do is hope she handles it with the same strength and resilience as her annoyingly brilliant and beautiful aunt.

Out Here In The Fields

Back when we were but poor students/fledgling faculty in Chicago, The Admiral and I appreciated the many cultural opportunities of the area but rarely actually got to partake in them. One of the few live performances we attended was at a small theater on the fringes of Boys' Town, where this little underground troupe was putting on a combination concert/art installation/multimedia spectacle. They called themselves Blue Man Group.

Fast forward about ten years, three Pentium ads and a Vegas show later, and most of the country is familiar with the Blue Men. But I was still surprised to see that the country was familiar with them. As we headed into Southaven, Mississippi for the Blue Man Group's "How To Be A Megastar" arena show last night, the traffic was backed up for three exits. We were worried we were going to miss half the show until we realized that the entire traffic jam was caused by people trying to get to the DeSoto Civic Center, just like us. We got into the packed parking lot at 8:20, twenty minutes after the scheduled start time, and there was still a line of people behind us. After a quick rest stop (required by both pregnant woman and Guinness fan), we slid into our seats just as the show began.

I was definitely entertained by what was going on on-stage, but I have to admit, I was equally intrigued by the audience. I couldn't figure out where all of these surrealism-loving Southerners had come from. It seemed like a fairly even mix between yuppie couples (I guess that was us), young-tending-toward-hippieish families, high schoolers and late-middle-age art teachers. And yet, even Caucasianer than a Memphis hockey game.

I bought the tickets to the show as a birthday gift for The Admiral, who enjoyed himself immensely. Anytime you can combine Pink Floyd and physics, he's a happy man. I had fun as well, although I could have stood for more Blue Mannishness and fewer interludes involving the flesh-toned members of the band. I have to say, though, when I heard the opening bars of "Teenage Wasteland," I cringed thinking about the Tommy Tutone-ish male singer trying to tackle the job, but the vocal duties were instead given to the non-Blue woman of the group. And damn, she wailed. I firmly believe that only throaty alto chicks should tackle The Who covers from now on.

After "Rock Star Movement #383: The Fake Ending," "Rock Star Movement #278: A Quiet Moment Of Reflection," and "Rock Star Movement #37: Introducing The Band," the show wrapped up with a big, bright, strobey finale that had the entire audience on their feet (per "Rock Star Movement #18: Jumping Up And Down"). We left the show still feeling a little dazed, both by the performance and the idea that thousands of midsoutherners came to see it.

And The Night Goes By So Very Slow

Now that The Admiral has safely returned from the wilds of Amsterdam and the well-mannered alcoves of London, I can report on Single Mom Week '07. For eight days, Miss M and I survived on our own, sustained only by popcorn, gracious friends, and the wonders of Netflix.

Of course, the morning after The Admiral left, Miss M woke up with her first fever in ... well, ever. She used to run a little hot for 12 hours or so when she was teething, but this was her first real whiz-bang of a fever. And it hit her pretty hard. She was groggy and restless and had a non-existent appetite, which just made her groggier and restlesser. It seemed to be the exact same virus that had hit pretty much every other child at her school, so I didn't panic and I let the temperature run its course as much as I could, but her nights were such misery that I finally bowed to the Great Goddess Motrin. She spent all weekend wadded up on the couch (either ours or Castilo Sassy-Urf!'s, where I spent the majority of Saturday and Sunday practicing my role as Lazy Extra Wife), and I ended up sacrificing my one day off and kept her home from school on Monday. She was bouncing on the bed by Monday evening, so I decided she could survive at school the next day.

Which is when my fever hit. I was in denial all day Tuesday, but when Miss M threw up her free hot dog all over the table at McAlister's, it suddenly dawned on me that I wasn't feeling so hot, either. Or rather, that I was. My eyelids were burning and my hair hurt, always the first two signs that I have a fever. I checked my temp when we got home and it was up over 101. I sighed the sigh of the pitiful and put both Miss M and me to bed.

What followed was quite possibly the worst night of Miss M's life. Worse than the newborn days, worse than her 6-hour ear infection, worse than the post-traumatic stress disorder induced by her first 4th of July. She crawled into my bed around midnight and for every half hour after that, she woke up whimpering, screeching, flailing and punching me square in the face. She demanded water. She yelled that I was in her spot. She kicked the blankets off of my shivering body. It was, in a word, wretched.

I haven't taken a sick day since I took over at the store, but as I sat huddled behind the counter the next day, quivering in a shirt, sweater and Army jacket while customers breezed in wearing t-shirts, I knew I needed to go home. I crawled into bed and didn't emerge until 4 hours later when it was time to get Miss M from school. And then, in a move rivaling the sum of charitable acts completed by Oprah and Mother Teresa combined, the Sassy-Urfs invited us over for dinner. Theoretical dinner, anyway. I mostly just moaned and rubbed my baby-achey ribs while Miss M was entertained by the Castilo crew for a couple hours, which was more sustenance than any food could have been.

I was significantly recovered the next day, but still nowhere near 100%. But thanks to the timely arrival of The Rescuers, the rest of our week was pretty much taken care of. We infringed on the Castilo one more time on Friday night, as our ever-generous hosts invited us to feast on Domino's and heal my psyche with the magical powers of The Commitments (apparently Netflix was out of the first season of Big Love).

Miss M seemed to slide back down into the depths of disease a bit, though, and as we tried to enjoy the springy weather at Lichterman Nature Center on Saturday afternoon, she was in full cling-on mode. I tried breathing deep and counting the hours until The Admiral's return. That worked until I checked his flight status and saw that he was delayed almost 3 hours. Two viewings of The Rescuers later, Miss M was nearly comatose, so her daddy's triumphant return was marked mostly by her refusal to look him in the eye. Although after spending a week in Europe while his family withered away in Memphis, I think The Admiral may have had a rough time making eye contact, too.

Get Up Everybody And Sing

Miss M cozied up to me the minute I emerged from the shower. Since I was mentally refreshed from a 3-hour nap, I skipped the shooing and forewent the rest of my routine to sit next to her while she sang me her newest composition:
Daddy Mommy Daddy Mommmy Daddy Mommy
Daddy Daddy Mommy Daddy Mommy Mommy
And me
Family family family
Family family family

Of course, those familiar with Miss M's speech idiosyncrasies know that this last line sounded like SAMily, SAMily, SAMily ...

Seen And Not Seen

Is it too late to do an Oscar recap post? It is, huh? Well, alright. I'll skip my commentary on the varyingly successful degrees to which Ellen's folksy daytime schtick translates to a big fancy glamourfest, or how they really should have saved the Ferrell/Black/Reilly number until later in the show when they really needed it, or how creepy it is that Reese Witherspoon keeps showing up at events looking exactly like me. What was really significant to me about this year's awards, anyway, was the fact that I'd actually seen the winner of the Best Picture Oscar. Before it came out on DVD, even. As a new parent, that's a major milestone. We've spent the last three years trying to Netflix our way through every nominee from 2003 on (The Constant Gardener is currently languishing away in its envelope atop the TV).

Of course, with a summer baby on the way, we're about to dive back into the pool of pop cultural ignorance. I have hope that the little one will still be meatloafy enough to slip unnoticed into theaters for a few months, but that will only get us through the big blockbuster season. And unless Spiderman 3 has a secret subplot involving a parapalegic FBI informant, I don't think we'll be as lucky next year.

Peace Of Mind Dearer Than All

It took two months to get an appointment, but when we finally saw her, I was almost disappointed by how natural-birth supportive my new OB was because I was afraid she would give The Admiral a good reason to say, "Hey, she's going to help you do what you want. Why do it at home?" (To his credit, he didn't say that.) She even supported homebirth "for the right patients," and when she read my chart and heard about my first birth, she said, "Well, it sounds like you practically had one already!" But even with her approval, we've still been pulled into a more medicalized process than I'd like. Unlike most back-up physicians, she wants to see patients on the regular pre-natal schedule, so between her and the midwives, I'm doubling up my appointments. I'm a fan of information, but I know that it's going to get pretty old once we hit the weekly visits. Especially since an OB visit means an hour of waiting and 15 minutes of consulting (as opposed to the midwives, who are 100% punctual barring a conflicting birth and are happy to have the appointment itself take the full hour for which it's scheduled).

As I was going through the paperwork for all these caregivers, I ran across a section of the midwives' info sheet that made me pause. It wasn't the legal release or the lengthy list of reasons for transfer. It was just one line asking if anyone under the age of 10-years-old would be present for the birth, and if so, who (other than the parents) would be responsible for her? The only answer I could give was "To Be Determined," because although I know I have plenty of friends who would be more than happy to watch Miss M while I'm in labor, I couldn't think of anyone I'd want to watch me in labor. I'd like to leave it up to our intuition to decide whether or not Miss M will be around the moment her brother breathes air, but this simple question reminded me that we'd need to have someone designated to tend to her regardless of how and where she was present during the birth. I was completely stuck trying to think of someone to ask when The Admiral suggested my mom.

It was the best possible suggestion, since there really was no one else I could think of around whom I'd feel comfortable during the most challenging and modesty-losing portions of childbirth. But it still seemed a little weird. I hadn't had a particularly strong desire to have my mom, or anyone other than my husband and doula, present during the first labor, and frankly, she didn't have a very strong desire to be there, either. The idea of seeing me in pain didn't really appeal to her, and since she lives 1000 miles away, the mere logistics of trying to be here on the right date were, well, illogical. And I'd already figured out, from her subtle, subject-grazing comments, that she wasn't all that comfortable with the homebirth idea. Her worries were numerous and varied, but she'd avoid her deepest concerns by tossing out the more superficial issues, like, "Won't that be messy?"

So when I decided to ask her to (possibly) attend the birth as Miss M's liaison, I wasn't surprised by the less-than-100%-enthusiastic response. And that was fine. I knew that, if she wasn't comfortable, I wouldn't be either, and it wouldn't help anyone to have her there. But in the weeks since then, a strange thing has happened. I get the sense she's been doing research on her own, and she's also asked me for recommendations on books that would help her better understand the whole homebirth concept. And she delighted in recounting to me how she shocked her friends by telling them that she was going to be there when her daughter gave birth at her own house! So I guess that means she's in. And I'm delighted. Whether she's at my side or down the street at the park with Miss M, I'm happy to know she'll be close by, able to meet her grandson during his first hours on the planet. Plus it'll make a fabulous story at her next bridge club.

Be It Ever So Humble

Because I was way too well behaved as a teenager - i.e. converting to Mormonism at 16 and thereby eschewing everything from sex to drugs to frappucinos - I'm still looking for ways to retroactively irritate my mother. And so far, I think the best one I've come up with is planning a homebirth.

I really liked and supported the idea of homebirth during my first pregnancy, but after the cavalcade of medical interventions we'd endured just to get pregnant, on top of the regular newbie fear of the unknown, I didn't pursue it as a realistic option. Besides, we had a natural birth-supportive OB, a small, cooperative hospital and a well trained doula on our side. Thankfully, the labor and delivery all went as well as I could have hoped, nearly duplicating the birth center experience I craved but couldn't get in Memphis. Since we didn't have family in town, we actually liked spending those first few days in the bubble of the hospital, where the sheets were always clean and the meals (so to speak) were regular. The nursing staff was small, friendly, and very knowledgeable on breastfeeding. They admired my labor and delivery, considering that the epidural rate in Memphis is 99% and the c-section rate is above the national average. One nurse even said, "It's so nice to see that women can still have babies!" My doctor supported my effort as well, telling me after my long, strenuous last stage of labor that having an epidural would have guaranteed an instrument (forceps or vacuum) delivery, if not a c-section.

But three years later, things have changed. Our insurance moved to a new company that no longer covers my former physician. The hospital where I delivered has closed its maternity center because it couldn't compete with the gigantic new women's hospital. And because of my job, I spend every single day hearing about women's birth experiences all over this city. I do hear some positive stories, tales from moms who have found that perfect match of doctor, hospital and nursing staff that is so crucial to having a natural birth in an unnatural setting. But for the most part, what I hear are sad and sometimes horrible stories of caregivers and facilities that simply refuse to support a laboring mother in her most basic needs. Sometimes I even know the story before they start telling it; there's one particular hospital that has yet to send me a customer without a c-section scar.

On the flip side of these stories, however, were the mothers who had delivered their babies at home. With these moms, their experiences were so overwhelmingly positive and satisfying that it was hard to ignore the contrast. Even with the limited midwife options available in this town, these women had found skilled, conscientious caregivers who guided them through their births rather than dictating what their bodies should do. The idea of homebirth, which once seemed so exotic and unapproachable, began to grow more and more appealing.

So when I did get pregnant again, and all the options were in front of me, I found myself leaning very strongly toward delivering at home. Although I did have a generally good experience with Miss M's birth, there were still several significant parts that I did not at all enjoy. The aggressive coaching, the confinement to bed while I was pushing (for all three hours), the seeming OB impatience leading to a pretty impressive level of tearing. All things I'd like to avoid the next time. Knowing that I'd have an even smaller chance of having the birth I wanted in a new hospital and with a new doctor was discouraging as well. Not that I made the decision by default - the more research I did, the more I felt that homebirth was the best option for me, even if I could have had my almost-perfect first birth all over again. The only thing on the negative side of the scales was not knowing how supported I'd be by the two people whose feelings had the most bearing on the decision: The Admiral and Mom.

When we first started seeing the midwives, it was on more of a consultation basis. I tried very hard to keep my mind open and not make The Admiral feel that I was just trying to push him toward agreeing with me (which, I fully admit, is my general tactic on all matters maternity). I understood his fears and concerns, and appreciated that they were focused on my health and the baby's, but I also knew he hadn't looked at the numbers as intensely as I had. Or rather, that he was looking at different numbers. He was focused on the tiny percentage of really, really bad things that happen during labor, whereas I was thinking more of the dozens of common, aggravating interventions that occur during even an ideal hospital birth. He didn't want me to bleed out in our bedroom. I didn't want to have someone tell me I had to eat ice chips when I wanted a grilled cheese sandwich. His scenario was much more serious, but mine was a lot more likely.

[To Be Continued ...]

Something Wasn't Right Here

As both a mothering and music professional, I feel uniquely qualified to comment on The Whole Britney Thing. Although what I feel about the situation really has nothing to do with music and everything to do with the dozens of moms I've seen on the very edge of their own head-shaving, wrist-tattooing meltdowns. Including me.

It really doesn't even have that much to do with Britney, either, come to think of it. But that's what got me thinking. When I saw her with the clippers in hand, the first thing in my head was, "Somebody get that girl a post-partum depression screening right now." Because going Kojak is just one of the many exciting self-destructive behaviors that depressed new mothers come up with, somewhere on the spectrum between living in sweatpants and driving into oncoming traffic. I didn't see her stubbly head and think of her career. I thought of her two babies, and her recent divorce, and the last couple months of well documented self-medicating.

I don't know the girl, of course, and I can't do anything but speculate and add one more useless opinion to the mix. I also can't really speak to the addiction element, if there is one, because although I have a long family history of substance abuse, I haven't been in that particular hole myself. (And anyway, Craig Ferguson did as thoughtful and honest a job of that as anyone could hope to.) But what I have been is a depressed mother, and one who tended to drift over toward the head-on collision side of the spectrum. It feels over-dramatic of me to even say that, though, since I never sought help, never talked to a therapist, never went on anti-depressants. I also didn't have my depression manifest in a way that prevented me from going about my regular activities. It just made me resent them, and then dread them, and then build up an increasing stash of self-loathing over what a relentlessly ill-equipped mother I was. But due to the fact that I was still getting out of bed in the morning, I figured I was okay.

Once in a while, a friend mentioned that I seemed unhappy. I'd chalk it up to a bad day, or a sleepless night, and completely deny that anything more persistent might be going wrong. I didn't talk to my family about it. I'm even nervous writing it down now, because The Admiral has recently started keeping up with my blog and he was at the top of the list of people I should have asked for help but didn't. I once got as far as asking a couple close friends for therapist recommendations, but didn't have the motivation to work out the insurance issues and find someone I could afford to see. I just went on feeling bad, feeling vacant, feeling like my general existence was doing more harm than good.

For me, there was no one magic cure. My hormones eventually evened out, I took small steps to reduce my stress level, I began getting more than two hours of sleep at a time. Those combined with a dozen other factors all brought me to a point where I could see the difference between the world I'd been living in and the one where all those reasonable, mostly happy people were. I look back and can see all the things I should have done differently, and that gives me hope that I'll be better prepared if I start slipping into the same patterns after this next baby arrives. I also hope that being a little more open about it will put my very caring network of friends and family on slightly higher alert in case they see me making reckless moves toward styling tools.

Our Happy Home In Memphis, Tennessee

With RJA's recent unexpected store guests added to the tally, that makes three fingerprint-garnering crimes inflicted on our small circle of friends since the beginning of the year. It's frightening, infuriating, and deeply demoralizing. Seeing headlines flick by on the news is depressing enough, but it's even harder to feel much hope about the place where you live when you watch your friends going through the cycles of anger and fear that being a crime victim entails. As Memphians, and (semi- to actual)Midtowners in partcular, we're constantly asking ourselves why we stay, why we put up with the problems we know are here, why we're raising our kids in a city that often resembles an Old West free-for-all rather than a stable metropolis.

In the new issue of Fertile Ground, a number of Memphis parents/writers address this issue both directly and indirectly (including all three of the lawfully infringed parties referenced above). There are a lot of positive things mentioned about Memphis, from the culture to the sense of community, but I think the most basic reason we're here is because ... this is where we are. This is our home, whether we've been here all our lives or have transplanted by choice. And sure, I guess there are those folks who pack up and move when the floors get creaky or the basement walls crack, but for those who crave stability and are slow to uproot, it just feels natural to work through the problems. Or better yet, follow the true Midtowner-homeowner path and ignore them.

And of course, pure stubbornness comes into play. Some chickenshit burglar or cracked-out, theoretically-armed robber thinks he's going to get the better of us? Some sackless douchebag is going to make us fear for the safety of our kids? The fuck he is!

(Ahem. Sorry, Mom. Did I mention the anger part of being a crime victim?)

Point is, we've made choices and sacrifices and commitments to this place. We've built careers and families and friendships here. As a native and 14th-generation Minnesotan, I never expected Memphis to feel like home to me, but now I can't deny the pull. Call it insanity or inertia, but it's become very hard for me to imagine myself having as full a life anywhere else. It's both the good and bad that make this town unique, and one night of having the crap scared out of me doesn't outweigh the countless park dates, shared meals, and hours of laughter that occurred before and since. Plus, of course, the nightly poker games at the saloon/brothel.

No Such Thing As The Real World

If I really had my schmooze on, I'd be down at the Folk Alliance conference kick-off party right now, listening to Susan and Jimmy getting the folkie festivities started, but since I'm already stretching my agently capacities to the limit and can't justify even glancing in the direction of another client, I've decided to skip it. Oh, and also, I don't have an extra $430 for the conference registration fees. I may sneak off one night with The Admiral's one-day pass, hopefully catching a span where as many of my kids are playing as possible. I know Blair's got at least three shows, one of which is the big fancy showcase slot he won last year. I feel like I should at least show my face, just to protect my turf.

In other musical news, John Mayer is staying at my house tomorrow night. He's heading through on his way to Birmingham, Opelika, Atlanta and Savannah, then swinging back for a big show at the P&H in Memphis. What? Why are you looking at me like that? It's true. He may have been forced to perform as John Elliott due to the increasing visibility of a certain floppy-haired Grammy winner, but the birth certificate says John Mayer. As does the diploma from the high school we went to together. (Where he did not, in fact, run through the halls nor bust down the double doors.)

We've A Long Time Together, Me And You

Something happens to me each week at about this same time. Or at least on the weeks when I have any control over the TV programming. Not counting the CSPANiverse and eight home shopping networks, we only get one real cable channel: TLC. And I have found myself irrefutably drawn to one of its simplest yet most voyeuristic shows: Miami Ink.

Maybe it's living in the perpetual safety bubble of pregnancy, but I've developed a brand-new fascination with tattoos. Or more specifically, with getting myself tattooed. I went through my twenties with no interest in the ink. (Of course, I also went through my twenties with no interest in beer. The geekiness knows no bounds.) I am not, by anyone's definition, a rebel. But in the last year or so, I've started giving very serious consideration to what I might want permanently affixed to my body. You know, other than Miss M.

My lifelong hesitations about tattoos come through when I get down to the details. For starters, I feel like I'd have to pick a spot on my body that is at least relatively immune to the forces of gravity. It's hard enough to imagine myself as a tattooed 70-year-old; I can't bear the thought of having to use two hands in order to see my art. I'm also continually flummoxed as to what image I'd use. I guess that's probably the strongest sign that I'm not ready for a tattoo, since I can't easily settle on the design I'd want to carry around for the rest of my life. Although lately, it's not from a lack of ideas, but rather an abundance. I'm constantly looking at everything from Norse goddesses to the native wildflowers of Minnesota and wondering how well they'd translate onto my own skin.

Sure, it's easy to talk big about stabbing a picture onto my body during this period of my life when I absolutely can't do it. I've also spent a lot of time longing to dye my hair Natalie Maines brown and run off into a quiet room with a tray of sushi and an entire bottle of Bordeaux. But I think this craving might actually stick. After delivering two babies, the fear of pain would be nowhere near a factor, and 1.5 pregnancies have already gotten me a lot more comfortable with the ever-fluctuating nature of my body. Or maybe that's what I'm actually rebelling against.

Whip-Smart As The English Channel's Wide

It feels a little sketchy divulging the details of a parent/teacher conference, somewhat akin to violating attorney/client privilege or doctor/patient confidentiality, but it also seems important to document this first major scholastic event. And not just because the school director said Miss M was super, super smart.

We weren't all that surprised when the opening discussion of M's overall demeanor and temperament involved the word bossy, though. Apparently her father and I are not the only people she likes to drag around by their noses. She's what Miss F. euphemistically referred to as a "leader," which is the polite Montessori term for the kid who targets a group of smaller children and commands them to do her bidding. "She's got Fortune 500 written all over her," Miss F said optimistically. Meanwhile, The Admiral and I were slightly relieved to discover that it's a common stage, and can be exacerbated by major life events (like an upcoming baby), but will eventually become a less overpowering part of her persona.

The academic portion of the review was more heartening. It seems a little silly to call a 3-year-old's efforts to pour water and sort beads and button buttons "academic," but I've bought into the Montessori theory of cosmic education enough to believe that these small, seemingly unimportant tasks are laying the groundwork for the bigger work that lies ahead. And the good news is, she's doing well. She loves "practical life," which is the school's category for things like serving food, washing dishes and cleaning up messes. I suspected as much, considering that one of her greatest joys in life is helping me dust and she waxes poetic about the joys of the "spill tray." But we were surprised to see how well she was progressing in language, since she never really talks about doing that work (a taste for irony is genetic, I guess). And Miss F said she'd even ventured into some of the math work, which is quite advanced for her age and time in Montessori. The only category where she really wasn't taking a dramatic interest was sensorial, which I thought was sort of odd considering what a sensitive kid she is. Maybe that's why, though. Maybe she senses enough as it is.

In all, it was an interesting and revealing look into her activities during the seven hours a day she is out of our immediate control. Especially since she's turned into a 14-year-old lately, and answers all questions about her day with, "Nothin'" (Her teenage 'tude is dampened a bit, however, by her pronunciation issues. "What did you have for lunch today?" "Nussin.") It's a tremendous relief to know that she's happy and thriving and taking in experiences that we wouldn't even think to offer her. Although she'd probably think of them herself, because, you know, she's brilliant.

I Only Wanted 2 Be Some Kind Of Friend

Since pregnancy has significantly cut into my barhopping (what with the center of gravity shift keeping me from balancing on a barstool with a Pabst in one hand and a Winston in the other), I have to resort to commenting on the shows I'm still able to see. Which is to say, those on TV.

I really didn't know what to expect when I heard that Prince was going to be performing at the Super Bowl halftime show. I was initially excited about the prospect, but then I couldn't help remembering the last, oh let's say 18 Super Bowl halftime shows, all of which involved either Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones or Paul McCartney. Popular and varyingly talented performers all, but not exactly on the bleeding edge of the music scene. And sure, there was that one unusual year that got a wee little bit of attention, but that obviously taught the halftime powers-that-be not to take any risks at all in their artist choices.

So what did it mean, then, that they picked Prince? Is the man who once threatened the very souls of the Gore daughters now considered wholesome family entertainment? Has becoming a Jehovah's Witness and knocking on the door to 50 mellowed Mr. Nelson to such an extent that he no longer requires a parental advisory label? And most importantly, does being a Prince fan now put me in the same category as the people who thought "Woo hoo!" when they saw Billy Joel creak out for the national anthem?

Thusfore, there was a lot of tension in the SAM household as halftime approached. Some skeptical observers doubted that Prince would even deign to appear in the torrential rain. But then, through some impossibility of chemistry (or maybe physics; who knows, I got Cs in them both), a ring of fire burst through the rain and there he was. Flanked by the flanks of two possibly suicidal dancers in what was astutely described by Sassy Molassy as "Italian pirate" gear and 9" heels, my hometown boy strutted across the eponymously shaped stage, rocking a medley that I'm sure is a highlight of his new Las Vegas show. Let's Go Crazy, Baby I'm A Star, Purple Rain, even a little Proud Mary ... nothing revolutionary (and mostly Revolution-era), I'll admit, but an engaging and energetic set nonetheless.

Prince took on a little more of a Morris Day persona as he quipped about his hair and kept his own dance moves to a minimum - can't be risking a broken ankle when you've got 3000 people paying $125 to see you every weekend, I guess. But I wouldn't go so far as to say he was entirely safe, either, what with the patented guitar-as-phallus antics going on behind the billowy curtain set. He kept up a remarkably good attitude, considering the weather and his general reputation for prissiness. I have to say, after all we've been through in the last 20-odd years (let's not get me going about the whole Crystal Ball debacle), the little man won me back over.

Cluck Ol' Hen

The technology, people. It's an amazing thing.

A few months back - let's say six or so - I got a message from my past in the form of a MySpace email from my former junior and high school classmate, Josh. He'd apparently been breezing through the alumni listing and saw my page, then also happened to notice that I was doing artist booking. In an intriguing coincidence, Josh was now part of an old-time country duo, The Get Up Johns (not what I'd have predicted when he was rocking out to Christian rap after Physics lab, but still somewhat fitting). And, unlike most of the musicians who contact me through MySpace, they were really, really good. You have no idea what a relief it is to have a friend say, "Hey, would you mind listening to this?" and having it actually be something worth listening to. And that's coming from someone who, quite frankly, does not have the world's keenest aural sense (I'm really just here to pimp the songwriters, my acoustically enhanced literary brethren and sistren).

So, over the next few months, we kept in touch and managed to forge together a 5-date tour of the southeast, an area of the U.S. that these country die-hards had not yet explored (at least as a touring act - Josh's partner Jake is a native of Morgantown, WV). As you might expect, it was quite possibly my easiest booking run ever. An old-time country duo? In the South? Almost embarrassingly easy. After making sure they had a good anchor show in Memphis, I got them shows in Opelika, AL; Knoxville, TN; Atlanta and Savannah, GA. Through their own MySpace hustling, they also got a Nashville show with Kathy Louvin, daughter of one of their idols, Ira Louvin.

And then, I'm embarrassed to admit, I sort of forgot all about it. I got them all their show specs and tried to help their publicist get the press info she needed, but then it sort of dropped off my radar. Until I got an email from Josh, sent on Tuesday morning, saying that they were going to drive in from Chicago that night and could I suggest someplace for them to park their mobile lodgings (which I assumed to be a van, but which turned out to be a Jetta wagon with a homespun plywood bunk across the way-back). Since I didn't get that email until 10pm Tuesday night, they were left to their own midwestern devices, which led them to the Elvis Presley RV park, within spitting distance of Graceland. (Listen as the Memphis locals release a sigh of pity/gasp of fear as they picture two country singers in a VW station wagon, sleeping innocently behind a used car lot on EP Blvd.) Thankfully, they survived the night and were up and at 'em on Wednesday in time for their live appearance on Bashful Bob's "Sho' Nuff Country" show on WEVL.

And now, a brief moment to express how much I love Bashful Bob. Oh, how I love him.

Ahem. Anyway, the on-air went fabulously (I listened to it online, another modern wonder) and they gamely followed my instructions to lunch at Gus's Fried Chicken. After a mandatory tour of Sun Studio, they headed to the P&H to check out the bar and enjoy their free wi-fi. When I and the rest of the crowd started arriving around 7:45, the boys were showered, shaved and dressed in their customary suits. It soon became clear that this wasn't going to be a typical night at the P&H, not just because the musicians weren't wearing faded Big Star t-shirts but because the median age was about 62. Turns out, there was a large contingent from Arkansas sitting right up next to the stage who had caught the boys on Midwest Country, a Minnesota-produced Opry-style show that airs on this obscure satellite channel called RFD. Apparently Bashful Bob had seen that appearance as well, and it was part of the reason he'd come all the way up from Tupelo to have the guys on his show. Bob and his Mississippi crew were anchoring another table near the bar.

Between those two groups, the Get Up Johns had a faithful following all night long, but they also grabbed the attention of the hipsters slouching in the booths. The show was fantastic, with Josh and Jake proving that the seamless harmonies and adroit picking heard on their CD is not some sort of production trick. These boys can really play. Even Stacey and RJA, not generally considered the biggest country fans in Memphis, had to admit that they sounded really good. It was a great evening, and it was in large part due to the wonders of MySpace, streaming radio, and Dish TV. And a whole bunch of songs written when my grandparents were in elementary school.

Baby, It's You

Parenting is full of surprises. Just three years in and I've already become deeply familiar with that fact. Pretty much everything that happens from bedtime to bedtime is an unknown. (I was going to say from wake-up to bedtime, but that leaves out the night hours that can bring anything from bad dreams to bed-wetting to unconscious shouts of "Give me my cookie!")

So when there's a chance to make things just a little less astonishing, I'm happy to take advantage. This is why I'm all for learning the baby's gender as soon as possible. During our first pregnancy, however, The Admiral disagreed. He wanted the big, cinematic "It's a ..." moment. And so, being the ever-courteous wife that I am, I acquiesced to his wishes. He didn't find out.

But I did.

As I've told anyone willing to stand still for 18 seconds, we had the sonographer write down the baby's gender and put it in an envelope. And then the envelope went away. The Admiral not only didn't know what was in it, he didn't know if I'd even opened it. We were afraid that if he knew that I knew, I'd be subject to intense scrutiny every time I picked up a Hanna Andersson catalog. So I kept both secrets for over four months (not counting that one tiny little slip-up in front of Stacey and Kristy).

And that was ... hard. Even for a stoic specimen like myself, keeping that information to myself was a challenge. And it wasn't just about keeping a secret; I had to keep up an act, lobbying equally hard for my picks on both genders' names, keeping every new nursery item completely gender-neutral, and continuing my vehement argument against circumcision even though I knew it was pointless. Because I knew we were having a girl. If I even doubted it, the exclamation point on the sonographer's note removed all question. My daughter was on her way.

So now, halfway though my second pregnancy, the question rose again. Would we find out or wouldn't we? I actually hesitated at first, thinking that maybe it would be fun to try it the other way, to have the big suspenseful moment after delivery. But then I thought ... naaah. The suspense is just as good in that little dark room with the goop all over my belly. The Admiral, however, still wasn't convinced. While willing, as always, to respect his wishes, I did mention what a challenge it was to keep quiet for 20 weeks. And how much easier it would be if we could plan out things like room arrangements, wardrobe needs, etc. And how nice it would be to prepare Miss M for the exact sibling she'd be getting, instead of constantly saying "little brother or sister" (especially since she'd been convinced from the start that I was having a girl). And about 17 other logical reasons why it really would make more sense for us both to find out.

Up until the day of the ultrasound, he still hadn't decided what to do, but at some point between the exam room and the sonogram suite, he went with Find Out. Thanks to a scheduling snafu, Miss M was actually in attendance as well, so we were looking forward to all finding out together, which was an unlikely scenario at the actual delivery.

Those of you who have ever spent ten minutes with a three-year-old, and my three-year-old in particular, can already see where this is heading. Miss M got bored after about 15 minutes of staring at barely recognizable body parts on a black and white screen. The Admiral did the best he could to entertain - and ultimately restrain - her, but there was just no getting around it. We could keep her locked in there and let the sonographer try to complete a fetal survey over the screams of "I want to play OUTSIDE!" or he could take her out and let the scan finish in peace. He bowed out gracefully and sacrificed The Moment for the greater good.

The sweet little sonographer held out as long as she could, hoping they'd be able to return, but I'd already snuck into a latecomer's appointment time and she couldn't wait any longer. She stopped measuring the skull and diaphragm and kidneys and went right for the up-kilt shot. She asked if Miss M had a feeling about what it was, and I said she was sure it was a girl. "Well," she said, "sometimes children have a good sense about these things." My eyebrows lodged an inch above their natural position as I waited for confirmation. "But this time she's wrong. See?"

And I did. There he was. My boy.

I didn't realize until that second how much I'd been hoping for a son. I'd always admitted to wanting a boy, mostly because of my lifelong fear of adolescent girls, but during this pregnancy, I'd gotten comfortable with the idea of having two daughters (i.e., I had and currently have no plans to be pregnant again). I love the heck out of Miss M, and having her got me way past the idea that gender would have any influence on how I felt about the next child. But still ... a boy. My boy. I felt like I'd just met someone I'd been waiting my whole life to meet. I wondered how I was going to get the ridiculous grin off my face before I got back to The Admiral, but when I saw how disappointed he was to miss the big reveal, and how demonic Miss M was acting, we decided to just stay mum about it until a more family-friendly moment.

Fortunately, I only had to hold it in for three hours instead of four months. When I got home from work, I showed The Admiral the take-home pictures from the ultrasound, including a very immodest shot labeled "It's a boy!" as if there could possibly be a doubt. And then I got to gloat about my amazing psychic powers, the ones that have enabled me to dream the correct gender of my babies twice in a row. The Admiral took the news in stride (especially considering that he was sure it was a girl, based on our 14-week mini-ultrasound), confirming my suspicion that the result wasn't nearly as important to him as the process of finding out.

So now we know, all three of us. The Admiral is a little nervous, because it feels even more like starting all over. Miss M, of course, still insists she's waiting on a little sister. And me, I'm just happy to be able to utter pronouns out loud. I'm all for surprises, but when it comes to the human growing inside my body, I feel that I'm entitled to any advance information I can get.

True Confessions

I don't know if guilt is hereditary, but Miss M seems to be channeling the previous generations of Mormon and Catholic repentance. The last thing she does before falling asleep at night, after the two books and one story and two songs, after the lights go off and her mother growls "Lie down, be still, close your eyes" for the 48th time, she confesses something. She goes through her mental summary of the day and finds something that she needs to apologize for. Last night, it was a fairly recent one: "Mama, I'm sorry for knocking over all the books" (which she'd done by kicking them off her nightstand about ten minutes earlier). The night before last, she went further back into the day and recalled an unfortunate potty-related incident that I never held her accountable for in the first place: "Mama, I'm sorry I fell in the toilet." Then she asks the most important question in her world: "Are you my best friend?" Mama stops growling after that.

Drink The Water, Drink It Down

I was trying to come up with something agenty to talk about, since I've been discussing much more family stuff than work stuff lately, but after the appointment with my midwives this morning, I'm having a hard time thinking about anything but the sweet potato in my belly. I wasn't really thinking of it as a sweet potato until I got my weekly BabyCenter email, which always describes the growing baby in terms of something edible. Which is sort of weird, really. Isn't there another comparison we could be using? Like: this week your baby is the size of a Bose speaker, next month it will be the size of a medium Mag-Lite flashlight. Or better yet, using something living. Month Four: fruit bat, Month Five: Cloud Forest Pygmy Owl.

The appointment went well, with me demonstrating ideal blood pressure and textbook weight gain. I was feeling like the perfect little patient, and reliving my high school days of people-pleasing geekdom, until they pointed out that my water intake is abysmal. I'm not sure exactly what "specific gravity" measures and why my pee would have anything to do with quantum physics, but apparently mine measured off the charts. Which means I'm only slightly more hydrated than, say, an actual Mag-Lite. I knew they'd get me on that; I've never been much of a water drinker. Or an anything drinker, really. I generally find fluids to be an inconvenience, what with their leaving rings on the coffee table, taking up armrest space at the movies and making my uncles act ridiculous on major holidays. But I read the handout, and I realize that I'm in the process of growing a human being who, for the next 22 weeks, will be living in its own personal waterworld. It's just always been easier for me to abstain from something fun than to push myself into something that's not even all that unpleasant. I've got no problem dropping alcohol and caffeine, but come on, let's not expect me to drink water or eat an orange. I'm not a robot!

But I may, however, be a flashlight.

Father, Hear Me If You Can

I talked to my dad the other night, which is a fairly infrequent occurrence. Despite weekly calls to or from the homeland, my parental contact is usually with my mom. She's the news anchor, on-call counselor and human resources manager of the family. Much like my sister, Mom knows what's going on with everyone, or knows the secret ways to find out what she doesn't. My mom and sister, they're The Talkers.

But Dad and I, we work differently. There's no need to drag my mom onto Springer for a paternity test, because I'm a blondish clone of the big guy. Not just the melon of a skull he gave me, but what clunks around inside of it, too. If we didn't have these women to draw us out, we'd probably sit quietly for days. In fact, we got a good start on that when we took a 7-hour drive together and passed perhaps 23 words the entire time. It sounds awkward and painfully boring, but it was really quite pleasant. We operate on a similar wavelength and we know that silence doesn't have to be uncomfortable.

Of course, I was probably uncomfortable during that Christmas tree hunt when I used all the strength in my 18" legs to keep up with Dad's pace in the knee-high (to me, anyway) snow. At some point, I stepped right out of my boots, but I kept trudging along in my socks, not saying a word about it. When my dad realized what happened, he just smiled, picked me up, and followed our tracks back to my abandoned footgear.

That's us. That's who we are. Blame our Nordic heritage or our Midwestern upbringing or our impossibly youthful skin (okay, that's not really relevant, but I feel bad about calling out our melonheads), but we're quiet people. That's why it's been so unsettling to have my fortress of reserve fired upon by a teeny sniper in footie pajamas. I wasn't prepared for the way having an outgoing, highly reactive child would expose my own emotions. When we spend any length of time together (i.e., daily), I feel like my chest has been sandpapered open, leaving every fear, hope, sorrow, joy and insecurity visible to the world. It makes me want to curl up in a ball and cover myself with a chainmail quilt. But I can't. I have to stand up straight, take her hand, and carefully explain, for the fourteenth time, why she doesn't get to pick up the cat by the ears even though she "really, really loves to."

I don't begrudge Miss M her feelings, and I often envy how quickly and easily she can get over her injuries and resentments. Frankly, I'd probably be a much healthier person if I could admit when my feelings are hurt as freely as she does, although I hope I'd do it more tactfully than by yelling, "You're not my best friend anymore!" But I have to admit that part of me is hoping that this next child will bear at least a few of the Norse genes. It would be a nice break to have as effortless a relationship as my father and I have, to understand each other without having to parse every detail. Just the lower noise level would be a pleasant change. It's not an anti-social wish that Baby Dos won't want to talk to me. It's just a quiet hope that s/he may not always have to.

*Footnote/Contradictory anecdote: for the entire run of the series Northern Exposure, my father and I would dance to the theme song. Not some dignified two-step or anything, but this crazy, spazzy, freeform interpretive dance that often left my mother afraid that we were going to knock down the entire home-made entertainment center. As soon as the drums started up and the moose began wandering the streets of Cicely, we were on our feet. Which, considering all that stuff above, is bizarre enough, but ponder for a moment that I was also in my mid-teens. It was our weekly release from the restraints of Norseness and the all-encompassing indifference of adolescence. No one else was invited to dance with us, because no one else could have understood.