My life on candid camera

Long before I met and married Hubs, long before I became the constant subject of Our Domestic Documentary, I was frequently caught in embarrassing, accidental "poses" by the newspaper photographers with whom I went on assignment.

Cathy sliding down the sandhills in Monahans, holding on for dear life to her Frisbee-shaped sled?

Check.


Cathy mired up to her knees in mud during flooding in Beaumont, Texas?

Check.

Cathy falling into said mud and rolling down a hill?

Check.

And then there was my encounter with Jesse Jackson. Yes, that Jesse Jackson.

In the weeks after James Byrd Jr.'s dragging death in Jasper, Texas, the reverend came to town one day to speak to Mr. Byrd's family and city officials. A press conference was scheduled for later that day.

Minutes before the press conference was to start, TV and print reporters gathered at the appointed place. Usually, my fellow print reporters and I would sit on the ground to avoid being jostled and generally annoyed by overly aggressive television cameramen -- who are often prone to shouting "Get out of the way!" if one blocks their shot.

As per this custom, I dropped to my knees, scribbling furiously in my notebook, as Jesse Jackson stepped outside and headed our way. As I hit the asphalt, two women bystanders behind me gasped. They were there in hopes of meeting Jackson. Unaware of reporting practices, the duo apparently thought that I, too, was a spectator -- a spectator who had just been stricken by a sudden spiritual epiphany. To them, I appeared to be praying.

The media-savvy Jackson saw me drop to the ground, witnessed the women's surprise and headed over. Still writing, I didn't see his approach. So when I felt two hands on my head, I assumed it was an annoying TV cameraman and prepared to respond accordingly. ("Do you mind? Get the hell out of my way!")

You can imagine my surprise when the person touching me started praying. I looked up, and there was Jesse Jackson, who was offering up a mock blessing before the two startled women. He laughed. I stammered.

We shook hands.

All of this was recorded by the print photographers and TV cameramen, all of whom had surged forward, clicking wildly, when they saw Jesse Jackson laying hands on someone in the crowd.

My photographer, after having snapped his own series of shots, including one that showed my shock at seeing Jesse Jackson standing over me, finally informed the other media people that I was one of them, a mere reporter.

Given my experience with photographers, you'd have thought I would be prepared for marriage to one.

I wasn't. Especially when it came to childbirth.

Imagine -- you are wed to a man who lives for action shots, a man accustomed to chronicling every second of a given event.

With my first baby, I had to have an emergency C-section. Apparently, the umbilical cord we shared was freakishly long and had my baby trussed up more tightly than a calf at a Texas rodeo. (If you are pregnant and reading this and fretting, don't. This isn't a common occurrence.)

Throughout the hasty procedure, I could hear Hubs clicking away. Within hours, he had emailed a series of photos to everyone we knew.

My childhood friend, J., called a few days later.

"The pictures were great," she said. "But my parents were a little freaked out when they saw all those shots of your uterus."

Wha...???


I hadn't yet looked through the photos. Clearly, I should have done so immediately.

Um ... honey? You sent out pictures of my uterus? My womb? My sacred vessel?

Then came E-man. With him, I had a successful VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean).

And with him, I discovered that Hubs wasn't nearly finished in his efforts to humiliate. I give you this --





-- as evidence. Yes, I am in labor, as I'm sure you can tell by my grimace.

But why, you might reasonably ask, am I clutching my then-toddler daughter's plastic Halloween trick-or-treating jack'o'lantern?

Because when Hubs called our doula to tell her that we were on our way to the hospital, she advised him to line the seat with towels (in case my water broke) and to take along a container (in case I threw up.)

I stood, doubled over in our driveway, while Hubs meticulously laid down several towels. After I got into the car, he handed me the pumpkin.

"What the hell is this for?" I snapped.

"Suzanne said you might get sick on the way."

Until that moment, I had felt not a single wave of nausea. But behold, the power of suggestion. Within seconds, I was retching. And Hubs was click-click-clicking.

Don't get me wrong. It's wonderful to have all of these moments recorded. But because I am vain, and don't want your lingering image of me to be that of my pregnancy-inflated grimacing face, I offer this --




Me, when I'm not in agony. And, of course, the man rarely seen in any of our family photographs.

A few days after the E-man's birth, Tootie asked indignantly why her jack'o'lantern was in the car. Since she already resented her new little brother, we decided not to tell her Mommy had been dry-heaving into it on the way to have little E-man. And yes, we still have the pumpkin.