A post in which I rant in a totally non-PC way

OK, here it is, in a nutshell --

I grow so weary sometimes of all the animal-rights activism.

I've been a reporter for nearly 15 years. And I feel pretty confident in making this claim --

For every animal story I've ever written, the response is at least twice what I get for stories about abused kids, the mentally ill or those living in horrific poverty.

I write about a giraffe who needs a friend and oh-my-freaking-god -- the phone calls and emails are astounding in their numbers.

But the toddler who was stomped to death by his mom's angry boyfriend?

Nada.

Yeah, yeah, I know. The animals can't speak for themselves.

Guess what? Neither can a battered 1-year-old. Neither can the paranoid schizophrenic who's been jailed for eight months because there's no room in the state hospital.

I spent a couple of months in 2004 shadowing caseworkers for Child Protective Services.

I met a girl who was beaten with a meat tenderizer. I saw the patterned wounds on her head and shoulder. I watched a caseworker agonize over a missing toddler. I listened to mothers explain why they kept dating men who burned their kids with cigarettes or punched them in the stomach.

The caseworkers had a saying:

"Kids under 5 are the ones who die."

Kids under 5, you see, are unable to articulate what is happening to them.

But in my experience, the riled masses would rather speak for elephants than find a voice for the children.

I love my dog. I cringe when I hear reports of animal abuse.

But if I had to choose -- and bear in mind, I've owned and loved this dog for almost 14 years -- I would always, ALWAYS put my children first. I think, I hope, most parents feel the same way.

So why -- WHY? -- do animals get all of the attention and reaction? Why will people storm City Hall after hearing about a high number of animals put to sleep at the pound and yet ignore the increasing number of children abused and killed by those who were meant to love and protect them?

There are days I really lose all faith in people. This is one of them.

I didn't know

I see her once, maybe twice, a week -- the tall woman with a smooth, glossy, blond bob and wide, white smile.

She -- I'll call her Laura -- runs her own business, quite successfully from what I hear. Has a 3 year-old daughter with dimples and a mop of curls. My son adores Laura's little girl, talks about her all the time.

I don't know Laura real well. We've share only hurried exchanges at daycare pickups and birthday parties. But she's the type who always goes out of her way to greet people, even when it's clear she's in a rush.

Laura strode into today's birthday celebration in her usual confident fashion, calling out greetings and flashing that smile.

A few minutes into a light-hearted conversation, she told me that our last round of tornadoes hit her house. She and her little girl huddled in the bathtub as shingles popped off the roof and a tree punctured their home. "It did $40,000 worth of damage," she said. "And now my daughter's afraid to sleep alone. She's been in my bed every night."

I wondered again about the husband. I know there is one, but I've never seen him at the daycare. He wasn't at his daughter's birthday party a few months ago. On that February afternoon, I overheard a man asking if Laura needed anything.

She teared up, thanked him, said they were doing fine.

I speculated silently. Maybe she's recently separated. Maybe something happened to her husband -- an accident?

But the tears were gone in an instant. "OK, honey," she said to her daughter, clapping her hands together. "Let's finish opening these presents!"

In the weeks after that party, I saw Laura several times. She didn't act like anything was wrong. I wondered if I had imagined that moment at her daughter's party.

One day, a few weeks ago, after she flew down the hall after her runaway daughter, she called out to me from her car window -- "Hey! I didn't mean to be rude. You know how these guys are once they're let out!" She laughed and gestured toward her child. "So how are you doing?"

We chatted a few minutes, and then she pulled away, throwing a breezy wave as she drove down the street.

Today, even as she described the tornado, she was upbeat. "It could have been so much worse," she explained, describing the devastation at her neighbors' homes.

She shared a funny anecdote about her daughter. She talked about her shop. She asked about everyone else's kids.

About thirty minutes into the party, as the kids ate their cake and ice cream, Laura leaned into a group of mothers and said, "He's coming home."

One shrieked and offered a hug. Another said, "Your husband?"

Laura saw my look of puzzlement. "From Iraq," she said. "He's coming home on emergency leave."

Her eyes filled with tears. "This tornado ... the house ... I can't do it all by myself."

She said her husband is due in Tuesday, for a two-week leave. Their daughter doesn't know yet.

Just in case.

Laura cried again when she told us he would have to go back at the end of his leave. Then, swiftly, furtively, she wiped her eyes.

"How's that cake?!" she called out to her daughter.

As the party drew to a close, I watched her stride out the door, laughing and waving goodbye, and I marveled again at how strong we women are.

Laura told us she couldn't do it by herself. But she already has -- from the moment her husband left the airbase, through the lonely evenings and the worrying news reports, to the terrifying night she spent with her toddler in the bathtub.

She can. And she will.

Why are girls getting meaner?

OK, first, are the mean girls becoming meaner?

Or do YouTube and MySpace just make them appear more horrible than I remember?

I refer to this. And this.

In the latter instance, a girl's mother, ideally the adult in these all-too-common scenarios, is the meanest of the mean girls.

WTF?

I remember slumber parties at which sleepy, cranky girls would get into endless rounds of arguments. Sides would be chosen. I recall one sleepover during which several girls got mad at the one hosting the party. (This was junior high.) The 13-year-old hostess ended up curled inside her sleeping bag, weeping, while a few of us sat on the floor, trying to console her. What prompted the drama? That I cannot remember.

Once, when I was in my early teens, a girl named Tina urged several girls to gang on up me as we returned from a week of church camp. I cowered in a van seat while Tina yanked out a hunk of my hair and several of my "friends" laughed.

Even now, all these years later, I remember that moment and loathe Tina still.

Anyway.

We've read the books, discussed girls and their bullying. We can recite in painful detail our own bouts with this behavior -- but still, this stuff, now readily available on social sites, just blows my mind.

I worry about how my daughter and I will plow through her adolescence.

And I wonder what upsets me more -- the possibility that she will be the victim of mean girls, or that she might become one of them?

Ah, new beginnings. And sleep!

That sweet post? About kids crawling into your bed in the middled of the night because they're scared of storms?

I TAKE IT ALL BACK!!

OK, first -- today. It is sunny. And dry. Which means I am finally taking a break from building our family ark and ... blogging. Yes, I finally remembered I have a blog — once, that is, I peeled open my eyes, chugged some coffee and thanked the sweet heavens for not spitting and spewing on us last night.

Sleep, how I have missed thee.

For weeks, we have tried to doze alongside the children wallowing in our bed. We have been awakened every 10 minutes by a panicked dog pacing our bedroom and scrabbling against the wood floors each time it thunders. (How can a deaf dog — the dog I'm constantly afraid has died because she doesn't hear me calling for her — how can this hearing-impaired canine possibly know that it is thundering? How?)

But this morning — glorious! I am refreshed. I am renewed. I feel so good that I have vowed to to spend tomorrow painting our 1950s minty-green-and-peach-tiled bathroom.

Voice drops to a whisper: The real reason I'm in such a wonderful mood is that I am FINALLY losing weight.

My motivation?

This photo from Easter weekend:



Now before you attempt to console me, take a gander at this one, just for the sake of perspective. This was taken a mere two years ago:



Clearly, action had to be taken.

Enough already!

It started with the Feb. 5 tornado, which remained on the ground for 123 miles -- through the freaking mountains, for pete's sake.

In March, we moved on to flooding. Half the state has been declared a federal disaster area.

Last week, tornadoes tore through several large cities -- from Hot Springs to Little Rock. Just as people were emerging from their damaged homes and trailers, they were warned to seek shelter yet again because round two was on the way. Tornado sirens blared across the state for several hours.

This week, it's rained. And rained. Tonight, the tornado warnings are again in place. And we've been told tomorrow's weather will be severe -- thunderstorms, possible tornadoes and hail.

Until I had kids, I never fretted much about tornadoes. I mean, really, there's not much you can do. And as a reporter -- well, storm-chasing is pretty exciting. (Unless you happen to encounter a flock of newly freed sheep congregating in the highway and accidentally kill eight of them with your Isuzu pickup. *ahem*)

Now, however, I have the wee ones to consider. And given my line of work, the new difficulties involve more than just dragging a mattress into the hallway and emptying the bathtub of its toys.

As last week's tornadoes ripped through town, Hubs and several other photographers were out in the storms shooting damage, seeking shelter, shooting damage, seeking shelter, repeat umpteen times.

One poor photographer was taking both pictures and phone calls from his frantic wife, who was huddled in a closet with several kids wearing bicycle helmets. (No, people, that was not me. My specialty fixation involves bird flu, not natural disasters.)

Meanwhile, the city desk was calling me here --

"Yeah, Cathy, can you be on call if we need more reporters?"

"Sure!" I chirped.

Uh, dude. Don't you have two kids sleeping in the next room? What exactly do you plan on doing? Bundling them into the car so that you can chase twisters? Stoooopid.

"Uh, once Hubs gets back, I mean."

I spent the night calling my spouse with the latest reports. No big deal except that the E-man had awakened, which meant that I had to sound extraordinarily calm each time I called.

Normally, such a call would sound like this: "Hey! A tornado just went over the National Weather Service's offices! Get the hell over there!"

Instead, I had to run with a less exclamatory version: "You might want to check in the vicinity of the National Weather Service's offices."

Through it all, the E-man clung like a burr. The repeated tornado sirens did not help.
(I am most grateful for said sirens, however. Don't get me wrong.)

I guess what I'm saying is that it's a difficult balancing act sometimes, this business of mothering and newspapering.

Still, I love both elements of my life.

So -- I'm checking the weather one more time and then it's off to bed, with the assumption that I'll be wandering around my poor, waterlogged state in the morning.

People here are weary and worried. So if Mother Nature could give us a break in the near future, we would be most grateful.

A few photos from Hubs --

First, a deer swimming in floodwaters...



This was taken in Little Rock...



This is from south Arkansas...



'Night all. Here's to a few hours' sleep without the blare of tornado sirens.

Can I get a butt reduction? Seriously.

"Let's take the kids to the movies!" my dad proposed in that enthusiastic dad sort of way. "How about Horton Hears a Who?"

"Uh, well, I'm sure Tootie would love it, but the E-man -- well, there's a good reason he hasn't been to a movie yet (ever) and that's my devout belief that he will never sit through one."

But they convinced me, yes they did, those conniving grandparents who never miss a chance to make me pay for my own childhood misdeeds.

So Horton it was.

Little son sat contentedly through the previews. When Horton finally began, however, he piped up. "Mommy, is it over? Can we go home?"

Pick him up and run now.

"No, sweetie, it's just starting. Isn't this FUN?! We're watching a MOVIE!"

"Mommy, can I get down?"

"No, we sit here all through the movie."

Please, just once, let the filmmakers have realized that small children do not have the attention span required for a 2 1/2-hour feature. Plus ads. Plus trailers.

Thirty minutes passed. Then little son developed a sudden and severe aversion to the sound of Jim Carrey's voice and Horton's ear gymnastics and demanded to leave.

"Hey, how about if I take you out to buy some candy?" his granddad inquired.

"No," the E-man replied. His brow furrowed.

What do you mean, "no?" Look kid, the Easter bunny is long gone. You'd better take the bribe because Mommy polished off the last of the jellybeans yesterday.

"YES! How about some CANDY?" I chirped, prompting the row in front of us to turn around. For the eighth time.

"No."

"OK, well, how about we go out to the lobby for a little while?" Granddad persisted.

The E-man decided this was a much better proposal, but was adamant that Mommy would be the only acceptable companion.

"All right," I said. "Let's go."

The E-man started down the row, easily squeezing by three sets of knees.

I was slower, however, since I was facing my parents and Tootie (impolite to subject people in your row to your butt as you slither by, right?) as I followed my little boy.

The E-man paused to make sure I was following and promptly bonked his head on a fold-up seat.

"WAH!"

"Shh!" I shout-whispered. "It's OK."

"I HIT MY HEAD!"

"I know. Keep walking."

But the E-man refused to budge, and in my haste to prod him forward I somehow became wedged between my mother's knees and the seat behind of me.

ohnoohnoohno....

I waggled my butt, hoping to free myself without catapulting the man behind me from his seat.

I was stuck. And I was also laughing. And blocking the view of the half-dozen or so rows behind us. Worse, I was facing all these people, who did not seem to be amused by my predicament.

"E-man!" I hissed. "Move!"

"No!"

I wiggled some more.

"You have to go so that Mommy can get out."

"No."

I swore right then that I would never again sneak candy from the children's Easter baskets if only I could free myself.

Finally, after one last wag, I made it down the row and slunk out of the theater.

And then, two hours later, I helped myself to the E-man's robin's eggs and pastel M&Ms.

I figure I earned them.

Joy

Only seconds

I've seen this photo -- Fire on Marlborough Street -- many times over the years, most recently on the cover of my husband's News Photographer magazine.

The magazine, in chronicling the most memorable photographs, included two other pictures taken just before the woman and child fell.

The photographer's first shot shows a fireman standing with the frightened pair. Just a click later, the fireman now dangles from a ladder as the structure collapses beneath him and the victims he was trying to save.

And then there's the above photo, which won a Pulitzer in 1975.

It's heartbreaking — how only a few seconds determined whether this woman, only 19, would live or die. According to News Photographer, the little girl lived because she landed on the woman, who was her aunt.

A few more seconds, and the firefighter would have had them on the ladder, on their way to safety.

As a reporter, I usually arrive after tragedy strikes. I'm the one knocking on the door and asking to talk to the mother of a little girl who was killed by a drunk driver — only seconds after she stepped off the school bus.

Only seconds.

The little girl's brother was right behind her. He felt the whoosh of the SUV as it whizzed by him. He watched his sister's schoolwork flutter to the ground. He remained frozen, in the middle of a rural two-lane highway, trying to figure out whether to run to his dying sister or up to the house for his mother.

Can you imagine having to make that sort of call? He was only 15.

My husband has been a news photographer since the early 80s. He's taken thousands of "after" photos. He's also been there as tragedy unfolds. The camera offers a little distance. But my husband often dwells on what he saw seconds before he started shooting.

Or seconds after.

When we drive through town, he remembers where wrecks occurred, where bodies were found, where grieving family members threw themselves on the pavement and cried.

I cannot imagine, not even from my own jaded perspective.

Before we started dating, I remember Hubs walking back into the newsroom, visibly shaken, having just photographed a crime scene that involved a father who had slammed his toddler, head-first, against the asphalt. Repeatedly.

This is the photo Hubs shot.



A few years later, I saw my husband cry for the first time when we returned to New York for the first anniversary of 9/11.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he took this picture.



I can search our photo archives here at work and there are hundreds Hubs has taken of fires and their victims.

Like this one.



That time, seconds worked in the firefighters' favor.

I often wonder when Hubs will decide he's done, if he will ever put down the camera, or maybe use it in another field.

But then I see pictures like these. And I so hope he doesn't.

Tease me with book titles

I'm normally terrible about getting around to memes, but I'm proud to say I'm all over this one.

She tagged me, after being tagged by her.

Here are the rules:

Pick up the nearest book of at least 123 pages.

Open the book to page 123.

Find the 5th sentence.

Post the next 3 sentences.

Tag 5 people.

I love to read and am always on the lookout for new title & authors, so this meme sounded mighty appealing to me.

So — here's my contribution, from The Sonnet Lover by Carol Goodman. (I'm about halfway through it. Loved her other books.)

"That was her room," he told me. "Some say she built a pyre out of broken furniture and firewood right on top of her bed and burned all her poems and all the roses her lover had sent her over the years so that everyone for miles around could smell the scent of burning roses."

"Wow," I said, imagining it -- the dead rose petals catching fire, their scent rising on the air.

And now I'm tagging:

flutter, because a lot of my favorite authors, such as Alice Sebold, appear on her goodreads bookshelves. She has not yet listed, however, what she's currently reading.
Julie, because her essays intrigue me so much that I simply have to know what she likes to read
Mrs. Chicken, because I want to know if our tastes are similar
Redsy, because I love the turn her life has taken and am interested to find out what's on her nightstand.
and the moosh's mom, because I'm betting she's got a few surprises on those bookshelves.

So go for it. My book stack is dwindling. Give me some ideas. And then tag a few others while you're at it.

A sweet moment in the storm

The first little figure materializes at the side of my bed around 3:30 a.m.

"I had a bad dream," she says, as distant thunder rumbles.

She clambers up and tucks herself beside me, cold tiny feet pressed against the small of my back.

I drowse. Until the second figure appears, again at my side of the bed.

"Mommy, I sceeered," he says. And then, outraged to find his sister already sprawled next to me -- "That's my spot! My spot!"

Hubs rolls over and pulls the still-sleeping child to his side while the second assumes the warm spot she leaves behind. "Mama's hair," he murmurs, and thus begins the stroking and tugging that occurs anytime he sleeps near me. For the rest of the night, he will curl himself around my head, comma-like, and nest there, fingers still wound tightly in my hair.

Every so often, I'll hear my oldest whispering in her sleep and the snuffling of my toddler.

And even though I know there will no more rest in these early-morning hours, I snuggle them closer, comforted by the sweet smell of my little one's blankie and the occasional soft snore from my little girl.

On a cheerier note...

When I saw this one, I told Hubs I'd just had a glimpse into the future: Our drunk frat boy being helped off the curb by two smashed girls after a kegger.

Easter weekend

The kids were cute.

Our visit to the in-laws?

Eek.

I'll post on it tomorrow. When I hope to be fully recovered.

(No wine. I opted for bourbon.)

An outlaw among the in-laws

Really, I just don't seem to fit in.

They weren't very enthused when Hubs and I got married. They weren't unwelcoming -- more like, "Eh. Another wife." Yawn.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm not the first wife. Maybe it's the 14-year age difference between my spouse and me. To put things in perspective -- around the time we started having kids, their youngest grandchildren were teenagers. Their great-granddaughter is the E-man's age.

And yet.

The lack of grandparently behavior wounds.

They showed no interest when I was pregnant with my first.

A week after her birth, they dropped by, but only because they were already in town, visiting my MIL's parents.

MIL picked up my daughter and, after a bizarre moment of inspection, said, "She's so tiny. And yellow."

Yes, well, she was 3 1/2 weeks, early. And that's called jaundice. Now quit being rude and marvel over the wonderousness of my first baby.

There was no baby blanket, like she'd made for all the other grandchildren. No gushing. Just ... stiffly impolite indifference.

They've shown more interest as the kids have gotten older. But it's not a constant thing. Sometimes they're affectionate with the little ones. Sometimes, not so much.

I've tried to let it go. But then Hubs tells me that when we visit them this weekend, my BIL is throwing my MIL a surprise birthday.

And all I can think about is how, last month, she forgot both of my kids' birthdays.

Let's just say I'm not inclined to bring a damn thing to this event. Except maybe a bottle of wine.

For me.

What you don't want to see or hear right before bed:

1.) Your husband, crouched on the floor, sniffing the heating vent.

2.) Your husband asking in a fake-nonchalant sort of way, "Does it smell like something ... oh, I probably shouldn't say it ... but, well ... does it smell like something is burning to you?"

Translated: Hey, my darling neurotic, paranoid wife, let me ensure that you lie awake until 3 a.m. imagining that you just saw a plume of smoke in the corner.

Children at funerals?

My husband's grandmother died a few days ago. Her funeral was at 1 p.m. today.

We took the kids to daycare/preK as usual. When we arrived at the service, people kept asking where the children were. At one point, I began to wonder if we had been expected to bring them.

Why didn't we?

Well, this is what I imagine would have happened.

"Mommy, why is Grandma Liz in that box?"

"Is she sleeping?"

"No, E-man. I think she's dead. She has lots of wrinkles. People with lots of wrinkles die."

"Wake up! You 'wake?!"

"Mommy, she's not waking up!"

Etc...
Grandma Liz was nearly 90 and suffered from Alzheimer's. I knew the funeral would be attended by older family members and seniors from her church. I couldn't imagine them wanting to hear the above conversation during an instrumental of Amazing Grace.

But then people kept asking. And my husband's nephew brought his 8-month-old baby.

I still think we made the right call. But I'm interested in other people's thoughts on this.

Kids at funerals? Yes? No?

If yes, at what age?

Been a bit obsessed...

...with a story at work. Hence the lack of posts and my slowness in commenting on your blogs.

I have things to say, but tonight I just can't find the right words.

Tomorrow.

Hey, Daddy! Step it up...

Must. Get. To. That. Snow.



Please note what Hubs used for the snowman's eyes.



*********************
Just got back from a girlfriend's baby shower in Dallas. And dang it -- I missed out on all that snow. Heh.

Am now trying to catch up on all my blog reading...

Making much with little

Last Sunday, Hubs woke up and decided to build the kids a swingset.

I raised my eyebrows when he started talking about buying lumber. "Um ... how much would that cost?" I asked in that tone.

(Read: It's another two weeks until payday. Ah, the journalist's life.)

Hubs wandered outside to think.

An hour later, I found him yanking up boards in the backyard. These boards were used by the previous homeowner for a middle-of-the-yard deck that boasted a birdbath, outdoor shower and a rusting basketball goal. (We have no idea. But trust me, we have certainly done some speculating.)

The kids came outside to see what was going on.

"You'll be swinging by this afternoon," Hubs promised.

So he sawed and hammered. All day, two little people stood outside, watching.

At 5 p.m., Hubs declared the swingset finished. Ecstatic, the kids claimed their swings.

It made me think -- I spend all this time thinking about what we don't have, and yet here's a daddy who spent his whole Sunday piecing together some old planks so that his kids would have a place to swing.

And I am grateful.

Bad Mommy Confession No. 243

I don't do snow.

Don't get out in it. Don't play in it.

Hate. It.

I'm from Texas. I now live in Arkansas. I'm quite happy with the fact that snowfalls occur only once or twice a year here. (Our winter weather forte is the Incapacitating Ice Storm, which also falls into my Ugh Category.)

So when the Hubs drifted into the bedroom this morning to announce, "It's snowing. You know the kids are going to want to play in it before school," he should have expected my reply:

"You're the snow person. I don't like cold. I don't like wet. Snow duty falls under Daddy Time."

After much sighing and whining, I faked a wee bit of excitement for the kids' benefit and Hubs took them out to play.

I poured a cup of coffee and watched the cuteness from the window. This is what I saw:

Happy children


Not-so-happy snow shepherd


Her expression is similar to the one I wore last year when forced to help build a snowman.

Lest you think I'm a totally negative, blah sort of person -- i mean, who doesn't find snow magical? -- I'm a really fun mom at the pool.

Aww... what a guy.

February, despite being my birthday month (psst...I recently turned 38), is my low point each year. It brings depression, bouts of weepiness and a violent hatred of the cold and rain.

A mere forecast is enough to ruin my day.

So of course, when I decided to embark on the reproductive path, I delivered not one, but TWO babies in ... February.

Talk about one helluva maternity leave.

Hello Postpartum! Meet my dear friends, Depression and Anxiety. We're going to have wonderful time together during these next few weeks! Oh, and look! We're going to get rain and snow and ice the entire time Cathy will be home with the baby. Perfecto! Let the sobbing begin!

Which brings me to one of the nicest things my husband has ever done for me.

Realizing that I was wallowing in despair, Hubs asked several of my friends to get me out of the house. Bear in mind that our new baby very much preferred the boob to bottles and wouldn't stop shrieking until the right nipple was placed before her. In other words, Hubs knew what he was in for.

Even so, he made some calls, stopped by desks and rallied the estrogen troops.

"We're taking you out to eat tonight," one girlfriend informed me. And then a group of women pried me from my spitup-stained couch and dragged me out the door.

It was a reprieve I dearly needed, but new motherhood, fear and guilt had kept me confined to my house.

I remember how disoriented I felt at first -- the lights, the chatter, the drinks. And I remember how much better I felt when I returned home just in time for 10 p.m. nursing.

"She did fine," my husband said.

I know he lied, to spare me any guilt.

So why am I telling you this story? Because I'm PMSing. And it's one of those nights when I have to remind myself that I really do like the guy. Even when he keeps breathing in my direction.