b...b....b...baby

Like so many first time parents I use a totally unreasonable excess of “nicknames” for my baby. His name, Caleb, which we love and is the result of months of painstaking contemplation, is almost never heard.

I like to think these nicknames reveal themselves to me more than I come up with them. They really do just pop out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop them. Lately it’s been a wellspring of “buh” sounds. My little man goes by “bubsieboo,” “boo bear,” “buster brown,” “bumble bee,” and (this last one is embarrassing, but I have no power to stop it) “boo boo.”

I guess he’s not quite a Caleb yet. He’s a round, soft, funny, toddling, ball of love, and apparently those imagines are neurologically wired with the "buh" sound. I guess that’s why our babies are called babies. I’m sure when he hears me finally call him “Caleb” he’ll look around and wonder who I’m talking to.

I’m currently reading a book, “Half the Sky” by Pulitzer Prize winning couple Nick Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn on the plight of mainly poor women around the world. They make a compelling and often heart–wrenching case that issues affecting this demographic, like the sex trafficking, selective abortions, poor maternal health -- issues that often get little press – are the most pressing human rights issues of our day.


The stories they tell are unapologetically graphic and at times even turn my stomach. They tell stories of women in India being disfigured from acid thrown in their face because they’ve rejected an admirer; of women in Ethiopia being kidnapped and gang raped if a suitor cannot come up with her bride price, thereby reducing her worth and increasing his bargaining power (these women often end up marrying their rapist); of women being brutally stoned to death for alleged but unproven affairs; of a shocking number of women in the Congo being raped with knifes and sticks as a tool of war; of women let to die because of complications from birth which leave them incontinent, of women (girls really) who are promised jobs and then tricked into brothels to work as sex slaves; of girls who are sold for $10 to abusers, of girls whose brothers preferentially get medicine and education while they are left to wilt. As a reader, you are struck as much by the naked violence and brutality as by the gross injustice these women face.


The authors counter each horrific tale with another of hope. They talk about the valiant efforts of NGOs, survivors and courageous individuals to make positive change. But you are still left with an overwhelming sense of the profound injustice and cruelty that so many are left to endure.

I suppose I always knew about these issues in the abstract, but the authors do a remarkable job of making these issues deeply personal with stories and often pictures of the affected women and girls. If you are human, you will be moved by their accounts.


The injustices in “Half the Sky” infuriate me so much I can’t read it before I go to bed, and my husband doesn’t understand why I keep reading it at all. (Poor man has to endure my outraged tirades and sour moods.)


I guess I feel I have to learn about these things in all their raw and explicit detail to really grasp the reality that some women – who, lets face it, could just as easily be me were I born in most parts of the world – face. If my sisters around the world have to endure such sharp injustice and pain, the absolute least I can do is know about it. But after reading this book, I defy anyone to just “know” about it and not do more.

Martha Martha Martha!!!

I’m generally a cynical voter. When I do drag my butt to the polls, I do it out of a sense of duty not out of any fantasy that my vote might actually matter. Last night was different. I happened to be living in a solidly Democratic state holding a special election to replace Ed Kennedy, perhaps the most storied Democratic senator, and it looked like the Republican candidate was poised to stage a stunning upset. Massive health care reform, the first of its kind, hung in the balance.

Polls were close and, as someone whose beliefs and values more closely track with the Democratic agenda, I felt compelled to cast my vote. Driving home from the polling place, I heard a BBC World story on my small state’s election. In that moment, I felt at the center of not only history but the world. Turns out, my vote was not decisive.

So, we all know that Brown did, in the end, stage that promised stunning upset. Today brings the inevitable Monday morning quarterbacking. His election was the result of disapproval of health care reform, Coakley’s lackluster campaign, a general dissatisfaction with the “direction of the country” or the economy that often pushes in an outsider challenger.

I personally think Mass voters also kind of resent being taken for granted. Once the initial aura of inevitability around a Democrat taking the seat was punctured, I’m guessing voters felt a long awaited sense of empowerment. We all want to feel that our voice “counts,” and at the last minute Mass voters got a real race.

In reality, this race was about more than the state. Health care reform, some say, died with this election. If so, I want to mourn it. I believe in reform and it seemed the nation did too. Just a year ago, that people were dying and losing their homes due to lack of health coverage was a national outrage that cut across party lines.

Then, so much happened. Unlike Clinton era reform efforts, this time we tamed the then most effective opposition to reform – the insurance companies - by including them in the process. But conservative talk radio picked up where the insurance companies of the 1990s left off with fear campaigns featuring death panels and socialism that bore little resemblance to reality but gained impressive traction. Then, our Byzantine political process of deal making and horse trading got us a cumbersome 2000 page document that was difficult to explain much less defend and left lots of room for over simplistic criticism to flourish.

So, if it is dead, I’d like to mourn it, but I’m not even sure what I’m mourning any more. Even its supporters, acknowledging the bills’ shortcomings, launched defenses like, “don’t let perfect be the enemy of the good.” And I do think that it could have done (might still do?) some good by insuring millions more, providing more choice and forcing insurance companies to take on those with pre-existing conditions. But is it too expensive to justify those improvements? Who knows anymore.

I think I’ll mourn it more for what it will probably do to a president I deeply respect and believe it. Obama has surely made some missteps his first year. But, he’s had a greater number and greater scale of problems to tackle than any president in recent memory, and I admire the way he’s tackled them – by attempting to make non-ideological and reasoned decisions. He's taken decisions knowing he would suffer a political hit because he thought they were the right course based best information available, and that shows a kind of integrity and courage you don’t often see in today’s politics. I’d hate to see a mess of a process at reform tipped over the edge by a special election upset help undo someone who I believe is doing an admirable job in a near impossible position.

"Mexican" vacation

Ahhh….. I’ve just returned from a much needed escape from the dreary Boston cold and snow. I feel a bit guilty complaining about the weather having just come from basking in the warm Mexican sun, but it somehow feels even more biting and miserable here in comparison. Anyway, we (my extended family) just spent a week in Mexico. But to be fair, our week was really spent in a resort that could have been just about anywhere in the sunny world. The only clue to our continent was the language spoken by most (but not all) of the resort staff and the stylized references to Mayan culture throughout the resort.

The Grand Mayan, where we stayed, is one of those colossal fabricated kingdoms of vacation fantasy that borders on distasteful. You are welcomed to the resort through an entrance I’m sure was described in some developer’s meeting as “creating a sensation of traveling to a faraway time, providing a separation between the every day and the experience of the resort.” The space is easily 3 stories high, lit with somber mood lighting and infused with the music of deep tribal base drums and subtle water features. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you are met at eye-height by a giant foot and look up to see eye-poppingly immense statues of gilded Mayan warriors. At all times, there is a local woman quietly mopping the marble floors as vacationers sully them with their sandy flip flops and who signifies that no expense will be spared to wipe your proverbial fat American bottom.

The resort itself is decorated in the contemporary spa style and you feel immediately ensconced in luxury. Out back, there are at least 8 or 9 interconnected pools accented with waterfalls, whirlpools and margarita bars, and surrounded by tropical vegetation worthy of a botanical garden. There’s a manmade stream encircling the whole campus of pools that serves as a lazy river for vacationers to innertube on.

But the piece de resistance is gigantic water slide built on – what else? – a mock up of the Mayan Pyramid of Kukulkan, just in case (and you can’t be blamed) you forget where you are. The resort lies just on the beach, but in case resort goers want to entirely avoid local riff raff, the Grand Mayan has constructed a “fake beach” literally 20 feet from the real one, complete with a graduated and sandy shore, and a wave pool. It’s all best described as ridiculously over the top.

My folks bought a time share here pre-construction and, they tell me, got a fantastic deal on the place. We’ve been going here for years now, and I spent most of those feeling consumed with guilt by being so surrounded by such superfluous luxury in such close proximity to real world poverty. I felt conspicuous in front of the ubiquitous Mexican staff and constantly worried how I looked to them -- likely out of touch and spoiled.

I’ve since made my peace with all of that. After all, it makes my family happy to have uninterrupted time together, and the tourism of Puerto Vallarta fuels a full 80%of the local economy creating endless jobs. I know my discomfort isn’t helping anyone and global disparities in wealth exist even when they aren’t thrust in my face. It’s not how I’d necessarily choose to vacation, but I’ll indulge my family…. And myself.

Should grown men be playing video games?

I have a “thing” about adult men playing video games. I’m not sure if it’s an unwarranted bias or a totally rational assessment but it’s definitely a “thing” that causes more than a bit of tension between my husband and myself.

I can tell myself that playing video games is just a modern way of recreating and that men have always found ways to burn off steam – at the pub or the golf course or cheering on their home team. Is this really any worse?

Video game fans remind me that playing isn’t even all that isolating anymore as many games are played best with a group of friends and you can even make new ones playing online fantasy games like World of Warcraft. I can even try and convince myself that there’s something to be gained in terms of hand eye coordin… (oh, I don’t even buy that one). But I get theoretically all the arguments in favor of grown men perched at the end of the couch, clutching their modern joysticks, totally engrossed in the escapist thrill of killing demons and crashing cars. I just cringe at the image.

I just can’t get passed my “thing” against it. Maybe it’s just my generation. When I grew up grown men (the ones who formed my archetype of what it is to be a man) simply did not play video games. They played sports or cards or who knows what, but they certainly did not stare at video screens. Their sons did. And the dads, along with their wives, worried that these games would atrophy their children’s bodies and minds and so tried to limit their use. (Atari and Nintendo were forbidden in our house entirely.)

But then their children grew up, and with no nagging parents to call them for dinner or remind them of homework, they were free to totally indulge their gaming habits made even better with shockingly lifelike graphics and sophisticated scenarios. I guess the video games have grown up along with the boys.

So, let’s take a closer look at what these new generation video games are offering. I did a quick search for the most popular games and they go by names like Street Fighter IV, Assassin’s Creed and Resident Evil V (I’m horrified that there were 4 Resident Evils preceding this). It doesn’t take a sociologist to figure out that these games are scratching some kind of an itch for male aggression.

But they are tapping into something even more than a lust for violence. Demon’s Souls “pits you against the forces of The Old One as you fight to save humanity from extinction” (sounds like I made that up, but no). In Braid you “Travel seven platforming worlds to save a princess” and in Dragon’s Age you travel through the “fictional land of Ferelden, meet memorable characters and fight for a cause you believe in.”

There are grand themes here of salvation and revenge all putting the player in the role of hero. Pretty seductive stuff if you’re looking to escape your humdrum life for a while. So, again, I think I can muster an understanding of the appeal.

Yet... still..... I think there is a strong case to be made against this practice that goes beyond my knee jerk aversion to how "unmanly" it is. And I know enthusiasts will balk at my saying so, but I'm a lone (and, by the way, buxom) sword yielding, seventh-level, forest gnome crusading to have my voice heard. (to borrow some imagery that might help my case.)

First of all, doesn't the modern male already generally spend the better part of his week interfacing with a computer? Shouldn't recreation at a minimum pull him away from this position at least for the sake of his eye site and rear end?

Also, is it really the best to indulge the male id in such shamelessly obvious ways? OK. It's "fun" and there's supposedly no harm done. But to me it's focused on engaging that part of the brain that was most alive in the teenage years and I'm not so sure that's a good thing.

Playing video games is also one of those activities that I would call a "time suck," in which hours might pass as minutes as your morning bowl of cereal watches the sun set. Unlike a game of golf, there's really no clear end point and there's a definite risk of these games stealing more hours of your life that even a gamer might have bargained for. And isn't there a premium on our increasingly shrinking free time already? Why do something that doesn't seem to respect that time is precious?

I'm aware this is all coming off as judgemental and nagging. My husband would vehemently argue that it is a safe and harmless outlet for decompressing after a hard day, and, in moderation, does not have to infringe on responsibilities or "healthier" forms of recreation.

Still. I have this "thing." There's just something a bit off-putting about watching the father of my child staring transfixed at screens full of fantastical characters in imaginary lands or (worse still) playing the hero in some post-apocalyptic battle scene. He claims this is unfair, but I can't help it. I'm just programmed this way.

Cracking back quack or my salvation?

I’ve been moaning about lower back pain so long I’m probably giving everyone around me upper head pain, and I’ve finally decided to do something about it. Last week I made an appointment to see a chiropractor.

I know next to nothing about this branch of medicine, including whether it is in fact a “branch” of medicine. I know the chiropractor I saw had several framed diplomas on her wall, all of which included the word “doctor,” and there was a capital D after her name on her business card. But Wikipedia tells me that the philosophy behind chiropractics, that spinal joint dysfunction interferes with the body's innate ability to heal itself, “brings ridicule” from mainstream medicine. OK. But, even my cynical and penny pinching insurance covers some of this, so there must be some proven medical benefit, right? I know people who swear by their chiropractor and others who think they are useless. I’m still trying to make up my mind.

My first visit was a relief. My biggest fear in trying to finally address this nagging back pain was that some professional would tell me that despite the hurt I was actually just fine and send me on my way. Being a totally subjective experience, it’s hard to know whether the aches in your body are within the realm of normal –making you basically a wimpy whiner - or whether you’ve been heroically enduring some serious structural problem. In the same way I relish when a bump to my leg develops into a dark purple emblem of my pain, I desperately wanted some kind of diagnosis and vindication of my complaining. So, when, after her evaluation, the chiropractor told me I had a chronic problem but that they had just the solution, I nearly kissed her.

My other fear in going to see any kind of medical professional is also quite common. I detest that dehumanizing feeling of being treated as a collection of symptoms by an automaton who has lost the ability to see you as a person. I hate the rooms you wait in, sterile and anonymous with half-hearted attempts to brighten the atmosphere with free posters from pharmaceutical reps. I hate the sterilized instruments on trays, which remind me that I am most of all a specimen, a problem to be solved with tests. I notice myself shrink in these offices and curl up inside myself. This is why I have avoided seeing someone about my back for so long.

So, score another point for my chiropractor who looked me in the eye, listened with a look of rapt sincerity and concern to my responses to her questions and never once looked at the clock. This went on for so long I almost got impatient. I didn’t quite know what was happening, and then it dawned on me. She’s establishing a rapport. She’s getting to know me as a person with a family and a job and interests. That alone made me want to come back. Which is a good thing because after she did her evaluation, it looked like I would be coming back. A lot!

Now, this is where she started to lose me. Just when this experience started to feel like salvation I heard that the solution to my back pain is coming in for adjustments…. three times a week for a month! Then twice a week for a month, and then once a week for a month! Totally unprepared for that level of time and money commitment, my jaw hit the floor (which is probably no good for the spine) and I entered in what feels like a used car sales negotiation with me trying to weasel out of this treatment plan and the chiropractor using everything in her arsenal to rope me back in. And then I notice the “2 referrals get you a free t-shirt sign” which adds to the general paranoia that I might be being “had.” But my defenses, along with my back, are weak, so I ultimately agree.

So, this is where I am. I’ve now had 3 adjustments and I still can’t decide whether I’m on my way to chiropractic conversion or simply to becoming $500 poorer. The drill is this: they zap me with electromagnet muscle stimulations for 10 minutes and the adjustments take all of another 10. She presses hard on either side of my spine and cracks my back and is off to the next patient. It’s moderately painful and takes up a significant chunk of my already miniscule free time; but if it works, I’ll be proselytizing chiropractics to anyone who will listen. If not, I imagine you’ll be hearing about that too.

Hate to love my TV

We all know these people. These purists who stubbornly refuse to own a television. I’ve long been baffled by and secretly envious of their lives. I picture their evenings spent curled up on the couch under soft lamplight clutching a warm cup of chamomile tea, flipping the pages of a classic, soft jazz playing in the background, stopping periodically to discuss something with their partner who is equally engaged in some mind expanding or productive activity. Maybe they’re knitting or practicing an instrument or writing poetry. I’m sure they’re doing a better job of catching up with family and old friends. I think, hey, that could be me. Hell, I want it to be me, if only it weren’t for that time-sucking, brain cell-killing idiot box in the corner of my living room. My better self does not own a television.

But my less better self loves our television. All week long Colin and I look forward to spending our Thursday nights with Liz Lemon and Michael Scott. Sunday football makes our forced hibernation from the winter cold a bit more bearable and PBS documentaries have lead to some of our best conversations. But that’s TV at its inarguable best. I don’t feel too guilty about that stuff.

The problem is that in moments of weakness, we find ourselves hypnotized by TV at it’s worst – the kind of programming developed by intellectually lazy profit-motivated television executives who borrow predictable formats from each other and universally aim to appeal to your basest instincts. And there’s a lot of such programs to choose from.

During the first cold winter months of motherhood I’m embarrassed to say that I watched, nay, even looked forward to MTV’s reality dating show Rock of Love, where a dozen groupie-types in astonishingly tiny outfits compete for the affections of aging rocker Bret Michaels in stunts whose true purpose is to expose as much skin and humiliation as possible, creating the perfect storm of vicarious sex, drama and “glad that’s not me”. I felt a strong compulsion to shower after each episode, but still tuned in. Then, there were the more innocent, but equally addicting, bevy of home improvement shows with handsome carpenters and shiny and colorful transformations, which, I’m embarrassed to admit, stole hours of my life.

Watching TV while the sun is shining makes me feel particularly gross and guilty, and nighttime television is slightly less offensive but not when it’s your default way to relax. Colin and I found ourselves turning on the television almost automatically at night almost forgetting that there were other ways to relax after a long day. And the fact that there was more often than not nothing worth watching didn’t deter us. After an hour or so of sitting stupefied by ridiculous Law and Order plot twists or what Colin calls the emotional masturbation of reality transformation shows like Wife Swap, we look at each other baffled at how we were so easily sucked into that vortex of mind-numbing banality. This led to our other nightly ritual of discussing the various ways the shows we had just dedicated hours of our life to were on every level objectionable. Something needed to change.

Getting rid of our new flat screen television seemed a bit too radical, so we got rid of cable and vowed to discipline our TV watching to only include shows truly funny, innovative, or education or (for Colin) important sporting events. You know, the kind of stuff that won’t entirely make you stupid.

So far it’s going well. I can’t say I’ve written any poetry or even upped my chamomile intake, but my house is probably cleaner and so is my mind.