Intercoms

I am 48 hours away from delivering #3 and, in an attempt to scratch one last thing off the list before becoming a shut-in, I waddled into the local Tom Thumb to receive a flu shot.
Despite my timing -- 2 p.m. on a Wednesday -- there was a line for the shots.
"Twenty-five minutes," the pharmacist said. "Come back then."
I dutifully filled out the legal forms then padded to the fruit aisle. I picked up strawberries, swerved to the dairy case for some milk then stood in the protein bar section for half a century while contemplating the benefit of adding fig paste to my diet.
But being in the last stages of gestation and tragically forgetful, I completely forgot about the one thing I'd come to get: the flu shot.
Checking the time, I rolled my now-full cart into the check-out line, chatted with one of my favorite clerks and asked for carry-out service.
Then, I happily conversed with the customer behind me. She noted that her own bulging stomach was post due. The shopper was looking forward to a home birth.
She was buying one lone carton of Ben & Jerry's -- double brownie supreme -- which I supposed would pass as pain management for women stronger than I.
Still, it was a lovely pint, so delicate there on the rotating belt. It spun like a ballerina again and again, its chocolate-y goodness floating towards the infra-red scanner to a soulful ballad only a pregnant girl could possibly hear.
Suddenly, there was a crackle as the all-store intercom went on. A loud voice boomed forth:
"WOULD THE HEAVILY PREGNANT WOMEN IN THE PINK-STRIPED DRESS PLEASE RETURN TO THE PHARMACY FOR HER FLU SHOT?"
Four aisles of customers began hooting and pointing at me.
I blinked.
I am, you see, so "heavily pregnant" that my ears are now apparently affected.
"That's you, Honey," said a nearby clerk, giving me a nudge.
"I REPEAT," the voice said, "WOULD THE HEAVILY PREGNANT WOMAN IN THE PINK-STRIPED DRESS PLEASE RETURN TO THE PHARMACY FOR HER FLU SHOT?"
I waved heartily to the throngs, parked my cart near the lottery vending machine and lurched toward the pharmacy.
Clearly, I should have worn another outfit.

Indoctrination

My five-year-old twins won't view President Obama's education address in their kindergarten classroom on September 8 because school administrators in our Texas district have deemed that it would "interrupt instructional time."
Instead, the district will stream the video online. Families can then opt in--or out--of the national dialogue.
This safe compromise was likely made to soothe conservative voices here who worry the President's short speech would aim to indoctrinate their youngsters into the Democratic party--or worse--a "socialist way" of thinking.
And while I haven't yet seen the speech as I write this, I can tell you from my professional experience covering local, state and national education issues as a newspaper reproter for more than 10 years that few presidential addresses of this type given in the classroom release bombshells. My prediction is that Obama's speech will be fairly neutral in tone and offer nice photo ops for the press corps.
As a parent of three, however, it is greatly refreshing to see the public's interest in the content our children are exposed to in our nation's public schools--I only wish we as a group would pay more attention to the subtle types of indoctrination that happens every day.
For example, last week--on the second day of kindergarten--my twins bopped home from our tony community's premier elementary school with camoflague-colored dog tags hanging around their necks from metal chains.
While my kids thought nothing of this, I brought context to such symbols.
Dog tags, after all, are an indellible symbol of warfare. In fact, such dog tags are manufactured to be thin and small so they can be sewen into the mouths of dead soilders and thus help those in field mortuaries identify the fallen.
By sending home such a symbol, my public school is sending a subtle message that they not only approve of warfare--but wholeheartedly endorse it. Moreover, they're telling my young children to be proud foot soldiers.
On the fourth day of kindergarten, my children returned home with fliers listing half a dozen fast-food restaurants that will return a portion of our bill to our public school in an effort to raise funds for educational endeavors.
"Mom," said my daughter Elizabeth, "we have to go eat pizza tonight to help our school!"
As it turns out, we can spend every night this week--and every night for the remaining school year according to these fliers--at fast-food joints raising money for our school.
Of course, nutritionists--many who work for the state's department of health--would tell us that to take the advice of our premier elementary school would be to risk the health of my family. My children would become obese, contract diabetes and ruin their hearts.
Yet, the subtle message from the public school is 'Due your duty and help out your school.'
On the sixth day of school, instructional time in our kindergarten was handed over to two uniform-clad high school football players who signed autographs in promotion of their first big home game. They also read two books to the children, but this last detail was forgotten by my kids who reported only the shimmering uniforms and the deep, impressive voices of the handsome players.
It is likely, too, that they subconsciously picked up on the school's subtle message that sports are of the utmost importance here in Texas, that male athletes should be revered above others, that strength of body trumps strength of spirit or mind.
This is why, even as a longtime card-carrying member of the Democratic party and big Obama supporter, I'm thrilled to have passionate conversations about indoctrination. But let's not limit the discussion to the President's 10-minute speech. As parents, we need to be aware of and address the subtle everyday messages our public schools are giving our kids.
I only wish our school district would give us the option of streaming some of these other messages via video.

The Tonsillectomy

Seeing your child hurt or truly afraid will bring any parent to his knees in a matter of seconds, which is how my husband Jim happened to promise our five-year-old son he'd build a Haagen Daaz factory in our backyard following this morning's tonsilectomy.
William huddled beneath his dad's big arm shaking and whimpering as two impatient nurses in blue scrubs and mushroom-like hairnets pushed a vial of purple liquid towards the shrinking child.
"You can choose to drink the Silly Juice or we'll have to squirt it up your nose," said the one wearing too much makeup.
"No! No! No!" wailed William, his giant hazel eyes terrified and wet with tears. "I don't want to do either!"
William looked imploringly at me then at Jim.
Jim hated these droids as much--maybe more so--than William did, yet his parental duty to ultimately ensure our child could breath normally required he endorse this Silly Juice plan as well as a surgery that would cause significant pain and suffering for upwards of 12 days.
Crusted with guilt, Jim was teetering on edge of his own dark delirium.
"Listen, Will, I hear there is a Tonsil Fairy," Jim whispered hoarsely into William's hair. "I bet he'll bring you a Wii game if you drink this up."
The little brown head swiveled upwards to meet his father's gaze.
William was intimately framiliar with the supurb power of fairies. Just five days ago, he bared witness to the work of the Tooth Fairy. She had liberally dusted his twin sister's bedroom carpet with gold glitter before leaving a crisp dollar bill beneath her pillow.
"I'll take the nose spray," Will bravely said.
The nurses advanced quickly and sprayed the serum up one nostril.
Thirty minutes later, our baby lay sobbing and shivering atop a cot in the recovery room.
Jim scooped William up and sat heavily in a nearby rocking chair. Someone tucked a warmed blanket around them as I scoured the room for a box of Kleenex to sop up my own rivullets of hot tears.
"It's all over now," Jim cooed over and over as he kissed William's head.
"Can I see my tonsills?" Will barked through chattering lips.
I scanned the recovery room looking for a jam jar or any type of container that might suffice to hold such bounty.
Luckily, Jim's cooler head prevailed.
"You know, the Tonsil Fairy has already been here to pick them up," Jim said. "He said he'd swing by our house tonight to leave you a present in exchange. And actually, I was mistaken: There is no Tonsil Fairy--he's an elf."
The Tonsil Elf, it turned out, only has availability to do present deliveries at night as he was preoccupied for the rest of the afternoon picking up various prescriptions from Kroger, fast-forwarding the scary scenes in Scooby-Doo videos and sopping up vomited purple Capri Sun from new and as of yet unpaid-for cream wall-to-wall carpet.
But I knew in my heart the Tonsil Elf would be back and make good on his promise.
After all, he knows where he's needed most.

On Death and Dying

Our five-year-old twins handled the death with more poise and strength than we grown-ups did.
My father-in-law--their Papa Jim--passed away somewhat unexpectedly on August 12 at age 63. It was an untimely, unfair and painful ending for an individual who had a big personaliaty in life and, as an investigative television reporter, an even bigger one on the small screen.
My husband caught a flight up to Michigan as soon as he heard things were souring.
Then, suddenly, there were plans to be made. Paperwork needed to be done. An apartment needed to be cleaned.
Meanwhile, I was left in Texas 35 weeks pregnant. My role was to hold the fort, which included explaining things.
I've tried my best over the past two years to decode the circle of life--to make it normal when it doesn't seem so understandable to me despite an upbringing in the Episcopal church.
We'll drive by a graveyard, for example, and the kids will want to know whey there are fresh dirt mounds.
"Well," I say, "When your body becomes a problem, you leave it behind you when you go to Heaven. Sort of like when spring comes and you get rid of your heavy clothes. You wouldn't want to wear a winter coat during a Texas summer would you?"
William and Elizabeth seem to get that one.
"But I'm really going to miss Papa Jim," my daughter said.
I told her it is okay to feel such emotions--we all do--but we're happy he's an angel now.
"Mom, only God picks the angels," Elizabeth said in an attempt to clarify.
I told her that Papa Jim was probably one of the lucky ones. If not, he was likely interviewing them which might be more to his liking anyhow.
"Well," she wanted to know, "Does he part the clouds and look down on us?"
Most likely, I said.
"How old are you when you become an angel?" she continued. "Like, are you a kid again?"
I told her as much as I could.
"I've never been to Heaven to see what's it's like, Babe," I said, "and few people report back when they get there so we don't really know much."
By the time Jim got back from Michigan five days later, Elizabeth was still processing things.
"Dad," she said at bedtime last night, "it would really stink to die on your birthday."
Her face then lit up.
"But you know, the good thing would be that if you were an angel, you could eat angel food cake to celebrate."
That's the thing about being five years old: You see a bright side to everything.
I know her Papa Jim would be pleased.