Light and Momentary

Let Them Eat Emergency Rooms

There is no problem with access to health care in this country, says GWB. Why, if you need to see a doctor you can just go to the emergency room.

Yeah.

I have been thinking all afternoon about health care, remembering when we scrounged our own pathetic high-deductible health insurance. I am remembering the night I walked the floor with my oldest child while he screamed. "Better bring him to the emergency room," said the nurse manning the 24-hour helpline. "He sounds miserable." I knew it was an ear infection; I knew he needed care. But did he have to go to the ER? Could we make it until morning with Tylenol and TLC? I paced; he screamed. I cried; he screamed. I prayed; he drifted off to sleep. We saw the doctor first thing in the morning, but I will never forget the tension in his feverish little body while we waited for the pain reliever to kick in.

I am remembering the Saturday that my second son gashed his head on an end table, and how I hated myself for thinking, "If we don't get it stitched, how much of a scar will there be? If we do get it stitched, how much of a bill will there be?" A friend had just paid a thousand dollars for an ER repair of a very similar injury. A thousand dollars -- it took my breath away.

Here in the land of opportunity we think that poor must mean lazy or irresponsible. If you would just get a better job, you could have health insurance. If you would just plan better you could afford your medical bills. But I have a different perspective on that than I used to. While my husband was working toward an academic career, I wanted children and I wanted to be with them full-time. I didn't complain about our little house in a dicey neighborhood, or about the rattly car that was entering its third decade of operation. When we decided to live without a car, I didn't complain about walking. I could cook you lentils every night for three weeks without repeating a recipe, because lentils were 44 cents a pound and I bought a lot of them. We had no debts and we had no complaints. Or almost none. You know what was hard? Health care.

Toward the end of our time without health insurance, I sold an essay about it. One of the published responses said, in essence, "Quit kvetching and get a job." I tried to shake it off, but I felt ashamed: maybe I shouldn't complain. Maybe I should have put the kids in daycare to give them health insurance.

Almost five years later I have a job (two, actually), and I have health insurance, and I have an even stronger conviction that our existing system is rotten. I reject categorically the idea that the vagaries of the health insurance industry should dictate whether people can pursue their dreams. If you want to stay home with your children (or start your own business, or try to make it in the arts, but this post is specifically about coverage for children), I think it is preposterous that health insurance premiums -- the requirement that we put more money in the coffers of for-profit agencies so they can refuse to pay it to the providers who render the actual services -- would be the thing holding you back. Anybody who has priced individual health insurance policies or faced a medical bill without any insurance discounts can tell you: this system just doesn't work very well for individuals. If you want affordable health care, you need the clout of a group behind you. Like an employer's health plan, or Medicare. Or SCHIP.

I cannot even think about President Bush's threat to veto SCHIP without gnashing my teeth in apoplectic fury. Health care for children is a social justice question. "As ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me" -- would Jesus tell sick children to suck it up? would he say that their parents should just work harder and get better jobs? "Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ" -- the burden of paying for children's health care is one I am happy to take up.

That's what I told my representative today, and I'd like to encourage you to send yours a similar message if he or she voted against the measure. Every time I get an EOB from our insurer, I say a little prayer of thanks that we have coverage now. I will never forget the feeling of dread I had in those days when a child was sick or injured. Would he be okay? And would we be able to afford the bill? I hate knowing that there are mothers going through that every day, and I hate that GWB is telling them blithely that the emergency room is the solution.

Let's tell him he needs a better fix than that.

No-Good-Very-Bad Gets Better

Yesterday morning I got the big kids off to school and went zipping down to the babysitter's house. I had to drop Pete off at 8:15 to get to my 8:30 appointment. I rang the bell...

...and waited. No answer. She wasn't there; she hadn't called. I called the office to tell them I'd be as quick as I could, but the little girl I was seeing lives out of town and the family would be most of the way there already. I called a neighbor with a home-based business and asked if Pete could please (please!) come and play with his little girl for an hour and a half. He said yes. I breathed a little easier, because Pete adores this family.

At 8:26 I called the office again to say I was on my way to my 8:30 appointment. "CJ," said the secretary sternly, "it's only 8:26. Don't you get yourself in a tizzy. Don't you drive like a maniac to get here, because it's going to be okay. Don't you go and get in a situation on the way over here."

I thought it was a little funny that she was giving me driving advice, but in about 15 seconds I was grateful for it. I was going 35 miles per hour and the tachometer was at 2800 rpms. "Come on, shift," I said to the transmission...

...and it did not shift. "Hm," I said to myself in a calmer voice than one might have expected, "did the transmission that was rebuilt approximately 53 weeks ago (with a one-year warranty, natch) just fail? It appears so."

So I drove to the office at 30mph, figuring that 2500rpm wouldn't damage the engine, and cruised inside. I went swiftly to the filing cabinet to get out the one assessment tool we have that's suitable for the girl I had to evaluate...

...and another SLP had taken it out of the office. "Well," I said to one of my co-workers, "I am having kind of a stressful morning."

I got through the eval (I decided to break it into two sessions, because this is a family I see regularly, and I could finish part of it without the missing book), and drove home without blowing up the van, and picked up Petely and dropped off the van at the neighborhood repair shop. My MIL arrived just as we walked up to the house -- she had arranged to come so I could make an extra trip to campus this week. I drove off (in the car she generously let me borrow), thinking, "The afternoon will probably get better, right?"

It turns out that the transmission is definitely fried, but its demise occurred 51 weeks into the warranty and not a week after its expiration. (Although get this: we were over the mileage limitation, and they're still repairing it at no charge. Small town service, huh?)

My stats prof gave us our second assignment today and I was all grumpy when I saw the email. I spent many hours on the last assignment, and I thought there'd be more space between them. But I opened the attachment and thought, "Hey, this will be fun." Yes, I am the Empress of Geekiness.

Today I am one-third of the way through this crazy semester, and we're hanging in there so far. I am off to put boys to bed, and then maybe start my fun stats assignment when things are quiet. Who could ask for anything better on a Friday night?

Keep On Googling

Google.ca includes this blog on the first page of results for "how to keep milk supply for my dog."

I don't think I even want to know what that's about.

Competition

I am missing the thing, whatever it is, that makes people get all het up about who can get a ball to go through the net or across the goal line or under the wicket. Some of it, I guess, comes from growing up in a family where sports were not a priority. My husband and I were married in late July, and he wanted to watch Monday night football when the season started in August. (September? I don't even know. Also, I wouldn't know an offsides violation if it came up and head-butted me.) I thought he was joking. Who watches Monday night football? When I realized he was serious, I offered helpful commentary. "Look! Large men in tights hurling themselves at each other. Wait, wait, something unexpected now: more large men in tights hurling themselves at each other."

My kids are involved in soccer because I figure it's good for them -- the activity is good for their bodies and the lessons in humility are good for their souls. Right?  I mean, yeah, teamwork, sportsmanship, fun, plus it's as American as baba ghannouj. But I just do not get -- cannot comprehend -- the parents who treat a kindergarten soccer game as if the outcome had some import.

This morning a dad was yelling at his son from the sidelines: "Lucas! Pressure! Pressure!" Which, dude. He's five. The kid fell down and the dad yelled, "Get up! Always get up!" Even worse, the opposing team's coach was a bellower, shouting at his charges to do better faster harder.

Did I just learn early that I was bad at sports? Did I stop caring because I couldn't afford to care? I am competitive as all get-out when it comes to Scrabble, so this post is not me saying behold my meekness and humility. But I don't really care if my kids play Scrabble well or not, you know? I can't imagine a Scrabble equivalent to this morning's scene at the soccer field. ("No, you moron! You should have anagrammed that to put the Z on the triple letter! Always look for anagrams!")

My kids are not out there tearing up the soccer field, and I am curious about what factors determine skill. Probably some of the dads who yell (I've never seen a mom shouting "Move! MOVE!" but I suppose they're out there) know that their boys can play better than they're playing. There must be some complicated interplay of ingredients that makes a really good soccer player: good genes (we seem to have been shorted on the sports genes around here) expressed in a favorable environment. Would my kids play better if I cared more? Would they enjoy it more if we were more invested in the games? I just don't know.

Count the Cost

Twelve years ago last month I miscarried our first baby, in the twelfth week of my pregnancy. The months that followed taught me many things, but the hardest lessons came on a September weekend. I was angry -- angry that my baby had died, angry that I was still walking around in a fog. My houseplants were all dying and I kept getting lost in my own town. I could not think of my baby, of her tiny perfect ears and the improbably beautiful curve of her ribcage, without suffocating grief, but I couldn't not think about her. On that Saturday I said to God, "No. This is too much and I WILL NOT do it."

The next day's gospel reading: "Before you build a tower, count the cost." I thought about all the times I had offered myself to God, had said, "whatever you ask me, I will do; wherever you lead me, I will go." The gospel was a pointed reminder to me of promises made, and with what felt like a tremendous effort of will I said, "Okay. I was wrong. I will do it. I wish I didn't have to and it hurts me terribly, but I will do it."

This morning in church I was frustrated. My oldest has decided he does not believe in God (he asked if he could re-baptize himself in sand to undo his baptism in water), and for all that I know it is normal to question and God has no grandchildren and he has to own these truths for himself -- for all that I am weary. (There are only so many times a person, or at least this person, can explain that foreknowledge does not imply causation and is compatible with free will before she starts to get exasperated. Arwen? Want a traveling apologetics gig?) My 5yo has been struggling lately with impulsive behavior and blithe refusal to listen, and I am more than ready for him to get past it. I was standing in the pew today, listening to the gospel and feeling like a failure, when Joe said loudly, "But I don't WANT to be next to Petey!"

The priest's voice interrupted my brief daydream, in which I was frog-marching Joe out of church: "Before you build a tower, count the cost."

My first thought was self-pitying: I did not know how much patience and creativity and diligence and plain hard work it would take to raise four sons. I did not know how deep it would go, how adroitly they would push my buttons. We have an unanticipated cost overrun in the construction of this tower, folks.

But quickly I remembered the Sunday twelve years ago when I heard the same gospel and wept over an empty womb and broken hopes. I looked at my boys around me and thought, "This is an embarrassment of riches." I imagined myself complaining to the me of twelve years ago, and it seemed to me that it would be like saying, to someone who had no money for food, something like, "My hedge fund manager isn't answering his cell and I am SO tired of waiting for him."

This obliterated the self-pity but not the discouragement. I still don't know what to do about my 10yo self-proclaimed atheist who yawns exaggeratedly all through Mass. But I looked up at the crucifix and knew what to do next, at least. Eyes front. Chin up. One step at a time.

Things to consider if your four-month-old baby coasts down the growth charts

This post was prompted by a woman who wrote that her four-month-old baby was gaining weight too slowly, and that she had decided to stop breastfeeding exclusively because of worries about her milk supply. I am hoping that this information will be helpful to mothers who google "four-month-old baby with slow weight gain" or "sliding down the growth charts 4 months" or "milk drying up four months." I don't provide as much hands-on breastfeeding support as I used to, so shoot me an email if you catch any errors, please.