Pneumonia - The Emergency Room

Since JiffyPop began daycare not quite six months ago she has had so many colds I've lost count. It's been making me batshit annoyed. The entire first year I was home with her, she had one brief cold she caught about ten seconds after I stopped breastfeeding. And besides nearly constant physical contact with me at three months old, she even avoided catching the awful cold I had (because of said breastfeeding, I was told).

Also included in the past six months has been the arrival of all but four of JiffyPop's current teeth (and she has them all except those final molars), each one coming with a more dramatic flair than the last.

There's been a lot of rough nights in 2012.

Last Sunday, around midnight, JiffyPop woke up crying. She had a fever, which (thankfully) is a pretty rare event for her. Knowing that at her age, they basically tell you all you can do is "give her Tylenol and pray to Jesus," I did. Her breathing was fast, not quite panting, but fast. Again, this isn't entirely unusual. JiffyPop has a helluva time settling down to sleep each night. It takes her anywhere from 5-60 minutes to fall asleep, usually somewhere in the middle. Up until those final seconds where she drifts off into that angelic stupor, she thrashes around, sometimes in a cheeky, annoying state, and sometimes in a bewildered, "I don't even know why I can't fall asleep" state. And her breathing is always fast. I spend that whole time trying to settle her physically and mentally. One thing that sometimes works is pulling her up against my body and doing deep yoga breaths. The slow expanding/contracting of my stomach seems to calm her own breathing. Sometimes.

That night, I knew if I could get her back to sleep that her breathing would predictably slow. But she tossed and turned for the next several hours and her breathing remained rather fast. By 6am, I was starting to have a mild freakout.

New Zealand has this awesome thing called "Healthline" where you can call any time, day or night, and get connected to a very friendly nurse who you tell all your symptons to and then s/he makes a recommendation of what you can do for yourself or if you should go to the doctor, hospital, etc. I only called it once before when JiffyPop was an infant, and I don't even remember what it was exactly, something bizarre which ended up being meaningless.

And now it was sometime after 7am and after looking up the number on the internet, I phoned. This time, the woman asked a ton of questions, and asked to hear JiffyPop's breathing. Everytime I tried to hold the phone up to the baby's ear, she thought I was trying to get her to talk and would start saying, "Helloooooo." Finally, I pulled it away for a moment and she started panting again. The nurse said, "Oh, I can hear her!" and after some further conversation she said, "When does your doctor open?"

I said, "9am, but I know there's an urgent care clinic that I might be able to go to..."

The nurse quickly looked it up and said, "It opens at 8am. How close are you to the clinic?"

"Ten minutes."

"How far are you from the hospital?"

"Ten minutes." (They're a few blocks apart).

*pause* "No, don't wait. Go to the emergency room now."

Oh shit! Nothing like a phrase like that to get you into official freak-out mode. After some scrambling around the house where we packed bags and got ourselves dressed, we left, dropping Beau off on the street near his work on the way as he had no way to contact the school.

I entered the emgergency room, now with JiffyPop limp in my arms.

It was empty.

Totally empty. Not a receptionist, not an irritated, impatient patient, nothing. Neither was there a bell or button or something to pound to get someone's attention. WTF!?!?!? And it was dim and dingy. It just looked, as one of my new favorite NZ words says, "grotty."


There were double doors next to me which were locked and big signs warning not to go through them unless you were "authorised." I peered through the two small windows cut into them and saw in the distance a woman leisurely going about her business. My eyes narrowed.

As the manager of an (exceptional) administrative team, I know such jobs well and take them with a degree of seriousness. If I were the sole person sitting at an emergency room desk, and I had to go deliver mail or pee or WHAT THE FUCK EVER, I would certainly make sure there was at least someone standing there in my place just in case someone crashed through the door with arterial spurting or a heart attack or A SICK BABY!

I couldn't get the woman's attention and there was NO one nearby and all doors were locked. I wasn't quite frantic, but I was starting to become unhinged. I didn't know exactly what was wrong with JiffyPop. I didn't know if it was serious, but I knew it was serious enough to warrant an emergency room visit. After five minutes, I was preparing to bang my fist on the little window when a nurse strolled in.

Seeing my face, she said, "Oh, do you need to check in?"

I tried to smile, but also didn't attempt to hide my worry. "Yes."

She disappeared, and returned, sure enough, with the woman I had spied through the door's window. She appeared totally nonplussed. My eyes narrowed again as I thought, "If you were one of my staff, I'd fire your stank ass."

The woman then continued to, not quite be RUDE, but let's say a bit bitchy, even saying that JiffyPop was a boy, where the nurse balked and said, "That's clearly a girl!" And the woman replied, "You can't even tell by the color of her clothes or anything!" (JiffyPop was wearing purple and blue pajamas). Normally, the gender misidentification thing never bugs me, but it sure as hell did then. And don't even get me started on the "girls can't wear blue" bullshit.

I think the nurse could tell the lady was being a bitch, and she ushered me through the emergency room doors quickly.

JiffyPop and I were escorted to a bed where I proceded to just crawl up into it. Any move I would make to disengage her brought immediate, loud protest. We were soon met by a male, Filipino doctor (I said a few words in Tagalog to him, basically since now that's all I pretty much remember). It wasn't long before the doctor (a very nice, young woman), came and they started hooking JiffyPop up to all sorts of machines. Now, my own personal baby koala bear, trying to melt into my skin, she met ever touch with resistance and tried to kick off/pull off everything brought her way.

The doctor said, "She's not getting enough air, we need to get her on oxygen."

This would commence something horrible that I'm sure all mothers go through with their kids in the hospital. A feeling of betrayal to your own child. I spent the rest of the afternoon, forcefully holding her close or holding her down while she was poked, prodded, jabbed and had things attached to her, including oxygen which she cried so hard over, the snot kept pushing it out. In the x-ray room, me barely being able to stand with the lead apron that was the size of a full-length ball gown pulling me down, had to have another nurse come in to help me force JiffyPop to sit in the chair (away from me) long enough to be x-rayed. And with each procedure, she cried, out, "Mama! Mama! Mama!" as I held her down and doctors and nurses did things to her.

Yes, of course, I know it was for her own good and I was there with her, but I still felt like the world's biggest asshole and as if I was complicit in causing her pain with these strangers. It took all my willpower not to just sob, constantly. Sob for her, sob for myself.

And the whole time, she was pant pant panting away, even with the oxygen in her nose and her oxygen saturation levels rising to good levels. She was limp, disinterested. I'd never seen her like this. Ever. With every cold she has had this year, she has ALWAYS had her energy. Sometimes cranky, sometimes needy, but always energetic.

Now, nothing much interested her. She wouldn't even talk. I lay on the bed on my back and she lay on top of my chest, face down. She didn't want it any other way. I sang to her, and to my delight, when I came to the "movement" parts of the songs, I felt her body, ever - so - slightly.... wiggle. It was just barely there. But it made me smile.

Then the doctor came back, apologizing since the morning (now afternoon) had been unusually busy, including the admittance of four children (one of which turned out to be abused).

"I've seen the x-ray," the doctor said, "She's got pneumonia."

Hi again. I've missed you!

"The Redwoods"in Rotorua

It has been so long since I last posted, that it took me a minute to remember which email and password I used for this blogger account. Once I logged in, blogger has COMPLETELY changed its format and look, so I've been clumsily bumping around my account. I found my last post -- a draft -- from about six months ago detailing a lot of the shit that went down before we left the East Coast. I thought about posting it, but can't be bothered. I just wish so much hadn't happend since then! Luckily, most of it is good.

Let's number list it:

1) Beau got a job(!!!) at a high school in Rotorua.  And so, we moved there at the beginning of 2012.

Rotorua is considered a "tourist town" in the center of the north island of New Zealand. It's tourist industry is based mostly on Maori culture (shows, dinners, tours), but also features a lot of nature-related stuff, which NZ does...well, everywhere.If people fly into Auckland, they usually bus it up here for at least a day.

2) *I* got a job - a great job - at the local community college.

It's the head manager position in the administration of a really interesting "school" (in the U.S, we'd call it a 'college' as in "The College of Nursing" or "The College of Arts & Sciences"). It's completely crazy and "full-on," but I love it. I really do. I love the people, I love the job, and even though a large chunk of it revolves around two things I've previously not been crazy/experienced at (budgeting/marketing) AND I take work home almost every night, I kinda don't care. It suits me. And I AM THANKFUL FOR IT. Really thankful.


3) There's money there if we NEED something (not necessarily if we WANT something).

This is the FIRST TIME in the six years+ that Beau and I have been together that both us, at the same time, have been GAINFULLY employed in real jobs with some real stability and consistent, respectable paychecks. No temp agencies, no psycho bosses, no low-pay--high instability situations. Again, can't articulate properly how grateful I am about this. Are we rich? Nooooo. And it took us SEVERAL months to climb out of the ditch we were in. But now, I can't believe this....don't want to jinx it...but we're doing OKAY.

It's funny, now that we DO have two paychecks coming in every two weeks, I find that what I've been denying forever is really true. I'm crap at managing money, just like most people who grow up poor are. We burn through it. I'm not irresponsible -- we always pay all our bills, have food, manage a little "fun," and deal with any minor emergencies that come along, but at the end of the month, we still don't seem to really have anything left. Beau has always left all money matters to me, but he still shakes his head and mutters under his breath at the end of each pay period. And my reaction is always a mixture of guilt and indignation. I don't buy a lot of shit! We don't gamble or go on trips or "blow it." If I do buy something, I use it, to death (I'm not gentle with stuff and if I like it, I'll use it until it falls apart).

Yeah, that's my justification. And eating out is still one of my favorite things to do in the universe.

But yeah, there's no nest egg at the end of it.

4) JiffyPop hit her first birthday, and about 1-2 months later, started daycare.

Yeah, giving your child over to daycare sucks the big donkey dong. You feel like a complete dick. Luckily, we have a daughter who thinks socializing with the rest of the world is awesome, and most of the time we get a quick "bye bye" wave over her shoulder as she runs off to see the bunny rabbit or play with her boyfriend, Daniel. (Everytime I mention "Daniel," Beau's face darkens, tee hee). It's expensive as HELL (just over $200 a week. A. WEEK.), but I did get to spend her entire first year with her at home, which would have been completely impossible in the U.S. (Thank you, New Zealand). And when she hits three years old, you get 20 hours/week free.

 5) We live in a fairly nice house in a really nice neighborhood that is a 15 minute walk to my job!

Okay, like most NZ homes, it lacks any kind of recognizable insulation and when it dips below 40 degrees outside, you freeze your ass off inside unless you burn a small pine tree in the fireplace or invest a good part of your paycheck in the gas heaters. But I like it, a lot. Beau isn't much for it, but he does like the location and safe neighborhood.

6) There are grocery stores and shopping centres (no real malls) and many many places to eat and do fun stuff at !

This has been one of the best parts for me. Having a grocery store just minutes away instead of an hour and a half on a twisty, tread-flattening road. Being able to go to restaurants (or just get "takeaways" when two working parents are too exhausted to cook). Having lots of fun places to do stuff. Swim lessons at the aquatic centre, buying an unlimited "locals" card for the bird park (with added, random water ride), having a large beautiful lake with ducks and swans and paddleboats to ride. And a zorb for thos who enjoy humiliating themselves in public.

All this convenience is bliss.

So, am I happy?

Yes, I am. You thought I was going to say No, didn't you? You thought I'd have some REASON to hate all this awesomeness. I don't. It's been over six months now, and I'm happy and grateful and liking Rotorua more than I thought I would, truly. It's a pretty small city, and I'm a mid-big city gal, but I'm really loving it. AND, it's just 2 1/2 hours from Auckland if the big city itch gets too great.

Doesn't mean there isn't one snag...

Beau. I've talked before about his struggles with teaching in NZ. They've really never ended. He's tried, OH MY GOD, he has tried and tried to get his head around the educational system and work within it. He's struggled with students (and worst of all, PARENTS), who don't give a shit about education or their futures. He's been demoralized as he watches performing arts take all precedence, and Science/Biology become meaningless in the majority of a community's eyes. He's been taunted, cursed at and ignored.

The beautiful Rotorua Museum

I'd like to say he's taken it all like the awesome Gary Cooper that he is. I'll tell you this, he's done a helluva lot better than I ever could. I would have abandoned teaching years ago. I would have taken half the pay. I did teach, and I LOVED it, but I know what one bad class does to your soul. It sucks it like a vampire. It makes you feel small and sad and incompetent. It makes going to work something to fear and dread. And he's had classes and classes that have convinced him that the awesome teacher he thought he was in the States, was really just lucky to teach at a good school with good students. (Not true, he really is awesome, he's just been in shocking situations).

But you know what? NZ pays their teachers WELL. And Beau doesn't want to give that up. For the most part, we lived off his income for several years (and my piddly work here and there when I wasn't being crappy at being pregnant). And he keeps thinking he can DO this, he can GET it, he can MASTER it. And once he does, it'll all be okay.

But in the meantime, the result is that he has turned on New Zealand and its culture. He sees it as responsible for his unhappiness. He wants to go back to the States, though we'd both be unemployed, homeless, with no prospects, and promptly set upon by student loan henchmen. But he KNOWS that we really can't. That there's really no hope there. This is a typical Beau thing -- canonize the previous location, demonize the present. Now, the United States is the land of milk and honey. Everything was beautiful there. People were good and smart and students were well-behaved and ambitious. Drinking and child abuse aren't a problem and things are affordable. The food tastes better. People don't drive like assholes. It's just nicer.

Sometimes this comes out as wistful recollection. But at other times it comes out as dark, black vitriol. So much so that I find myself recoiling in disgust. I've lived in enough foreign countries to hear those typical ex-pat lines, "People here are so fucking stupid because....."

Oh, and his daughter might grow up to be one of them.


I have tried to be more sympathetic, because, sure there are some sucky things about New Zealand, but I don't want to feed the beast. I try to play devil's advocate, "There are a lot of fuckwit, entitled kids in the U.S. too..."  He listened to that for awhile, but now it just irritates him. I've suggested he come to the local community college and re-train to be something else, ANYTHING else (I'd gladly take the cut in pay if he could find something he'd love to do), but he doesn't want to abandon teaching (and the pay).

He feels trapped, I feel trapped. We're finally making it. If we move back to the States it'll be back at square one (not to mention I'd probably jump off a building long before then). You probably know by now how much I LOATHE the thought of moving anymore. Loathe is not a strong enough word. Just the thought of looking for work...again...with my ever-expanding resume where I never stay anywhere for more than a couple years...seriously, it makes me want to cry bitter tears.

This is sounding really dramatic and tragic, when I was trying to express all my thankfulness and glee. Oops. Just a tough, tough situation. My heart really goes out to him. We've tried the "move to a new state/country and NOW we're going to be happy" thing before. It just doesn't work. And you end up spending all that time and money trying to get back to where you were before you moved (which wasn't so impressive to begin with).

I want this place to work for him. I want work to work for him. And I feel bad that I'm so totally satisfied with everything else, when he's not. Hunh.

Trouble in Paradise

"It was accepted. 'I'm American man, I'm American. Fuck all these foreigners!' And that was cool. 'I'm American man, I'm American. Fuck the French!' That was cool. 'I'm American man, I'm American. Fuck all these Arabs!' And that was cool. Then they went to 'I'm American man, I'm American. Fuck all these illegal aliens!' Then I started listening. Cause I know niggas and Jews is next. It's like any day now. That train's never late."
- Chris Rock on the "accepted racism" after the war in Iraq began

I haven't really touched on some of the ugliness that has been going on in our teeny tiny community because 1) It's just too much to get into; I get tired or riled up just thinking of it, and 2) I feel if I kind of ignore it/not write about it, it doesn't exist (as much). I've talked on more than one occasion about trying to have a relatively drama-free life, but it always seems to find me anyway. Though admittedly, this time, it's not really about ME, but is connected to my family. And also as usual, I'll try to make it as short as possible, though it's quite complicated.

It all started over three years ago when the principal in Beau's school was on the way out. He was having knockdown drag-out fights with his vice-principal and things were chaotic. The principal job opened and several applied. The Vice-Principal (whom we'll call "Kitty"), the current Math teacher, a South African man we'll call Hugh, and I know for sure of a third man who we'll call Denny.

I can't really speak for the Board, but I believe they chose Hugh because a) he'd had prior Headmaster experience and b) a good education and c) because although Kitty was also probably qualified, people knew what an unbelievably difficult, awful person she could be, and kind of feared what would happen if she got control. I believe that Denny was not fully-qualified for the position, though I'm not sure.

That first year after Hugh was hired, an angry Kitty stomped off to "educational leave" and Denny faded into the background. The school didn't exactly have a stellar reputation and Hugh set out to up its academic focus. The school is very focused on its culture (Maori) and does very well in Maori performing arts and such, but few students left the school with any kind of 'Three R's Education' or certificates. (NZ high schools are based on a credit system and a student will earn a Level 1, 2 and 3 certificate by the time they leave at year 12 or 13). Students previously had earned very few credits and all had been "internal" meaning they never traveled to do "external exams" which all students across the country do in all subjects. Kitty had said, "Our students don't do externals." Her "Our students don't " would echo repeatedly for various things over the next couple years in order to try and stop other initiatives.

That first year, Beau was relatively happy. The changes were positive. Hugh implemented a merit/demerit system and Beau was ecstatic that his previously impossible students were actually responding the the system. They were staying in class, they were doing work. Kids were getting credits, and Beau took kids to external exams for the first time.

The second year Kitty returned. With a vengeance. She set out to systematically dismantle all of Hugh's new programs, once again stating that they didn't work for Maori children (she particularly hated the merit/demerit system, though did not replace it with any other kind of disciplinary system). First there was tension, then there were arguments, and then, battles. Beau came home every night, a bit more demoralized than the previous night. The stories are ENDLESS, and Kitty did many things that frankly, would have gotten her immediately sacked in most other places. Beau became very depressed about his job, and started to hate teaching. Staff were fighting and choosing sides, though most were against Kitty.

Sometime later in the second year and continuing on FOREVER into the third year, Hugh and the staff (including Beau) sought to get rid of Kitty. It took almost a full year, and she fought it the entire way. The Ministry of Education sent several people in, lawyers were involved, and it got ugly. But when the dust finally settled, Kitty was gone. Phew. Could things get back to the way they were? Could the progress start again?

Nope.

All the blame can't be put on Kitty, though she deserves the lion's share. I won't get into finger pointing, but sadly, the third year has been troubled as the staff and students still teetered from the aftermath of all that chaos in such a small school.

And then the Xenophobia Club formed.

Sure, that's not their real name, but that's what I call them, though they, they deserve something much worse.

In all honesty, I think the "founders" of this club had good intentions to begin with. Sort of. They are a married couple who both just started at the school in the third year. They were front and center in getting Kitty removed. They were Maori who had lived a good portion of their lives, and raised their children, in Auckland, but as often happens, they decided it was time to come back to their roots and live an authentic Maori life. I could say something smart ass-y about that, but I won't. Again, I think they started off with positive intentions. But I suppose the road to Hell....

This couple had both just started up a program to get their teaching degrees and so through their classes were exposed to a lot of theory on Maori education. It energized them and gave them ideas, which was cool, but eventually it wasn't about the kids anymore.

They claimed the group was a Parent Association with the intent to improve the school. But what it morphed into was a witch hunt. Or I should say, a lynch mob.

Kitty joined. Then Denny joined. Meetings were held in secret or in local marae (meeting houses). The principal or teachers were not invited. In fact, there were very few true parents in the group itself. And they had one goal:

Get rid of the South African principal and his family (his wife teaches primary at the school).

At first it was more subtle. When you live in a tiny community like this, there really aren't any secrets. Even us, as "outsiders" hear just about everything. And what began as some nasty whispers of sour grapes began to turn into a much more bitter wine.

And another woman joined the group. Let's call her "Elvira" for fun (and yes, she does bear a striking resemblance to the woman). Elvira was very vocal and a nasty piece of work at that. Even worse, she's about as dumb as a box of dirt, which is an awful combo. She's actually known in the community as the Village Shit-Stirrer. In fact, she visited a friend of mine at work, lamenting that everyone thought she started trouble and it wasn't true. She proved herself wrong over and over as the months went by.

One day I was working at the school and I was told there was a phone call for me. I answered the phone and Elvira identified herself. She said there was going to be a community hui (meeting). Since I was working on the newsletter and thought she wanted to put a notice in, I said, "Sure," and got my pen and paper ready to take down her info.

She then told me the hui was going to be about Beau and that I "needed to do something about it" and that I needed to "get him out." After blinking in confusion a few times, I asked her what she was talking about. She said she was going to bring him up on charges for the time two years ago when a student had touched his bottom.

"Wait a minute, is it the student you have the issue with or Beau?"

She said she had been there and when Beau had been walking down the aisle, a female student had reached out and touched his butt. She wasn't speaking very coherently and I was confused and upset. She said it was because Beau had "a look of sheer delight" when the student did it.

If she wasn't such a psycho, I'd laugh. As Beau said, "J, you complain that I never express sheer joy over anything!"

This incident did happen, though not exactly as she described. I remember the very day, because Beau came home from work shit-scared. He had walked down the aisle and thought he had felt something brush his butt, but he wasn't certain. He turned around and saw one of his female students. He thought about taking her outside to scold her, but since he wasn't entirely sure she had done anything, he thought it might be a bad idea to raise a fuss. After class, he had gone straight to another teacher and told her about it and asked her what he should do. The other teacher had frowned and told him, "She knows men." (Sadly, that turned out to be true in the worst possible way). Nothing more was done about it, and the whole thing had shook him up.

Well, Elvira had been in the back of the class that day two years previously along with another parent. She was now threatening us and telling us we better get out of Dodge, basically. Then she hung up on me.

I was enraged. Not only was the accusation ridiculous, it was dangerous. Despite the fact that Beau is innocent, this is exactly the kind of thing that can ruin a male teacher's career. This threatened him, and it threatened our whole family. I contacted my union and a lawyer immediately. They contacted her and basically told her to shut her stupid pie hole. Oh, and she threatened to contact any school where Beau may apply to warn them about him. Now, considering she's trying to get rid of us and Beau has a permanent position in this school, wouldn't sabotaging his chances to LEAVE the school be a bit ignorant?

I have a lot of anger also for the Maori couple who have started this "Parent Group" and then have allowed these horrible human beings to take it over. As far as most of the community is concerned, Chick and Elvira are the mouthpieces and represent the group. They send out hateful emails on a daily basis (including Cc'ing it to the Prime Minister and Minister of Education, sheesh), talking about how the principal, "who comes from a country where brown people are not heard" is ruining the school and destroying their culture. The principal may have made mistakes and the school definitely needs improvement, but he is truly a good man, maybe one of the most good-hearted people I've ever known, and he has put his heart and soul into this school. And all he has received for it is hate, racism and an obstacle thrown in his path at every opportunity. They never even gave him a chance to do his job, since he's probably spent a good portion of his time fighting off their endless accusations.

And where there is racism and xenophobia for South Africans, the focus on us, the Americans can't be too far behind. People have told Beau, "Don't worry, they consider you to be part of this community, it's just them that they are targeting."

That is hardly comfort to me, and though I know they are a small, ugly group, but hate for one group of foreigners in my opinion, is hate for all foreigners.

It's time to get out of Dodge.

Is it hormones or is it Memorex?

Before and after we had JiffyPop I was 100% certain that all I wanted was one child. As much as I totally adore her, admittedly, all the baby stuff is not my favorite in the world. And her dramatic entrance and first few months didn't make that any easier. Breastfeeding every 30 minutes to 3 hours (including through the night) for the first four months almost drove me to the crazy house. I even suggested a vasectomy to Beau who blanched and then declined.

Then when JiffyPop was about 4 or 5 months old, I started getting these urges. It didn't feel very real, just felt kind of primal. "GET KNOCKED UP" my body said. "HUH?" replied my brain. And then my brain got chatty:

You don't want another kid. One's enough trouble. Most of the time it's neat, but sometimes it's pretty boring. You'll be even more broke than ever before, and will probably never ever have your own home. You'll never be able to visit the United States again. The next 1-2 years of your life will be consumed with infant care again. Your "career" (ha ha, what I mean is, simply having a decent job) will totally go out the window. Having JiffyPop alone when you have to go to town can be pretty tough at times, now imagine TWO of them! You pretty much hated pregnancy except for the last two months (months 6 and 7). You're at that age where the next baby could have some serious medical problem. You want to give your attention and love to one baby and not feel stretched/tired/resentful as an overworked Mom. This baby is so sweet and good, there is NO way we're going to get lucky twice; the next one will be a monster.

Yeah.

Despite this, my body keeps saying, "One more! Really, just one more. I won't ask again. Three is out of the question." (No shit).

Is this just pure hormonal, evolutionary drive?

So, I think on the two kids thing for awhile. It's funny, we both thought we were having a boy with JiffyPop and I was really happy about that. But now, I think I'd actually like another girl. I really like the thought of two girls. Not sure why.

Anyway, even when I'm content in the "one child only" corner, something throws me for a loop.

"If something happens to us, JiffyPop will be totally alone," said Beau.

Oh, god.

The whole "every kid should have a sibling so they're not lonely" argument totally doesn't wash with me though. I know plenty of people (including myself!!!) who had a frequently abusive, angry sibling and was completely miserable and would have gladly spent my childhood alone.

Then one of my best friends said, "Gosh, two is actually easier in a way. They play with each other so you don't have to be RIGHT THERE all the time like you do with one."

Oh.

Again, assuming they're siblings who get along.

I actually have one friend with four kids who said it got progressively easier with each kid. Okay yeah, WHATEVER.

But I do have some guilt that Beau and I may spend the rest of our lives here in New Zealand and JiffyPop will be deprived of her extended family, and when we die, she really will be all alone. Now granted, I'm not all that broken up that she's missing out on my family, since I am not all that entirely sure that most of them are good people to be around anyway, but there is still a little guilt, that she probably won't have what I wish she could have: a nice big warm family. Sometimes I think that's just a fantasy - something created in Hollywood for Christmas films and Lifetime movies. I mean, are there really large and supportive families with heaps of cousins and aunts and uncles and lots of love and laughter? (You've all seen Dan in Real Life, right? Great movie, but REALLY?).

I think that after I left home at 18, my tolerance level for all family quirks/annoyances/scandals" plummeted. I just didn't want to deal anymore with the endless drama. Not that I didn't create my own drama, particularly in my 20's, but STILL, I'm pushing 40 now and I feel a lot more settled and a lot less indulgent in family crap. Well, even friend crap too. (Though I'm sure Beau and I may disagree at the level of actual drama at any point in time in our marriage).

ANYWAY, once again, I'm thinking about the second kid. Like, REALLY thinking about it. Is it really just hormones? Argh....more soul searching required.

Postscript: While looking for some images for this blog, I found an article that states that the "happiest families" are those with two girls, due to things like getting along with each other, helping out around the house, being obedient, etc. etc. The unhappiest are four girls. Hunh. Anyway, they did not have any information on only child families. Poop.

I Gotta Be Me!

I'm writing this post not because I have some story to tell, but just because I haven't written in awhile. I hate abandoned blogs, and I don't want mine to be that way. It's not because I don't have time to write anymore (okay, yeah, I have a lot less free time than I did before, but there's always a way to MAKE time), and it's not because I don't have the will, either. I think it has to do with the fact that a) Facebook is such an enormous outlet for what my (and JiffyPop's) life is that it almost seems redundant to come on here, and b) I have become a videotape monster, which has become it's own blog itself.

I managed to buy this super cheap video camera. It's not great quality, obviously, but it takes decent footage (if you're in bright light and hold still). Since JiffyPop was very small, I started videotaping mostly her, but also our life in New Zealand. The land around our house, the places we visit, the dog, the cats, the chooks (now dead), etc. At first it was just short little clips of JiffyPop progressing on that linear map of milestones. I strung all the little clips together into one large movie and sent it off to the grandparents. No one wants to receive 800 photographs anymore, and the internet has made letter writing almost obsolete (sadly). But these grandparents don't have quite the online savvy as us and so telling them "Just go see the new photos of JiffyPop on Facebook" doesn't really cut it (though to be fare to Beau's mother, she does...try).

As time went on, my 30-second clips of Jiffy Pop wobbling around during "Tummy Time" became longer clips of me lifting the camera to the gorgeous scenery around us, and me at first shyly making a comment here and there, to what it is now -- my big mouth going on and on about what's going on in my life, my partner's life, my baby's life and all our lives combined. It's not QUITE a video diary (the tendency for a couple of the grandmas to become highly critical is something I always seek to avoid for personal annoyance sake), but at least a catalogue of how our lives are going. I kind of like it. And it's nice to have one small cd case to chronicle JiffyPop's life instead of 10 photo albums stuffed in a corner.

There's also what I mentioned in a previous blog. Since JiffyPop's birth, I've developed the irrational fear that I will die and leave her, and though that doesn't plague me every day, it does come upon me here and there (usually from something on TV or a book) and it chills me to my core. In some way, these videos feel like I could leave here something of me, in case I should go. Beau hates when I talk so morbidly, but it's true. (Not to mention he was the one who brought up talk again last night of who the hell could we make JiffyPop's godparent(s) in case we die and how we should stipulate the use of our life insurance payout).

Hence, long explanation of why I don't really blog anymore. I can't stand to hear myself go on and on anymore, even if it is in written form. It's true I tend to be a bit more open here, which I avoid on video, but still. Telling the same story over and over sucks.

ANYWAY, I will make a conscious effort to be here more, for my own sake. It's not just about the blog, it's about getting back a bit more ME after becoming MOM. I've always been highly sensitive (and honestly, a bit critical) of the fact that many of my friends seem to have disappeared once they became mothers, and it's something I totally understand now, but still want to avoid. I want to be "J, who has a daughter," not "J the Mother," even if I think JiffyPop is the most amazing creation EVER.

So, I started taking yoga again, went to an amazing art seminar (I hadn't painted in AGES), and at least started thinking about my 85% completed book again. I had shoved my book aside after JiffyPop's birth, and have been feeling guilty and wistful about it since. I have just pulled it out of its hiding place, dusted it off, went through it and made careful piles, and then left it sitting there on the coffee table for the next seven days. Oh well, that's some progress made.

And for 3 days we are back in Hamilton while Beau does some teaching training -- the city of JiffyPop's birth. It's been 9 months and I have just as warm and loving feelings toward the place as I did back then. Gosh, I'd love to live here, though already it sounds like getting a job here is tough. Pff, that's how it is everywhere, especially when you're a "foreigner." Gotta keep trying though. It's been 3 years in the bush and we're both just about at the end of our tether. Anyway, in the meantime, I've done a shameful amount of shopping (and frankly, loved every minute), had some okay food, and as soon as JiffyPop wakes up from this nap, I plan on taking her over to the NICU (baby intensive care) where she was born to say thanks and show them how great she's doing. I'm a little nervous about it since they always had super strict rules there (though they were never crystal clear with you what they were, just when you violated them), and I am hoping it's a friendly, instead of intensely awkward visit. We'll see. If not, there's always a nice cafe to sit and eat away my social embarrassment.

A Baby Changes Everything

Before you have a baby, you hear over and over, "You cannot imagine how much your life will change when you have kids. It changes COMPLETELY."

I heard that so often, I was expecting it. Perhaps, expecting it too much. 'Cause the truth is, I don't really feel it.

Maybe it's because I (we) just have one child. Maybe it's because overall she's a very good and happy baby. Maybe because I currently have the luxury of staying home with her and not juggling a career. I dunno. Even Beau said his life hasn't really changed that much. He still does all the same things he did before. Now, it's just that Jiffy Pop is there too.

There is one thing that changes, or I should say, changed in ME. My mindset. My thought process. I feel I have to be more responsible, more careful with myself, because now I'm someone's mother and she deserves to grow up with a Mom. It's not like I was ever a risk taker or irresponsible before, it's just now I don't want to take any shortcuts or blow things off.

This coming Thursday I'm having surgery. I'll leave out the details, cause, you know....eww...but it's just a minor surgery and I should be sent home the same day. It's something I was supposed to have done a long time ago, but then I got pregnant with Jiffy Pop and they had to wait til after her birth to prevent an accidental miscarriage.

And I'm not one to get scared by hospitals or surgery. I never worry about stuff like that. But all of the sudden, I'm a little nervous. I mean, it's minor surgery, but they ARE knocking me out and people die on the table sometimes...you know...things happen.

Now, I can't NOT have this surgery, and I know, really, it's fine and it has to be done. It's not keeping me up at night or anything, but suddenly, in the back of my mind, there's a tiny fear...

The fear of leaving behind a tiny baby without a mommy.

I wonder at what point this fear fades away. At what point am I "old enough" and not have to have this constant concern in the back of my head?

Maybe never?

Mad PROUD Skillz, Mad DISAPPOINTMENT, Part II

I've been wanting to get a Graduate Diploma of Teaching for the past few years, but obviously, living out in no-man's land, it hasn't exactly been possible. It's just a one-year degree though, and not only would I be able to legally teach, but I'd also be able to pursue what I really want to do, which is be a literacy specialist. I want to help children to learn how to read, and then hopefully, to love it as passionately as I do.

Distance learning has really increased in New Zealand lately, so I started calling all the universities with Education departments to see if I could do this one-year degree from home. I was going to be a stay at home Mom anyway, it seemed perfect.

One big snag -- all of these universities required a one-time, on-campus stay of 1-2 weeks in the first week of February. Then I would be home free to, well, be at home for the rest of the year. Sounds fine, except that Jiffy Pop was due about February 3rd. All the universities said the same thing, "Sorry, you'll just have to wait another year."

Argh!

A few weeks after the Maori language class had ended (and me STILL pregnant), a woman from a Maori university came to Beau's school to talk to us. Many of the people teaching at his school are not truly officially certified and the university had a three-year distance learning program for them to get all the credentials they needed. It would work out well for those in our community who live far from active civilization. The school's staff was told over and over that this university was very keen to work around all our needs. So, along with some staff members and several locals also interested, I came to the meeting myself, hoping that perhaps this could finally be my way to get that damn diploma. Also, it was the cultural part of this Maori university I was really hoping to work in my favor. I'll explain, but first, let me get to the start of the meeting.

Three Maori women walked into the room, smiling and acknowledging several of the teachers and locals whom they obviously knew. We then all settled around a large conference table. The three university women, interested people (about 12 of them, all Maori), and me, white-ass cracker girl.

As in Maori tradition, the first university representative stood up and began speaking in Maori, greeting everyone. Then she did her pepeha (short personal genealogy) for the group. Everyone warmly greeted her, and it then moved on to the next two women who did the same.

Then the first teacher stood up to do her intro. It was coming MY way around the table, not the other way around! She too recited her pepeha and greeted the group, and so rose the next person. There was only one more person between her and I. They didn't go very quickly, but it wouldn't be long before it was my turn.

I gulped and looked around the table at the people there. Should I do my own pepeha? I mean, I'm the American sitting at a table of Maori New Zealanders. Would it be appropriate, presumptuous, weird? Would I be like some sort of novelty? A trained dog? My heart began pounding hard.

But wait a minute, this is what I was taught in language class. This was what I was supposed to do, right? Hmmmm. Okay, I was going to do it!

My heart was really banging in my chest now.

Slowly, I stood up and I immediately had to make myself manually breathe. I steadied myself, then plunged in with full force. This is my name! This is my mountain! This is my lake! This is my ancestor! This is my people!

There was a sudden silence, and the mouths of the three university women dropped open. Their eyes bulged out. They looked at each other in amazement.

I felt a sudden burning flush and knew my neck and face were becoming beet red. I'm as pale as they come, and when I get very embarrassed, the change in skin color is rather dramatic. But I kept going...I was almost done! I finished my pepeha and self-introduction, then switched to English where I said I was hoping to do the graduate diploma. Then, now shaking slightly and with my skin on fire, I smiled self-consciously and sat down.

The table erupted in a loud, collective whooop. The three women let out several exclamations voicing their shock, delight and admiration. I felt so proud and thrilled, but also completely horrified at what I knew my skin looked like at that moment. I have to say though, I hadn't felt that proud and that good in a long time. There aren't a lot of moments like that in one's adulthood.

The crowd began to settle, and the woman next to me, Ella, a Maori woman in her late 50's who often substituted at the school, leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Oh great, thanks a fucking lot, J!"

She then stood up and did her own introduction. In English.

Anyway...

I've lived in a lot of places and haven't seen the amount of love and acceptance given to the presence and care for children as I have in Maori culture. Each time I take Jiffy Pop to Beau's school for a visit, my heart is just warmed at the amount of love she receives. Everyone is an aunty, uncle or nanny. Everyone wants to care for her. She is entirely accepted and welcomed in the workplace. The first time I brought Jiffy Pop to the school, one woman ("Helen") held out her arms, said, "Come to Nanny Helen," and after cradling the baby in her arms, promptly walked off to a staff meeting where she stayed with her for the next two hours. Imagine trying to bring a baby into YOUR next staff meeting.

Well, this university provides for women with babies like me! Though I was due to give birth to Jiffy Pop shortly after the university program began, they have it set up so I could stay in my own room at the university, breastfeed and care for Jiffy Pop, and do my several days of required on-campus time before going back home. I could even bring her to class! This is the Maori way. I couldn't believe my luck. I'd be able to get my degree, WHILE here in the bush, do the majority of it online and be totally supported on campus! Wow...beyond thrilled.

Not so fast, J. For reasons that are complicated and still a bit hazy to me, the particular degree *I* wanted to do was not available to me. The rest of the room was interested in doing a three-year teaching degree (basically, a B.A. in Education), but mine was a post-grad one.

I was devastated. I sat there for a minute, sort of soaking in my disappointment. Then, realizing the meeting was going to continue for some time for the REST of the room, I self-consciously whispered my goodbyes and left.

Fuck.