Last night I scurried around the house picking up and tidying and cleaning a bit.

Why?

Because the cleaning lady was coming, of course.

“I don’t like this part,” my son says to me, pointing to his bagel.

“Which part?” I ask.

“This part!” he replies emphatically, pointing to the hole in the middle.

“The hole?!  You don’t like the hole?”

“Yeah.  I don’t like the hole.”

“Well, ” I reply, hesitating only a moment before I offer my solution.  “Just don’t eat that part.”

My moment’s hesitation is matched by his own.  And then his face lights up as he happily says, “Okay.  That’s a great idea!”

Damn, I’m good.

Ferns.  Geraniums.  Impatiens.  Somehow, these showy but modest little plants singlehandedly transform my front door and back deck each year from a dreary winter landscape into a warm and inviting place to just “be.”  I’ve never been this late in putting them out before — usually, I’m pushing the frost date by several weeks — and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to do so this year.  But, out there they now are, warming my heart and making me smile.

The other day, our entire family went to see Merlin and the Cave of Dreams at the Raleigh Little Theater. We head to this theater about four times a year and enjoy their family series together with my sister and her family. Always, afterward, a pizza dinner at Amedeo’s. This? Is the stuff I love about being a family.

The production was no different than any other production we’ve seen: clever scenery, rich costuming, and acting that leaves only a little to be desired. My children sat intently with their jaws wide open watching the wonders on the stage; I sat intently with my jaws wide open watching them watch the play.

And then Arthur met Uther in the Underworld. Swords clashed, spears jabbed, and dragons hurled fire. Thunder clapped, lights flashed, and men screamed. I watched as Zoe recoiled in horror and fear. And I recoiled in horror and fear as I watched Evan creep to the edge of his seat in awe.

I’ve tried my best to limit my children’s exposure to violence. Television is extremely limited in our home, and that which they watch is usually on PBS. Toy guns are not allowed in our home, and physical play usually emphasizes skill over brawn.

And yet? Evan can make a gun out of anything. He shoots bad guys and spears villians daily. The word kill is not unknown to him. And, more often than not, he comes home from school covered head-to-toe in mulch, undoubtedly from a few good tackles and romps on the playground.

When Zoe began displaying stereo-typical “girl” behaviors — playing dress-up, obsessing over princesses, and oogling grandma’s make-up — my reaction was a less-than-concerned eye-roll. Certainly, this jeans-and-t-shirt kind of gal didn’t impose these behaviors upon her, but they were entirely innocent, and only a bit annoying.

So why isn’t my reaction to Evan’s display of stereo-typical “boy” behaviors anything other than that same bored eyeroll? Why, instead, the arched eyebrow of concern and frantic rush to stifle the behaviors?

A girlfriend of mine, and mom to three boys, says that there’s recent research (which I haven’t bothered to investigate) indicating that young boys should be allowed to play out such behaviors now, in their early years. By the time they get to be teenagers — when they have decidedly less impulse control — these behaviors are nothing interesting, nothing exotic, and nothing to be explored. They’re old hat, quite frankly. The rule in her house goes something like this: play with the swords and shooters as much as you want, preferably going after the bad guys. But if anyone gets hurt, the “toy” goes away. Seems reasonable to me. Guns and swords and shooters as therapeutic play? I’m not so certain I can go so far as to say that, but her point does resonate with me — a bit.

And then I watch my son pick up a stick and “shoot” me with it. And it’s…uncomfortable. It’s uncomfortable because I cannot abide guns. I cannot abide the violence they bring, and the hate they brew, and the discord they percolate. It’s uncomfortable because … it is real. Zoe’s fantasies are just that: fantasy. There are no real-life corollaries to unicorns and princesses in towers and magic carpets. Evan’s games, too, are certainly fantasy. He hasn’t any idea that what he plays in his games indeed has a very real, and very disturbing, corollary in true life. But it does.

One day, Zoe will discover that there really aren’t any unicorns and magic carpets. She’ll be sad for a day or two. Discovering that your fantasy isn’t really real can be devastating. Yet, I wish it could happen to Evan. A tear or two shed upon learning that his fantasy world of bad guys and villians and shooters is just that — fantasy — would be entirely worth the peace brought by the alternate reality.

Some genius out there says that if you do anything twenty one days in a row, it becomes habit. So habitual, in fact, that to not do it would feel akin to not brushing your teeth.

I call bullshit.

Twenty One Days. Twenty Eight. Hell, try freakin’ sixty days. For two whole months, I kept my car clean.  And then?  Let’s just say it took three garbage bags, a duffel bag, and not one, but two thorough vacuumings to get the car emptied and free of garbage this morning.

O, Genius of habit formation?  I can only surmise you never had kids.

Years ago, while visiting Yellowstone National Park, Tim and I were struck by how much timber simply lay all over the forest floors. Timber not only from the fires of 1988, but from trees toppled by years and years of storms. The forest floors looked like piles of pick-up-sticks, logs toppled and entwined and tangled together, decomposition nearly frozen forever by the deep cold winters and the dry, dry air. For fifty years or more, that timber will struggle to become dirt once again.

In contrast, it takes hardly five years for the ravages of a good storm to simply disappear from sight here in the humid, wet, hot temperatures of home. Great trees toppled by angry hurricanes, felled by fierce Nor’easters — they melt into the forest floors, crumbling into rich, fertile soil in mere moments, it seems.

I really hadn’t thought about it in the better part of five years.

Sure, I’d thought about the day — that awful, awful day, when everything went so wrong.

I’d thought about how I’d been greeted in the elevator, calmly carrying my pillow and bags, by a doctor presumptively declaring, “C-section this morning?” “Oh, no!” I’d said, correcting him firmly, “Induction.” In hindsight, I can imagine the smile of smug pity he must have suppressed.

I’d thought about the arched eyebrow from the nurse as she listed to my plans to “avoid an epidural as much as possible.”

I’d thought about the confused, doubtful, and surprised expression on my doctor’s face as she discovered I’d in fact dilated completely, chagrined by her failed predictions.

And I’d thought about — oh, how I’d thought about! — the hateful, irritated tone in her voice as she declared she didn’t “have time” for my nonsense — for my screaming and pleading and crying because I could still feel, and that knife was so, so close.

I’d thought about all of that.

But one little detail had slipped past me. One little detail, lost, but for a chance.

Room 237.

I was following Mom and Dad into the Labor and Delivery ward. I had their bags; I was helping them get settled in. All of a sudden, Mom and Dad parted, leaving me a clear view of where we were headed. The door partially open, the great bed looming there, backlit by the window beyond. It all came back. It all came back.

Room 237.

A deep breath, and I stepped inside. This was not that day. This was a different day. A different Mom. A different Dad. A different me.

It’s hard to say how I felt about being back there, back in that room.  Yes, every once in a while, I’d remember my own moments in that room so long ago.  But, almost instantly — as quickly as it had all come back — it all went away. I forgot about that room’s history. I was there for Mom and Dad, not me.

So much had taken place in that room in the years since, and so much would continue to take place in the years to come.  It seemed as though my story was insignificant, lost the next day, really, as yet another mother walked anxiously into that room.  It was no longer that room.  It was only a room.

I thought of the trees.   I was sadened to think that nothing of my story remained.  There was no great tree, toppled in the wood, a frozen monument to my own story.  Mine had disappeared into the forest floor, along with thousands of others.

Then, that sadness passed.  Those great trees, frozen in time?  They’re mere ghosts, refusing to go gracefully from one life into the next.  My story wasn’t insignificant.  My tree, sunken into the forest floor, is now rich, fertile ground — the very ground upon which I stand today.

(Alternate title would have something to do with boys and their Lincoln Logs)

Christmas came around last year at a very bad time. The minor inconveniences of being out of the house and in a small hotel room with two kids and an eighty pound dog all while trying to put my life back together had me at my limits. Tack on the task of putting together something home-made and from the heart for both of my kids’ four teachers? Would have sent me over the edge. (So would have about three dozen other things, so it’s not just the teachers who got the shaft.) Tucked inside their very heartfelt Christmas cards, along with a no-so-homemade and a not-so-from the heart token gift, was an I.O.U. for a home-made goodie in January.

It is now April, and, up until today, I still hadn’t fulfilled those I.O.U.s. Worse, I’d accumulated an additional I.O.U. for my dear neighbor who rescued me in the middle of the night when my husband was out of town and one of my expectant moms unexpectedly went into labor three weeks early. Needless to say, I owed her a lot. So, finally, the weight of my debts became unbearable, and a day of baking was planned for this weekend.

Swedish Tea Rings. One recipe makes two rings. All along I figured I could double the recipe and knock out the teachers in one fell swoop. What was another batch? Hell, I’d even get an extra ring out of the process to keep for myself.

Hell is right.

Certainly, you can’t actually triple a recipe. For some insane reason, baking just doesn’t work once you begin multiples higher than two. One plus one plus one does not equal three in baking. Confounding.

So. Three separate batches of sweet dough it would be. That wouldn’t have been all that bad, save for the fact that I had one child insistent on spreading sugar all over the kitchen, and a second child insistent on spreading flour all over her face. I do not do well baking with my kids. I’m able to say that. I know my limits, and this is one of them. Hi, I’m Kristy, and I don’t like to bake with my kids. Add in baking three batches of something? Get out the Xanax.

Then there’s the minor problem that the dough has to rise not once, but twice. And since each recipe actually makes two rings, there’s the rolling out, and spreading, and rolling up, and sealing, and slicing and twisting (oh, and rising again) that needs to be done six times. Six. Freakin. Times. Oh, and did I tell you I still haven’t replaced the baking sheets I lost in the fire? Well, I haven’t. So that means I must use the one baking stone I do have…six times.

Baking may not make much mathematical sense when you get above multiples of two. But one thing does work out entirely according to calculations. Three batches rising twice, rolled up six times, and baked in six cycles? In my book, that equals nothing short of the end of the world itself. 6.6.6.

For those of you willing to go there with me…I shall leave you with the recipe to enjoy. Double (or triple) at your own risk.

Swedish Tea Rings

2 pkgs dry yeast

1/2 cup warm water

1/2 cup lukewarm milk, scalded and then cooled

1/2 cup sugar

1 tsp salt

2 eggs

1/2 cup butter

4 1/2 to 5 cups flour

——–

2 tbsp butter (twice)

1/2 cup brown sugar (twice)

2 tsp cinnamon (twice)

1/2 cup raisins (twice)

1/3 cup finely chopped walnuts (optional, twice)

Dissolve yeast into warm water. Stir in milk, sugar, salt, eggs, butter and 2 1/2 cups of the flour. Beat until smooth. Stir in remaining flour to make dough easy to handle. Turn dough onto lightly floured board. Knead until smooth and elastic. Place in greased bowl; turn greased side up. Cover and rise until double. Punch down dough. Reshape dough and let rise until double again.

Preheat oven to 350.

Split dough in half. Roll half of dough into 15×9 rectangle. Spread with butter. Mix cinnamon and sugar together in bowl; spread onto dough. Sprinkle with raisins and walnuts. Roll up, beginning at wide side. Pinch edge of dough into roll to seal well. Stretch roll to make even. With sealed edge down, shape into ring on lightly greased baking sheet. Pinch ends together. With kitchen shears, make cuts 2/3 of the way through the ring at 1 inch intervals. Turn each section on its side. Let rise until double. Repeat with other half of dough. Bake 25 to 30 minutes.

Cesarean Awareness Month. Hmm. I know what a Cesarean is. I’m aware of what a Cesarean is. Guess I can go home now, right?

Wrong.

I’m not an alarmist. Really, I’m not. But as I do this doula gig more and more, I’m flabbergasted at the incomplete and down-right incorrect information I see provided to moms and dads by their care providers on a regular basis. To wit:

“Are there any implications on future pregnancies if I have this cesarean?”asks a mom. “No, none at all,” answers the Doctor, “None at all. A cesarean is as risky as a vaginal birth.”

Really? First, I must laugh only a bit cynically at the statement that a cesarean is as “risky” as a vaginal birth. Um. Saying a vaginal birth is “risky” is like saying eating, drinking, pooping and peeing are “risky” activities. Things can happen, sure.  Things do happen.  But, folks, that’s life, not risk.

Then, to the doctor’s assertion that there are no implications on future pregnancies with a primary cesarean? Flat. out. wrong.  All sorts of placental issues (previa, acreta, and percreta) are well known to increase in incidence in cesarean moms.  These are not minor issues.  They’re life-threatening, and certainly hold great implications on your future fertility.  There’s even burgeoning research to suggest that getting pregnant might be more difficult with a cesarean under your belt (literally).  Then there’s the minor issue that you’ll be pressured in to additional cesarean(s) for all subsequent pregnancies, despite the fact that the research more than clearly bears out a vaginal birth after cesarean is far more healthy for moms (and as healthy if not more so for babes) than a repeat cesarean.  So.  “No, none at all.”  Is that Informed?

Most times, when a mom chooses to have an epidural, the anesthesiologist comes in  and reels off the risks of “headache, paralysis and death — but only very, very rarely.”  The anesthesiologist is right.  But what about the increased risk for a cesarean? This isn’t broached — ever.  And that risk?  Is not at all rare.  Informed?

And then there’s the seduction of induction.  Mom is tired.  Mom is uncomfortable.  And mom is 40 weeks.  Mom hears that to not induce means risking a placental deterioration and a stillborn child, or, god forbid, a gargantuan baby that can’t fit.  Mom does not hear that the research shows these risks are real after 42 weeks.  Not 40.  Mom does not hear that even the trade-union to which her doctor most-likely belongs (ACOG) defines post-dates as going beyond 42 weeks.  Not 40.  And certainly Mom doesn’t hear that inducing her increases her risk of cesarean (if she’s a first time mom) by 100%.  DOUBLE. THE. RISK.  Mom doesn’t hear this. Informed?

I started off saying I’m not an alarmist.  I’ll say it again.  The issue is not whether you choose to have an epidural, or an induction, or even an elective cesarean.  That is your choice.  Truly, it is.  But, when you make these decisions, be informed.  This stuff — the misinformation, the incomplete information — that I witness, with almost every birth I attend in the hospital?  It’s not the exception, it’s the rule.  One day, we’ll break that rule.  Utterly shatter it.  But until then?

April is Cesarean Awareness Month.  Be Aware.  Be informed.

You will never believe what I got for an anniversary present! Better than a trip around the world. Better than a diamond ring. Better, in fact, than sex. Ok, I won’t go that far…but it’s close.

Oh, where was I? Yeah, that anniversary present. A bonafide house cleaner. Once a month, tasked to do the stuff that needs to be done regularly, but not weekly, that I simply hate to do. Baseboards. Mopping. Nooks. Crannies. I’m getting giddy just thinking about it.

I am so glad my husband is capable of reconsidering his stance on some things.  High ground is highly overrated.  And in my case?  It’s dirty ground, too.  Welcome to the dark side, Tim.  My guess is that once the cleaning folks wash the windows, it really won’t be so dark anymore.  In more ways than one.