Author Archives: Britt

Unknown's avatar

About Britt

A white girl in an Asian family... with a bit about breast cancer, flowers, Belief, and a deep love of champagne.

Giant Cock Blocking

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , , ,

Is a tween-age Google search for “big boobs” any more terrifying than a fourth-grader sneaking peeks at Dad’s toilet-perched Playboys? This is the question I’m asking myself after an entire day spent disabling programs, changing passwords, enforcing restrictions, and downloading parental control apps on our too many devices. Attempting to block all inappropriate material from oozing through the interspaces is more exhausting than explaining the pornography they’re going to find, anyway. You win, naughty, naughty Internet… you win. I only hope that when my boys do, inevitably, browse across the filthy stuff… I will already have forced them into embarrassing discussions about the filthy stuff.

Until yesterday morning, we were parents who trusted our children on the Internet. Our kids ask to download things that are free, make compelling arguments for things that are not, are “caught” watching only super nerdy Minecraft videos on YouTube, and groan with wearied patience when I re-iterate don’t-chat-with-strangers edicts. We’ve had more than one discussion about why you should never SnapChat your butt, no matter how hilarious Teddy thinks this would be. But upon awakening, as we learned we were the unwitting owners of untold Clash of Clan riches, we knew it was going to be a long day re-inventing passcodes with one capital letter, a phonic symbol, three numbers, and whatever Prince used to be called. The boys’ answers to direct questioning– “Did you buy this virtual crap?”– were met with guilty, evasive answers and implications of “gliches” and “hacks” that sounded just like the lies I told my parents to justify a missed curfew.

Buying fake gems from a virtual world to buy an army of ogres and a pen of swine wasn’t the most egregious of Internet missteps. But after we ascertained it was inadvertent in-app clicking by our own children, and not our Amex card lifted by dorky thieves, we realized how poorly protected our web-connected lives have become. I took my 10 year old’s phone—programmed, I thought, to permit only PG content—and failed the Jenna Jamison Test, easily browsing right to eager mouth engulfing giant cock. Panic ensued. Will a quick check for bracket standings or Red Sox scores send him directly to Club Jenna due to my history-erasing incompetence? Will future Google searches aim him toward overblown implants traipsing through improbable scenarios involving repairmen? While I have no strong, political or religious opposition to pornography, I think small minds aren’t quite equipped to deal with circus sex of the Jamison variety. These boys still recoil in horror when animated Disney characters kiss. And we probably have a compelling parental duty spare our innocents eager mouths devouring giant cocks… especially since Teddy prefers to ask his unprompted questions loudly, and in public spaces.

Darling Bernie called midday to find me tethered to our devices attempting to disable all of our browsers and install protections that would probably prevent me from ordering a two-piece bathing suit. He suggested these endeavors might be futile, and quite possibly, a huge waste of time. What are we trying to prevent, exactly? Maybe we’re only trying to protect ourselves from talking to our kids about pornography and its utter distinction from sexuality. True. But I still need to prevent other people’s kids from voyaging through Giant Cock Territory in my home, on my watch. I think the only way to do this is to be home.

My friend April initiated a house rule, requiring surrendering of all electronics to the kitchen counter upon play date arrival. Automatic shutoffs at bedtime and restricted use in bedrooms can also curb sneaky peeks into Naughty Land. Because it is impossible to censor the Internet without driving ourselves bonkers, our best tact is to arrange our devices so that children can only Google search in our most public spaces. And then, when they inevitably wander into Jenna’s world of magnified parts and rhythmic gymnastics, we’ll need the talent and courage to explain that.

Recently, the school’s 5th graders viewed the sex education video. Because my younger boys had heard the whispered giggles on the bus and lame jokes in the cafeteria, our dinnertime discussion was all about sex for a couple of evenings. Exasperated and slightly embarrassed by my enthusiasm for the topic, Teddy complained,

“Why don’t you let us learn anything at school first?”

Well, because no one is learning everything from a 90-minute video, because your classmates are going to get it wrong, because this topic should be largely taught at home, because your parents are physicians, because I want you to be as smart about sex as you are about math, and because it’s my job. And if I can instill a few beautiful truths before they are exposed to the titillating confusion of pornography, then I win naughty, naughty Internet… I win.

PARENTAL CONTROL

Bossy

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , , ,

Most women don’t know how to feel about anything until Beyoncé and Mrs. Obama weigh in on the discussion. Certainly no one speaks my thoughts more mind-reading-ly than Sheryl Sandberg, a business genius billionaire and everyone’s best gal pal next door. For me, not a day goes by without WWSSD musings. Add luscious Jennifer Garner and Condoleezza Rice to the conversation, and we’ve reached a quorum of superior X chromosomes to decide what words are suitable to describe little Susie’s insistence that a $500 bill goes under Free Parking or she’s NOT playing. If these ladies are backing a ban on the word “bossy” to advance the betterment of our gender-bashing language, then this word must be a scourge on feminism! Most women–women like you and me–we just don’t get it. Maybe we never suffered the indignity… nay, abuse!.. of being called “bossy.” We don’t see that Susie’s classroom dictatorship is her burgeoning quest for success. Should that be squelched to honor trifling social graces? No! Since they can’t summon a single issue more useful to young girls than to criminalize an innocuous word, nor we.

But, let’s run a crazy little thought experiment here and daydream about what this group of powerful and/or booty-shaking ladies, coupled with the zeal of a Girl Scout army, might be able to accomplish toward a lesser goal. What if they were passionate about something slightly less important than printing tags with snappy, “I’m the Boss!” slogans for social media—something like hunger or expanded science programs or affordable housing or subsidized internships for at-risk youth? Obviously it’s super important that little Susie isn’t marginalized for speaking her mind… but I wonder if maybe her bossiness could be even more effectively encouraged from inside a warmer coat. Or not. Whatever. Like this picture of Beyoncé on Facebook!

Does one need to be Flawless to Be the Boss?

Does one need to be Flawless to Be the Boss?

Obviously, I’m not a celebrity who overcame tween-age adversity to become a mogul. I’ve never been tagged “bossy,” so I was able to obtain multiple degrees in a male-dominated field with all the effortlessness of an agreeable girl. Easy peasy. Meanwhile, those girls who were incessantly called “bossy” (and often stronger adjectives) had to struggle against all prejudice to land jobs where that quality keeps getting them promoted. If I had been bossier, I might still wear a beeper; and if my strong-willed sisters had played nice, they might own fewer pantsuits. Is this how it works? I have no idea. What I do know is that when we tell our kids to stop being bossy, it’s because they’re being assholes. What’s the politically correct word for Susie’s acting like an asshole? Sheryl Sandberg hasn’t told us yet.

Writing as Cranky Britt is super fun. But then, in an email exchange with one of my favorite people on the planet… this.

Remember all the “don’t say Gay when you really mean something is Retarded – I mean don’t say Retarded when you mean something is Lame – I mean don’t say Lame when you mean something is not fashionable!”?   It can be comical– but it makes a difference. (Same with the whole, ahem, “don’t call Asian people Oriental,” Mrs. LEE!) People were all: GIMME A F’ING BREAK WHO CARES? LANGUAGE POLICE!!  Truth is, it matters.

Language is powerful. It infuriates me that women—today, like in 2014– say they are not feminists. Not just girls… but grown ass women. That’s how afraid people are of being labeled a lesbian:  a.k.a. ugly, man-hating, un-marriage-worthy. But a word can define and limit someone, and that instills fear.  Language– especially labels– tells people what they are worth. Some people don’t know they get to decide that for themselves.

So, yeah… that. Some people don’t know they get to decide that for themselves.

Though I haven’t gone 180 degrees on my stance on banning words, I see how the Bossy Label, or any sort of label (blonde, old, fat, hipster, Republican) can affect those who don’t know how to own their own brand. And until all parents are making sure Susie is raising her hand in class, maybe having Beyoncé and Mrs. Obama fill in to encourage her isn’t a terrible thing. However, if we allow a Ban on Bossy instead of encouraging thoughtful language usage, I fear we’re in for an entire roster of Words That Traumatized Celebrities but Prevented Nary a Goal.

Willing to Suck

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with ,

I loathe these god-awful “sports visits” at the fancy school. By third grade, all boys are separated into two teams and compete in scored events that count toward some school wide, brag-worthy end. This is all in good fun, promotes sportsmanship and team camaraderie, and teaches the kiddos to swim and skate and run and catch and kick. But the avid athleticism worshipped by the school (and greater society, I suppose) necessitates these wretched “visits” so parents can witness their children compete at three different sports per quarter. For me, this amounts to roughly 32 opportunities to watch my boys trip, fall, miss, finish last, and lose. On Monday, I oscillated between the basketball court and the pool to observe my kids’ athletic suck-ery. After eleven turnovers aided by my elder son, I excused myself to watch the younger trail every other kid by a half-length of pool.

“Did you see me come in last?” asked blue-lipped, holding-back-tears Teddy.

Ugh. I wanted to line them all up for times table, state capital, and animal factoid quizzing. I know it’s important for small children to understand, and even celebrate, their differing strengths. But the “sport visit” is such a public display of comparative failings that, in spite of the never-ending winter in these parts, I’m sort of praying for a weather cancellation. After the visit, I aired my grievances about these events on social media, likening them to emotional dodge ball for parents like me. I think my boys are actually fine with occasional demonstrations that they’re not as coordinated as their friends, but I’d rather be spared my trembling, tearful Teddy losing every event.

I know a lovely skating coach. She has all of patience and faith of Job in her dealings with small children of the picked-last ilk. Her maxim for anxious parents of the athletically challenged is Peer Relevance. Our kids may never be Tom Brady… but we can support them to develop enough skills to keep up with the benchwarmers. To protect their self-esteem, children need only be a middling sort of good. Of course, the parenthetical message here is though it’s ok to suck, just don’t suck the hardest.

But someone has to come in last. Not everyone is going to make the team. And although this is brutal for me as a parent who just wants to wrap Teddy in a warm towel and remind him of how funny and great he is, this is an important life lesson. Wise and lovely Katryna pointed out the joy of the struggle: watching kids persevere despite innate deficiencies is kind of awesome. It’s also Life, and probably all of us could benefit from a class or two on How to Suck Gracefully.

Last night, my pajammied boys–all three of them–were engaged in the Nerf Olympics of basketball trick shots. I found them in fits of giggles trying to sink testicle-grazing, between-the-legs shots (‘tweiners?). As the hour got later, and mean mommy insisted on teeth brushing and calmer bedtime activities, Brodie casually mentioned he’d be trying out for travel basketball again next year.

Ugh. Bernie and I traded nervous did-you-hear-that? glances. But then I remembered what Katryna wrote:

When you have a kid for whom lots of stuff comes easily– like all schoolwork, as I guess it is for your kids– I always think it rocks if they are willing to do things that don’t come easily.

Brodie is willing. He’s willing in spite of previous attempts and failures. He’s willing to try again, to flirt with failure, to try to improve. Ultimately, Brodie is Willing to Suck. Even if that doesn’t lead to team placement, it certainly builds character. And if this dogged determination to exceed “peer relevance” stems from unflappable self-confidence then…well… that rocks, indeed.

BBALL

Girlfriend, MD… or better reasons you want to date a doc

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , , , ,

Recently, the most lukewarm endorsement of female physician data-ability went bloggy viral. I have more than eight reasons why this post is disappointing, and only one is that the author referred to herself and her smart, sassy co-workers as “us female physicians…” who pretend to be dental hygienists or flight attendants to seem more fuckable less intimidating. There are at least eight violations of grammar and style in this ineffectual call for suitors which paints my working sisters-in-scrubs as life-saving multi-taskers with “good personalities.” Blech.

What does a man like more than eight reasons he should date you? Everything. He likes everything more. Admit you’re a surgeon, and buy him a beer. Go on with your Dansko-clogged, low-maintenance bad self and express that financial viability! If a man isn’t dating you because you are a surgeon, that’s not the reason he’s not dating you. It’s more likely the clogs… or your inability to use pronouns correctly.

Smart girls don’t fudge being smart (or make boring lists). The badass, wonderful women physicians in my world could give you a better peek at the perks associated with their company. Just a few listed here… because boys (or girls) you want to date don’t need a long list detailing your awesomeness.

She’s a Portable Emergency Department

Odds are, she has an arsenal of stitch-you-up or glue-that-back tools at her disposal. She has sutures and fine forceps and bandages of every single size. She’s toting Tegaderm in her Tory Burch. When the kids (dads) attempt to pop helium balloons stuck above the foyer using a sharp pencil and the stomp rocket… well, she’s got the instruments to handle the fallout of that sort of genius. She’ll know if Uncle Jason’s chest pain is pepperoni-induced or 911-worthy. She can administer flu shots and read your TB test. She knows if that needs ice or heat or stitches or antibiotics. She’ll save you untold hours wasted in waiting rooms with bleeding strangers, blaring soap operas, and MRSA.

She’s Cool

If your gal has worked the emergency room, she is unfazed by anything oozing from an orifice. She has more than one unlikely-object-stuck-up-a-butt story. She’s heard the basest, unkindest, most unimaginative forms of chauvinism and knows which response will work best (ignore, chastise, mock, or flirt). She’s seen every movie you have because she’s been dating Star Wars-obsessed nerds like you since Organic Chemistry. She honestly doesn’t know anything about Kardashians. And she spends many, many hours with man-crush-worthy big, swinging dick surgeons who think she’s great.

She’s Busy

Your physician girlfriend won’t be texting you at all hours. She’ll totally forget it’s Valentine’s Day. She’s unlikely to insist on cutesy month anniversaries, or apple-picking afternoons, or meeting your family. She’s too exhausted and busy and pre-occupied with life-saving tasks to engage in typical dating misadventures that plague girls with more free time. She doesn’t give a fig if she’s your official, Facebook girlfriend… and wonders who has time for that crap… and can’t remember her password, anyway. She also brings her Type A game to working out, and when she’s not on call, she’s not wondering when you will. She’s running her marathon-training ass all over town.

Don’t you want to date her now? These qualities flourish in the women physicians I know. They’re smart and lovely and busy and cool and competent and so much more than their jobs. I was irritated by their portrayal in a tepid list of eight endorsements that could easily apply to your dad (if your dad knew CPR). Where is the justified bravado of the female physician? She’s earned it, and with enough sleep, she’s too clever to trick you into thinking she’s not. She also recognizes the skill and power and fabulousness of her sisters, especially the dental hygienists and flight attendants who are clearly getting more action than she is.

Now run along and find yourself a Girlfriend, MD. Or tell me I’ve got it all wrong because the female physician you knew quit work right after she had kids and now buys really expensive shoes and makes fun of women doctors who wear pantsuits.

Oh… wait.

She's totally hot underneath that sexy mask.

She’s totally hot underneath that sexy mask.

The Boy I Married

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , , , ,

Bernie conveniently acquired swine flu before my 20th high school reunion. Sure, he was pukey-feverish-gray-skin sick; but if he was going to succumb to swine flu anyway, it was opportune that it exempted him from a DJ’ed evening at the Holiday Inn, imagining which boozy men might have molested my teenage boobs and dodging women in compression garments coyly seeking cosmetic surgery consults. Even if he hadn’t been pukey-feverish-gray-skin sick, I still would have given him a bye. Only a handful of people could tolerate an entire evening with strangers attempting to chitchat over Def Leppard.

One of the reasons Bernie enjoys married life is because his wife will talk to anyone. I am his social ping-pong paddle, deflecting chitchat away from him, right and left. When he rallies, my husband is really rather charming. It’s just that his default mood is… couch. I largely share this disposition, but on occasion, embrace excuses to stand in fantastic shoes and interact with things without plugs, to enjoy the ceremony of a fancy meal, to share a sofa-less evening with sentient beings. Because Bernie’s stock reaction to all invitations lands somewhere between not-enough-scotch-on-the-planet and rather-put-hot-sauce-in-my-eye, I spring these on him last minute.

Once we’ve arrived at the destination and drinks are in hand, Bernie morphs from Grumpy Couch Troll into The Boy I Married. As Valentine’s Day nears, as lonely hearts compose snarky tweets, and as unsuccessful attempts at reservations and balking at overpriced blooms take away from the swoony fun of it all, I’m listing silly reasons I fell in love with Bernie. Take note, youngsters… it’s the little things that make a boy irresistible.

·               See any movie at all

Bernie saw Crossroads with me. In the theater. Crossroads! Crossroads… the movie starring Britney Spears. Of course you haven’t seen it—it’s dreadful. But I love Britney, and I was in the mood to see her dance around in her skivvies wondering if she was yet a woman. Bernie didn’t mind. Another (wasted) evening, this lovely man accompanied me and my best friend to Duets. Duets! Duets… the movie starring Gwyneth Paltrow and Huey Lewis. Of course you haven’t seen it–it’s dreadful. But Bernie bought three tickets with untainted enthusiasm: no moaning, no eye rolling, no you-totally-owe-me-lights-on-naughty-stuff. This sort of social sacrifice endeared him to Emily forever, made me even fonder of his general agreeableness, and remains the benchmark for adorable things boys do for girls they love.

Cruisin'. Together.

Cruisin’. Together.

·               Pay attention to other women

I’ve always admired Bernie’s appreciation of women. Perhaps it’s that dorky, skip-a-grade Asian kid lurking inside of him, but Bernie is surprised and genuinely thrilled to be talking to you, pretty girl. He’ll make sure you have a drink, or his place in line, or help with your bags. I love how he’ll deliver my friend’s Sancerre first, that he recognizes all sorts of beauty in all women, discourages you from cosmetic surgery because you don’t need it (and means it), and occasionally is at a loss for words if a woman is particularly Julianne Moore-ish.

Can't really blame him.

Can’t really blame him.

·               Get along with Dad

I knew Bernie was the right boy for me the minute I realized Dad’s approval wouldn’t be a deal breaker. Dad is huge and loud and irreverent and thoughtful and inquisitive: first-time meetings with him can feel like an interrogation. We Stocktons don’t waste time—we want to know (right now!) what makes you do what you do, how you contribute to the universe, why you’re like that, and what you have planned for the future. A bit much for cocktail hour? Well then, go find yourself another cocktail hour. (Ours, however, starts at brunch and continues well past blurry.) All other suitors had been measured by their ability to go toe to toe with Dad. Few navigated this easily: either retreating into stunned silence, or interpreting playful banter as an attack, and many failing to count vodkas and slipping into slurring ridiculousness. It can be a tough room.

But Bernie? He thought Dad was great. More importantly, he thought enough of himself to just be himself, mind the vodka, and enjoy the spectacle. Sure, there was one Thanksgiving Bernie passed out after multiple mimosas, but if you know us well, you’ve probably missed a family meal for being over-served by my father. Today, Bernie plans bucket-list vacations with Dad, Dad’s best friend, and my brother. Although I would have married him even if Dad didn’t recognize Bernie’s quiet humor and confidence, it’s sort of awesome that he does.

When I was young and naive, I was certain Kill All Bugs would be on this list of husband kudos. Alas, my wonderful Bernie’s reaction to a centipede racing across the family room is to curl into a frightened ball of unmanliness. Instead, my husband’s chivalry involves pouring my Prosecco, telling me I’m beautiful, and saving me from a life of beepers and pantsuits by being all talented and whatnot. Occasionally he’ll even stifle his Grumpy Couch Troll reaction to “plans” or “tickets” or “party” for my benefit. But with too generous advance notice, those who prefer evenings holding down furniture to those painting the town conveniently acquire pukey-feverish-gray-skin-sickness. We have reservations for Valentine’s Day… I’ll tell him Thursday.

Happy Valentine’s Day, lovers. Enjoy the little things that make them yours.

Saw it in the theater. Opening night.

Saw it in the theater. Opening night. Was this shirt ever not ridiculous?

Why I Got Cancer

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , ,

It’s World Cancer Day, so you know, all party party for wig owners everywhere. With entire months of awarenesses do we really need another Day? Me, I’m not one to Stand Up, walk miles, utter expletives, and generally bully the crap out of Cancer as if attitude alone prevents mitosis. But what’s unique about this World Cancer Day, is its aim to debunk common cancer myths. Anyone with an entire drawer of hats has endured the well intentioned, often wackadoodle theories about Cancer from friends and strangers, alike. And if you’re Asian-family immersed or adjacent, your catalogue of “myths” will be too long for a mere 24 hours of debunking. In the early days after my diagnosis, in a much appreciated lighten-the-mood moment, my sister-in-law shared the top theories offered by A-Ma and A-Gong about my rogue cells. Only the Whole-Foodie-Yogi-Pseudoscientists and those Everything-For-A-Reason people can match myths with my in-laws. And not a single one of these angered or irritated me. Nope, they’re sort of hilarious after a justified, really? really? really? reaction. So in honor World Cancer Day, The Top Five Reasons Britt Got Cancer.

·      Unwashed meat.

Pretty certain A-Ma believes my opposition to meat-washing was my biggest risk factor for malignancy. Plenty of people in the previous generation believe our meats need a good scrubbing. Julia Child was forever rinsing the entire bird as if it had spent the day at the water park sharing towels with warty kids. I’ve always clung to the more scientific notion that heat kills microbes; and any Ames-test agents lurking mid-meat won’t surrender to your salmonella-spreading practices at the kitchen sink. I confess that, on occasion, I have faked the chicken-rinsing to avoid this argument.

·      Noodle water.

The first time A-Ma floated this theory, Cancer was something that happened to other people. One funny evening at the stove, she insisted that uncooked noodles could not be added directly to the soup. Why? Because Noodle Water Causes Cancer. Everyone knows this. It’s in the Chinese newspaper (conventional wisdom), and the Pastor said so (ergo, fact). It didn’t matter that Bernie and I have framed diplomas from accredited medical schools on the walls. Noodle Water Causes Cancer. The Chinese newspaper had also published a recipe for egg casserole that you cook in the dishwasher… so, you know, the obvious source for current medical theories.

A few years later, as I stood at the stove under one inch of hair, boiling soup for a full table of relatives, A-Ma re-issued the noodle cancer theory. This time Bernie’s rebuttal was delivered in Taiwanese (approximate translation: really, mom? really? really?) so I wasn’t privy to any new data offered by the Chinese newspaper. With dutiful daughter-in-law deference, I boiled the noodles separately. I’m only too happy to adopt noodle soupy superstitions to thwart metastases, especially if evil pasta broth caused my primary tumor.

·      Energy stuck.

Here’s one myth I support more than mock. If you’ve been an EMB follower since its scary beginning, you know that my father-in-law is magical. He’s a healer, a Xi Gong master, Ruler of Energy, faithful Christian, and just a super nice guy. When I was terrified, cold, shaking, and depleted of my own energy, he and A-Ma gave me some of theirs. But just as the assisted flow of Xi feels warm and lovely, when energy is blocked, pain, illness, even Cancer follows. My in-laws never launched a reason for my energy circuit deficiencies. It probably has something to do with dirty meat. Or noodle water.

·      Everything I eat.

Hey, girl. You’re so cute, all skinny in your yoga pants with your ponytailed hair and uncancered boobs. Thanks for suggesting I ate my way to Breast Cancerland, that my innards are polluted with processed foodstuffs, that my disease was potentially preventable with a weedier diet, and that the cure lives in the denial of everything delicious. I’m thrilled to hear your aunt’s dry cleaner was “cured” by her chiropractor/yoga practice/positive attitude. We’re going to be besties… I just know it!

·      God.

Certainly the Big Guy helped me through the unholy yuck of it all. Though I’m too skeptical (unfaithful) to float the myth that prayer can cure cancer, I won’t deny that it helped me through it. But the “only given what you can handle” and “…for a reason” and the bizarrely unfeeling, “have the grace to succumb instead of interfering with God’s plan” implies a deficiency of strength, courage, faith, or character. It also sounds dismissive and a bit unkind to your bald friend trying to make sense of the “why me?” of it all. These sentiments are also theologically silly. God is the biggest cheerleader for Life. God doesn’t “give” anyone Cancer. It’s not a test. It is neither punishment nor gift, neither spiritual nor personal. Although it feels like shitty luck, it’s really just science: two-hit hypotheses, environmental insults, genetic predispositions, and mutations.

But the kindnesses Cancer provokes, the Faith it re-kindles, the Strength it summons… that’s God. But He was already there, anyway. Cancer just makes you notice.

So happy Debunking Day, friends. Know that the cancered amongst you have probably considered weirder ideas than yours about why this happens to anyone. In place of your queries about oral contraceptives, radon exposure, and stress management skills, offer something that can actually help: love… and salted caramels. And just to be safe, wash your meats and separate your noodles. A-Ma is never wrong.

WCD 2014

The Big Sister Solution

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , , ,

A decade ago, when I was largely alone all day with tiny, parasitic Bernie clones, I might have written something like Mrs. Rowe’s fed-up-to-here, open letter to her husband. In the moment, those feelings seem funny/true, but when read with a decade of hindsight (and larger children who don’t need pooping assistance), rants like this make me… sad. I want the whole family to race past these brutal years that inspire a meant-to-be-funny, but still quite public flogging of The Husband. I might have greatly benefitted from some part time help (and meds) as a Stay At Home Mom in those early years. Swapping a beeper and a real, outside-the-house job for never-ending days with crying children and Dawson’s Creek reruns led to a social, emotional, and intellectual whiplash for which I was unprepared. Because texting, blogging, Facebook, Twitter, and all myriad outlets that keep us intimately tied to each other’s weird little worlds weren’t in existence, I did what you do when you’re at your wit’s end with small children and never-home husband. I called my big sister.

“One of them is always crying, and Bernie isn’t home, and then when he is, he’s ‘tired’ or wants to do things off of the napping schedule. He wants to sleep when they’re awake and have sex when they’re asleep, and these wailing succubae that look exactly like him are attached to me all day and all I want to do at 8pm is drink wine without anyone touching me.”

“Jesus, Britt. You need some mommy friends.”

Boy, did I. None of my besties in the area had started breeding, and absolutely no one I knew in the medical field ever quit their life-saving jobs to stay home with non-verbal bundles of sleep-averse, ever-hungry pant-shitters in embroidered onesies. I was lonely, exhausted, and prone to unattractive moods swinging narrowly between irritated and glum. In that moment, my Big Sister–staunch defender of all of my wants, needs, and beliefs, champion of All Things Britt— the Catholic, opinionated, occasionally scary Zealot Sister… sided with Bernie. Gently, and really quite beautifully, Paige refused to sing my Battle Cry Against The Ineffectual Husband. Instead, she shared some excellent advice, recommended a book, and insisted I get some mommy friends.

I was fabulously bad at the mommy friend thing. I scouted out the local playground and attempted to make nice with the ladies who corralled their strollers by the benches. I never got past a few awkward exchanges before I realized they were all wearing long skirts and head scarves and maybe the Orthodox Jewish Mommy Group wasn’t keen to take on a blonde shiska with the whiff of friendless desperation. I tried another park.

Lonely Mom with a small girl who insisted on wrong-footed shoes seemed like a good option. Surely, this was a pick-your-battles kind of mommy who also cozied to the idea of mid-afternoon wine? As it turned out, Lonely Mom picked absolutely no battles and was still breast-feeding her Dorito-munching toddler tyrant while defending the values of the Family Bed. She made me sadder than her husband I already was.

What I did have, however, was A-Ma. Bernie’s mom raced up to Boston on the Fung Wah any time I called. Honestly, any time. One particularly brutal day, I told her I couldn’t shower without hearing both boys wailing on the baby monitor, that my dreams were exclusively about the sounds of wailing on the baby monitor, that I hadn’t eaten anything but Blow Pops and Hot Pockets for a week, and that I didn’t know if the stains on my clothes were pre- or post-intestinal foods. She arrived that afternoon. A-Ma remembered the unholy, not-cute-at-all daily grind; and with only one foot in the door she’d say, “Go! Go to take nap!” I promised then and there to be that kind of grandma some day. She saved my life (and improved my marriage) more than once.

Perhaps what the author of Five Things You Should Never Say to the Mother of Your Children really needs is a nap and A-Ma. In fact, the first comment after her light-hearted rant against her husband was from the author’s mother:

Recommend you withdraw this blog. Can talk details later—- Love, Mom

I quite agreed with her, recalling the advice Paige recommended to me 10 years ago, when I was exasperated with the man I love the most. First, she reminded me that Bernie was no mind reader and that stewing silently and acting the martyr would lead more quickly to marital strife than to any sort of enjoyable co-parenting. She annoyingly insisted I plant myself in his loafers, and made me read The Bastard on the Couch—a fantastic collection of essays written by dads (and written in playful retaliation against The Bitch in the House, which largely described what I was becoming). Where Momma Rowe gets angry that her husband is allowed to poo behind closed doors apart from the toddler audience with demands, I’m now more apt to think, hey, why share the pain? Go ahead and lock the door. Lucky you! This stay-at-home blogger also, with great humor and exaggeration, suggests sex is off the table until the children are big enough to sit at it.

This is where Paige’s big sisterly advice might have sounded supportive:

“Fuck your husband.”

However, she didn’t offer this as a scatological slam on bathroom door-locking spouses; no, she meant it quite literally. (She also never, ever said this. Well, she said this, but not like this… because she’s classier than I am.) She waxed Catholic: the vows and sacraments and quaint ideas about contracts and promises and vaguely about the baser biological needs of boys in general… and she said all of this without making me throw feminist arguments at her, or throw up in general. In the end, she was really just suggesting that I act with greater kindness and love, and that I find some mommy friends who would understand why sometimes that seemed impossible.

GrandMomma Rowe is adorably protective of her son-in-law… much like Paige was for Bernie back in my days of Days (of Our Lives). Long hours with demanding children and soap operas will make anyone a little nutty. But without an Internet forum for irritated moms to publicly berate their constipated, celibate husbands, we had Big Sisters and A-Mas. The Big Sisters and A-Mas understand you, listen to you, and then tell you to take a nap and to shower and to quit it. They’ll keep reminding you that there is an end to it all, will never (ever!) tell you to “cherish” days of sleepless, messy torture, and they’ll make you feel warm, and loved, and heard.

Then again, having 100 strangers offer thumbs up, preach-it-sister encouragement probably works, too… as long as The Husband is in on the meant-to-be-funny part.

This was ridiculously useful to me back in those days that seemed like 54 hours apiece.

This was ridiculously useful to me… and reminded me why I love boys in general, and my own in particular.

The Data Set of Me, by Steve Safran

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , , , ,

Stevie has a bee in his bonnet, and I quite agree with him. As an immunologist, it’s difficult for me to find common ground with those who eschew science. However, I’ve always maintained that we cannot judge the well-meaning parents of children who suffer from autism or other disorders (wrongfully) attributed to vaccines. I cannot sit here on the Throne of Science and proclaim that I wouldn’t fall into the Data Set of Me if something awful befell my child. However, those feelings–given the political power of a movement of healthy, smart people– can be murderous.

You are a great person. You’re smart, you’re educated, healthy, and, if I may say, damn fine looking. Hell, you’re one of the best people I know.

But you, fabulous you, are not a data set.

“Who is this guy to tell me I am not a sufficient collection of statistically reliable information gathered by appropriate methods in order to reach or disprove a conclusion?”

Of course, to most of you, that sounds silly, right? (You are smart and good-looking, after all.) But there are people who make important decisions according to this very mindset: “It happened to me, therefore it must be so.” Examples? Sure.

“I got a flu vaccine and then I got the flu. Therefore flu vaccines are ineffective.”

“Some former Playboy model’s kid had a shot and now he has autism. Therefore, shots cause autism.”

“My daughter isn’t having sex, so she doesn’t need to worry about HPV or cervical cancer.”

“I believe in my God, my religion, and those rules. Therefore, yours are wrong.”

Of these, the one I actually find acceptable is the one about God. At least it’s an opinion. You have yours, I have mine: we’re cool… at least around these parts where we’re unlikely to kill each other about our differences.

What is worrying me–what is literally killing us– is the Data Set of Me. This is the mindset of the anti-vaccination crowd. Vaccines are not a faith, but a tool. Immunity is not a religion, but a biological reaction. Life-threatening infections cannot be staved off with kale. And the medical establishment is not willfully denying you alternative options to avoid whooping cough. And yet, the Hot New Fad for 2014 is the “Anti-Vaxxer” Movement. Quack science has found its ducklings.

Like many avid Internet users, I have grown apathetic to the sharing of misinformation by the misinformed with the misguided. Except this stupid sharing is really, really dangerous. And no oddball theories about GMOs or drug company profits or doctors who want to keep you sick (or endorsement of anti-vaccine chiropractors) are deemed too oddball to “post” and “like.”

We live in a generation that has never seen smallpox, measles, mumps, rubella, or polio take the life of a child we know. There are hundreds of thousands of people alive right now because of the miracle of inoculations. Maybe that’s the power of fervent prayer, incredible quinoa consumption, and wild coincidence. Or, just possibly, vaccines prevent disease. The bee in my bonnet is that statistically-proven, medically sound information can be unintelligently debunked with blogposts from people who cite The Data Set of Me, and scare others into giving in to their basic fears of shots (they’re ouchy!) by suggesting the risks of vaccines outweigh the benefits. When there is no, none, ziltch, zero, nada proof that this is so.

The Anti-vaxxers hurt more than our logical sensibilities. They’re killing our children. If your kid isn’t vaccinated, the “herd immunity” is compromised, and we’ll fall like cows at the hands of drunken high schoolers. Our family docs, our pediatricians, and our CDC are urging you to search for information that is true, and reminds us:

“Perhaps the greatest success story in public health is the reduction of infectious diseases resulting from the use of vaccines.”

Let’s consider that statement from the CDC with at least as much weight as Tammy’s Facebook post about not being anti-vaccine, per se, but pro-safety. (Those who deny their children shots consider the Anti-Vaxxer epithet derogatory). Recently, a Dutch group studied why Tammy is so insistent her kids don’t need shots. And because here at East Meets Breast, we aim for understanding, let’s find out what makes Tammy tick… so we can stop that clock.

The delightful Dutch, with real surveys and statistics, found that Tammy believes her healthy lifestyle is sufficient to prevent diseases. She delivers organic meals to breast-fed, hand-washing children and believes that these are adequate “preventive” measures. Tammy also is an amateur immunologist and worries the host defenses of her newborn will be incompetent to handle a barrage of antigens. Well, she’ll say it this way,

“A baby’s immune system has built up thanks to the mother, and it is not desirable in my eyes to give the child all kinds of substances that can disrupt the whole immune system.”

Tammy thinks that the risks associated with the vaccines (and she still supports discredited evidence linking them to autism) certainly outweigh the benefits because the diseases her healthy kids might contract could then be, quite easily, treated with antibiotics. Also, Tammy deems “natural” immunity superior to vaccinated immunity and would rather her child contract the (potentially fatal) disease and combat it with his own, uneducated battery of T- and B- cells than risk exposure to dangerous aluminum and mercury. More than one study has also shown that Tammy’s fears are supported by her community and usually at least one alternative care provider who disparages the use of vaccines.

To be fair, a certain proportion of the whooping cough cases from the Pacific Northwest in 2012 can be attributed to decreased efficacy of the vaccine. However, the dramatic increase in its incidence (and preventable deaths of children) has doctors pointing fingers at the Anti-Vaxxers. The anti-HPV crowd baffles me even more than people who can drink gallons of liquefied vegetables. Here is a vaccine that can prevent cancer. CANCER. Unfortunately, Tammy doesn’t believe that, either, and places her trust in cauliflower and the chiropractor.

Right now in California, where vaccination is falling out of favor more quickly than Duck Dynasty, people are dying from the H1N1 flu: 28 humans… dying. And across the world, vaccine-preventable outbreaks will astound you. To be reasonable, some of these can be chalked up to non-compliance or access rather than political Anti-Vaxxer beliefs. Also, recent media scares that (European) H1N1 vaccines may cause narcolepsy in young children (notably, so does contracting actual swine flu), give less thoughtful people an excuse to skip their appointment at CVS.

Ultimately, this plea is to champion science above fear, and to encourage a more thorough browsing of the Internet for medical information if your family doctor or pediatrician isn’t reassuring you with statistics backed by the keenest minds in medicine. There is simply no legitimacy to people spouting opinions that are anti-science. Prior to the vaccine, every year whooping cough was like having three 9/11’s. Worse, actually: three 9/11’s with children as the primary casualties. Can you even imagine the panic if that were to happen today? If something were killing thousands of our children yearly, what would you risk to stop it?

You are a fine person, and a reasonable one too. Engage Tammy in a dialogue apart from her kale-crunching crowd and acupuncturist. Spread good information.

Get the shots.

Stevie and I summed up all of the evidence for you...

Stevie and I summarized all of the evidence for you…

Implant Birthday

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , , ,

To avoid dwelling on this anniversary of body mutilating surgery, I’ve decided that today is my Implant Birthday. Yay, cake time! They’re two year olds now, this pair of perky pals who fill out my sweaters and precede my arrival into rooms. Because they share this birthdate with some snazzy ladies, tagging my ta-ta toddlers Betty and Michelle puts a silly spin on an otherwise morbid memory. As an early Implant Birthday gift, I brought these gals to Hawaii, where they enjoyed a weeklong vacation from the sub-zero temps that transform them into ribcage-anchored icepacks. Fruity, rum-laced cocktails and palm tree panoramas aside, the silicone sisters and I were just happy to warm up.

Kauai was a lovely distraction. With views like this, I hardly thought of Cancer at all:

Makes you want to grab a ukelele and sing its praises.

Makes you want to strum a ukelele and sing multi-vowel-ed words.

And with an entire population in an eternal good mood, mahalo-ing me at every turn, it was no place to be morose. I pinned a flower in my hair, shimmied into sunset-colored dresses, and began drinking at lunchtime. Bernie and I use plastic surgery conferences as an excuse to exchange frosty New England for tropical paradises. At this meeting, our fellow luau-ers included the best and brightest micro-surgeons in the world, and drunken evenings with these types lead to bizarre, fuzzy memories. I avoided anyone toting offspring, schooled a Polish face-transplanter in air hockey, and name-called a smug, young doctor who didn’t appreciate me monopolizing the attention of his Chief. He was much nicer when we played air hockey, so I’m hoping his colleagues don’t make Asshole Khaki Pants stick. (Yup, that. And air hockey.)

Betty and Michelle were happy to note warmer temps on our return yesterday, and frankly had grown a bit tired of being mahalo-ed at every turn. The part of me that (after fourteen drinks) can call someone Asshole Khaki Pants wonders if “aloha” essentially translates to “up yours, jerk-face tourist” with certain inflections. Also, a girl can drink only so many Mount Waialeale Coolers.

Today was always going to be unavoidable, whether it arrived under a rainbow atop whale-watching bluffs, or here with my laptop at the kitchen table. Maybe I’ll always distract myself with drinks and silly social diversions in the days preceding, and then take a teetotaling breather in the aftermath. Or maybe…someday… I’ll forget all about Betty and Michelle birthdays. What remains with me… forever… are the sweet words so many of you delivered two years ago, starting with Drew’s:

“We will love you most on January 17th… until January 18th, when we will love you more.”

I re-read those today, and made it through without a single umbrella drink. Betty, Michelle, and I are so lucky to have you…  my very own “randy bunch of sailor-mouthed, porn-peddling, anti-Cancer warriors.” Not an Asshole Khaki Pants amongst the lot of you.

xoxo

Michelle on the left... natch.

Michelle on the left… natch.

Pathetically ignorant

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , , , , , , ,

Have you ever talked to a nun? Spare me your thwacked-with-ruler stories from Catholic schoolrooms of yesteryear. No, what I’m asking is if, as an adult, you’ve had any sort of meaningful interaction with a woman in a habit. It’s not commonplace, since their numbers are dwindling, and while we’re busy checking Twitter and making our own seltzer, they’re squirreled away feeding the poor and praying for us. However, if you had ever, say, shared a moment with a nun, I think you’d be unlikely to post something like this.

Put your personal beliefs in your back pocket for a second. Toss out your partisan reactions (for good, because they’re bullying propaganda and you’re better than that). Understand that most thoughtful people think a woman’s use of contraceptive drugs, abortifacients, and essentially all things concerning her baby-making innards is between her, her doctor, and (for some) her God. Lord, how I wish this was never made a political issue, and left to the good sense of our well-trained doctors and the informed women they have the privilege to treat. I’m also not thrilled with how it’s been hijacked as a moral issue, because, well, I don’t think anyone deserves that sort of judgment apart from her Maker. And though not entirely relevant to this collection of paragraphs, these choices need to remain available to all women, because political people have no medical chops and should never be given this sort of power over our baby-making innards.

And now that you know where this writer (and many good, non-Catholics) stand on things related to women and their attendant bells and whistles, and that this discussion isn’t to shout at you about right and wrong, then let’s go back to those sweet ladies in the convent, those Brides of Jesus, the women devoted to their Faith and service in a manner that should garner your respect, if not floor you with awe. Certainly, if you had spent an afternoon with a nun, you couldn’t possibly think something like this—much less post it on Facebook:

“This is a frivolous damn suit and the sooner they are smacked upside the head by Sotomayor, the better and cheaper for all of us! How ridiculously stupid this suit is and a giant waste of time!!!! The lawyers for these pathetically ignorant people should be run into one of those old Colorado mineshafts…”

And that was one of the calmer comments on Rachel Maddow’s site. These “pathetically ignorant people” are our society’s defenders of Faith. Their complete dismissal as Republican pawns pains me physically. These are nuns, who apart from some ancient ruler-thwacking stories of old, are kind-hearted ladies committed to a life of prayer and good deeds. Let’s give them a moment, shall we?

Imagine your most deeply held belief: that all humans should have enough to eat, or that we must be responsible custodians of the planet, or that all children deserve protection. Whatever unshakable right you imagined, whatever I-will-stand-up-to-Goliath issue has you sandwich boarding all over town, or just quietly championing in your thoughts, then imagine the passion a nun would bring to the cause. Nuns devote their entire lives to these issues… and lately their most public concern is the protection of all children. Inconveniently, they include potential babies in that category. Please allow them this deeply held philosophical and religious belief. And instead of making arguments against them—just for one moment– aim for understanding.

What if you believed this to your very core: that small clusters of potential-people cells were sentient, God-given gifts of Life, sacred and defenseless? Try it on for a second. If you cannot entertain this notion for even the slimmest moment, then click back over to Rachel Maddow and join the fray. But if you could place yourself in those gum-soled shoes for a second, then imagine if you could then take a pen to paper and potentially sign away The Life of a Child, no matter how indirectly. Would it matter one little smidge that the form is… short? They are championing the weakest amongst us in the name of God. It’s their job, their calling, their conviction, their passion. They are unable to back down because they cannot endorse death. That’s how it feels to them.

Are they right? Wrong? Are they “ridiculously stupid” political creatures out to undermine access to health care for the very underprivileged people they devote their lives to help? I was so relieved when Justice Sotomayor called for a breather on this. We are Americans. We do not ask Americans to abandon consistently held religious beliefs, or even require that they skirt around them with semantics. Certainly we can figure out how to provide these drugs and services without involving conscientiously opposing Americans. Maybe we could also figure out how to tolerate, nay honor, each other’s religious beliefs without scorn (or fines).

Are you as terrified as I am that this story is so quiet? Are our media outlets (if not our government leaders) bullying nuns? Or am I a “pathetically ignorant” religious sap who doesn’t see this as an obvious, anti-Obamacare ruse? Is there no place in our society for people genuinely, religiously, and passionately protective of life after conception? Who are we when we say we are American? We should all take a beat to think about a decision that could result in penalizing our fellow citizens for their religious convictions, since this is exactly what we said we’d never, ever do.

I implored Steve, a longtime newsman, to explain why no one is talking about this– why on New Year’s Day, the only thing I could read about was Penny’s pink dress (even if she did look really, really pretty). His answer:

Sensible people have sensible conversations (I’m told) and the media thrives on controversy. So, CNN needs to have a “Pro-Nun” person on and a “Fuck The Nuns” person on. False equivalence rules the day.

I suppose neither makes for must see TV. And it is much more difficult to argue with a nun on national television about her Faith, than to tweet a snarky remark about how nuns (ironically) fill out all sorts of burdensome forms to be tax exempt. Meanwhile, the real issue–that these women cannot, ever, or in any manner, sanction the death of a child—is too unpopular a belief, and certainly too uncomfortable for cocktail conversation.

To be clear, this is neither an endorsement nor indictment of the ACA. This isn’t a thesis on when Life begins, and when we should begin protecting it. This isn’t meant to elicit comparisons with Jehovah’s witnesses who would refuse their shelf-stockers a blood transfusion, or Jews who wouldn’t want their secretaries to eat pork. Ugh, please do better than this, Internet. The nuns aren’t imposing their religious beliefs on anyone. They are only, quite bravely, standing up for Life as they define it. And Justice Sotomayor wants us to discuss that, and consider what precedent it might set to ignore them.

So let’s do that.

Since you can practically trip over free condoms in college, I'm not really sure why we need to force nuns to pay for these.

Women who take these are “pathetically ignorant” of the order of the days, I suppose.