You Can Call Me Ma'am

For years I have been listening to women express dismay and even OUTRAGE when some person who crosses their path refers to them as “ma’am.” Usually this is because they feel that they are much too young to be called “ma’am” no matter how old they actually are. 

Face it, women over the age of 18, you may occasionally, if you are lucky, be respectfully addressed as “Ma’am.”  Get over it.  What would you like the cashier at the supermarket to call you?  “Hey, You?” “Lady?” “You b*#ch?”

I never gave it a moment’s thought when someone called me “ma’am,” even before I became eligible for an AARP card.  However, some recent forays into the murky waters of social media comments sections has made me appreciate this polite and respectful address even more.

You see, I dared to express my respectful, positive support for my preferred candidate during the Presidential primaries on a public Facebook page or two that supported that candidate.  I did not mention her opponent at all.  I was bombarded with insulting, antagonistic, hostile, and downright vicious responses attacking me personally for having the audacity to openly support my candidate.

They called me every name in the book. I was called more derogatory names in one day than I had  in the rest of my long, long life.  I was called “pissy,” misinformed, a witch, a bitch, evil, ignorant and stupid, to name a few. I was called “condescending” because I suggested that they stop attacking me and my candidate and tell me why I should support theirs.  I was schooled that they would not stoop to defend their candidate, only to attack mine.  I got a couple of personal, hateful messages.

Then there were the threats.  I was told that if I did not come over to their side and vote for their candidate, that I would “face adversity the likes of which [I] had never seen before.”  This person had no idea the trouble I’ve seen.  I was told that if I voted for my candidate, that we would lose a whole generation of young people to the Democratic process.  I doubted that, but if so, good riddance, because at the end of the day I had the right and in fact the responsibility to vote for the person I thought would make the best president of the United States.  I was told that God hates me, that I was going to hell, and that I should just leave the country now.

Well.  That all seemed a little harsh to me especially coming primarily from people calling themselves liberals.  I blocked 22 of these people, including anyone who presumed to contact me personally.  But then, one of the commenters said something that really caught my attention. 

“You’re all the same,” he asserted, “Everyone who supports her are old bitter white boomers.” I was insulted.  I was NOT bitter! That came later. I decided to engage this person in a conversation.  I told him that he was sounding a bit ageist, and that my opinion and decision was based on years of following my candidate and her record as a public servant. 

He told me that I had lived my life so I didn’t have to worry about the future but he had years ahead of him.  No, seriously, he really said that.
I explained that I was a working person who would be in the workforce at the very least another 10 years (but probably longer) and that based upon my parents’ longevity, I might be on this earth for another 20 or 30 years, and that I very much cared about the future of the world that my children and grandchildren would live in.

He said that I and all people of my generation and supporters of my candidate were self-centered, had no social conscience, and were just interested in making money.  When I was done laughing, I informed him that those of us who have spent our entire adult lives working in non-profit social service and arts organizations could not reasonably be accused of any of this. 

He told me that he knew he was “being an a*#hole but it was necessary to be an a#*hole to affect change.”  I told him that no, it was not, and that campaigning in a positive way for his candidate and continuing to engage in efforts to improve the lives of people was the real way to affect change.

And this was all in the primaries over two candidates who were similar ideologically.  However the name calling continued, between and among the candidates and their supporters all the way through the election. It isn’t constructive or productive, it distracts from the issues, and it tends to alienate and divide those who disagree.

If you just can’t help yourself and must disagree with me in the comments section of this blog try to refrain from name calling, unless you call me “Ma’am.”

On This Day My Child Was Born

It was February 13^th.  I was 8 ½ months pregnant and returning to work after my weekly gynecologist appointment.

My doctor said he thought I may come a little earlier than my February 28^th due date.  That was okay with me.  I had had enough of the whole pregnancy thing- the tremendous weight gain, the sharp pain in my abdomen they called “heartburn,” the inability to sit, stand or sleep comfortably.  I really did Ache All Over. I was more than ready to have my baby.

Snow was beginning to fall as I headed back to work, but I wasn’t worried.  The roads weren’t bad yet, and my workplace was just four miles from my house.  Nonetheless, I was pretty happy when I arrived at work safely, just in time for lunch.

When I stood up after lunch, I felt an unfamiliar sensation.  I realized with a shock that my water was beginning to break.  I calmly called the doctor’s office, and they advised me to return to the hospital immediately.  I wasn’t able to reach my husband, who was making deliveries for his family’s business in a time before cell phones.  I left the message with his mother that I would go home and pack my bag and he could just meet me at the house.

I let my boss and my friend and co-worker Joan know what was going on and left.  I got in the car, turned the key and…the car wouldn’t start.  I had turned the headlights on when I was on my way back to work in the snowstorm and left them on.  My car battery was dead.

Okay, so now I was beginning to panic.
  

I found Paul, my co-worker with jumper cables.  Paul felt strongly that a woman in labor should not be driving herself anywhere, especially in the snow.  He refused to jump my car.  I explained that I just planned to drive the few miles to my house, and probably wasn’t even technically in labor.  Paul didn’t care.  He offered to drive me anywhere I needed to go.  I explained to him that this was my only car, and I could not leave it there, dead, especially if I actually had the baby.  Paul was adamant.  We argued for several minutes.  I was getting desperate.  I begged.  I cajoled.  I cannot swear that I didn’t at one point grab Paul by the lapels and yell “Jump the damn car, Paul!”   Finally, Joan,  a very persuasive person, intervened and Paul grudgingly agreed to jump my car.

I drove home and packed my suitcase but hadn’t heard from my husband.  I called the doctor’s office.  “WHAT??!!!,”  the nurse said, “You mean you haven’t even LEFT yet?”  The last professional I saw get this excited was the whitewater rafting guide after I fell into the Youghigheny River.  I thought better than to mention the dead car battery.  She asked how long it would take me to get to the hospital.  About 30 minutes when it wasn’t snowing, I told her.   “Oh honey,” she said, “You need to get here RIGHT NOW!”

I called my mother-in-law to tell her that I was leaving for the hospital and to tell my husband to meet me there.  She offered to come pick me up, but after my conversation with the nurse I didn’t think I should wait. 

My mother also offered to drive me, which was very sweet but not really feasible.  My mother was terrified of driving in the snow, and lived in Swissvale, which was just about an hour away from my home in Washington, PA.  It would have taken my Mom 2 hours or more to pick me up and take me to the hospital in the snow, and I was certain that Mom would not want to drive in the snow and deliver her grandchild herself, at least not on the same day.

It was snowing a lot harder now.  When I finally arrived at the hospital, I told the doctor that aside from my water breaking and driving 30 miles in the snow, I was feeling fine.  He examined me and informed me that I was indeed having contractions and I was “officially” in labor.  Perhaps I was in shock as I drove to the hospital in the snow, and therefore numb to the contractions, or perhaps I had unknowingly been employing those breathing exercises they taught us in Lamaze class.

Meanwhile my husband had arrived back at the shop, and was so upset at the news that his parents did not trust him to drive himself to the hospital.  His family accompanied him, and his father drove.   He burst into the birthing room about an hour after I got there, in plenty of time for the birth.

I will not share all the minute details of the labor and delivery, because I hate when women do that.  However, I will tell you that I had to have a Caesarian section because the baby was large, and my birth canal was small.  I only mention this because I want everyone to know that there is actually a body part of mine that is too small, ironically located inside my body where nobody can see it.

At 10:15 p.m. on February 13, 1985, my beautiful, brown-haired, brown-eyed baby boy was born, 8 pounds and 9 ounces despite coming 15 days early.  When they put him into my arms, I was smitten- crazy about the kid from the start.  Every bit of the pregnancy and that day had been worth it.

That baby turns 32 (!) today, and in December he and wife had a beautiful, brown-haired much-loved baby boy of their own.  I am so very proud of the fine man he has grown up to be and I'm finding such joy in watching him be a father to his baby son.   Here’s wishing my son a wonderful birthday and that he finds the same satisfaction and fulfillment being a father as I have being his mother.