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.  He arrived in 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 35 today, and is the father of a beautiful, happy, active 3-year-old brown-haired, brown-eyed son of his own.  Here’s wishing my son a wonderful birthday full of celebrations with his family, and better weather than the day he was born.

Through the Bathroom Door

One of the most intriguing features of our new house when we bought it 10 years ago was the fact that the house had two bathrooms, one for each of us.  We were ecstatic about the idea of having our own bathrooms. 

I realized that I had never had a bathroom to myself.  I grew up sharing one bathroom with five other people, and I went on to live in dormitories, apartments and three different houses where I shared one bathroom with the other people living there.

I was delighted with my new bathroom, which, despite being the shape of a small arrowhead, had everything I needed.  A full shower, a toilet, a sink, and an amazing oversized mirrored medicine cabinet. It would have been a perfect design but for one little thing.  The door opened into the bathroom, effectively cutting the room in half when it was open.

Why did the people responsible for designing this bathroom do this?  This is a question for the 
ages, one I have asked myself many times. It is a mystery, and we may never know the answer.

No big deal, I thought.  We could just turn the door around at some point.  That shouldn’t be too hard. It was the one and only change I wanted to make to the house.

But you can’t always get what you want.  It turns out that in my naivete regarding all construction-

related topics, I did not realize what a massive and difficult undertaking turning the door around
would be.  A succession of handymen and friends who know about this kind of thing explained
why that was so. It’s very complicated, but suffice it to say that it had something to with the way 
the frame was.  Turning it around would not only be complicated, but expensive, and we came to the conclusion that we might just need to buy a new door.

We agreed that we would indeed buy a door for the bathroom….someday.  Someday came and went, and there we were, 10 years later, and the bathroom door still opened into my bathroom.

So, when Mr. Rip asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year, I seized the opportunity.  “I want a door for the bathroom that opens out.” I said without hesitation.

“Okay,” he said, “but I will have to get you something to open that day.”

I assured him that would not be necessary.  “Just put a big bow on the door,” I told him.

Fast forward.  We found a carpenter who was able to turn around the existing door.  He completed the project while I was at work, so when I came home I rushed to see the door. This is what I 
found.

Mr. Rip really did put a big bow on it.  Of course, in true Pandora style I ignored the directive on 

the sign and opened the door immediately.  After all, my birthday was six weeks away.

It turns out that having the door swing out was just what my bathroom needed to make it all I’ve 

ever dreamed it could be and more.  The only thing better in the house right now is the guy who
put the bow on it.

Who's on First

Sometimes when you get to be my age you begin to believe all the hype that you are too old to ever do something you’ve never done before.

This thesis was supported when a Friend posted one of those lists on Facebook where you are supposed

to choose the activities that you haven’t tried.  There were only seven of the 24 listed that I hadn’t tried, because I’ve tried some things in my life. I also realized those seven things were things that I was never going to try.  Things like scuba diving, or sky diving or skinny dipping have always been on my list of things to successfully avoid doing until I die.
Then came my magical week of firsts.

It all started when  my husband and I ate outside at a restaurant on purpose.  You see, we don’t eat

outside. There are bugs and weather and wind and pollen there. But it was an exceptionally nice night, and I remarked casually that if there was ever a night for eating outside this was it.  Next thing I know my husband was asking the host if we could be seated outside, and there we were having a perfectly lovely dinner experience on the sidewalk of the restaurant.

During that very meal a second first occurred for me.  I ate the drippy grilled cheese sandwich I ordered

without spilling anything on my shirt.  This was more than just a first. It might have been a last. I sometimes, rarely, manage to eat a meal without spilling anything on my shirt, but it never happens when there is any drippy food on my plate.  

The streak continued the next day when I went into Target and only bought the item I went to the store

to purchase.  Yes, you heard me correctly. I did not purchase even one extra item. I don’t even have to tell you what an accomplishment that was.

Later that week, I was going to a work-related meeting in Turtle Creek.  I’ve been to Turtle Creek before

but I never went there from Allison Park, where my office is located, and the GPS took me on an entirely unfamiliar route.  When I left the meeting, I said to myself, “That was a pretty straight shot; I am sure I can get back without putting the GPS on.”  

Mind you, saying this was not new to me.  I say this kind of thing to myself all the time.  Then, I inevitably

take a wrong turn on my way back, and have to turn on the GPS after all. This time I really did drive back to my office by reversing the directions without turning on the GPS, or taking a wrong turn.  Another first.

But the best, brightest first of the week was still to come.
I sang “Lean on Me” backed up by the North Hills Harmony Line Chorus, a men’s barbershop choral group,

in a fundraising concert they were putting on for the non-profit organization for which I work.  It was an arrangement written by my husband, a Harmony LIne Chorus member.  

It was the first time I ever sang an a cappella solo  backed up by an entire chorus. I was the first woman

to ever sing with the Harmony Line Chorus. I never aspired to front a choral group, and I never, ever thought I would be the first woman - or person, for that matter- to do, well, anything.  

Sure, I was pretty terrified.  I didn’t want to let down the Chorus, or my husband, or my non-profit. 

As it turns out, the entire process was more rewarding than I thought possible.

I had the opportunity to work with a gifted conductor, and the kindest group of guys with whom you’d

ever hope to make music on a piece of music arranged by the talented Mr Rip.  They could not have been more welcoming and accommodating to me. I can't vouch for me but the chorus sounded great, and I sang the right words and notes at the right time. It was a thrill and an honor.

I can’t wait to see what new opportunities 2020 holds.

The Key Word Here is "Dodge"

So now there’s a Canadian study that says dodgeball is “a tool of oppression used to dehumanize others”
and shouldn’t be played in Physical Education classes.*

Is it, though?  How is it different than, oh, I don’t know, football or boxing or wrestling? I abhor
dehumanization and oppression as much as the next person, but dodgeball was my salvation in PE class. 

I may not be able to tell you what I had for dinner last week, but I do vividly remember high school
PE classes.  Like it was yesterday. Let’s just say it wasn’t my best subject, and would in fact have
been my worst if not for a little thing called Math.

I was clumsy.  Much later, as an adult, I took a test that verified that I had absolutely no inherent
eye-hand-foot coordination, but as a teenager, we all just knew I couldn’t put one foot in front of the other
without tripping.

I was slow.  I much preferred Hide ‘n Seek to Tag as a child playing with the other kids in the neighborhood. 
You’ve heard the old saying, “You can run but you cannot hide?” Well, they didn’t know me. I could hide
but I could not run.

I lacked any semblance of a competitive spirit.  I didn’t care if I won or not, in athletics or anywhere else. 
I was happy if everyone did well.

So, generally I hated almost everything about PE class.  The actual activities - you know, sports-like things.
The gym with its unfinished roof that dropped asbestos on our young heads.  The ugly gym uniforms.
Having to play on teams. I didn’t mind being chosen last for a team (which I often was) because honestly
I understood.  I would have chosen me last too if I were the team “captain” (which I never was). My fantasy
was to not to have to play on the team at all.

The only thing I actually liked about PE class was my teacher.  Mr. Ralph Compagnone was a great guy,
and a hell of a basketball coach, taking the team to  states a few times. Despite my total lack of skill or
interest in his subject, Mr. C. liked me.  He teased me a lot, but it was all in good fun. I’d been bullied,
and I knew the difference between bullying and friendly ribbing.  

Recognizing that I wasn’t an athlete, he celebrated any little win that I made in class.  Once we had to put
together an exercise routine, and lead the class through it. I put together what in my humble opinion was
a pretty kick-ass routine to Carole King’s  “I Feel the Earth Move.” When I finished, Mr. C. was
uncharacteristically quiet for a minute, then said, clearly surprised, “That was very good,” then quickly
added, “and...you are the only person I know who can project your voice throughout the whole room while
lying flat on your back.”  I am sure that was a compliment.

Mostly though, Mr. C. has us play kickball and dodgeball in class.  Kickball favored coordinated people
who could run, so it wasn’t exactly my sport, but it was better than softball where you had to hit a ball
with a bat.  I could sometimes kick the ball, although Mr. C. said that I was the only person he knew who
could strike out in kickball. Maybe that’s why he liked me - I was unlike any other student he had ever seen.

Oh, but dodgeball?  Dodgeball was my favorite.  In case you are unfamiliar with the game the goal is to
throw a ball at each other.  When you get hit by the ball, you are out. The last person standing is the
winner.  

Because I was a better academic than I was an athlete, it didn’t take me long to figure out that once I was
hit by the ball, I no longer had to play the game. So then I put a strategy into place.  I purposely put
myself in line with that ball so that I would be the second or third person out.  Never the first - that
would be too obvious - but neither my classmates nor Mr. C. would doubt that I was too slow to do
well in dodgeball.  Once “out,” I sat in the bleachers and watched the rest of them running around
trying to hit each other with a ball.

It was kind of like The Hunger Games without any actual death.

* 

https://www.washingtonpost.com/sports/2019/06/07/dodgeball-is-tool-oppression-used-dehumanize-others-
researchers-argue/?fbclid=IwAR1zZWlm29jeqnYOzZD94kDoPRvigSkYeIVV0kZT6fFkxxDKxJmZc2pqXLk&
amp;utm_term=.5f5e97072336 

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.  He arrived in 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 34 today, and is the father of a beautiful, happy, active 2-year-old brown-haired, brown-eyed son of his own.  Here’s wishing my son a wonderful birthday full of celebrations with his family, and better weather than the day he was born.

Close to Home

Photo Credit: Chris Preksta

When I was a kid in Swissvale, I always wanted to move to Squirrel Hill when I grew up.  
Even though fate led me to live in other neighborhoods in and around Pittsburgh, I never
stopped thinking of Squirrel Hill as the city neighborhood where I felt most at home, where I “fit.”

My life is full of beautiful memories of this lovely neighborhood.

The Sunday afternoon drives with my dad and mom and my three sisters and I piled into our
little Dodge Dart to look at beautiful homes in neighborhoods around ours because my dad
was an architect and an appreciator of beautiful homes.

We didn’t eat out a lot, but when my parents wanted to splurge Poli’s was the “good restaurant”
they chose.  Going there was a special event. I remember dressing up to eat there, and that
I had my first Shirley Temple there.

The Manor Theatre and the Squirrel Hill Theatre were the movie theaters closest to us with
the first run movies.  I still go back to the Manor often to see those slightly off-the-beaten-track
movies that don’t make it to the local cineplex.

Squirrel Hill was also home to Heads Together, the coolest little head shop in the city.  They
sold drug paraphernalia, record albums and waterbeds. The little hippie wannabe in me loved
hanging out there, even though I had little need of anything they sold but the albums.  It was
one of the few establishments anywhere at the time that was open all night, and I remember
going there with my co-workers from Winky’s Drive-In Restaurant at midnight on Friday and
Saturday nights after our shifts, still dressed in our uniforms reeking of hamburger grease.

Gullifty’s was one of my all-time favorite restaurants.  I went back there whenever I could
until they sadly closed a few years ago.

When I was in my 40’s I met the love of my life.  He was many things - a chef, a musician,
kind and funny and intelligent.  He was also Jewish.

I didn’t know a lot about Judaism when we started dating.  I met his entire extended family
for the first time when we attended his nephew’s Bar Mitzvah, which was also my very first
Bar Mitzvah.  No matter. His family warmly welcomed me into the fold and became my family.

For many years I attended services with him at Congregation Bet Tikvah which held services
at Rodef Shalom in Oakland, just a few miles from Squirrel HIll.  Through this liberal,
welcoming, warm congregation I learned to appreciate and love Judaism and they became
my spiritual community.

When we heard the horrific breaking news yesterday that an active shooter had entered the

Tree of LIfe Synagogue in Squirrel Hill, and as we watched the unfolding events and learned
that 11 people had died, six more were fighting for their lives, and that it was an anti-Semitic
act, you can believe that it hit close to home.  This was my city, my neighborhood, my spiritual community. It literally could have been us, and may have been people we knew and loved.

The larger truth is that any time a group of people living in our nation is targeted and murdered senselessly, it happens to all of us.  We must fight hate, by living with loving intentions and by casting our votes for leaders who value all life, and do nor perpetuate hatred and violence. But until and unless we elect leaders who are willing to address the common denominator in all these mass murders - the availability of assault weapons and high capacity magazines to the average citizen - the carnage will continue.

And I am Telling You I'm Not Going

I understand that some Facebook users’ data (including mine) may have been accessed
by Cambridge Analytics through quizzes we take and used to attempt to influence us in
the 2016 presidential election.

Facebook is taking a huge amount of heat for this, culminating in Mark Zuckerberg’s two-day
appearance before Congress, who are presuming to pass judgement on something they clearly
do not comprehend. Even I, as old and out-of-touch as I am with advances in modern
technology, understand more about how the internet and social media platforms work than
some of these legislators.

I honestly don’t understand the extent of the outrage leveled at Facebook, given the level of
privacy it allows its users, who pay nothing to use the service.  You essentially need two pieces
of information to open a Facebook account - your name and an e-mail address. You can keep
your profile and accessibility of your information as private as you wish.  You can literally hand-
select who sees any individual post of yours. As for those quizzes, you will get a list of what
information they can access before you can start taking the quiz and you can choose whether
or not to allow them to access your information.

And if Cambridge Analytics did get my name and e-mail somehow, nothing they did worked to
influence me toward their candidate in the election.  In my opinion, there was only one qualified
candidate who ran in the primaries or the general election, and that’s who got my vote.

Lots of companies sell your contact information to other companies who then use that
information to market their products to you. This has been going on for years, long before
social media made its debut.Facebook actually uses your information - your likes, and clicks
and such- to tailor the ads you receive to match your tastes and interests. And you can give
feedback on ads and they will stop sending you ads that you don’t wish to receive.  Do you
understand how wonderful this is as most advertisers stop caring about me as a potential
customer the year I turned 50? I welcome advertisements that pay for a service I use free
of charge, and it is a bonus to get ads for products I might actually use.

While getting unwanted marketing e-mail or snail mail is annoying, what really makes me feel
violated is when real identifying information - like my social security number and home address-
get compromised and accessed by hackers with nefarious intentions.  That’s what happened
with Equifax who automatically had access to every bit of identifying information about me and
just about every major financial transaction I’ve ever made. Unlike Facebook, they didn’t ask
for my permission to have my information. And why do they have it to begin with?  Because the
credit review companies are “necessary” so we can receive credit scores that companies can
use to decide whether or not to grant us credit.

Do you know what Mark Zuckerberg did when they realized what had happened? He admitted
that it had happened, showed real remorse, and took steps to improve the privacy of his site.  
He readily agreed to appear before Congress, and when he did so he was deferential and
respectful to the legislators and the process. This was a refreshing change from the denial of
wrongdoing (even when said wrongdoing is on tape) from some people in power these days,
or the way Equifax just hid the compromise to their site.  

Does anyone see what an all-around win the Facebook model is? We keep in touch, share the
information we choose to share and get advertisements about products we use.  Facebook runs
a profitable business. Advertisers reach their target markets.

So I am telling you I’m not going. I want to stay in touch with family and friends from throughout
my life who live all over the country (and sometimes the world).  I want to see pictures of their
children and grandchildren and pets. I want to share in their lives in a way that only Facebook
makes possible. I am going to stay on Facebook.