Conscientious Consumption: Owning the Evil Toy

I have many weird, uncomfortable feelings about this iPad I got for Christmas. For starters, it's truly the fanciest thing I've ever possessed. I've never owned a new computer, a new TV, a smart phone or a digital camera, and this elegant device can stand in for all those things. It's just so pretty and current. Almost all my other stuff is second hand. I've never had the hot new toy before and honestly, I was a little scared to handle it.

Now I'm addicted to the thing, which makes it easy to forget my other major misgiving. This beautiful machine was produced in one of the world's most infamous sweatshops. I've tried in the past couple years to avoid purchasing sweatshop-produced apparel and other stuff, and even blogged about my efforts in previous Conscientious Consumption posts. I started hearing about Foxconn (where Apple iPhones and iPads are made) a year or so ago, after a slew of employees committed suicide. In January, the New York Times published a series of articles about Apple's foreign production, including this fascinating Foxconn exposé. It's old news now, but if you haven't read it, I highly recommend it.

I often feel ashamed of my iPad, but I feel more ashamed of the fact that it took me two weeks to read that article. I was brought up Catholic, so I realize that this may just be my own special neurosis. But in my experience, a lot of people get testy when confronted with the subject of sweatshop labor. I suspect that consumer guilt is the major reason. No one wants to feel like an asshole for owning something, so it's less bothersome to just not think about it. 


That was me a few weeks ago. Then I made myself read the article and I learned a few things that have given me a new perspective on my role as an Apple consumer: 


- While it's really easy to blame Foxconn for unfair labor practices, those practices have everything to do with what Apple demands from its vendors.


- While all computers are produced in foreign countries (mainly in China), the Apple/Foxconn dynamic is not universal. 

"Many major technology companies have worked with factories where conditions are troubling. However, independent monitors and suppliers say some act differently. Executives at multiple suppliers, in interviews, said that Hewlett-Packard and others allowed them slightly more profits and other allowances if they were used to improve worker conditions."

- Though I figured most consumers were unaware of Foxconn and their relationship with Apple, I found the actual percentages rather shocking. 

"Apple is one of the most admired brands. In a national survey conducted by The New York Times in November, 56 percent of respondents said they couldn’t think of anything negative about Apple. Fourteen percent said the worst thing about the company was that its products were too expensive. Just 2 percent mentioned overseas labor practices."

All of this got me pondering...


- If so much of our stuff is inevitably going to be produced in foreign countries by low wage earners, I guess I'd still rather support the lesser of those evils. Is there a way for regular ass consumers like me to know which companies are tied to less exploitative labor practices?


- Shaming consumers for purchasing sweatshop-produced goods makes about as much sense as blaming car owners for air pollution. Yes, all of our individual choices add up to one giant problem. But in both circumstances, corporations are at least as culpable and it's imperative that we don't lose sight of that.


- How do individuals influence corporations and government to promote reform? I don't fucking know. But I have to believe that if even ten percent of consumers were to associate the Apple brand with unfair labor practices, that particular corporation would be far more likely to address labor issues in a meaningful way. Since that article's publication, Apple has hired monitors to inspect Foxconn's facility in China, where employee wages have increased up to 25%. Again, it's important to remember that Foxconn responds to Apple's demands. Getting the middle man to initiate reform strikes me as an insufficient short-term solution, but I suppose it's a start.


More than ever, I believe that knowing the ugly truth is better than not knowing. So please read the NYT article. Here's that link again. If you read it on your iWhatever, it might make you feel weird and that's okay. It's also fine if you don't have any moral qualms. I'm not going to tell you to feel bad. But I'm not going to say that you shouldn't, either. I still feel icky abut this thing.

Never to Walk in Anyone's Shadow

Yesterday morning, my brother M posted this item on his website, tvlatest.com -

Rumors began circulating Friday that legendary pop diva Whitney Houston has been offered a seat on the judging/mentoring panel for the second season of Fox's The X Factor.

My comment on the Facebook link was, "Oh, I would DEFINITELY watch if this were to happen." I'd have programmed my DVR then and there if I could have. But just thirteen hours later, I learned that Houston had died. I was always game for a Whitney comeback but she ran out of chances. And that really sucks.

When I think of what would have made her so perfect for that X Factor gig, of course her legendary voice comes to mind. Who would be better qualified to judge singing talent? But, honestly, the second thing that comes to mind is that infamous clip from The Soup.

It is widely regarded as one of the greatest (i.e. funniest) Soup clips of all time. I'm not going to post it here because this isn't a time to be funny, so I'll summarize instead. It was a scene from the short lived reality TV program "Being Bobby Brown". Whitney and then-husband BB were arguing about the Iraq War and George W. Bush. Bobby was anti-Bush but Whitney was inclined to defend the president, rather vehemently. "George is trying to protect us!" As the argument built and Bobby continued to mock GWB and the war, Whitney reached her limit and screamed, "Kiss my ASS!" That brief image of Whitney shredding those three words is now a classic, probably because The Soup has replayed it numerous times over the past several years (I'd be very surprised if they didn't retire it now).

Sure, when I watched that clip, I was laughing at Whitney. But I was loving her, too. No pop culture figure better encapsulated the term "diva", and that shrill retort absolutely fit the bill. Certainly, her marriage to Brown and the addictions they shared were tragic.* It sounds like he treated her horribly. But I've been reading a lot of obituaries and I'm already tired of the narrative trajectory. "Pop megastar, America's first black sweetheart, gains fame in the 80's and peaks in the early 90's. Marries a less talented and thoroughly insecure, 'bad boy' pop star who leads her astray. Years of drug and alcohol addiction follow, then divorce. Tries to make a comeback but she's clearly lost her chops. Dies in a hotel room and we all kinda know how." The basic message is that if she had just stuck to the old formula - being the polished princess that we knew twenty some years ago - maybe she would not only be alive, but also well.

The problem with that narrative is that I suspect it negates who Whitney Houston was in her heart. Maybe in her relationship with Bobby Brown she was able to reveal a harder edge that wasn't so pop-friendly. But that edge is now an integral part of her iconic image. Honestly, I couldn't have cared less if Simon Cowell wanted 1992 Whitney to judge his competition show. Undeniable talent aside, she was kinda boring then. I was thrilled about yesterday's Whitney, the one who lost her temper with her ridiculous man-child husband on national TV, the one who was rumored to have buddied up with Courtney Love after the divorce, the one who famously stated, "Crack is whack." Again, I don't mean to deny the sadness of her demise or the circumstances that led to it. I find it incredibly depressing. All I know is that yesterday morning, I was genuinely excited that 2012 Whitney might be returning to the pop culture forefront - not to reclaim the woman she was last century, but to be the whole complicated package of a person we'd come to know and still loved.



* I admit, I'm a Bobby Brown fan. Don't Be Cruel is a great album and "My Prerogative" is my all-time favorite karaoke song. I always attempt to sing it exactly as he did, with that odd blend of swagger and self pity. I also loved his stint on Celebrity Fit Club and credit him for still trying in the end, even after falling off the fitness wagon so many times. I think of him every time I gorge myself on potato chips... Oh, and of course I agreed with his side of the Iraq war argument.

Empty Calorie Entertainment: "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant"

Being at home with an infant, I watch a lot of TV. In this blog series, I examine some of my favorite televisual guilty pleasures and answer the question, "So, why do I like this crap?"

"I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" on Discovery Fit & Health

This show is by no means my very favorite. I'm glad it exists if only as fodder for The Soup (including their excellent parody "I Didn't Know I Had to Take a Dump"). Oh, yes, I used to think it was just hilarious that there were a TV season's worth of toilet-birthing ladies willing to admit their stupidity on a national broadcast. But then I got pregnant and the joke wasn't so funny anymore. I had my normal share of nauseous days, sleepless nights and sore, swollen feet. I fought hard for a natural birth and because my baby was posterior (meaning she came out head first, but facing the wrong direction) it was a long, painful experience. And though I feel lucky that I got what I wanted and she turned out great, thinking about this show made me pissy. Why should the world's dumbest women be rewarded with births that could be easily mistaken for something as mundane as Taco Bell poops?

Ah, but that isn't every episode of "I Didn't Know I was Pregnant". I discovered this a couple weeks ago when I was nursing my baby at the end of a trying day. Watching TV is about the only thing I can do when she's latched to my breast. The glory of giving life aside, it gets to be pretty boring. On that particular night, I couldn't move a millimeter without her fussing, so I wasn't into channel-surfing. I needed entertainment that would suck me in while she was sucking on me. I stumbled upon IDKIWP and thought, "Well, this oughta bug the hell out of me," and settled in. 

Coming into the midst of a marathon, I caught the tail end of an episode in which a mother was shocked to learn from her doctor that she was 4 1/2 months pregnant. She and her husband had actually tried for another child without success, so this came as a happy and welcome surprise. For reasons that had been discussed prior to my tuning in, she hadn't menstruated in nearly year. Therefore, missing her period was not taken as a sign of pregnancy. Anyway, she and her man were blissful, as evidenced by the lilting piano melody playing in the background. But then - duh, duh, DUHN! - she feels like she's going into labor that very night. She knows it's labor because she's been there before and she isn't an idiot, so she chooses the ER over the bathroom. She spends an entire day being poked and prodded and tested, and she's praying  her little peanut will be okay. At the end of the day, two doctors wander into her room and suggest an emergency C-section. "Hell, no!" she says. She wants this baby. "There's no way he can survive at 20 weeks." The doctors look confused, then they look at each other, and then they're just silent. Finally one of them says, "You're actually 30 weeks pregnant." Duh, duh, DUHN!!! 

In the end, they delivered her teeny, tiny boy and he had to stay in an incubator for weeks. They weren't sure he would survive, but he did, and now he's a 6'4" nineteen year old with bad facial hair who's sweet to his mom. And that made me happy. Actually, the most maddening part of the story was that this poor, frightened woman spent an entire day in a hospital room without a single professional discussing the situation with her. But that was also the most believable part of the story. 

The next episode was REALLY nuts. I can't remember the unexpectedly expectant lady's name, so I'll call her Annabelle. Annabelle is a big girl. I know what you're thinking - "So that's how she didn't know she was pregnant." But the pre-commercial teaser revealed that she was pregnant with twins. Now you're probably thinking what I thought - "Come ON, Annabelle!" But like the lady in the other episode, Annabelle seems fairly intelligent. And her back story is a doozy. As a teenager, she survived leukemia but was told that her treatment had eliminated any chance of bearing children. Her meds contributed to her enormous weight gain in the following years, but at age 23 she gained another hundred pounds in a matter of weeks. When she couldn't walk from the kitchen to the living room without losing her breath, she decided to go to the doctor. Her blood pressure was through the roof, but no one could figure out what was wrong with her. After completing every other imaginable exam, a nurse finally administered a pregnancy test. And then came the unbelievable news. "You're pregnant. (duh, duh, DUHN!) With twins." 

TIME OUT: Kudos to the producers of IDKIWP for presenting Annabelle's reception of this news in a believable way... that is, as a fucking nightmare. Based on the brief time I've spent with my friends H and S's twin tots (both of whom were very much wanted and anticipated), I've gleaned that raising multiples is a heroic undertaking. Unless you're lousy rich with money and time, getting this news at the time of birth should be terrifying. 

And of course, Annabelle needed to give birth ASAP. Pregnancy was killing her. Even after her emergency C-section, her health failed and she went into cardiac arrest (was this woman dealt a crappy hand, or what?). But as she told her mom, she needed to live for her two little boys. Somehow she pulled through and so did her babies. Hooray! Annabelle claims that she menstruated throughout her pregnancy. Something about the way she said that - maybe it was in a hushed tone, I don't remember - made me think she was bullshitting. But given her bizarre, dramatic history and that she really thought she could never get pregnant, I think she gets a pass. 

I was glad to learn that there aren't quite that many dumb ladies laboring in lavatories. But the best thing about getting sucked into that IDKIWP marathon was that I didn't notice my arm had fallen asleep under the weight of my own passed out baby. Our usual nighttime ritual involves holding her in a dim, quiet room, and watching her drift off until she goes limp. It's as fun a pastime as watching water boil. But on that night, I got to skip that step and get to bed early. Sleep came quickly for me, but not before I could thank the universe for sparing me surprise twins.

How I Torture Myself Every Day

I should have flossed.

I should drink more water.

I should make up that 5K I didn't do last week.

I should revise our budget.

I should do more tummy time with the baby.

I should be a more adventurous cook.

I should post blogs at least three times a month.

I should take the dog for longer walks.

I should be writing my congressmen about so many things.

I should mop all the floors soon.

I should eat three servings of fruit daily.

I should call all the people I haven't talked to in a long time.

I should pay more attention to the news.

I should try to be less judgmental.

I should sell all that old stuff on eBay.

I should do Kegel exercises every day.

I should be stockpiling breastmilk.

I should sleep when the baby sleeps. I should be sleeping right now.

Miscellaneous Reflections on Life With My Daughter

Ever since Bernadette started smiling, I see a personality emerging. It's almost as if her baby-ness is gradually melting away, revealing a distinct character that isn't so much me or so much Dan. She is definitely her own person, one who strikes me as a very old soul. Sometimes it feels like she's this really cool chick who just decided to be our baby, and I get the feeling we're going to have to make ourselves a bit more interesting if she's gonna hang with us long term.


B is obviously way more social than either of us. But if she's happy, we're happy, so we've been entertaining more visitors in the last couple months than in the previous two years combined. Oh, she also makes us way more popular than we could ever be on our own. She's cuter than us, too.


Raising a baby in the Facebook age is weird but mostly awesome. I love that B's long-distance admirers can watch her grow in pictures and videos. I mean, it's nothing like the real thing but it's way better than nothing. Managing that visual stream is an odd responsibility. For grandparents alone, I feel morally obligated to post photos regularly. At the same time, I recognize that doing so is a quick and sleazy way to score something I call "Facebook fix". Facebook fix is that tiny jolt you get when you see the little red globe lit up with endless likes and adoring comments. Nothing gets you a bigger Facebook fix than posting super cute pictures of your baby. My question is, when I get off on that, how very different am I from a "Toddlers & Tiaras" mom? So if you wish that I would share Bernie photos more often, please know that I don't mean to deprive you any pleasure. I just don't wanna feel like an icky attention whore.


I can't believe that this little person is so soothed by the sound of my singing voice. "Hey, Baby! What's the matter? Oh, nothing a little cable karaoke can't fix? I'm on it." Many a time Bernadette has mellowed to my rendition of Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam's "Lost in Emotion" as I dance her in the sling. This makes no sense to me, but it works and it's fun. Then there are my Diaper Time Ditties, a cappella versions of songs I know by heart - The Chords "Sh'boom", The Beatles "In My Life", They Might Be Giants "Birdhouse in Your Soul". She really digs that last one, so yesterday I added this to the repertoire ~



She loved it so much. Her face was a non-stop smile fest, and when she's smiling she relaxes and it's easier to put her diaper on. Sometimes singing is the only way to get through diaper time without a lot of crying. Those are the moments when I find the tone of my forced happy a cappella voice a little creepy, because I know how stressed I feel inside. The repetition doesn't help my sense of frustration. Perhaps I need to add more selections to the Diaper Time Ditties catalog, just to make it more fun and interesting. I do believe we've got some Cole Porter on deck.


I'm so glad Bernadette has a really nice dad, one who can't wait to get home to her when his work is done. Dan calls B "baby drugs", I suppose because he's been jonesing for her all day.

I'm so grateful to him for busting ass so I don't have to know how that feels. With the exception of this past Sunday, when my sister M babysat and the two of us went out on a date, I haven't been away from B for more than three hours at a time. This is what my life has been these past few months and this is how it'll be for a few months more. It's awesome. I wouldn't have it any other way.


Everyone who has adult children tells us to enjoy this time. I know several parents of small children who find that shit annoying. The problem with getting that advice from the former is that they don't seem to recollect the tribulations experienced by the latter. No, I did not enjoy those evenings during the first four weeks when Bernadette would scream for two straight hours. But I do find I'm unusually present these days which puts me in a good position for enjoying the little things. For someone so prone to nostalgia, I've spent little time mourning my pre-baby existence. I do have a recurring dream in which I can't quite make it to the karaoke bar (a personal symbol for all foregone freedom), but I'll gladly leave that yearning to my subconscious. My conscious mind is mostly focused on this baby and helping her become the best Bernie she can be. I'm luckily blessed with a propensity for patience, and a baby who happens to love living room karaoke.

Empty Calorie Entertainment: "Sweet Genius"

Being at home with an infant, I watch a lot of TV. In this blog series, I examine some of my favorite televisual guilty pleasures and answer the question, "So, why do I like this crap?"

"Sweet Genius" on Food Network

I can spend entire days watching TV food shows and consume only a wee fraction of the airtime devoted to this subject. I have to admit, this rampant habit of fetishizing a basic human need is rather perverse. I know this. But I don't get out much and foodie porn keep me entertained. I especially enjoy travel logs like "Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations" and instructional shows like "Lidia's Italy". These programs never bore me.

Then there are the competition shows, with which I have a more tempestuous love/hate relationship. It seems like it all started with the Japanese version of "Iron Chef". I can groove on "IC" and its American spin-off because it's fun watching cooks get creative with a wacky parameter, like making five courses that incorporate elk. Perhaps more importantly, I don't feel the urge to murder their generally good-natured panel of judges (which usually includes one very quiet celebrity who only wants to be taken seriously). On other shows, like "Chopped" and even the dangerously addictive "Top Chef", some of these self-important mofos have gotten way out of control. Attention, Celebrity Foodie Judges - While I respect your dedication to professional integrity, please remember that you are evaluating a luxury item. Your indignant response to less-than-stellar gourmet cuisine makes me want to tenderize your face.

Given that, I guess it's pretty weird that I should love "Sweet Genius", Food Network's latest contribution to the pastry competition genre. Host Ron Ben-Israel is the ultimate Celebrity Foodie Asshole, to the point of being absurd. But it's that quality that makes his show exceptional. It's as if the producers wondered how far they could go with the torture-the-contestant paradigm and then took the concept a few steps further. For instance,

The host is an absolute creep. Just look at this guy -

As Dan said, "He definitely has someone locked in a basement." He's even spookier when he smiles, but that doesn't happen often. Talk about self-important. According to this premise, Ben-Israel is the sole arbiter of pastry proficiency. The set is his torture lab, where four chefs compete in three elimination rounds for the Sweet Genius title and $10,000. Any reasonable viewer has to wonder, "Who the hell is this guy and why does his opinion matter so much?" Apparently he is an industry icon, at least according to his awe-struck contestants. I suspect many of them were drawn in by his good name, only to find themselves immersed in a bizarre and terrifying culinary labyrinth (more about that later).

Ben-Israel is certainly a sadist, which doesn't make him different from any other reality competition judge. He's just more obvious about it, and I appreciate that. Unlike, say, "America's Next Top Model" host Tyra Banks, he doesn't pretend to give a shit what anyone else thinks. There's no panel of shills, just him. So unlike those catty bitches from "Chopped", he does not partake in hushed-tone confabs at the judges' table as the poor chefs slave over their courses. Instead, he heckles his contestants as they work. "Show me everything you know about chocolate," he bellows, occasionally interjecting an inscrutable, "Genius!" It's hard to not laugh, and yet you know the fear in the competitors' eyes is very real.

Wacky Parameters GALORE The competition is divided into three rounds - frozen, baked and chocolate. Each round begins with the introduction of a key ingredient and an object of inspiration, which are rolled out on a conveyor belt and described by a Euro-accented robot lady. Each dessert plate must incorporate the ingredient and somehow reflect the inspiration. The former tends to be either low-brow (i.e. candy corn) or ill-suited to dessert (cactus). The latter is just random (a disco ball, a unicorn). And then, halfway into the round, Ben-Israel introduces another weird ingredient, like seaweed or Pop Rocks. The chefs must then incorporate that into whatever they're already concocting. BOING! It's a pretty evil experiment, but it does inspire some creative brilliance. And beware to those who dare to bitch or whine - as Ben-Israel loves to say, "A Sweet Genius can adjust to any situation," or, more ominously, "You were warned."

The White Knuckliest Judges Table Ever The judge's table is the best part of any competition show.  You get to see the contestants' finished products and witness the evaluation, which is the next best thing to tasting it yourself. In keeping with the general ridiculousness that makes "Sweet Genius" so special, Ben-Israel's minimalist, one word sentence laden, twisty-turny evaluations really do put me on edge. These moments often remind me of that famous "What do you mean I'm funny?" scene from Goodfellas. No matter how well it begins, you're never quite sure how this nutjob is going to feel in the end.

All nuttiness aside, "Sweet Genius" is worth watching for the chefs' inventive and often beautiful creations. My favorite was a sand-inspired chocolate competition in which the contestants had to use marrow bones and coffee beans. One woman created a beach scene with coffee, chocolate and marrow flavored sands. She painted the marrow bone with chocolate to make it look like a piece of driftwood. It really was lovely. Even Ben-Israel referred to her presentation as "ingenious". That made her cry, which was a bit sad and Stockholm Syndrome-y, and I had to wonder if her gushing, "I have so much respect for you!" was the real reason she won. After all, the other guy's Coney Island themed bone marrow hot dogs were pretty clever, too.

That was the rare competition when Ben-Israel acknowledged genius on both sides ("...but there can only be  one.") Unlike most competition shows, the winner is revealed when the last loser is announced. Ben-Israel  says, "So-and-so, you were no Sweet Genius," and you have to sit through that chef's final humiliation before you get to see the other guy exhale and smile. I'm waiting for the episode when Ben-Israel flunks the entire class and no one gets the ten grand. Just because that never happens on any other show doesn't mean that it can't happen here.

Planning for Peanut: Peanut! part 2

In part 1, I recapped the events of pregnancy week 40, during which I was under a lot or pressure to induce labor. I managed to avoid an induction, but made a deal with my obstetrician that I would be induced on Sunday, October 30th if little Peanut hadn't arrived by then.

Week 41

On Tuesday, October 25th, I awoke relieved. I didn't have to go to a hospital or doctor's office that day, or the next day, or the next day. I could finally enjoy my sister M's visit and work in some sight-seeing before the baby's arrival. The lower half of my body was recovering from the previous weekend's ill-conceived castor oil experiment. I was ready to enjoy my last several days of pregnancy.

Of course, I told myself the same thing I'd been telling myself for weeks - all that could change if little Peanut decided to emerge from the womb. But having been aware of that possibility for a whole month and having been through the medical interventionist wringer that was week 40, I couldn't help wondering if that was ever really going to happen. Maybe she just wanted to stay in her cozy, uterine clubhouse. With all the nonsense she'd be apt to encounter every day, I could hardly blame her.

After Dan left for work and before M got out of bed, I called my best friend S and recounted the events of the previous days. S is the father of twin toddlers and his knowledge of certain terms I used - like preeclampsia, for instance - made me realize that I was joining a special club called parenthood. I didn't know what "preeclampsia" meant a week ago. And I bet that two years ago, S didn't know what it meant either. But if you or your spouse has given birth, you just know this stuff. He knew about the castor oil trick, too. He laughed and groaned simultaneously when I told him of my effort. "I think if you want to avoid induction, it's probably best to avoid self-inducing, too."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. But hey, it gave me a preview of coming attractions. That's something, right?" He laughed at me some more. I added, "For what it's worth, I'm having contractions right now. Who knows? Maybe today will be the big day."

If this were a movie, my water would have broken two minutes later. M would rush me to the hospital just in time to avoid an automobile birth at the junction of I-24 and I-75. But the mundane truth of the matter was that I'd been feeling contractions for days, even before the castor oil debacle. I didn't know at the time that what I was sensing was more than just a strong Peanut kick until I was hooked up to a non-stress test monitor. But there it was, registering a neat, little bell curve on the pink graph paper printout. Contractions are no big thing until they start coming hard and frequent, and even then they can stagnate. I met a woman who told me she'd had contractions six minutes apart for ten days before she gave birth. Now that's a bummer.

After I hung up with S, I drank coffee and nibbled some food with M. Though I was in a good mood and happy to have some mellow time at home, my appetite remained elusive. I can't eat when I get nervous or anxious, but what was there for me to sweat? Sure, those contractions were more intense than any I'd felt before; the castor oil contractions made my uterus feel like a balloon that's being inflated, but now I felt grinding cramps rising from the cervix. But these were still too infrequent to be taken seriously. I decided to think about other things. M and I made sight-seeing plans for that afternoon and eventually rose from the sofa to get ready.

When my obstetrician Dr. B described contractions to me around week 37, he said, "It's enough to stop you mid-sentence, if not to stop you in your tracks." I was walking Dulce when I felt the first one of those. I remember standing in the middle of the street, staring at my neighbor's yard, thinking, Oh, that's what he meant. Several minutes later, when I was gathering my purse and cell phone, I felt another one. By the time we had buckled our seat belts in M's car, I told her, "I've been feeling pretty regular contractions for a little while now. I'm going to start timing them." That was at 2:30pm.

We drove up Lookout Mountain to Point Park, a Civil War memorial that boasts the best view of the city. I reminded myself of the number one bit of advice given to women in early labor - just go about your business as usual. Buy your annual Point Park pass because the old one expired. Show M the beautiful view of the city. Go to the bathroom. Nothing to see here, move along! But I couldn't help leaning against a rock or sitting on a bench every time I felt that grinding cramp, and the clock sure wasn't lying. Seven minutes. Eight minutes. Ten minutes. Back to eight minutes. I knew I was a long way from the finish line, but it seemed like this might really be happening.

By 3:30pm, I gave up any pretense of continuing our sight-seeing tour, but I definitely had to eat. Doing that would only get harder as labor progressed. We headed to The Terminal, my favorite restaurant/brewpub in Chattanooga. Thinking with respect for my stomach and the work ahead of me, I eschewed the root beer and bison burger I really wanted and ordered a water and salad instead. We sat at a high table in front of the bar. The stools looked more inviting than low chairs or wooden booth benches, though I still had to stand up and stretch as each contraction rolled across my belly. I think I caught our waiter smiling excitedly as he passed our table. If this were a movie, they'd lay me on the bar while the brewmaster shouted at his minions to fetch the hot water and towels. What's with the hot water, anyway? Is it really going to stay hot throughout the entire labor?

I'd called Dan at the start of our meal, just to let him know that something might be happening. Like me, he was cautiously excited. "Oh. Okay... why don't you call me back in a little while and let me know how it's going?" Before we left the restaurant, I did just that, telling him he should meet me at home as soon as possible.

I found the remainder of my early labor hours very difficult. Trying to go about business as usual when you know you're about to give birth seems like trying to do your income taxes while tripping on acid. How does one focus on everyday stuff when your whole world is suddenly bathed in a fresh, strange light? I tried watching "Pootie Tang" with M. I tried tackling simple household chores. But by 7:30pm, I was sitting in bed, attempting to eat crackers and apple slices with my eyes closed, bracing myself for those ever-increasing contractions. I'd phoned our doula A earlier to let her know I was in labor. She said that she would come whenever I felt I needed her there, allowing one hour of travel time. The natural birth books say that you move to the next stage of labor when you find yourself getting "very serious". Was I there yet? I mean, I felt a little uneasy but I was still able to mock Alex Trebek as Dan and M watched Jeopardy in the other room. If I could still joke around, did I really need A to come over quite yet?

I held out until around 10:00pm. By then, my contractions were three to five minutes apart and I was starting to get a little freaked out. It wasn't the pain that worried me as much as the feeling that this was all suddenly moving way faster than I could handle. A arrived at 11:00pm, along with her young apprentice E. NOTE: When I hired A in August, she knew she'd be busy in October and asked if we'd mind her bringing in E, a doula-in-training. If another client's birth prevented A from getting to us in time (unlikely, but not impossible), E could step in. Otherwise, we would have two doulas instead of one. The latter scenario came to fruition, which is greater proof that I am the luckiest of bastards.

The first thing I said to A and E was, "I think it's getting serious, but it's so hard for me to tell because I make a joke out of everything!" A nodded in her sympathetic but not exactly agreeing way, and I suddenly felt calmer. She was carrying a Pilates stability ball and suggested I use it to make myself comfortable. I got on the floor, my knees resting on a pillow and laid my chest upon the ball. I rolled gently, back and forth, as I awaited the next contraction. A encouraged me to breathe deeply as she and E rubbed my back with silken fingers. After the contraction passed, I turned to them and said, "Thank you very much. That felt really nice."

I now realize that would be like taking one bite at the start of an exquisite twelve course meal and saying to the chef, "Thank you very much. That tasted good." Between A, E, M and Dan, I had people massaging and comforting me until we left for the hospital around 7am. Sometimes I had all four of them at my side. Other times they would work in shifts, taking turns to eat, go to the bathroom and nap. I spent most of those eight hours leaning over the stability ball, my eyes shut. But sometimes I would stroll around the house, pressing my hands against a wall as I slowly breathed my way through the steadily longer, harsher contractions. I took a bath at one point. I threw up a couple times, too.

I used to think that vomiting was the worst physical malady, but labor pains gave me a new perspective on that. Puking was just a big relief. Contractions are such a different beast. I kept in mind what I'd read in the natural birth books, that each contraction brings you one step closer to meeting your baby. The best thing to do is to not fight it, but just let it happen. Early in the night, A advised me to make low, deep grunting noises as the contractions occurred. I felt a little silly at first, and then I got scared. I whimpered and nearly cried, but A cut me off. "Tara, no. Breathe deeply. Low, deep grunting sounds." That shook me from my panic and honestly - no shit - I never lost my cool after that point. Making those noises gave me a focus. When I felt the pain rising within me, I knew exactly how I had to approach it. I just had to be like the dude from Crash Test Dummies.

Throughout the night, I kept thinking, If this were a movie, I'd be screaming and saying mean things to my husband. According to my witnesses, I was actually very quiet and polite. The movies make you think that the experience of childbirth turns every woman (regardless of her usual temperament) into a raging shrew, which is okay because she's giving birth. And really, if that happens it is okay, but it didn't happen to me. And I take some satisfaction in knowing that even in those most trying moments, I was absolutely myself.

Having an attentive entourage sure as hell helped. But it wasn't until 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning that I noticed the littlest helper of all. After a contraction passed, I lifted myself from the stability ball to take a sip of water and saw my cat Zenobia laying at the edge of the bed. She stared at me, with her front left paw outstretched, as if she were ready to rub my back. E said, "She's been at your side all night." And she followed me the rest of the night, too. Since then, Dan has referred to her as a Certified Nurse Midcat*.

Zenobia - Queen of Palmyra/ Therapy Cat

Around 6:00 or 6:30am, I thought my water broke. I now know that it was actually more of the show that I'd seen on Saturday night (a lot more), but that's when we decided it was time to go to the hospital. I'd told A earlier that I was afraid of the ten mile car ride. I imagined every railroad track, bump and abrupt curve, and how the contractions would magnify those seemingly minor discomforts. She smiled serenely and said, "But in the grand scheme, it's not such a big deal, is it?" It wasn't. Again, I was calm. We left at 7:00am. The earliest glimpses of dawn and the cool, dewy October air was just the refreshment I needed as we slowly made our way to the car. Believing that my water had broken, I was slightly alarmed when I didn't feel any contractions on the way to the hospital. Shit, am I almost to the pushing stage?

Alas, I still had several hours of work ahead of me. The contractions resumed after I got to my room. The nurse verified that my cervix was 6 centimeters dilated and my water bag was intact. And as the long hours passed, I knew I'd stay in a holding pattern until that water broke.

Around 11:00am, I was sitting with my chest against the inclined back of the hospital bed, my arms dangling over the edge, waiting for the next grueling contraction. If I were to fulfill most people's expectations, this would be the moment I'd be begging for an epidural. Most women get to some point in their labor when they start to think, "I can't do this." It's usually when they're really close to the pushing stage (which is generally easier and more satisfying than the stage I was in). I wasn't doubting my ability to handle the situation, but I was starting to believe it would last forever. There was no way I'd ask for an epidural; after all my fussing for a natural, un-induced childbirth during week 40, my pride just wouldn't allow that. And I didn't think it would help anyway. I considered asking the doctor to break my water bag, but my experience thus far was that every intervention seemed to involve more difficulty. Every simple test involved marathon monitoring. Every quick IV injection of antibiotics led to an hour of being hooked to a machine. No, I was determined that little Peanut and I were going to do this together. Yes, I'd have to endure more contractions. So what? You've already been through a whole day of this. Pain is just a thing and you can put it aside. Why fear it?

Eventually, A convinced me that resting on the toilet would be the best way to get my cervix to open up. I was sitting there, leaning into Dan's arms, and I could feel Peanut pushing against the water bag. By this point I was no longer just letting the contractions happen. I was actively working with that pain to push baby Bernadette toward her destiny. I buried my face in Dan's belly, grunted and pushed, and then I heard the second happiest sound of my life. Splash!

A, E and M cheered. I exhaled and laughed. The nurse barked, "Okay, that was the water. Get up! I'm not having any toilet babies today." I begged for a moment to rest, but she wasn't having any of that. As I stumbled toward the bed, she called Dr. B and I readied myself for that glorious, much-touted pushing stage.

If this were my everyday life, I would be so embarrassed right now. Forget the fact that I'm not a particularly touchy-feely person and I shy away from massages. Forget that I tend to avoid being nude around anyone who isn't Dan. I'd been walking around half-naked, falling into other people's comforting arms for hours. But now I was expelling all sorts of liquids from the space between my legs. I didn't care. The nurse was of a much different opinion. "It's going to take me hours to clean this up!" she muttered. And though I usually take pains to avoid being a bother to anyone (especially workers), I didn't care about that, either.

When Dr. B arrived, I could tell he was uncomfortable with two doulas in the room, though I'd told him on several occasions to expect them. He seemed to have completely forgotten about my birth plan, too. "No stirrups - what?!" He just couldn't handle all of this previously discussed information, so he behaved like a douchey buffoon. Out of nowhere, this trusted professional started talking to me in this weirdly bombastic, too-loud tone. Occasionally he'd take a time-out to flirt with the nurse. How did my high school gym teacher get in the room? Is this guy actually going to deliver my baby? At one point, he looked at A's DONA shirt and asked, "What's a donna?"

"Um, it's DONA. It stands for Doulas of North America."

A blank stare and "Huh," was all he could muster. He turned to me. "Okay, Tara. Now you're getting ready to push. This is the one situation where I think it's better for a woman to not have an epidural". Translation: it's the moment when it's more convenient for him that I didn't have an epidural. "I need you to take all your energy and push where you feel pressure, right here," he said, reaching into my vagina. "Push like it's a bowel movement. Okay... now! Push!"

I took a deep breath and exhaled as I pushed, but the results did not please him. "No!" he said. "C'mon, like a bowel movement!"

I was beyond unembarrassed. I felt like taking a dump right then and there. Bowel movement? Here's your stinkin' bowel movement! Thankfully, A chimed in with other advice. "Don't let your breath out. Use it to help you push. When you feel the urge, you'll probably push a few times. Just make sure to get a deep breath between each one. And take a break whenever you need to. "

Oh, how I relished those breaks! This stage is supposed to be so great because you get to take control and really make that baby move. But it requires a lot of energy and I was oh so spent. I'd been awake for 30 hours, I'd thrown up everything I ate in that time, and here I was at the end of the most physically exhausting trial of my life, trying to push a baby through my vagina. Yet, when I felt that urge to bear down, I had no choice but to give it my all.

Dr. B saw some progress. When I got some good pushes in, he encouraged me to stick with the same technique. And then he started saying, "Push through the Bern!" Well, that's a weird way to refer to my baby. How does he remember her name is Bernadette when he can't remember that I have a birth plan? Then I realized he was really saying, "Push through the burn!"

That was actually helpful. Push through the pain. Don't hold back. Each time I did, my audience would coo with delight. "Oh my god, we can totally see her. She has hair!" they told me. I'd spurned the birth mirror - I had enough on my plate without having to look at the mess between my thighs - so I only had their reaction to track the baby's progress.

Even Dr. B got excited. "Yes! We can see her head. It's about the size of a dime."

WHAT?! This much pain and all they could see was a dime-sized bit of baby head? But my body was too busy for me to stew. I pushed some more. I pushed through the burn. As everyone got more excited, I was more eager to be done. And when I heard Dr. B say, "Here she comes," I took a deep breath, pushed into the most excruciating pain I've ever known and screamed in agony. And then I heard another scream. And that's the best sound I ever heard in my life.

At 2:10pm, I cried, "She's here! She's finally here!" And there was my little Peanut, Bernadette, dangling in Dr. B's hands. By that point, there seemed to be about 20 other people in the room. Though I had wanted to hold her immediately, they took her away for a cleaning since there was meconium in the fluid (apparently, Bernadette wasn't shy about pooping either). Since all I ever wanted was for this baby to be strong and healthy, I honestly didn't mind waiting for them to get her ready. But it felt like forever before the nurse laid her across my belly, where she immediately latched to my breast and began feeding. "Well, hello there!" I said. "You're just beautiful." And then I fell into her twinkly eyes. That's how I met my daughter.

So, yeah, giving birth naturally is definitely the coolest thing I've done in my life. It gave me a new perspective on pain and a new measure of my endurance. I felt enormous pride when A leaned over the bed and said, "You are a strong woman." I certainly don't think that anyone who chooses to use drugs during birth is wrong for doing so. Rather, I wish all women felt comfortable, sufficiently informed and empowered to make whatever decision suits them best. I'm just so happy that I got to do this how I wanted, especially since my moments-old baby looked like this -

Healthy and strong, just as I'd wished.

*Contrary to our fears, Zenobia has been an absolute sweetheart to Bernadette. She seems to regard the baby with a certain maternal awe, gingerly leaning in to sniff her head before shyly backing away. Z also continues to comfort me. For instance, there was a night during the first week when B screamed for hours. Dan offered to walk her around the house while I tried to get a few minutes of sleep. I was laying in the middle of the bed with the blanket pulled over my head when I felt Z crawl under the sheets. She used her front left paw to press my hand against the mattress. Then she retracted the claw in her right paw and used that to caress me. I had no idea she was so coordinated, or so sensitive! Well that just melted my heart into grateful, sleepy tears.