LA Moms Blog

Dr. George Tiller, Grandfather of 10 Murdered In Church While His Wife Sang In the Choir

This morning the unthinkable happened. Families in Wichita had breakfast, and got dressed in their Sunday best so they could join together in prayer. Dr. George Tiller's wife, Jeanne, sang in the choir, and in the foyer of the Reformation Lutheran Church of Wichita Kansas, Dr. George Tiller was murdered in cold blood.

Scott Roeder has been arrested in the slaughter of Dr. Tiller.

Dr. Tiller is no stranger to violence at the hands of those who purport to save lives. Dr. George Tiller was shot in both arms in 1993, by a virulent Pro Life Crusader. Dr. Tiller has been the beneficiary of police protection (as high as the federal level) due to credible threats on his life. A simple Google search of Dr. George Tiller will show you what a lightening rod he really was. Dr. Tiller continued practicing medicine and performing late term abortions on women who required them even after having been shot.

The feminism of my mother's generation revolved around reproductive rights. My mother hid her pregnancy with me (she was a married schoolteacher) because she knew she'd have been fired for her pregnancy. My mother also explained to me that she and her counterparts took the first generation of birth control pills knowing that they'd grow mustaches, but they were, "so happy to have sex without worrying about having a baby or dying that no one cared."

Paritally Hydrogenated Vegetable Oils Are Scarier Than Strangers

My ten year old Jane has a new favorite activity. She likes to walk to the sandwich shop three blocks away, eat there, and then window shop either at the pet accessory store or at the Comic Book Store. It's quite a lovely way to pass some time, until you find out that she's doing all of this without neither an adult nor a cell phone. Then people look at me funny.

When my daughter is gone I sit home and worry more about her food choices than about her interactions with strangers. The thought of my ten year old choosing a lunch of partially hydrogenated oils terrifies me, because according to The New England Journal Of Medicine, "between 30,000 and 100,000 cardiac deaths per year in the United States are attributable to the consumption of trans fats". That is a statistically significant number of deaths.

In 2007, there were 518 minors Abducted by a Stranger per the FBI. In 2007 there were thousands of Americans who won the lottery, yet that still seems like a long shot to me.

My Kids Never Hit First But They Always Hit Hardest

I'm a pragmatic woman, and that's translated into my parenting. My son is seven and my daughter is ten. In ten years of parenting I have not uttered the words "don't hit". In our family the mantra is "don't hit first". If you hit hardest, it's entirely likely I'll take you out for ice cream. Why? Safety.

My son Alexander is a red head, not just any old red either. Alexander's hair is an incredibly rich shade of deep red that doesn't quite shift into auburn. Alexander started wearing glasses when he was four months old, and as wisps of pinkish red hair sprouted from his head people started touching him. At first he would cry, and the old ladies would retract their hands apologetically. After a time, Alexander became accustomed to the world touching him.

As I would push my double stroller down the street people were rubbing my son's head, and my daughter who is three years older was watching. We taught both children to say, "don't touch me". At first Jane, who was just older than three would try out her new found power with her Grandparents. "Don't touch me!" she would declare. My parents would honor her requests and dutifully release her from an embrace. It would only be a matter of seconds before she would return for a snuggle.

When I'm Doing This Right It Feels So Bad

I want to be a good mother. I'm trying to raise independent children who leave my home and make the world a little better. If my husband and I are successful, our children will be able to fend for themselves in a world that won't always treat them kindly.

My kids are confident, polite and capable. My tween can cross the street, my seven year old can rumble up and down the street looking for a friend, and both of them know how to pay a cashier for something they've purchased. Both kids can make their beds, tie their shoes, manage their own homework, and make themselves a bowl of cereal.

It's like a little death.

In Defense of Motherhood: Because Apparently I'm Under Attack

I'm a bad mother. I don't beat my children, I don't neglect them; they aren't particularly indulged nor are they coddled. According to the latest research, I'm a bad mother.

The University of Whosiewhatsis has a brand new research study declaring that mothers who [fill in the blank] raise children who [fill in the blank]. I would quote the study for you, but I'm really quite busy with Little League, book club, homework, cooking and volleyball. I'm too busy raising my children to spend an inordinate amount of time reading about my multiple failures as a mother. You however, Mr. Masters of Public Humiliation (MPH), seem to have a lot of time on your hands.

It's open season on motherhood, and I, for one, am tired of it. I understand that there are books to sell, and advertisers who want to see a splash, but I'm opting out. I have ten years of expertise on child rearing and I've come to a very important realization. I know the secret of motherhood.

Unanswered Prayers: I Couldn't Stop Loving Him

 I am the Queen of Denial.

August 2001. Adam is 20 days old and I call the Doctor:

ME: Hiya, the baby has a fever, I was just wondering how much tylenol to give him.

PEDIATRICIAN: The baby? Alexander? What day was he born?

ME: Late July.

PEDIATRICIAN: Jessica. I need you to get dressed now and they'll be waiting for you at Cedars.

ME: Yeah, but how much medicine should I give him?

PEDIATRICIAN: None. Leave your house now!

ME: Oh. Okay.

So I calmly strolled into Cedars with Alexander in the bucket, and when they whisked us both in to the hospital with a waiting pediatric team the enormity of it all still didn't register. I just felt loaded. Oddly calm even.

Octuplets: The Babies California Will Caretake

In the earliest months of 1998 I was a newlywed woman with one thing on her mind. I wanted a baby. It wasn't because I felt particularly prepared for motherhood, it wasn't because I had a big home or a husband with a great income. It was because I was madly in love my husband and I longed to start a family with him.

A family.

Not a baby, but a family. You see, much like puppies and kittens, they're cute and irresistible, but they will in fact grow up and become adults. In order to have my children I first got married, treated my body well with a great diet and exercise, and I set up my home. I made sure that I had the time and energy to care for my children. We have two children.

I won't have any more children.

Telling people that I won't have another child makes me ill. I have to hold back tears and pretend like it's not terribly disappointing. The reality is that I'm a 38 year old woman, children are expensive and I wouldn't abort a baby if an amnio revealed they were somehow impaired.

I understand the decision to keep eight babies. I couldn't selectively abort either.

My Looks Are Fading and It's Okay With Me

“My looks are fading.” She said.  It wasn’t meant to illicit pity, nor was she fishing for a compliment. It was a statement of fact, a pragmatic woman who is looking for a few fillers in the creases around her mouth and a dab of botox around the corners of her eyes.

Yes, your looks are fading, so are mine.

We’ve known each other our entire lives, we’re staring at 39, we’ve fed babies and watched our perky breasts settle into sad parodies of their former selves. Our waists have stretched and mostly flattened out again, but, still we are looking at forty. She  is fearful, I am free.

You see, she was the pretty girl, I was the entertaining one.

Triple Layer Sandwich: A Generational Tale

When my kids were tiniest I was an honorary member of the Sandwich Generation. My Mother and I shared caretaking responsibilities for my Grandmother. With a toddler in my hand and a baby on my hip, I was up all night. It wasn't the kids keeping me up. I am proud of my husband for teaching both to sleep through the night with such efficacy. Oh, make no mistake, it was the sexiest thing that man could've done. Sadly, it did nothing to quash the tide of phone calls that came from Emergency Rooms and LVNs. They all started with, "Your Grandmother says..." and her very broken internal policeman had let out a hateful stream of words that ladies never say.

I would dress myself in the middle of the night, bring the emergency chocolates and the emergency cash. I'd land at Cedars Sinai, plunk the box of chocolate down in front of the Nursing Station with a smile on my face and tears threatening the corners of my eyes. The box said so much. She's not just a crazy old lady, there are people that love her. She's not just a crazy old lady, there are people who are watching you. Okay, maybe she is a crazy old lady, but we love her. Please don't abuse my Grandmother, I understand it's difficult.

It said all of that with no words, I know it did.

Holiday Programs: Children Make Adults Out of Children

Today there was a pretty impressive Holiday Program at my kids' school. There was singing and dancing, snazzy outfits with shiny shoes, flautists, pianists and even a visit from Despereaux. Two kids caught my eye, there were two children who simply mesmerized me and neither was my own.

The kindergarten and first grade kids took the stage looking like children and not the toddlers who had entered school in the fall. When they left, the second and third grades took the stage, and I burst into tears. You see, we're missing a mother. Just a few days before school began this fall we lost Melissa in a terrible accident. I'm sure that I'm not the only mother who was immediately drawn to the child with the saddle shoes and Melissa's almond eyes. I'm certain that I'm not the only one who was relieved that Dad is managing so well, but deeply saddened that he needs to. She's our girl; we all love her so very much. It's a desperate love, the love we hope someone would have for our child.