Chuck Norris Lives In My Uterus

There's no "I" in "team", but there is an "I" in "IUD"... and, as of yesterday, there's also an IUD in I. Say hello to my new womb-mate, the ParaGard T-380A:



The sucker's tiny, not much bigger than a bottle cap. It's also kind of homely. While doubtlessly manufactured in total sterility, it can't escape its true nature: it's a piece of wire-wrapped plastic. It looks like something your seven year-old would bring home from summer camp, the kind of mystery craft which makes you wish you'd majored in early childhood education, because damn, those people apparently have some good drugs.

"Wow, that's an interesting... thing, Tyler. Is it... a dinosaur?"
"No. It's a motorboat."

"Is that a picnic?"
"No, it's the Reichstag, but made out of dry macaroni and puff paint."

"Oh, what a cute necklace."
"It's actually a 99.4% effective method of ensuring that I remain an only child, thus maintaining my monopoly on your emotional, physical and financial resources."
"What?"
"... but the googly eyes are just for fun."

The only other IUD available in the U.S. is the Mirena, similarly-sized but a damned sight swankier. It's both sleek and high-tech; it looks like it would be equally at home modulating the flush volume of an expensive toilet or occupying a pedestal at MoMA.

Both IUDs boast almost-perfect efficacy. The ParaGard's ugly charm was a big draw (I mean, c'mon, the thing wouldn't look out of place festooned with sequins and glitter glue). Additionally, unlike the stylish-yet-vapid Mirena, it was hormone-free and effective for over a decade. I'm someone who keeps birth control pills IN MY WALLET; if they're ever more than a foot from my person, I may forget to take them. The prospect of a decade free of worry (and of fumbling while extracting my Price Plus card, thereby informing my fellow shoppers, "Hey, look at me! I enjoy dick AS WELL as savings!") was almost as delicious than the activity which necessitated all that worry in the first place. I was sold.

That is, until Nurse Jen walked in the room.

"Hi! Pardon my butt!" I said, drawing the flimsy paper sheet a little closer to my bare lap.

"So tell me," said Nurse Jen, eyeballing me, "What do you expect from the ParaGard?"

I gulped. I'd come prepared for discomfort, for pain... but a line of questioning straight out of an upper-level management seminar ("101 Interview Questions Incisive Enough To Reduce Your Potential Comptroller's Bowels To a Bubbling Vat of Hershey's Syrup")? This, I did not expect. Especially not from a gentle-looking blonde in scrubs and a scrunchie.

"Um... well, not getting knocked up will be nice," I stammered, "And, er, I read that it can kind of make your periods heavier? Which is okay... I think?"

"A LOT heavier," said Nurse Jen.

"Like... a LOT a lot?"

"Well... sometimes, yes."

The next five minutes were a subtle verbal tango. Nurse Jen didn't attempt to steer me away from my desired nugget of uterine bling, exactly... but there was definite Subtext.

Actual Statement: "... now, every woman's body reacts differently..."
Subtext: "... just like snowflakes, no two MASSIVE EXPLOSIONS OF GORE are the same."

Actual Statement: "As long as you understand the potential side-effects..."
Subtext: "... which you won't, unless you'd like a little demonstration with a ketchup-filled balloon and a moving car."

Actual Statement: "You have to go with whatever will make you comfortable."
Subtext: "Remember that scene in 'Murder Mall IV' where that chick gets trapped in Ham-o-Rama and the killer spiral-slices her? Yeah, it'll be sort of like that."

My resolve did not crumble. It - and my uterus - are made of steelier stuff.

"Listen," I said, sounding for all world like one of the menstruating marvels in a Tampax commercial, "My period's always super-light. Heavier won't be a huge deal. And I have a massive tolerance for pain. You can cold-cock me with a speculum if you want! Um, a fresh speculum."

"Okay," smiled Nurse Jen, "It sounds like you're pretty well-informed. Let's do this."

Five minutes later, I was on my back, bare ass hanging precariously off the edge of the exam table. I counted ceiling tiles as Nurse Jen rooted around in what the Italians refer to as il cannoli del amore. Okay, so they don't. But they SHOULD. After the ol' cervix was located, palpated and swabbed with iodine, it was time for The Painful Part.

Nurse Jen grabbed a slender clamping instrument - sort of like an elongated, hollow-bowled set of barbecue tongs. "Okay... now comes the pinch," she warned.

A wicked cramp rippled through my abdomen. I breathed deeply, clutched my sheet and waited for it to pass. "That wasn't so bad!" I said. "Okay, now for the actual insertion," said Nurse Jen. "Uh-oh," I thought. I felt another, milder cramp... and then the disconcerting sensation of a gnarly little grappling hook sliding into my ute, ship-in-a-bottle-style. A deep ache (accompanied by prickling and chills) slid across my back. I briefly considered asking Nurse Jen if she'd jabbed something important, but decided against it. If anyone out there is in need of a new personal motto, you could do a lot worse than, "Don't insult the person holding your cervix in a vice grip." Thankfully, my fears of having a contraceptive device lodged in my spinal column were for naught... seconds later, the pain receded, followed by Nurse Jen's hand, a speculum and a feisty little gush of blood.

"Ooops!," said the ever-enterprising Nurse Jen, grabbing a handful of paper towels, "Make sure you don't slip in that when you climb down, 'kay?"

"I'm so embarrassed," I sniffled, "I bled on Planned Parenthood! I love you guys!"

Nurse Jen smiled, patted my shoulder and left the room so I could mop up and re-dress.

I grinned as I blotted my nethers with a baby wipe (of course I had baby wipes. If I were ascending Everest, I'd have a sherpa dedicated solely to my intimate cleanliness... most likely, a sherpa who'd wind up filching my credit cards and kicking me down an icy ravine). Historically, I've been a worrier. I've spent vast stretches of time obsessing over numerous and nasty what-ifs. While I've gotten a bit better, it was still a massive relief to have that particular worry eradicated. The fear of unplanned pregnancy, while never enormous, had been a decade-long companion. And now, thanks to a clever little foreign body, it was gone.

"I will name you Chuck Norris," I whispered, patting my abdomen and zipping my pants, "You're tiny, ferocious and frequently covered in someone else's blood. And goddamn it, I know you've got my back."

"Good news!" said Nurse Jen, stepping back into the room, "All your STD tests came back negative!"

"WOO HOO!" I exclaimed, "THIS IS THE BEST WEEK EVER IN MY PANTS!" After bidding her adieu, I walked out into the gorgeous September sunshine, slightly achey but supremely satisfied. There are problems which can't even be fixed by hollow-point steel, I mused, It's a lucky day indeed when a 1" piece of plastic does the trick. With that, Chuck Norris and I strolled down Market Street, ready to roundhouse kick anything that stood in our way.

Things I DO Believe In, Pt. II - Controlled Substances, Child-Rearing, Splenda & Audience Participation

1. All recreational drugs - and by "all", I mean ALL - should be legalized. Someone very close to me once battled a nasty smack habit. It was heartbreaking, horrifying and something I wouldn't wish on any person - or their family. And y'know what? It only strengthened my belief in legalization. While arguments for criminalization are abundant, I have yet to find one which holds water.

"But what if heroin were cheap and everywhere?"

Heroin IS cheap, and it IS everywhere. Given half an hour and the cash I have in my pocket, I could easily score a bag.

"But then EVERYONE would do it!" Would you do it? Would your child do it? Fear of a governmental ass-whupping is among the weakest of motivations for one's acts. A sense of personal ethics is just that - personal. It cannot be codified or handed down from on high.

"But society would collapse!" In 2005, the federal government spent $12 billion fighting the "War on Drugs", as well as an additional $30 billion incarcerating those convicted of drug-related offenses. $42 billion seems like a ludicrously generous chunk of change to help ease the social changes that legalization would bring.

I could debate this endlessly.

2. When discussing the delightful differences in male and female anatomy with young children, proper anatomical terms should be used. For the love of Flynt, it's a penis. Not a "pee-pee", not a "wee-wee", not - as one ex-boyfriend's mother disturbingly deemed it - a "tallywhacker". It's a penis.

Ed. Note: From That Point Forward, I Resolved to Both Shave AND Don Pants More Often

Jul, emerging from the shower: "Hi, J.Q.! Did you have fun coloring while mommy washed up?"
J.Q., staring in fascination at Jul's groin: "Mommy have... BUGS on it?"
Jul: [stunned silence] ... "Um, no... no, baby. Not bugs."
J.Q., venturing another guess: "Mommy have SPRINKLES on it?"
Jul: "I wish, baby. It's hair."
J.Q.: "MOMMY HAVE HAIR ON IT!"
Jul: "You're going to say that on the bus, aren't you?"

3. Even if you're not PLANNING on doing so - even if you're going to be carried around on a plush dais, being massaged with fragrant oils and fed slivers of medium-rare lamb - your shoes should be conducive to running.

This isn't to say that you should pair fugly, mud-splattered cross trainers with a Prada dress. However, you can always choose a nice pair of maryjanes over, say, those towering Balenciaga monstrosities which could also be used to lobotomize unwanted suitors.

4. Extrasensory perception... but not the type which can supposedly be controlled, manipulated and used to win big bucks via scratch-off tickets. I believe that humans are interconnected in ways we can't really comprehend. Whether these ties are vestiges of an ancient time or a tiny hint of evolutionary progress, I couldn't say. But existence nonetheless seems to be a colloid - an invisible, ever-shifting web of linkages. When you experience a tiny, inadvertent spasm, your hand flails out and you happen to brush against another spot on the web... that's ESP.

5. Assuming all other factors are equal, engaging in a higher percentage of non-consumption, non-production activities will lead to a proportionately higher level of happiness.

6. Babies under a year old should be carried as often as one's spinal column and constitution can tolerate. Nasty old ladies who sneer, "That child is NEVER going to learn how to walk if you keep carrying him!" should be (bitch-slapped with their own Valu City bags, garroted with their own plastic rain bonnets, tersely informed, "And YOU'RE never going to get the vigorous dicking you clearly require and which might make you less of a shrill, dessicated old hag, you shrill, dessicated old hag!").

7. Artificial sweeteners' purported nasty side effects could not possibly be worse than the effects of eating an equivalent quantity of "real" sugar (a product so far removed from its natural source as to be semi-synthetic itself).

8. It is far preferable to be alone than to be in a relationship where you must persuade your partner to stay with you. Desperate coercion is odious enough - just look at the guy who sold you your Taurus. Selling yourself to someone who should (in an ideal situation) be your strongest advocate? It kicks your soul in the crotch. Then, while said spiritual entity is writhing around on the floor, moaning curses of positively corporeal vulgarity... it kicks it some more.

9. I don't want to know where I'll be in twenty years.. Knowing one's future seems dull, depressing and horribly confining - you can squirm out of a straightjacket more easily than a two-bedroom condo in Levittown. But I do have a very strong mental image of my future self.

I'm soaking wet, fully-clothed and knee-deep in a warm ocean. The tide is picking up; little waves splash my legs as the sun and the wind dry my face. The beach is a far cry from Club Med; it's covered in wild tangles of foliage and towering, moss-slicked rocks. The sun is sinking behind a jaggy black outcropping. I am calmer than I've ever been in my life.

I believe in this image. I'm waiting for it to happen like some people wait for their 401(K) contributions to mature. It's a smooth little stone I carry in my pocket. It busies my fingers when I worry. It comforts me with its weight.

So... what do YOU believe in?

Things I DO Believe In, Pt. I - Hygiene, Morality, Cars, Cutlery & More

[Inspired by Sistah Cupcake's "Things I Don't Believe In" series.

Please note that these are MY OWN PERSONAL beliefs; I did not pick them up bed-in-a-bag style at Target, nor do I feel they apply to anyone but me. If you wish to adopt any of them, go right ahead. They've served me well and are unlikely to take a whiz on the carpet of your existence.]

1. Tide. More importantly, I believe that my decision to begin purchasing Tide (rather than Wash-U-Cheep or Archer Farms Brand "Vaguely Mountainous" Scented Anionic Surfactant) was a triumph of self-love. No, not THAT kind of self-love. That would sting.

"It's two dollars less than Tide," I thought, taking a deep, DNA-mutating whiff before returning the jug of generi-tergent to the shelf. "But… but Tide makes everything smell all nice and Tide-y. All my clothes, my sheets, my towels… I'm going to be enveloped in this scent for the next month, easily. Isn't my olfactory satisfaction worth two bucks?"

I could hear my ancestors plotzing from beyond the grave. I didn't care. I tossed my Tide in the cart and never looked back.

2. Using baby wipes in lieu of T.P. If you stepped in poop, you'd probably want something a bit more robust than a paper towel to clean up the mess, no? Why should your nether aperture be held to a lower standard of cleanliness? And don't try telling me that "it doesn't get THAT dirty down there, Jul!" You're not a goddamned gazelle, capable of popping out dainty, self-contained pellets while gallivanting on the savanna. If you've ever SEEN a FunYun - let alone allowed one to enter your digestive system- you need baby wipes.

3. Tongue cleaning. Bend a credit card so that the short sides have the approximate curvature of a Pringle. Hold it at a 45-degree angle to your tongue. Then... uh... well... lick. Hard. It's not a brute-force scraping so much as an impassioned oral tango between you and your expired American Express. After a few hearty swipes, your tongue will be cleaner, your breath will be fresher and everything from coconut sorbet to French kissing to yodeling along with "Freebird" will be a little sweeter.

4. Each of my actions can be categorized as positive, negative or neutral. Each type of action affects the overall "charge" of the universe (albeit on a ridiculously infinitesimal level). Whenever possible, I need to make a conscientious effort not to release any particles of negativity into the current. Even the tiniest actions' impact should be considered. The tiniest actions are, in a way, the most important – if you're committed to living your life a certain way, you do so at all times… not just times of great significance or while others are watching.

If I drop a straw wrapper, I pick it up. Otherwise, I would be placing the burden of doing so on someone else. I'm far from perfect, and so I shall remain. I won't pick up everything I drop. But the day I stop trying – the day I stop examining my own deeds, stop evaluating what "good" means and how I can work towards it – is the day I cease being a person and start being a vacant shell.

5. Odd number are better (for no particular reason).

6. Manual transmissions are better (they make crappy less crappy and good cars more fun).

7. When consuming fast food, plastic utensils are better. Soft, bendy, pthalate-packed plastic is best.

8. I never want any of my opinions on hot-button social issues to be simple enough to sum up on a bumper sticker. "IF THIS CIVIC'S A-CREAKIN', DON'T COME A-PEEKIN'", however? Genius!

9. When I die, I will go back to the earth. The matter which comprised "Jul" will assume other forms. Death is not an ending... death is a bend in the Moebius strip of existence.

If my family can be said to possess a belief system, this is it. This is how we were raised. Whenever a pet died, it didn't "go to heaven"... it went back to the earth, nourished other life forms and began a new part of the cycle.

This was no less comforting (and a great deal more plausible) than the concept of heaven. Thanks, ma!

T.B.C. ...

All Pink Is Not Salmon

[Ed. Note: the title is a rather silly joke, as salmon are known for their - HAR! - spawning. Titles aren't my forte. The "book" I'm allegedly "working on" (est. publication date: February 2037, est. publisher: um... the fuel-cell printer in my hovercar?) draws its title from a Rage Against the Machine song. Zach de la Rocha = WAY worse than piscene humor.]

His hands are small, sticky and perpetually wriggling free from mine.

His ambitions are bigger than his britches. The latter are a petite 2T, the former a grandiose "dismantle entire Western hemisphere (and possibly insert into mouth)".

He's big enough to scale the obstacles, small enough to require abundant kisses when he falls off. The most constant refrain is also the most futile: "J.Q., stay near mommy."

Literally, figuratively... doesn't work for either one. Time and toddlers are both way more stubborn than me.

Time has seemed especially fleeting as of late. Months pass like bites of cotton candy... bursts of sweetness which dissolve almost instantly. He periodically refuses to sit on my lap, spurning my advances with a devilish grin and a squeaky, "No! Go away, mommy!"

One day, "periodically" will become "frequently". One day, "frequently" will become permanent. He will giggle, slide to the floor and never look back. It will happen before I know it. He's already two ("… an' a half!", as he reminds me).

It's thrilling and heartbreaking.

I want to snuggle him to my chest, bury my nose in his hair and never, ever unclench my grip.

I want him to explore the world, the solar system, to discover far-flung galaxies made entirely of molybdenum.

I want a million more Toddler Astronomy Lessons… lying next to a Sagan in dinosaur pajamas, being kicked by tiny warm feet and regaled with tales of how, "It nighttime… the moon comes! When sun comes, it gonna be… daytime! Evybody get up!"

I want his sense of joyous adventure to persist long after he's left the lap.

I want this to happen, even as it's killing me.

What I don't want? Is another baby.

---

For years – even prior to his birth – I'd envisioned J.Q. having siblings. My sisters and I are extremely close; our bond has been a frequent comfort (and occasional lifesaver). The concept of what I wanted for myself didn't even register on my consciousness. It was an equation even my math-challenged brain could comprehend… siblings were good, I wanted good things for my child, ergo, producing a few more chilluns would be desirable.

Then my marriage collapsed, my life changed and the math got a lot more complicated.

---

August 1st, 2006. Independence Day. I tossed a few lawn 'n leaf bags full of clothing into my Civic and hit the highway. Not quite "Easy Rider", but still the wildest trip I've ever taken. Literally overnight, I went from doing the majority of the childcare in a dull, far-flung suburb to sharing half-'n-half custody while living in the heart of a major (if slightly urine-dampened) metropolitan area.

I fell in instantaneous love with the city. It was surly, grimy, difficult and entirely mine. I loved my block. I loved my neighborhood. But I especially loved a tiny stretch of I-676, just north of Center City. It's a magical patch of macadam if ever there were one. You're tooling along, surrounded by nothing but asphalt, contemplating ordering a pizza for dinner… then you make a tight left, and you're suddenly ENVELOPED by Philadelphia. It swells around you on all sides, twinkly and bright and enormous. You are hurtling straight towards the center of a place where anything can happen.

Not to kill a perfectly lovely analogy, but my life didn't always feel like that little stretch of highway. Much of the time, it felt like certain areas of West Philly… circuitous, confusing and terrifying.

However, the feelings of excitement and potential never fully waned. Sometimes – as I fumbled through challenges and gained a modicum of self-confidence – they were massive. They sprawled across the entire skyline.

I wasn't at all sure of my course. But I could feel myself being gently propelled forward… away from an unexamined life which had never really felt like my own, toward something brand-new, uncertain and scary, but definitely, unequivocally mine. Each aspect was carefully considered, wiggled into place, lab-tested again and again. Certain things immediately "clicked"… running, brutal honesty, walking home from work and letting the baby throw things in each and every fountain we encountered.

Other things took time. Relationships, responsibility, managing to wash the dishes before the apartment turned into Fruit Fly Island.

Some things just never seemed right. When I thought about having more children – immediately, at some nebulous future point, ever – my reaction was always complex. I'd imagine holding a tiny newborn against my bare chest. I'd sigh and smile. I'd imagine the late nights, the tears, the milestones, the sacrifice. I'd tense. I'd imagine embarking upon full-time parenting once again. My personal time, drastically reduced. My ability to pursue my own interests, harshly curtailed. My chances to revel in unabashed selfishness? More or less annihilated.

And I'd go out of my mind with terror and claustrophobia.

---

I'm a good mom to J.Q. Rather, I try to be... I'm a bit distrustful of anyone who claims to be a "good parent"; like being a good person, it's a continuous process. The effort must be renewed each day. So I try. I let him know how much he's loved. I give him relatively free reign to explore, experiment and play. I celebrate his quirks. I nudge him towards some semblance of morality. I buy him eminently cool shoes.

Do I love the almighty hell out of my kid? Yes.

Do I love parenting him? Yes, I adore it.

Every single minute? No.

Do I love the idea of parenting in general, outside of my own somewhat-unique situation? No. Absolutely not.

At first, I worried that sharing custody would make me a worse mother... that my parenting acumen was directly tied to the number of hours logged with my kid.

If that sentiment were any further from the truth, it'd have to be included in J.Q.'s Enormous Honking Book of Fairy Tales.

I've been a half-time parent for a little over a year. I am much, much better at this than full-time parenting. I'm happier. J.Q. is happier. I can't imagine going back.

When I'm with J.Q., I'm with J.Q. I'm not distracted by housework, hobbies or other errata - I try my damndest to take care of those on non-custodial days. I'm not teetering on the brink of burnout - I'm never more than a few days removed from a break, complete with adult libations, extra sleep, and eerie silence. My interests and J.Q.'s interests don't often conflict... they each have their time to be fulfilled.

Sound like luxuries? They are. They were bought at the expense of time with my child. While I cherish my personal time, I also miss the hell out of my little boy. I wonder about how he's doing, what acts of cute devilry he's plotting. Sometimes, I feel guilty. Sometimes, deeply so.

Nonetheless, our current arrangement feels right. Not right for everyone, of course... but it works for us. Parenting, Version One never felt this comfortable and copacetic. I was permanently exhausted. My stress level rarely dipped below the "OH HOLY SHIT!!!" range. I had a hard time summoning up energy, enthusiasm or much sentiment beyond nose-to-the-grindstone determinism.

Things would be different today, of course. There would be a different spouse... different living situation... different experiences... different me.

It's the last item which makes the real difference, of course.

The spouse, the house, the atlas of scars to guide my path... they're largely irrelevant. I'm different. Siblings might be in J.Q.'s best interests. However, my interests now get a say. They're a frustrating bunch... inconsistent and often unintelligible. However, one sentiment almost always seems to rise above the din. It's one of my son's favorite's, too: "Noooooo!"

---

Why would I want anything less for myself than I want for my child?

I want to explore, to branch out, to try and do and touch and feel.

I want to retain that little spark. I want to burn down a brushfield with it, race away with a grin on my face and embers in my hair.

I want a gamut of feelings as broad as Lake Baikal and as deep as the Marianas Trench. I want memories of both locales… being a speck of static on a vast field of gray frost, bobbing languidly above something unimaginably deep.

I want these things for J.Q., which is why I want him to grow up. It kills me, it really does... he's three feet tall. He uses an assortment of pronouns. He can solve problems which would stump your average reality-TV participant.

The baby years are over, for both of us. Because I want these things for me... or at least the opportunity to pursue them. Further years of child-rearing would put me further away from my goals and aspirations. Of course I'd love any hypothetical future kids... but that's not even close to sufficient reason to have them. I'd take a bullet for J.Q., but I'm not going to encourage the universe to start taking potshots.

I hope - fervently - that my reluctance to have more children isn't viewed as a reflection of my feelings on J.Q. He's the love of my life. Being his mother has been more profound than the greatest (or the schmaltziest) writer could ever express.

My heart is already tethered to his... wound up tight with Kevlar cord. Is it any wonder that it throbs so furiously when he's scared or upset?

That tie will remain even after his hand slips out of mine. It will still hurt. The ache won't - and couldn't - be soothed by the presence of another, tinier hand.

I want these things for us. Having tasted potential, I'll be better suited to describe it to J.Q. Having been suffused with hope and excitement, I'll be able to give them proper reverence.

I want him to dig his fingers into the damp sand on the beach at Pitcairn Island.

I want him to fall in love.

Hands and hearts.

May ours go wherever they wish.