My Thanatopsis

My first experience with death was the passing of my great-grandmother when I was six. I still remember visiting her, prior to her death, at my great aunts' house. Withered and paralyzed in her legs, she so little resembled me or even my parents that somehow she seemed hardly human. I remember her always sitting in the back bedroom in a blue velvet chair. When she died, I had a “Wizard of Oz” inspired dream that my aunts Barbara and Maureen had dropped her off in heaven in a hot air balloon. Maureen and Barbara had round trip tickets, of course. And though it was strange that my grandma was no longer perched in her chair the next time I visited my aunts, I felt at peace. It all made sense: Grandma was old and now she was in heaven. I could live with that.

In my life, I have had little experience with real grief or real death. I mean yes, my grandma (not great) has since passed and there are other people, too, but the people I have been close to who died were within the right window of time. I had it all figured out. You see, I imagine the future with the same certainty as the past: there is a time line when a life starts and then after it goes on long enough; it is OK with me for the time line to end. Don’t get me wrong, I miss grandma, but I can’t be too upset that she died. For me, she died within the acceptable window. As I have heard said, “it was her time.” OK I can live with that.

I, like most people when faced with adversity, blame modern American society; not because we have it so bad, but perhaps because we have it so good. We have managed to isolate ourselves from our common, inevitable end in every way we can. Death is ugly; however, thanks to contemporary scientific and technological break-throughs, it has all but disappeared. Even the meat we buy comes neatly packaged in Styrofoam and wrapped in plastic. It hardly resembles a living organism other than that little smear of blood found on an absorbent pad under each chuck roast. Or consider the profits of plastic surgeons slicing away what the hands of time have worked so long to alter. The unspoken modern syllogism: aging means dying and death is ugly, therefore aging is ugly. Let’s pretend a while longer that we are immortal. Like elephants, people have even kindly found a place to die conveniently located away from the rest of us. According to recent statistics, anywhere between 75-90% of all Americans die while in hospitals or nursing homes. The dying are nothing if not considerate. Need more proof that we are in denial about our final, collective outcome? Consider the body before it is interred. Generally, the undertaker has gone to great lengths to remove all traces of death in order to create a sort of a human tromp lo’iel effect: grandma is still here. She is just asleep. Either that, or the corpse is reduced to a few handfuls of ashes that resemble nothing.

And so, the result when faced with real, untimely death, we contemporary Americans are innocents; blind-sighted and unprepared to deal with the thought of anyone close gently slipping into that good night. Perhaps I generalize too much. Perhaps I mean me.

Less than two weeks ago, there was an untimely death that took place in my own back yard. Not my husband or my children, but a dog. A coyote got over the wall and saw, not the beloved family shih tzu, Sadie, but an early morning meal. My other dog, a wizened Jack Russell terrier, sounded the alarm and my husband responded. We were all too late. Sadie was dead.

I feel childish comparing the death of a pet to that of human beings, but her absence has been a bit of a tragedy to me, starting with having to tell my children, one by one, as they awoke that Sadie was killed. My four-year-old, Scott, responded that I was wrong and went looking through all of the rooms in the house, certain that Sadie was right there; ready as always to greet him. It took only just a minute for him to realize that Sadie was gone, permanently. So my oldest three children and I wept in intermittent waves all day. We talked about Sadie and how she warmed us as she curled at the foot of our beds. We said how sad we all were that she would not greet us at the door any more with her riot of unbridled gratitude that we had, once more, returned to her. We even pulled out the pictures that Megan, had colored in her first grade class when hospice had visited the school. I found myself grateful for the coloring book titled “Life Losses” that had seemed inappropriate and macabre in the hands of my six-year-old just a week before. We cried again when we came home and my two-year-old announced, “Sadie’s not here. Only Jax. Sadie is in the box.” I cried again late that night when Scott woke up, drowsily crawled into my bed and wept silently with no affectation, for his lost friend.

Less than two weeks have passed and the kids have moved on. They can mention Sadie without tears and remember her happily. I no longer hear in thin, pleading voices, “Mom, I miss, Sadie.” My eight year old has even mentioned that it is kind of nice not worrying that the dog will chew her toys if she leaves them on the floor.

I still miss Sadie, but I don’t tell my children. I am glad they can live with that. Even so, with Halloween approaching my daughters are, for the first time, afraid of the plastic skulls and funereal decor. For the first time they want to know if I think ghosts are real. I approach the question mythologically, logically, theologically trying to vanquish their fears. For all of my efforts, Megan won’t brush her teeth in the bathroom by herself. In the end, Sadie’s untimely death has left none of us unscathed. My children are now left to contemplate how drastically ones life can change, even while asleep.

As for me, I wonder that I still grieve the passing of my pet, more so perhaps than that of some people. But, Sadie threw off my timeline. She was young; Jax was old. Jax would die and there would still be many good years with Sadie and she would sleep at the foot of Scott’s bed and be there, waiting to jump all over me at the door. And so, the inevitable truth that I have come to recognize as I look at the downhill side of my thirties: that between my husband of ten years and our four children, I have a lot invested in the certainty of my life and that fixed timeline of my future, that now seems less indelible than I once thought. I understand it is not death that I fear. It is grief.

Mother Colors

Rumor has it that I have given up on my blog altogether. OK that's just me being optomistic. No one is actually talking about this blog at all. Anyhow, I have written a few odd things that I am going to indulge myself by sharing with you here.

The following is a satirical piece I wrote and actually submitted to one of my favorite magazines Brain, Child. I was solidly rejected, however, those who can get published. Those who can't self publish. OK so I'm not Erma Bombeck, but here it is:

What’s Your Mother Color?

Have you ever wondered what your mommy style is? With this simple quiz, you can determine the color that fits your unique parenting profile. Circle one for each item.
1. When describing my children to my friends, the word one would most often hear me say would be
a. “cute”
b. “genius”
c. “brats”
d. “gin and tonic”

2. The meal most likely to be served at my house would be:
a. vegetarian stir fry with organic tofu and bok choy served on a bed of brown rice.
b. a tasty, original casserole pulled together from last night’s meat loaf and Tuesday’s mashed potatoes.
c. only the touch of a button away. I have the number for the nearest pizza joint programmed on speed dial.
d. mostly comprised of condiments.

3. My underwear drawer contains:
a. hot lingerie for alone-time with daddy.
b. hot lingerie with maternity panels and nursing accessible cups for “alone-time” with daddy.
c. only items marketed as “control top”.
d. nothing. I usually get my panties direct from the dryer.

4. The reading material I provide for my children is:
a. the “Wall-Street Journal.” After all, you can never start them too soon.
b. Harry Potter or The Chronicles of Narnia. Nothing feeds young minds like fantasy books in a series.
c. the closed captioning option during “Dora the Explorer”: entertaining and literarily bilingual!
d. the back of the cereal box. Whose first words weren’t “free toy inside” and “high fructose corn syrup?”

5. The contents of my vacuum dust bag are usually:
a. non-existent. I promptly empty my vacuum after each use.
b. pony beads, silly bands, and crayon pieces.
c. cheese puffs mingled with dirt and pet hair.
d. non-existent. Let’s hear it for free-range dust bunnies!

6. My greatest consideration when planning a family vacation is
a. its potential to be simultaneously entertaining and educational.
b. maximizing family togetherness (i.e. small tents, single bed hotel rooms, compact cars).
c. affordability.
d. the availability of convenience stores between “point A” and “point B.”


7. My favorite disciplinary threats
a. are seldom employed. I rarely have to resort to them with my little darlings.
b. often lead to the confiscation of one or more video game consoles.
c. usually result in me turning the car around and/or pulling over.
d. involve hypothetical clones of the offending child.

8. My biggest fear as a mother is that:
a. phenylketonurics are, in fact, carcinogenic.
b. that my mother’s curse will come true and I will have a child exactly like myself.
c. that some children never will potty train.
d.
that my grandmother’s curse on my mother has come true and that my mother did have a child exactly like herself.


9. When seeking parenting advice, my best resource is:
a. the experts. I study up on what published psychologists and doctors have said.
b. people I know. I like to consult my friends and family first.
c. my mystical eight-ball. It always gives me a clear and immediate answer.
d. Oprah.


10. I usually cope with day-to-day stress by:
a. taking time out to relax and enjoy the company of my children.
b. exercising or doing yoga, especially focusing on deep breathing techniques.
c. smiling. It’s amazing how perfectly natural I look even while gritting my teeth.
d. gin and tonic.


Scoring: For each “A” answer score yourself 2,000 points. For every “B” answer score yourself with 500 points. For every “C” answer give yourself 100 points. For every “D” answer give yourself 2 points.


20,000-12,000 points: Your color is magenta.
Buoyant and sparkly, you are the mom everyone wants to be. Someday there will be a bronze statue erected in your honor. Not even the pigeons will dare poop on your likeness. You go, girl!

11,999-4,000 points: Your color is burgundy.
Intelligent and efficient, you can pull off anything. Your neighbors come to you for your sound advice. No one ever needs to know that you caught your son lapping rain water off the back patio during his “puppy” stage. You deserve a pat on the back for all you do. You go, girl!

3,999-300 points: Your color is vermillion.
Eclectic and energetic, you are a mother with a talent for flexibility. You know how to survive all conditions. So what if your kid had lasts night’s leftover carpet popcorn for a snack? Whether they’re admitting it or not, everyone else’s did too. You go, girl!

299-20 points: Your color is puce.
(Who has the time to add up the points for these stupid quizzes anyway?) Savvy and fun, your unique parenting style sets you apart from the rest of the crowd. Besides, your kids aren’t mismatched. They wear different colored socks on purpose and they pull it off, too. Your children are generally happy and so are you. Gin and tonic! You go, girl!

The Poetry of Pregnancy

When I deliver a baby, my first thought is not to count fingers and toes or to check for family resemblance. Usually, I am much more selfish than that. My first thought is, Hooray! I'm not pregnant anymore! I have heard moms talk of how they love to be pregnant; how they even feel sexier than usual, or how they feel vivacious and energetic. I wish I could claim that I handle pregnancy with as much aplomb. I can't.

I feel huge, uncomfortable, overheated, and about as attractive as an over ripe pear. Mentally, I am simultaneously out of focus and prone to obsession. I could make a list of strange obsessions I have experienced while pregnant, but it would be far too telling and inexplicable. If you are acquainted with my blog, you can probably guess a few of them.

Sometimes I get so caught up in the woes of pregnancy that I forget the wonder of it. As always, I turn to literature to remind me that life is, in fact, profound and that there is nothing more profound and meaningful than its perpetuation.

I would love to compose a poem about the pregnancy experience, but I have broken the one cardinal rule of poetry composition: to write poetry, one must read poetry. I confess that I simply haven't picked up a book of poems in quite a long time and so, I must rely on what already exists.

My husband has disliked Sylvia Plath since he had to read her poem, "Daddy" in a college English course. I agree that "Daddy" is a little bitter for my tastes as well, but, when I read "Metaphors," Sylvia is my friend once again:

Metaphors

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,

An elephant, a ponderous house,

A melon strolling on two tendrils.

O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!

This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.

Money's new minted in this fat purse.

I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.

I've eaten a bag of green apples.

Boarded the train there's no getting off.

Ironically, sometimes it is the male poet who is able to see past the physicality of pregnancy and to take it to a more transcendent level. This by contemporary poet Bill Kloefkorn, State Poet of Nebraska is about as gorgeous a thing as has ever been written:

Covenant

Here is the story I might have heard,

More likely dreamed: the woman

after the first trimester

required by village covenant

to compose a lullaby,

to sing it daily then

to the gathering child, only

from memory and in deliberate

isolation,

the man not permitted to listen

until the infant had been delivered

and pronounced both whole and

welcome. And this ritual

I'd go to church to live with,

solace in the belief

that not so very far away

always a woman sits singing her own

creation

to that small creation breathing

as if a delicate fish inside her,

always not so far away

a confluence of word and of music

flowing somehow into the ear

of the unborn,

there to do whatever the inexplicable does

to sustain us,

my mother meanwhile who couldn't

carry a tune in a washtub

singing as she carried the washtub

outside to empty the rinsewater,

that same tub later

filled with the well-wrung

family wash, each item on the line

moving in the breeze

like a quaint crustacean,

each movement singing.

And finally this excerpt from my favorite Dylan Thomas poem.

from Fern Hill

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white

With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all

Shining, it was Adam and maiden.

The sky gathered again

And the sun grew round that very day.

So it must have been after the birth of the simple light

In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm

Out of the whinnying green stable

On the fields of praise.

Perhaps it is time for me to consider something other than the centimeters and percentages of childbirth and to ponder and enjoy the small universe of my womb; to appreciate that kicking writhing creature whose creation like all great creations starts, "In the beginning. . ."

A Letter to my Dears

As you know, I am due at the end of July. I went to the doctor today and he informed me that I am at 1.5 cm and 50% effaced. (The 1.5 could be the result of 3 other deliveries or it could be that I'm actually making progress.) Whatever the case, he felt as if I might have fewer than 5 weeks. Music to my ears!

Oh, Spare Me! (A VBAC post)

I’ve always prided myself on being a bit of a skeptic.  It’s not that I don’t believe in the supernatural, for instance. It’s just that I don’t think ghosts or aliens have much personal interaction with the inhabitants of planet earth.  I approach social causes in a similar frame of mind.  It seems to me that the greatest interest of most charities happens to be the kind accumulating in my bank account and how to get me to proffer it up for their “good causes.”  Before I sound, completely selfish and curmudgeonly, it’s not that I don’t support social causes and charities; it’s just that I want to know that my money is actually being used for good and is not just contributing to some administrator’s BMW fund.

Of course, I’m not anti-woman or anti-minority, but I do feel as if worthy causes get exploited to pull at the heartstrings of a sympathetic, gullible public.  The inverse is also true; sometimes causes I feel most strongly about seem to slip by with very little notice. 

I also submit that nothing stirs the ethical pot like reproductive issues.  For instance, consider the years of controversy over abortion, and, more recently, the hotly-debated topics of stem-cell research and cloning.  Why else the fascination with Octomom: hubbub over a woman with a lot of kids, and the public eager to stand as ethical judge? (Not that I support or sympathize, it’s just that there are bigger fish to fry.)

What reproductive issue, you may ask, could be more  important than a mother who has voluntarily sentenced herself to raising 8+ teenagers all at the same time ? My answer: VBAC's.  Ha!  Chances are you haven’t heard of them even as they are increasingly endangered and drawing close to extinction.  VBAC is the acronym for “Vaginal Birth after Caesarean.” (I know, bleck!  That’s why we call them VBAC’s.)

Currently, nearly one third of babies are delivered in the U.S. via Caesarean even though, according to the World Health Organization no more than 15% of babies should ever have to be delivered c-section.  The results of the overuse of this operation: increase of pre-term infants, increase in infant and maternal mortality rate, much longer maternal recovery time, baby is born drugged and groggy, mom is drugged and groggy and thus unable to give baby optimal care directly after delivery, and (my personal major gripe) c-sections often screw up the first, crucial moments when breastfeeding needs to be established.

On a more personal level, many hospitals forever sentence mothers to c-section:  my local hospital maintains the policy of once a c-section, always a c-section.  So as to avoid unnecessary abdominal surgery, I have had to resort to delivering my babies out of town in hospitals that are more willing to work with VBAC moms and now, even those hospitals are raising a wary eyebrow at my request.

So, why are healthcare professionals unwilling to let some mothers walk into their clinics and simply give birth?  They always claim the risk of placental accreta otherwise known as placental hemorrhaging.  VBAC deliveries, as all with all deliveries, present a certain risk that the placenta will rupture.  The increased risk of placental hemorrhage during a VBAC delivery: .5%.

The truth is that doctors and patients alike are attracted to the seeming ease of the c-section.  They love the idea of being able to schedule a delivery, but overlook the amount of risk involved by interfering with birth in its natural course.

Due to the increasing scarcity of VBAC friendly hospitals, with this delivery (which will be my third successful VBAC), I have been told that if I want to avoid the knife, I may have to schedule my surgery, stand-up the surgical team, allow myself to go into voluntary labor and get far enough along before I reach the hospital that the doctors will have no choice but to let me deliver the baby.

Am I intrepid enough to take on the hospital?  My pleasure!  Some causes are worth fighting for and I believe in a woman’s right to forgo unnecessary major surgery.  Of course, my definition of hell is a place where I am tied down and slashed open against my will; and where toddlers forever smear apple sauce across the kitchen floor that I am doomed to mop eternally (but that’s a different post.)

What can actually be done:

*For anyone who may read this and is interested in fighting the beast, the best approach is 

1-  Avoid ever getting a c-section.  How?  Pregnant moms should not let their obstetricians induce labor unless absolutely necessary (i.e. major risk is posed to mother or neonate.)  

2- If you are in the same boat as I am in and have already had a c-section and want to VBAC, I recommend the following:

a) Do not let your doctor discourage you or tell you that you are unable to VBAC without proving it first or presenting you with a darn good reason why you can't.

b) Link up with ICAN (International Caesarean Awareness Network).  They are a wonderful support and have a bevy of good information and studies that support VBAC's.

c) Try to find a doctor or birthing facility that will support your plan to VBAC.  This is often easier said than done.

d) Have a plan before you actually go into labor.  (Especially if you are VBACing for the first time.)

e) Talk to mothers who have VBACed.  It really does help.

  

Precisely Pregnant

* My disclaimer:  if, dear reader, the following post applies to you, please bear with me as I am somewhat of a grammar martinet. What I am suggesting is that the fault may lie more with me and less with you.  Please understand that I love you and have not judged character based on the following.  Therefore, at the risk of being less popular than I already am, I proceed.

I have never been one for euphemisms.  I like words, so I see no need to pad the actual meaning of something with a softer, less-precise substitution.  I like the power of words, therefore,  I even have a hard time with phrases like "passed away."  "Passed away"  is so vague, so transitory sounding.  At the risk of seeming insensitive, I prefer the precision of "died."  You know, the Wallace Steven's "Emporer of Ice-cream"  approach?  "Let the lamp affix its beam. . ."   What is IS and really no words can soften the blow or change the facts, so why not say it as it is?  I feel that my preference is a practical one and helps facilitate clear communication (however, I am also one who feels that the rules of proper grammar are for disambiguation and not solely to inflict torture on composition students. That's just an added bonus.)

There was once a time when the public at large felt that "pregnancy"  was too strong a term.  It was just so suggestive, so adult and thus, all of the euphemisms for pregnancy came to be. Proper women were not "pregnant," they were "PG" or "expecting" or "in a family way"  and babies were either found in the cabbage patch or delivered by the stork.  It's funny that people were ever squemish discussing what is not only natural and obvious, but also essential to the propogation of the human race. So, why the taboo?  

Thankfully, it seems we have gotten over ourselves and are no longer embarrassed to admit that humans reproduce sexually, however, the euphemisms still exist.  With the advent of political correctness, the world, post-feminist movement, still resorts to the old euphemisms with their old puritanical undertones, but has given them a new face.  Why else do modern day couples announce the forth-coming members of their families with the phrase, "we're pregnant?"  

The declaration of  "we're pregnant" baffles me.  It is impossible that both a woman and her husband are pregnant.  As much as I would love to share child bearing duties with my husband, such will never be.  "We're pregnant" is biologically an incorrect phrase therefore, it is also grammatically incorrect (in the same sense that it is grammatically incorrect to say that a person is "quite pregnant" or "quite dead."  Either s/he is or is not.  It is not correct to state absolutes in qualified ways.)

I also find that the phrase diminishes my (the woman's) role in pregnancy.  I am the one who deserves the credit for carrying the child for 40 weeks, therefore, I get to claim pregnancy status for myself.  I get to be the one who can, unabashedly, look a person in the eye and say, "I am pregnant."  What is so hard about that for a married woman who has obviously procreated on 3 previous occassions?

I agree that in the age of paternal ambiguities, it is nice to acknowledge my husband for his small though crucial role in the conception and his vital and ongoing role as father, so I might add something to the effect of, "and my husband and I are very excited to be expecting our fourth." However, until the day Brett dons pants bearing a tag illuminated with the words " adjustable maternity panel," I reserve the honor of being pregnant for myself.

Mothers' Unofficial Day

Mothers are the guiltiest people in the world.  We blame ourselves for practically everything.  If our child has a cold, it's because we didn't bundle him tightly enough or give him enough multi-vitamins last week.  If our child has a milk allergy, it must be because we fed her dairy at too young an age or because we ate too much ice cream when we were pregnant.  It's true; there is no end to the amount of blame mothers heap upon themselves for everything that goes wrong. It's ludicrous when you think about it.

The irony is that everybody lets us take the blame.  Modern psychology dictates that people are the physiological and psychogical product of their parents. Criminals and sociopaths are more than happy to twist that logic and shift the blame to their upbringing.  Time and again they sing the song of neglect and abuse as an excuse for their excerable behavior.

Not to be misunderstood, I don't want to diminish the role of the mother or to underplay the importance of her impact in the lives of her children.  It's just that so often mothers live an existance of paranoia and guilt.  It seems to me that the very best mothers are those who feel the worst about the way that they have raised their children.  They forever lament, "If only I  had.  .  .  my child might be happier/ more secure/ more productive."  How ironic that the truly negligent mothers are those who never feel guilty about and are constantly defensive of their parenting.

OK, so maybe you fed your kids mini-donuts before sending them to school today, and maybe one your son's socks was navy and the other was black, but it's time to let that go.  I assert that for the rest of the day all of the good mothers who know they try their hardest but fall short of perfection sit back,  take a much-needed deep breath and just for a moment, let go of the guilt and fear.  Don't focus on your three-year-old who still has accidents, or your son who bloodied another kid's nose on the playground last week.  Think about those great and simple moments when you didn't even have to remind your son to share his toy with his younger brother or when your daughter thought to have you help her bake cookies for a sick neighbor. You gave them that, too.  

For one moment think of all that has gone right and pat yourself on the back.  You deserve it!  Please share some great motherly moments.  What better way to celebrate?

Tut! Tut! Looks like Rain.

The infamous monsoon season is upon us. Here in Havasu, we haven't had rain, but today is overcast and muggy. Today is also a small landmark: my oldest child's first day of kindergarten.

Like all parents, I anticipated this day and have done everything I can think of to create as smooth a transition as possible for my daughter. I have stayed at home with her the first 5 years of her life and now she will be gone the entire day. OK, I know it's not a big deal for many kids, but Katie is sensitive by nature. Sometimes, when we're just visitng a city park her face will cloud up.
"Katie," I ask, "why are you crying?"
"Mom, I'm tired. I want to go home."

You can see why the thought crosses my mind that today might be a little difficult.

My friend and a veteran mother herself, LouAnn, told me, "You'll drop your daughter off at kindergarten. She may or may not cry; but you'll cry."

Not me! I have always prided myself for my lack of sentiment. I didn't cry at my high school graduation! My friend, Michelle, and I even made up alternate words complete with hand gestures to "Pomp and Circumstance." I have to admit, however, there is something about motherhood that, for me, kicked in when I first held Katie in the hospital. There's this extra sappiness (I blame hormonal changes) that instills itself in the heart of each mother. For some, it happens as soon as they find out they are carrying a child, for others of us it takes something as momentous as childbirth to catalyize its onset. You know, its the kind of setimentality that allows you to use maudlin phrases like"the heart of the mother," and that makes you tear up over reality television programs about multiples being born. It's sort of disgusting, but it is an unstoppable force.

My daughter tries out her new morning routine. I mark large black x's in the chart I made to help her easily move through each task. She's dressed in comfortable (though adorable) pink capris. She has donned her new backpack that is teeming with school supplies I meticulously packed the night before (mostly to give the teacher the impression that there is a concerned and attentive parent attached to this child.)

My husband walks Katie out to the front porch for pictures. "Smile. Say cheese."
Katie never says "cheese" or smiles for pictures; she tends to shy away from cameras. To appease us, she strikes a pose and smirks at the ground.
I try to make her laugh so we can get something more natural looking. Katie is a huge Pooh bear fan. "Say Tut! Tut! It looks like rain." I tell her.
Now, a smile.

Brett loads her in the minivan and off we go to school. The parking lot is packed, so we find a spot down the street. I pull her across the crosswalk; the crossing guard greets Katie. In her traditional manner, she looks at the ground and says nothing.
"Hello." I explain, "She's a little shy."
"We'll take care of that here," he says.

We hear a whistle blow beckoning the kids to leave the playground and line up for their teachers. I drag Katie by the hand and dash toward the school yard so she won't be late. I line her up with the other kindergartners. The teacher is hovering over her new students and reading their name tags. Parents stand and watch like spectators as the kids get ready to walk into their classroom.

"Goodbye," I tell Katie and give her a hug and kiss. "I'll come back soon."
I turn to leave and look back one last time. Tears are streaming down Katie's cheeks.
I want to turn around and hold her and talk to her until she is OK with the arrangement.

Her teacher's voice sounds over the din of the other parents. "OK, Kindergartners, I will be your mom for the next few hours."

I ignore my impulse to comfort Katie. My years of experience as a babysitter have taught me that trying to talk her through it will only make matters worse. I blink my eyes a few times and turn to walk away a little faster. Tut! Tut! Looks like rain!