ChiKat

Because of a problem with our bill, I had to call AT&T today. This is always excruciating because no matter when I call, the recorded voice tells me that it will be a ten minute wait (which is always twenty minutes in reality). In this case, it took twenty minutes for someone to answer, then they had to transfer me which resulted in another twenty minute wait.

This, I'm sure, is not news to you since it happens to anyone dealing with a utility company. Forty minutes of smooth jazz is painful enough. Having that forty minutes continually interrupted by a recording that told me I could go online for instant answers was even worse, since the "online instant answer" was to CALL customer service.

However, I got a chuckle at the end when the customer service representative corrected my billing problem, then said that he could probably save me even MORE money. He asked me what my cable/satellite service was. I told him we used an antenna.

There was dead silence.

Then he said, "...er...what does that mean...wait, you mean rabbit ears? So you, like, don't pay ANYTHING for your television channels?"

What a conundrum. Apparently, it is hard to save money when I don't spend money.

One of my relatives is in fourth grade at a public school on the north side. It's in a decent area. Not a great area, but certainly better than our neighborhood. He came home one day with a black eye. It turns out that he was beat-up by a group of ten-year-olds on the playground. His mom was really upset that the school didn't call to tell her about the fight. Then it happened again. And again. After questioning him, his mom found out that he was beat up when he refused to hit another kid in his school. Every week, this group of ten-year-olds would demand that he hit another kid. When my relative didn't, he was punched.

His mom was furious that this was happening repeatedly. She demanded to know why the school wasn't preventing the fights. The school explained that the fights were happening in the morning on the playground. Classes don't start until 8:30 and the school couldn't afford to pay for someone to supervise the students who arrived before 8:30 and waited on the playground for classes to begin.

The mom pulled the boy from the school and found a different school for him. The mid-year transition was tough on him, but he's doing much better now. His experience was a wake-up call for my husband and me.

One of the things my husband and I talk about a lot is how we are going to educate our son. We're both public-school kids, so the idea of private education for our son isn't appealing. We do believe that there are private schools and suburban schools that probably offer a better education than the Chicago public schools. But my husband and I feel pretty comfortable being able to supplement a public school's curriculum with trips to the museum and our usual high-level of dork-tastic conversation at dinner.

However, we have huge concerns about our son's safety at a public school. How will he get to and from school? Will he be safe on the playground? Will he be safe in the classes?

I find myself in favor of all sorts of "big brother" tactics that my liberal background screams against. Suddenly, the idea of kids having to walk through a metal detector* to get into school seems like a fine idea. A kid doesn't need a cell phone, blackberry, knife, gun or any other metal device at school.

I think I'm being too extreme, but then I run across the following statistics on the Internet:

"During the period from January 1, 2006 - June 30, 2006, there were 5,508 physical arrests in and around schools made, 27,899 student school absentees found, and 20 guns recovered."

Do you have kids in public schools? Do you feel like they are safe? Is it the schools job to keep them safe?


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* I mention this knowing that the schools can't even afford supervision let alone metal detectors.

A new YoChicago post is up:

But news of the event reached the local gangs. They came to check it out also. The parking lot was already full, so when the gangs arrived with their cars, the exit to the parking lot became blocked. It took 16 police cars to create an exit route for the departing parents and students.

In the summer, one of our neighbors sits on a stoop outside his apartment building. He has always been nice to us, and we usually chit-chat about the weather.

The other day, he was outside wearing a baseball cap. The cap had the American flag and an emblem on it, making it look a little like it might be a military hat. I asked him about it, and he said it was just a cheap hat from Walgreen's.

But he knew what I meant, because then he added that he was in the Army in '68. I'm woeful with dates, so I wasn't sure what that meant but I felt like it was significant. I thanked him for his service and told him about my brother (who is scheduled to return to Iraq in February). My neighbor mentioned his daddy was in the army, and that most of his people served in some way or another.

I wanted so much to ask him what it was like for his dad to serve. My uncle served in WWII. I've done a lot of research on the battle during which my uncle was killed. At the time, many Marines didn't even know that African-Americans could BE Marines. Even after passing boot camp, African-Americans were rarely allowed on the front lines. But they were able to work the supply lines, and many volunteered to go onto the battlefields to carry out the wounded.

When you carry out the wounded, you have to use both hands to carry the stretcher. You can't protect yourself. You are a target. Yet so many volunteered because the wounded needed medical attention. That courage moves me deeply.

My neighbor's father was probably too young for WWII, but he still would have been in the army at a time when civil rights was a hot issue. I wanted to ask him what it was like for his father, but I wasn't sure it was appropriate.

Afterwards, my husband mentioned that '68 was the year of the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, a dramatic turning point in public opinion about the war and arguably one of the worst years to serve in Vietnam.

Now I want to ask my neighbor about that, about what Vietnam was like for him, both as a soldier and as a black man. But again, I'm not sure that is appropriate.

I'm constantly trying to be respectful of boundaries, but sometimes I feel like I'm missing out on so much by being polite.

We live close to a university campus. The campus is beautiful, but the students tend to be a bit dorky.

The other day, I met my husband on campus and he said, "I can't believe that you're 8 ½ months pregnant and you still have a better ass than 90% of the undergrads here."

Considering how much I've felt like I have been waddling lately, that was the sweetest compliment I have received during my pregnancy. I told me husband that, and he said, "Thank God. Once I blurted that out, I was worried you would freak out because I was admitting to checking out other girls AND finding 10% kinda hot."

Well, when you put it that way…

My husband says that he used to think the scene in Alien when the alien bursts out of the belly was so creative, but now he knows it was just some writer watching a pregnant woman's belly. Because it really does seem like there is a creature in there that has more control over my body than I do and really, it NEEDS TO COME OUT.

I feel disconnected from my body. Earlier in the pregnancy, I delighted in each change that happened. Now, after 36 weeks, I am still randomly running into things because I forget how much my belly sticks out.

I forget that I need to roll onto my side to get up, because my abdominal muscles have been split apart.

I am surprised at how much my ribs hurt, even though they have been hurting for several months now.

There are so many things that I am thankful for (No morning sickness! No stretch marks!), but this is not my body. This is a pregnancy body. I want my body back.

I'm 36 1/2 weeks pregnant. I found out I was 2 cm dilated at my last doctor's appointment. It was my first internal exam. I thought it would be a lot like a yearly gynecological exam, where they carefully explain, "I'm going to touch you here now…ok, now I'm going to insert this…ok, now I'm going to swab that…"

I guess when you are preparing to deliver a bowling ball, they don't worry about having a gentle touch. The internal exam consisted of her saying, "Spread your knees apart more" and then SHOVING her hand up my vagina. I was a little startled, to say the least.

When she told me I was 2 cm and likely to deliver before 40 weeks, I was totally surprised. My girl friends were all two weeks late, so I was prepared for that. Early is a treat, considering how ready I am to not be pregnant anymore.

Finding out that this baby was going to be a reality in the next four weeks was a bit mind-blowing. I took all the classes, I decorated the baby's room, my husband bought a timer…but still…a BABY? That SOON?

Ah, reality.

The eighth month was the hardest month of pregnancy for me. My back pain was at its worst. My ribs felt like they were cracking in half. Despite gaining only 22 pounds, I felt huge and awkward and I suspected that I was waddling.

Then the baby dropped, and I had a little more breathing room. My ribs are still ready to crack, but the back pain is much, much better. One out of two is good enough for me. I am pretty delighted.

During this last month, my one odd pregnancy symptom has been the fact that often, when I am walking along, my leg will start to fall asleep. I've learned that if I poke my belly, the baby will move and I will regain feeling in my leg.

Some of my girl friends read a nursery story to their pregnant belly every night, and swore that when the baby was born and heard that story, the baby reacted to it. I had other girlfriends who put headphones on their belly and played classical music to the baby with similar results.

I don't doubt them, but I've never been inclined to communicate with my belly like that. Apparently, my main method of communicating with my baby is poking my belly to try to regain circulation in my leg.

I feel like this says something significant about me.

My husband wanted to know what he could do to help with labor and delivery for me. The baby books have a lot of suggestions for massage and music and encouragement. Since I hate being touched, noise and being told what to do, my husband was a bit at a loss. But I know the one thing with the potential to help me is time.

It helps me deal with pain when I have time limits. When my RA pain wakes me up at night, I set limits. If I'm still in pain in 2 hours, then I will get a heating pad. If I am still in pain in 4 hours, then I will do some yoga. Etc.

If I have a limit in my head of how long I will allow the pain to last before taking action, I'm able to accept the pain much more. I stress less and relax as much as is possible.

So the one thing I need from my husband is a timer. How long between contractions? How long does this stage usually last? How long, how long, how long?

On my list of things I needed for baby, there were 1,500+ items. My husband added "watch with timer" to the list. At my baby shower, I received all 1,500 items (give or take a few returns and exchanges). No one bought the watch. So this past weekend, my husband and I picked one out.

He's ready. The baby's room is ready. I'm ready. Hello? Baby? Anytime you want, feel free to come out! You dad has a watch!

One of my favorite signs on spring on the south side is the crotch rocket*. I live a few blocks from the Midway, which is a long stretch of park that has only a few traffic lights. As soon as there is the first hint of nice weather, groups of 40+ bikers will suddenly zoom down the Midway.

When I first moved here, I was a little horrified of the huge biker groups, mainly because they drive insanely fast, blow through red lights and travel in packs that would certainly kill my dog and probably me if we aren't paying attention.

But now that I've learned to pay a little more attention to the oncoming traffic (because obeying traffic lights is often optional for the bikers), I have a total fondness for the bikers. It's like the return of the song birds from the winter migration…only these song birds reek of diesel.


I talk more about the Midway in my latest YoChicago post:

I'm sure someone gets paid a great deal of money to decide how the trash cans should be arranged. Possibly that person is related to Todd Stroger.

* According to Wikipedia, the correct term is "sports bike" or "super sports bike". I've never heard them called anything but crotch rockets.