Why is Exercising at Home so Hard?

Posted on January 14, 2013 by Scattermom

I started trying to exercise at home 3 months post-partum with Elliot. A replicable correlation existed between his screaming and the first televised frame including a pony-tail/sports-bra wearing person.

Since I agreed with his peevish irritation at these women–- and their functioning pelvic floors-– I was quick to turn them off in favor potato chip. Or 50.

I considered joining a gym, with childcare. But they are expensive and none of them send a limo to my house forcing me to actually go. Exercising at home is so hard– but going somewhere else to do it is harder. For me.

Then I started running. And I ran. A lot.

Then I didn’t run for a long time.

And I won’t run in the dark, or on the treadmill.
Or in a box, with a fox– wait, I got mixed up with Dr. Suess again.

A) Refusing to run at night while still B) wanting to run should logically result in C) waking up earlier.

Logic– she be a bitch. Attempts at molding myself into a cheerful, alarm-clock setting, morning person continue to be ~~completely~~ unsuccessful.

Wait– you are a morning person; 2 AM is the morning. Technically, yes– but unhelpful for my purposes as I’m certain that most of those running at 2 AM are being chased.

All of the above frippery merely to announce that I queued a bunch of fitness/dance/yoga videos on youtube so I could ~~torture Elliot~~ workout in the afternoon.

I’ve asked Elliot to join me– especially with the kick-boxing– to which he responds by gently suggesting that I’ve lost my damn mind.

He and I– we’ve got a thing.

Thus, imagine my surprise, when during the belly dancing portion (don’t judge– have you seen the curves on traditional belly-dancers? Obviously these are my people), E sat up from his self-imposed couch prison, cocked an eyebrow, and said,

“wow, mom. You can really shake your butt!”

I’ve decided that he’s complimenting my superior dance moves, rather than commenting on the jiggle in my wiggle. But I sneaked cauliflower into his lasagna as revenge, just in case.

This is My Body

Posted on July 24, 2012 by Scattermom

Stop right now and watch, This is My Body by Jason Stefaniak, and go share it with everyone you know. Then–and only then– come back and read this.

I don’t need a hero and I don’t need saving– because I’m not in distress.

Love this. I’m not sure though that the Vagina Attacking Republicans ever intended to save anyone. At least not anyone who now, or in the past, rocked a set of ovaries.

My pursuit of orgasm is neither unnatural, nor dangerous, nor scary, nor an infringement of your religious activity.

I mean, really. Female orgasms aren’t mysterious– most of the women in my cohort are doing just fine. Or perhaps John Boehner’s fear is that we will tell his wife how to achieve one? And then she’ll know he’s been lying to her all these years?

Vagina, vagina, vagina, vagina– labia– vagina, vagina, vagina– clitoris.

I determine who, and what, goes into my vagina.

If I wanted something hard and plastic in my vagina, I would buy a vibrator. However, writing legislation to force women into having transvaginal ultrasounds prior to performing abortions sounds a lot like forced vaginal penetration. Which sounds like rape.

Okay, I have just a wee tangent here, thanks to 3 hours of reading the 2013 proposed budget, and then trying to comparing it back to budgets from 2006, 2007, and 2008.

I’m a fiscal conservative, y’all! I very much OPPOSE the amount of money spent on the global war on terrorism (current new favorite Bushism is a line item in the DoD budget marked “other” for 900 billion-ish dollars), the war on drugs, and corn subsidies. Very much OPPOSE.

According to the 2010 US census there are 156,964,212 women in the US. Of course, getting an accurate count on the rates of forcible rape is difficult– made more so by how the event is defined for analysis purposes.

The numbers are horrifying.

In 2007 the Office on Violence Against Women (as part of the DOJ) received 2.7 million dollars.

On page 24 of a November 2007 JEC report, they note spending $432 million dollars per day in Iraq.

Yup, that’s small spending all right.

Allowing myself to be penetrated once does not assume your right to do it again.

I don’t pray, but AMEN. I went down a rabbit hole filled with rape/sexual assault laws (did you know that the US doesn’t have a national definition for rape?) and came out the other side feeling sad and ashamed.

To sum up how I feel? The parameters of these laws suck.

I know my physical and mental strength.

We’ve come too far in our quest for equality to stop now.

Got Juice? Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead

Posted on April 5, 2012 by Scattermom

I went through a documentary phase and netflix made a (surprisingly) pertinent recommendation– Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead.

I am fascinated with the sheer amount of bad food Americans eat. My lifestyle– though better– still needs improvement.

I do love my precious-es…internet, and books. Once I tried to internet surf while running on the treadmill– not recommended.

I need to teach my children about informed food choices– now. Not that I expect them to always make the wise food choice– at 5 and 3, I’m just happy they have (mostly) stopped eating food dropped on public floors.

And that took 3 years of constant reminders before they (mostly) stopped that behavior.

Anywho. Despite generally liking fruits and vegetables, I find it to be annoyingly difficult to eat enough of them. Salads are yummy, but they do not meet the consume-while-driving criteria. Apples are portable—but they require a commitment. And remembering to place the apple trash where it belongs, else you will be hunting for what’s-that-smell. Or you will get ants in your car.

Good times.

I sneer at meal replacement shakes– full of artificial crap and just begging for an uncontrolled food-shoveling during the sensible meal.

Let’s face it, eating an entire large pizza has, at points in my life, made PERFECT sense. The perceived definition of sensible kinda being a large part of the problem.

Or, the fasting cleanses like the Master Cleanse, where you are advised to drink lemon juice, cayenne pepper, and maple syrup. And don’t forget the laxatives!

Oh– I’ve totally used both the aforementioned– often with weight loss success.

But, oh how they made me a monster hypocrite. At dinner, pleading with my uber-picky, clinically-skinny kid to please, for the love of not starving yourself, just eat, whilst sipping on my spicy sugar lemonade and NOT EATING. The master cleanse adds up to about 800 calories a day– all from the ~~sugar~~ maple syrup.

But juicing? Could I? Would I remember to buy fresh vegetables? Would I buy fresh vegetables, get distracted, not noticing until it was too late that the kale had slunk off to the gelatinous green smear of the Vegetable Dark Side?

Could I? Yes. Would I remember to buy fresh vegetables? At least enough to make a juice of some sort. Would kale launch a celery stalk offense, while screaming “LEEK, I’m your father”? Oh yeah– a couple of times.

Here’s what I learned.
1) Eating juiced fruits and vegetables isn’t that difficult. The fiber in that stuff is really filling and my stomach wasn’t actually hungry. My eyes were hungry, but my eyes were what got me into this flabby mess– they aren’t to be trusted right now.

2) I’ll stop adding milk and sugar, but I’m not giving up caffeine. I’ll even substitute green tea. But take away caffeine entirely? Nope. That’s not compatible with my life, my brain function. For the love of… I am prescribed amphetamines. Not. Giving. Up. Coffee.

3) At dinner, I ate a spinach salad topped with avocado. One, because I missed chewing and wanted to eat dinner with my family. Two, I didn’t want to stop running during the reboot and my body needed a bit more fuel oomph to handle both. On longer run days, I also made sure to have more carb-heavy things, like sweet potato juice.

4) Beets juice will make your urine red. While the Small People found this fascinating– it didn’t motivate them to try beet juice more than once.

5) In the beginning, the Small People wanted nothing to do with me, or my juice. Then I made apple juice–um, YUM. Now they will always at least taste. Children who would not take cash in exchange for one bite of cooked kale will drink Green Juice, served in a 3 ounce shot glass.

To make 3 ounces of juice, you use a lot of kale and other assorted fruit/vegetables. So much that those 3 ounces goes a long way (if not all the way) toward meeting a child’s daily vegetable requirement.

I feel like I’m finally winning one not-so-small food battle, which makes the 439th day in a row of PB&J a little easier to swallow (pun intended).

No Calzone, NO

Posted on February 27, 2012 by Scattermom

How do I feel about this whole being fat thing? Meh, I am overweight; that’s reality, it’s not cruel, it just is. Some people like to run around saying they aren’t defined by their weight– liars. You are, I am, she is, he is. I am defined and categorized by my weight, in the same way I am defined by my sex, my height, my hair color. All are a part of the whole that is me. But none of them stand alone.

Does it offend me, deep in my soul, that I ran 42 miles in February and lost ONE pound? Honestly? Of course it does! I’m no masochist– I don’t run because I love it with the same love as I have for the internet, or my books. Puh-lease. Now I run because it helps me tame the ADHD that threatens to take my brain off into SQQQUUUUEEEE land. Now I run because it helps me tame the impatient short-temper that I get from being surrounded by the leg-humping, stalker-worthy parts of being a SAHM.

But I started running because it’s the quickest, easiest way to lose those last 20 (30) pounds, right?

Wrroonnnggg. Not if I finish off a 3 mile run with a giant plate of nachos. After a day of finishing the food-left-behind by obnoxious children who are stubbornly trying to disprove the “children won’t starve themselves” hypothesis.

I ran yesterday, 6 miles at a pace of 10:35 per mile. That’s approximately 850 calories burned, leaving 2650 in order to lose a pound this week.

We went to Mellow Mushroom for dinner last night where my fat cells tried to crawl over my common sense and convince my brain that we deserved a cheese calzone– all that running, you know you want it. At 820 calories that calzone would have wiped out an hour of running.

It’s not that the calzone doesn’t taste as good as skinny feels—it totally does, another lie perpetuated by the desperately delusional. The taste of that calzone, however is NOT worth an hour of running. Instead I ate a respectable 395 calorie jerk chick hoagie.

——>>> Shiny Squirrel! it occurs to me, just now, that I would have paid a helluva lot more attention in algebra if they would have started talking about something I cared about– weight loss– instead of trains leaving stations. Just saying. <<<<--------

Yeah, my weight defines me, to a large (get it– large?!) degree.

Individual perceptions define individual truths– anyone smaller than me sees me as heavy, anyone large than me sees me as healthy. The only person’s opinion that really matters in any of this is mine.

What cannot be determined by visual scan happens to be the weirdest truth; I’m the healthiest I’ve ever been. Even Other Self, with all of her perky boobs and porn hair, was rotting her body with mountain dew, cigarettes, and booze. She certainly did NOT participate in any sort of consistent exercise, unless one counts smoking as bicep curls.

So, it’s with that strange reality–that I’m technically healthier, even at a heavier weight that makes me a winner. But I’m still gonna get back into those size 8 jeans, too.

Half Marathon Training, Dirty Dancing, and Frozen Spinach

Posted on September 10, 2011 by Scattermom

Quick– when you see those words, what things pop into your head?

The newest thing in runner’s training programs? Future reality TV show pitch? Le sigh, I wish.

In June, when I first posted about running a half marathon, I was excited and optimistic. Back then there were many weeks before October 16th.

In August, I was still optimistic, having gotten up to almost 7 miles, though slightly less excited (running long distances on a treadmill is mind-numbing and it was HOT outside), and starting to procrastinate my training.

Some nights I had to really force myself to the treadmill. I knew it was a bad sign that I was already bored after 1/4 mile. Having skipped some days already, I also knew I couldn’t afford to skip that night’s run.

Which is how I ended up doing my best Rocky shadow-boxing imitation, while simultaneously mimicking Jennifer Grey’s mambo steps from Dirty Dancing. On a treadmill. During a thunderstorm.

Wait– WTF does a thunderstorm have to do with anything?

Well, had there not been a thunderstorm, Cruiser-Dog wouldn’t have been in the basement. He definitely wouldn’t have attempted to save himself from the lightening by climbing on the treadmill with me. Where, if you recall, I was totally absorbed in my mambo-step, shadow-boxing thing.

See, that fact that I almost fell off makes perfect sense now, right? And that slight twinge I felt in my hip that night didn’t worry me much. The crushing pain on the next run, 2 nights later, was a little wince-worthy. But I rested, iced, and ibuprofen-ed.

The throbbing pain I felt last week, on what should have been just a picturesque beach run, was more ominous.

The frozen spinach currently resting on my hey-don’t-forget-you-messed-me-up-hip, after a brief 2.97 mile run (outside at least!) is making me nervous. Nervous in that, oh shit, what if I can’t get healed, get trained enough to run that damn 13.1 mile race-thing coming up in 5 weeks? Which is something I might have to accept (but not yet!).

See, I’m out there for fat girls everywhere!

—————-> Squirrel: I do love watching/hearing from the folks that have all kinds of opinions about the nutrition/exercise habits of the chunky folk. By love, I mean it’s one of the many things things that make me twitchy. All of those assumptions sourcing from the (incorrect) belief that being thin is somehow synonymous with healthy and strong. Which is, of course, utter and total bullshit. Strength and health are determined by many different things– numerical weight being only one data point.

In the olden days, my extra layer of fat, child-birthing hips, and large knockers were considered the ideal demonstration of femininity. I like Rubens; he was a smart man. While I’m not the svelte size 8 I expected to be after 5 months of regular running– I am surprisingly toned for my size 12 body. And if a size 12 was good enough for Marylin Monroe… END SQUIRREL <———

Still, with regard to running– my advice to the masses is to save the Jennifer Grey mambo-stepping for unmoving surfaces.

Perspective

Posted on July 17, 2011 by Scattermom

Only 12 weeks left until I have to run 13.1 miles. To accomplish this, I need to increase my running distance by a little less than a mile each week. Which, though still a challenge doesn’t seem so impossible to me anymore. Even as I sport sore shins after yesterday’s not-quite-5-miles (ahem, 4.62) outside run.

JB did me a solid tonight when he listened to me talk about how I’ve been all running like Forrest Gump yet have only lost 5-ish pounds. I mean, really. I ran 4.62 miles yesterday morning AND went to the pool with the kids in the afternoon. Other Self could watch someone else do that, while chain-smoking from a chair, and still lose 10 pounds.

As I pointed all of this out to my supportive–but not in the gratuitous blowing smoke up ass way– husband, he threw out the hand signal for “Stephanie, shut up”. He proceeded to remind me that Other Self was holding on to the cliff of mental health by one broken fingernail. That Other Self was existing on adrenaline, Mountain Dew, nicotine, and adderall. In other words, Other Self was a teensy-tiny bit Bat Shit crazy.

Alright– so he has a point. A valid one, even. But Other Self, in those 5-6 months before getting herself knocked up, had finally morphed into the Ultimate Hotness (my definition by the way– because who else’s definition matters?)

She’s my control group; my goal. She’s who I look up to, when I’m looking down on myself. But then, in that way that all women have of cutting down other women, I remember that she never turned 30, since pregnancy had already killed her. Rather than repeating Other Self’s 29th birthday celebration– tequila shots in a bar named Hell–my 30th consisted of snarfing down a 16oz T-Bone steak followed by a chocolate cake chaser. Hiding my expanding abdomen in my muumuu…er, maternity dress.

Which is how I ended up laying on the floor, kind of whining about how it wasn’t fair that I’m not already 20 pounds lighter; after all, I’ve been running for 6 whole weeks already. I pontificated about caloric intake data, peppered with descriptions of my resting metabolic rate, finishing with caloric burn, only to sadly confess, “yet I’ve only lost about 5 pounds”.

Then my Quiz Bowl Team husband just tilted his head and said– “um, based on the equation you just gave me, your math is right.”.

Oh. Um. Crap on a stick. Since June 5th, I’ve run 48 miles and burned 4586 calories. And since there are 3500 calories in a pound… well.

I’ve got some more running to do until I find her again. ::absently strokes computer screen in a loving, yet creepy, way.::

But it’s hard to miss her too much, and celebrate the fact that I’ll never, ever see this me again.

Whatcha Running For

Posted on June 20, 2011 by Scattermom

Beyond just getting excited and signing up for something because I need the motivation to do what needs to be done exercise-wise? Why else am I running?

First and foremost– because exercise is the easiest and cheapest snake oil* for a lot of what ails ya.

Mildly Depressed? Exercise.
Kind of Anxious? Exercise.
Nights with Insomnia? Exercise.
Too much ADHD? Exercise.
Constantly irritated by almost everyone around you? Exercise. Or move to an isolated island, where it’s just you and a 25 year old cabana boy that does laundry just the way you want it done.

*Better living with chemistry– totally. I’m a personal big fan of chemistry. However if I can change my shit, or lessen my shit, with a reasonably simple lifestyle change, I’m gonna do that, too.

In the interest of full disclosure, lest anyone be fooled into thinking that I listen to my own preaching, I’m not known for my dedication to planned physical activity. Technically I believe the words I’ve said most often to JB were, “I fucking hate it and I’ll do it tomorrow”. I’m active– hell, two kids I don’t have much of a choice. But I’m certainly not running while posting this blog…so.

But I’m suffering from Filter Failure, and getting increasingly frustrated with people (some of which is deserved, some of which is not).

Filter Failure [fil·ter fail·ure]
-n
1. The point which the invisible barrier between the brain and the mouth has been stretched beyond the critical mass point. Prolonged exposure to a compromised Filter is ill-advised. Key Filter Failure prevention methods include: finding Spock-like logical people, avoiding any and all emotional outbursts, submersion in long stretches of silence.

Um… Spock? We have a problem. Assuming that no one else in my life every went batshit over anything, living with a 4.5 and a 2.5 year old is the dictionary-picture antithesis for all of the Key Filter Failure Prevention Methods. And I’m a girl, regularly exposed to other girls. Some of whom also happen to be mothers. Dude, it’s astonishing that my filter has made it this long without suffering from black hole spaghettification.

Obviously it’s time to restructure the Filter Failure prevention methods.

While I ran myself out of a funk on the Treadmill of Love last night, I started thinking about how, for the first mile or so, my brain was in this pattern:

I’ll just do a quick run tonight.
13.1 fucking miles, Stephanie. In October. So far you’ve run 1 1/4.
Dammit. Okay, I’ll do 2 miles.

Then suddenly I got to 2 miles, P!nk was next on the play list and I started thinking, you know what? I’m not going to quit until I’ve gone a little further than last time. 3.19 miles later, and I’m walking upstairs thinking about how I couldn’t run that far last month. Then I get an email from my smartphone app telling me that I had just beat my last personal best. Well! Then I take a shower, read my book, and sleep the sleep of a Quiet Mind.

Impressive enough, the Quiet Mind sleep– but you know what else? For about 30 minutes of that treadmill time, there were only 3-4 thoughts, two of which were actually related to running. The only other time I can say I’ve had that kind of focus was giving birth to Elliot. That no-drugs-birth-thing went a long way toward forcing my brain to be in the moment. Since then, attempts to recreate that attention state have failed.

For me, running is cheaper than therapy. I know what’s wrong with me (other people *snort*). Running that bullshit right on out of my head? Yeah, I could get down with that.

Rephrase: I did get down with it– and it felt great.

My First Half Marathon

Posted on June 6, 2011 by Scattermom

Wait, let me say that again– Half. Marathon. Running. 13.1 Miles. Me, at 5’4 carrying 180 pounds of ~~pure muscle~~ leftover pregnancy fat. I’ve ~~totally been running regularly~~ have sporadically ran a mile.

That’s right, party people, Scattermom is going to be hoofing it in the Ramblin’ Rose 1/2 Marathon in October. Of this year.

Training and running a half marathon is totally on my Bucket List. That, by the way, was a huge, whooping lie. The only item currently on my Bucket List is to make a Bucket List. The Bucket List sounds so romantic. Sitting down, either alone, or with one’s partner, and detailing a plan for all this cool life experience. Me? I narrow my eyes at the romanticism, recognizing it for what it will become–yet another documentation of great ideas, unfulfilled, mocking me every time I clean out the drawer it’s been shoved in.

So if not a dreamt of goal, how exactly does one go from haphazardly running a mile here and there, to registering to run 13.1 miles?

1) Both Small People nap at the same time.
2) I ~~waste most of that time on Facebook~~ catch up on the lives of my close friends.
3) A good friend posts about registering to run.
4) I do a “whoot-whoot” and offer to wait at the end with a mimosa.
5) Next thing I know, Annie says, “hey, let’s be our own team and run it”.
6) I scoff for about 25 seconds, find out it’s not until October and before you can say, “Hey, did you take your afternoon dose of adderall”, I’m hitting submit on the entry form.

Then my dear, darling husband sparked my competitive streak by reacting with wide eyed amusement asking, “did you know how many miles that was before you paid” (No, but that’s NOT the point).

As I ran through my first mile in dunno-how-many months, I worked myself up to being obnoxiously excited. Six-ish years ago, I did a 5K– as a smoker, with a sprained ankle, in August. Being almost lapped by an 80 year old could have been embarrassing, but dissing on him would be ageism, and discrimination is wrong.

There are now several motivators, starting with:

Vanity

I do believe I turn 35 this month. Look, I’m not going to lie. I could shit-care-less about that number. Maybe there aren’t as many 3am party nights, but– you know what? There were many 3am– and beyond– party nights. My liver thanks me for being cool with not being in that place anymore. But what better way to say “fuck off middle age” than to set a crazy goal Right? With the power of a woman that can not hear Mom, MOM, MOOOMMMMYYY I’m ignoring the voice that keeps whispering about slot machines and strippers in Vegas. With age comes realism and all I can see is me, easily distracted by shiny objects, prone to impulsivity, in a pawn shop with a gaping whole where my extra kidney should be.

So maybe no to Vegas.

There are 30 more pounds to lose before reattaining Other Self status. And 40 before attaining the Bad Ass–as in, I could kick yours–Status that floats around my head during games of Chutes and Ladders.

I’ve enjoyed running, those rare times when it’s been a regular thing, because it’s quick, reasonably painless, cheap, and doesn’t require choreographed moves in a group class-setting. Drunk at a bar– I’m a rhythmic, gyrating fool. Routine fitness class– more pathetic, drooling buffoon. Running has a certain grace– if you can zone out.

And there my friends, is the clincher. I can run and let my mind wander off at its leisure. And, wow does it go some places, but that’s for another day. Today I just want to say thanks to my ADHD, as it occurs to me that my (dis)ability to make randomly impulsive decisions also works in my favor.

Now, off to spend some QT with Rammstein, Nine Inch Nails, Method Man and P!nk, pretending I’m training for a preternatural showdown, for which my latent powers are the only thing stopping total world annihilation.

What? You think about something else during exercise?

You Spin Me

Posted on May 11, 2011 by Scattermom

right round, baby
right round like a record, baby
Right round round round
You spin me right round, baby
Right round like a record, baby
Right round round round

Yes, you are all most welcome for next few days where that bad 80s song-now-remade-because-original-thought-is-dead will spin round in your head.

My head spinning thing is more about some really obnoxious dizziness mixed with crushing fatigue. Fatigue on adderall? See, that’s just not right.

And after being all good-adult and getting a physical last week my lab results came in. Is my thyroid whacked out like I hoped, thus giving reason the inexplicable 10 pound weight gain in February? And also allowing for a super simple better-living-through-chemistry pill fix?

Nope, thyroid is fine.

Am I like all other women and anemic?

Nope, just the opposite, in fact. Instead of being iron deficient, I am iron overloaded. Which leads to more tests, and some hours spent with Dr. Google. As it turns out my lab tests most closely resemble the pattern of thalassemia, except for that not being Indian, Asian, or African. Unless someone has something to tell me– RIGHT NOW.

There are some other possibilities, none of which make me feel warm and fuzzy– at all. My follow up is this Friday, and I’ve vowed to stay off WebMD (and/or the office of Rare Diseases) until then. I’m drinking water like a good girl. Coffee and tea, too– since they block iron absorption. Oy, can you imagine how high my iron would have been without my excessive drinking of those particular liquids?

My Vitamin D is also too low, so I’ve been popping those like candy. Like really large, kind of burpy candy, but still. I kind of want an EKG since I’ve been on those amphetamines for like a decade and heart issues are spread like a not-so-comfy quilt on both sides of the family tree. How about a whole body scan, hmmm?

Getting old. It really is eye opening. Not clearly visioned, since I also need glasses. But opening.

Things That Make Me Twitchy

Posted on January 31, 2011 by Scattermom

I think I’ll start a whole new line of thought with this, so I can complain and bang my head in confusion, all while getting out some of my twitchy.

In general, I’m twitchy about a lot of stuff– pick one: the environment, the war, money-hungry corporations that get to steal whenever, Monsanto, both political parties, CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, Rush Limbaugh, health insurance companies, racists, sexists… I mean, seriously– I twitch a lot.

And I can rile up some righteous indignation with the best of ‘em, though I admit that I have decreased the amount of time devoted to Soap-Box-esque anger since that first kid expelled himself from my uterus.

But this Gosnell guy in PA? And the accompanying Grand Jury testimony (which is just 281 pages full of what the fuck) makes me want to hit things. My first thought is that his (preferably virgin) ass will likely go to prison, where he will certainly enjoy the hell that is the US penal system’s prisoner-delivered justice. That makes me a little happy.

As a pro-choice woman with children–yes, I absolutely am–I read this with disgust, horror, and fear. The disgust and horror need no explanations. The fear is because of the undertones of, “see what happens when the Democratic, baby-killers are in charge” peppering those 281 pages.

Instead, the Pennsylvania Department of Health abruptly decided, for political reasons, to stop inspecting abortion clinics at all. The politics in question were not anti-abortion, but pro. With the change of administration from Governor Casey to Governor Ridge, officials concluded that inspections would be putting a barrier up to women “seeking abortions”.

Seriously? Instead of the detestable situation standing alone, this is going to morph into a political pandering and/or the example by which all of the pro-choice will be judged? Of course it will.

Let’s be clear– this was a business, run for profit, with apparently no government agency intervention, despite repeated complaints. Since y’all had to get political about it, that sho’ nuff sounds like a conservative Republican-type scenario. Viva la Capitalism and small government, right?

Hence why I’m twitchy, all of my Republican friends. You can’t have both small government involvement and proper government oversight. You cannot shout your moral outrage about the miscarriage of justice from the responsible agencies, while your wee hands are busy cutting the funding from those same agency’s operating budget. Well, I mean, you CAN, but it’s really hypocritical and totally counter-productive.

Should one of those big ol’ state government agencies caught on and stopped this misogynistic serial killer a decade ago? Um, yeah. Is the lack of funding for these agencies–you know the ones that are “in charge” of the poor, uninsured folk (at least that’s what the phrase Health Department symbolizing in my head)–a regularly reoccurring theme in the Republican rhetoric? Um, yeah. So, while you’re getting all politically indignant and making subtle hints about the ineptitude of government agency oversight, make sure Mr Republican Governor, that you note how your own Party’s tendency to slash social service programs is also largely to blame. Which, of course, you won’t.

For the rest of us, tired of watching the never-ending, political circle jerk to which we’ve become so accustomed– let’s just remember that this clinic has been operating in a country where abortion is legal. Yet, there it was, a time capsule straight from the 1950s, and a reminder for every American woman born after 1973 that all of the horror we feel right now was, in our not-too-distant past, the norm. Legality will not change the availability of abortion services, because the law cannot regulate a woman’s desperation. But instead of facilities that are safe, sanitary and compassionate our country will be full of buildings like those run by Gosnell and his ilk. Again.

Ladies, we should all remember– regardless of our individual beliefs about abortion and/or birth control–that without the availability of reproductive choice, none of the vagina’d would enjoy the freedoms we don’t even remember not having. The feminist movement wasn’t just about being allowed to work: it was that women, as a unit, have the right to control when and how we carry children. Without things like abortion and birth control pills that simply would not exist. In countries where women are not given the same reproductive control, they do not enjoy economic and social freedom. It’s Just That Simple. Consider that while you sit in front of your computer with your college-education, maybe a working mom, maybe a stay at home mom–or perhaps not a mom at all.

I wish everyone would focus their time and energy on the children that are living and breathing, cognizant that they are unwanted and abused, hungry and cold. As heartless as it may seem to some, a fetus cannot–and does not–consciously feel the loss of its life, because it doesn’t yet have the ability for conscious thought. But that 5 year old girl that is being raped by her father every night, after falling through the cracks of an underfunded, understaffed Child Protective Services department? Yeah, she not only has the capacity of conscious thought, but the ability to quantify her worth by those that aren’t helping her. If all of the moral outrage (and thus money and effort) funneled into anti-choice movements was redirected into domestic and child abuse programs, imagine the children–alive and miserable right now–who could be warm and safe tonight.

But social programs for the poor are too expensive. Right.
Twitch.

Scattermom

Continual Distraction for a Scattered Mind

Category Archives: Women’s Health