Why I Want Health Insurance Reform

It’s very simple. I want everyone to have access to the same high-quality, timely medical care that currently only the well-off people can afford.

I have worked part-time for minimum wage to put myself through college. I know what it feels like to live without insurance, only I was lucky enough to be young and healthy at the time. I have been self-employed and I have bought my own insurance. I paid more than six-hundred dollars a month for coverage for me and my husband, and yet when I delivered my daughter by c-section, I still had a hospital bill that reached into the thousands because Blue Cross Blue Shield would only cover eighty percent of my approved expenses.

I want the people who get paid by the hour, the ones who don’t have fancy job titles and corner offices, the ones whose jobs don’t come with benefits and paid vacations, the ones who scramble every month to pay the bills and who can barely make it if they have an unexpected expense, to be able to have good health insurance that they can actually afford and to have the peace of mind that you get when you know your medical needs are being met.

Not everyone in America has a secure job and a stable home life that comes with a big house and an SUV parked in the driveway. It’s not a matter of being a grown-up or being lazy and stupid. It’s about a system that is basically unfair, that favors the few over the many.

It’s about a right that is more basic and more important than speaking your mind, or congregating in a place of worship, or joining a political party, because none of these things matter if you’re ill and can’t afford good medical care.

A is for My Daughter

My little girl’s name begins with an A. She is a five-year-old bundle of energy, a smart, inquisitive child, with a strong temper and a will of her own, but also with a tender, surprisingly vulnerable side.

She has become a little lady, tall and slim, with dark, glossy hair that is never long enough. Her features have changed in the past year, her face is thinner and more refined, and she’s grown so heavy I can no longer carry her in my arms. Part of me misses the toddler she used to be, and there’s a hint of sadness mingled with joy and satisfaction as every day my daughter is becoming more independent, and I am not as necessary as I once was. Most of the time, though, I am just happy to see her healthy and content, and enjoying the days of her childhood, safe in the knowledge that she is loved.

I have been challenged by her willful nature, her fearless determination colliding head on with the boundaries I have set, and our struggles with discipline have, more than once, left me feeling bruised and knocked about, but things are quiet now, we seem to have gained some maturity on her side, and calmness and perspective on mine.

I feel good about where we are, and watching her learn new things about people, and about the world in general is a pleasure and an exciting adventure.

Gray Day

I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself today. It’s been one of those days when everything piles on and I don’t have the strength to put on a happy face.

The word “Mama” being uttered every five two minutes jars on my nerves. I am homesick, and loneliness feels like a load on my shoulders that I can’t shake off. I am annoyed, too, that a new text message announcing another week of school closings due to security concerns arrived today. It’s the third week in a row. And to top it all, I have a rash on my face.

So, in order to cheer myself up I have decided to participate in the National Blog Posting Month for this year. I did it in 2007, and even though in my opinion it’s lost some of the fun since they turned it into a year-long thing, I think it will be good for me to have a daily goal, something other than changing diapers, feeding children and answering endless questions from a five-year-old. I love taking care of my family, and I do it gladly, but boy is it hard work. I sometimes think the life of a woman is a life of perpetual servitude.

29 to go…Here’s to a good November!

The First Year in Review

My baby boy is now fourteen months. He is no longer a helpless, fragile bundle of limbs, but an eager explorer of the world around him. I remember the early days of his life and I marvel at how far we have come.  The nights he wouldn’t sleep, the mornings when I felt like death, the throbbing, painful wound across my hips, and the agonizing struggle to get him to nurse, have all been replaced by peaceful nights, hugs and kisses, laughter and learning.

The journey as we got to know each other has not always been easy, there have been stumbles and false starts, the path littered with tears and heavy sighs, but we’ve made it. We have passed the colic pains, the crying fits and ear infections, and I am relishing his budding independence, his sense of wonder and his delighted reactions to every new discovery. There have been many highs full of joy, and some deep, distressing lows. The happy moments have filled my heart and given me a taste of what it means to love someone instinctively, before you even know them. The lows I could do without, but they too have taught me something, I have learned that they will pass, that a cool head will get things done, and that tantrums and crying fits don’t last forever. I have learned too, that sometimes I need help, and that knowing when to walk away and regroup is better than letting anger have its way.

Breastfeeding proved a most difficult, unexpected challenge. I considered myself a bit of an old hand to whom the act of feeding her child came naturally, and my first baby nursed well from the very first day, but none of that mattered with my new son. I decided to give birth in Pakistan instead of making the journey back to the United States, for logistical and financial reasons, and unfortunately birthing facilities here are not built with breastfeeding in mind, even the good, modern hospital where I delivered had a single recovery ward where patients are kept for 24 hours after surgery. My baby was not allowed in the ward due to the risk of infection, and by the time I was moved to my room, my son had taken a dozen or so bottles of formula in his first day of life. We suffered from nipple confusion because he learned to suckle with a silicon nipple, and he didn’t seem to like my breast at all. He was hungry all the time, and whenever I gave in and fed him formula, his obvious relief added to my guilt and anguish.

Sheer determination and my husband’s encouragement made me persevere, but I felt frustrated and useless, and many times I almost gave up. It was much easier to put the struggle on hold, just this once I would say to myself, and make up a bottle, but in spite of that I kept trying every day, hoping to give my baby a chance to learn to latch on properly, all the while pumping to maintain my milk supply and supplementing his feed with formula. I weaned him off the bottle when he was three months old, and now my boy nurses like a champ, the little bear!

My son is that rare thing in our family, a let-me-try-it, I-like-it, give-me-more kind of eater, who rejects baby cereal in favor of olives and tomatoes, bell peppers, chicken and lentil soup. He is easy to please, with a calm, gentle temperament, a healthy curiosity and a streak of wily determination that should serve him well in the years to come.

His wiry little legs carry him as fast as he will go, his face bunched in concentration, his hand pointing towards his goal, a look of expectation and a little bit of mischief shining in his eyes. He loves to be outside, sometimes he comes and grabs my finger, says something to me in his tongue-twisting speech and heads towards the door. Birds and lizards are his friends, he shrieks excitedly when they sit for a minute on the fence, and he hums a tuneless little song as he toddles around our tiny patch of grass.

Maybe the years that have passed since my daughter’s birth, and all the changes that have ensued since then, have made me see things more clearly, have enabled me to handle the unending responsibilities and constant exertions better, but mothering my boy feels much easier. I am more secure in myself as a mother, I trust my judgement more and I’m enjoying the little things in life with more enthusiasm. When my daughter was born five years ago, my life was very different. My husband and I worked constantly, and there was no barrier separating our work from our personal life, the stress and pressure seeping into everything we did, including parenting. Looking back on that time I feel robbed of the serenity that I needed to bond with my daughter as I should have. Living in Pakistan has its drawbacks, to be sure, but being here means that I can stay home and dedicate myself to raising my children without jeopardizing our financial stability, and for that I am grateful.

I am there to witness every milestone, to soothe away the tears and listen to every story. Sometimes I lie down on the bed with my little son, his eyes looking straight into mine, his legs curled against me, and I smile. I smile because I am happy, my heart is open and love feels natural, uncomplicated and free. I am keeping this special time in my heart, treasuring the hugs, the shaky steps and funny faces. I want to keep them safe in my memory forever, the looks and sounds and words etched in my mind so I never lose them, not even when I’m old and dried, and many years have passed.

This has been a magical time, full of fun and tenderness, despite the hard work. My son has been a beautiful, lovable piece of heaven, a soft, roly-poly morsel to hug and kiss, a cooing, smiley face that has kindled my affections with every curl of his lips and every twinkle of his eye. Yet the best part of all is that I know that there is more to come. I am eager to meet the little boy he will become, I am ready and full of hope for the future.

Around the World in 80 Clicks

My friend Charlotte, who was my first blogging friend, has tagged me for a meme  for mothers who live in far away lands. I can answer the call perfectly, because I am a mother, and I am definitely in a far away land.

Five Things I Enjoy About Motherhood

1. On a hard day it’s difficult to think of one thing I enjoy, let alone five, but I always love how a hug can truly change my mood and make me happy. Even on the worst day, the sincere, eager embrace of my children does it for me: the clouds pass, the brow unfurls, the smile begins.
2. I enjoy the sense of purpose. I know that I am needed and wanted and that knowledge gives meaning to my life, regardless of anything else I may have to deal with as a woman, a wife and a human being.
3. One of the best things about being a mother is that I have someone to love, to shower with affection, someone who right now truly belongs to me and not only wants my love, but actually needs it.
4. The opportunity to mould a human being, to try to teach kindness, compassion, and a sense of honor. I look forward to the chance to cultivate a mind, to share the learning and the wonder, to see it all through my children’s eyes and explore the world afresh. I hope to instill in them the love of books, the respect for nature, the appreciation for beauty and peace, for words, music and art. There is so much to do and that is wonderful!
5. I feel safe having a family of my own. This little family of my own making is like my little nest, my niche in life, the rabbit hole that I can run to when things get tough. There will always be a connection between us, no matter how much distance there is, or how much time passes. I have it with my own parents, and I look forward to having that tie with my children as they grow up and become my dear friends.

I will not tag anyone, because it seems everyone I know is doing this meme, but if you feel it suits you, consider yourself tagged.

 

The right dose

My hands are full caring for two children these days. My baby boy is now six months old, and he is a placid, friendly child, with a ready smile and an easy temper. He is soft, like a pillow, with a tasty double chin and the promise of a dimple on his right cheek. He has learned to miss me when I leave the room, to cry loudly when I take a toy away, to sit up and to raise his arms when he wants to come to me. I am very grateful that he is healthy and happy, and the evenness of his temper allows me to care for my daughter with attention that is almost undiminished and unchanged by his arrival into our family circle.

Most of the time motherhood is a joy. It is very satisfying to feel that I am doing a good job, that my children are growing up in a healthy, stable environment and that I am giving them a happy childhood, but as much as I enjoy parenting, I am facing a challenge that is causing me much concern. My daughter, who will turn five in a few months, is a lively, intelligent little girl, eager to learn and happily exploring the world around her. She is also fearless, headstrong and very determined to have her own way and that is where my problem lies.

My approach to discipline is based on the idea that I am teaching my children how to live, and that every action I take regarding their upbringing should be a conscious decision. I believe in correcting bad habits and reinforcing good ones. I think children should be told when they do something wrong, but I always explain my thinking when I scold. I believe that teaching our values starts from the cradle, and so does the learning, because I don’t think unruly toddlers will suddenly turn into obedient, respectful young people.  I don’t spank, but I do raise my voice when nothing else will do, and I’ve used the naughty step with some success, at least to instill a hard-won sense of regret.

I am realistic enough to know that I shouldn’t expect obedience one hundred percent of the time, but I would like the limits that I have set to be respected and acknowledged. I want to be in charge,  and my daughter fights me for almost everything. If I tell her not to walk without shoes on the cold tile floor, I have to say it fifteen times a day and more. If it’s time for the t.v. to be off, there are tears and tantrums. Proper food was a daily battle until I gave up making myself miserable over it, an episode that deserves its own post.

My daughter questions everything. Every rule I set is tested, and although as I write this and she sleeps peacefully within view of my computer I feel I could be overreacting, I do not exaggerate when I say that every time she pushes the boundaries I have set, and every time she defies me, and every time I lose my cool over her disobedience, I am filled with a feeling that I can only describe as heartache.

How do I know when to let her be? How much should I expect from a child of four? Am I being unkind by setting so many rules, and what should I do when she breaks them? How much discipline is too much? And what if she cries? All these questions assail me and make me doubt myself.

Sometimes her tears break my heart and I feel awful, like a heartless witch who is stealing her childhood away, but then my instinctive response is no, I care too much about the kind of person she will turn out to be to let her grow up unchecked and without guidance, and I say to myself that I am doing the right thing and that I will give her the benefit of my advice, regardless of how hard it is for me to bear.

My greatest fear is that I will trade her obedience for her love and that by being the one who sets the limits, I will destroy my relationship with my daughter. Nothing prepares you for parenthood, not even wholehearted dedication. It is a constant, never-ending effort. I liken it to some ancient craft that takes years of minute, painstaking, repetitive labor. It’s the true bit of ivory.

I feel that essentially I am right, that limits are good, and that maintaining standards of behavior is important, but after much thought and internal debate I realize that my daughter may respond better if I am gentler in my approach, softer in my delivery and more tender in my expression. I express my love for her all the time, many times a day, but finding the right dose of discipline will be my main focus in this new year. She obviously resists me when she thinks I am too strict, and perhaps I am, so I have decided to let some things slide and rethink my priorities regarding some issues that are relatively minor. I remember a woman I knew who used to say that her daughter couldn’t pick and choose when to obey her, but with a strong-willed child like my little girl, I have come to accept that less conflict is more important than total submission. My goal is not to control her and simply make her do what I say, but rather to teach the principle behind the rule.

I should not forget that there is love in discipline and that I should allow it to come through, even when I scold. I will try not to forget that I am the adult, and that it is up to me to set the tone of my relationship with my children.