When I saw the bannner headline announcing Saddam Hussein's execution stretched across the top of nytimes.com last night, I was horrified. More horrified even than seeing the video still on the page this morning - the one showing masked executioners placing the noose around Hussein's neck on Iraqi television. By this morning it was old news, so the shock had worn off.

The shock was the brutal reminder of how barbaric we are. No purpose can be served by killing Saddam Hussein. (Some might say the only thing to be accomplished by this execution is the creation of a new martyr, but I think it would be tough to turn Saddam Hussein into a martyr. Of course, if anyone is up to the task it's George W. Bush. But I digress...)

The man has ceased to be a threat. In fact, the minute he had to be checked for head lice by an army doctor after being pulled from his spider hole, he became nothing more than a pathetic figure. So now we have all the power and he has nothing, not even his freedom, and killing him just proves that we are bullies. (I recognize that it was the Iraqis who did the deed, but we are certainly complicit, if only because we also practice capital punishment.)

I happen to think killing him lets him off easy. I think real punishment would have been forcing him to live confined, stripped of wealth and influence, his toys and palaces, his power and command, at the mercy of others. But the suffering of Saddam Hussein is not what concerns me; I'm more concerned about raising my kids in a society that says it's okay to kill people as a punishment for killing people.

The Boy's favorite game of late is running around with his buddies shouting "Kill! Kill! Kill!" When we tell him to stop, he says, "I'm just killing the bad guys." We tell him killing is bad. We tell him good guys don't kill people; they put the bad guys in jail. Thank god he's still too young to read the papers.

Pre-weekend update

Zoloft apparently works. At least, sort of. Over the past week and a half, my obvious and oppressive depression has morphed into a much more manageable and understandable anxiety. Sometimes it's still overwhelming, most usually first thing in the morning. But especially with TheBoy going back to school next week -- after two weeks at home, including a few days when I've been home alone for several hours with both kids -- I'm starting to find more and more moments each day during which I think, "I've got this under control."

Control seems to be what all my angst is about, which will not shock anyone who knows me very well. Having a baby around the house feels ... like a complete loss of the ability to manage my time. I still, to a shrinking extent, feel like my life is dictated by her schedule. We can't go anywhere in case she wants to eat. If she's sleeping, I can't start a project in case she wakes up. I know babies cry, and yet the prospect of her spending a few minutes complaining strikes terror in my heart. But as I said, it's getting better -- whether that's the drugs or just the confidence that comes with time, I dunno.

Here's what I do know: Stay-at-home moms, particularly those with more than one kid in tow, are saintly. I could not do this full time for longer than the three months or so I'm taking off. There's the lack of intellectual stimulation. The frequent calls of, 'Play with me,' by a child I know is perfectly capable of playing by himself. The panic attacks that set in when I realize that, while #1 wants my undivided attention, #2 would like to stick my nipple in her mouth. And I'm not yet capable, either emotionally or physically, of giving them both what they need at the same time.

Things I am grateful for these days: Anti-depressants, lactation consultants, breastfeeding pillows and the nice folks at the county library, who opted not to make me pay an embarrassing amount in late fees today. Did I use the baby excuse for why that stack of books was a week late? What do you think?

Merry, merry

I hope you all are enjoying a happy holiday season. We celebrated something of an orphan's Christmas today. AnnaRay's brother and his girlfriend came down from Seattle, and we had a lovely time with them not observing any family traditions.

We were going to start our own family tradition, AR and I, of getting a little tree to decorate on Christmas Eve, (so as not to make the whole month of December all about Christmas and reserve a little quality time for Chanuka). We would start out with home-made ornaments - paper chains and popcorn strings and whatever doodads The Boy had glued together at school - and start collecting store-bought ornaments here and there that we could add throughout the years. But we had a baby instead, so this year we taped a construction-paper tree The Boy made at school to the fire place mantle and left it at that. (The Boy had also made a construction-paper menorah at school, and that we have taped to the window.)




Looking at this picture reminds me that we did observe one of AR's long-held family traditions: piling an overabundance of presents under the the tree. Most of these came from AR's mom, who tried to make sure that her children and grandchildren would not miss out on the Christmas they deserve, even though she wasn't there to observe it. I still struggle with what I view as an embarrasment of riches. I know it's not my holiday, though, so I try to not worry about the fact that the more presents The Boy opens, the more likely he is to disregard what he's gotten and ask for more.


Each new gift The Boy opened garnered less and less of his attention, with the exception of his Batman and Robin action figures. "This is the best present I got," he announced to the room, and even remembered to say "Thank you." Maybe there's hope for him yet.

Hiatus

Sorry about the long delay in posting. Turns out blogging - for me anyway - is a lot like exercise. It's addicting when done regularly, but step away from it for more than a minute and it's hard to get your groove back.

What's kept me from the keyboard is an overwhelming sense of everything else that I have to get done. Our littlest tiny is 5 weeks old now (!) and I'm just beginning to feel like life is manageable again.

I remember when The Boy was shiny and new, and I felt like our nacent little family was wrapped in a protective cocoon. The war in Iraq had just begun, not to mention the ACC tournament, and I'm sure there were other things going on that concerned the good people of our community, but all we had to worry about was how much The Boy pooped, when he would eat and how to get him to sleep. I know I was exhausted, and I'm sure I was anxious, but I remember most the incredible luxury of not concerning myself with anything outside the walls of our home - beyond the next trip to the grocery store.

I was looking forward to experiencing that honeymoon period again, this time without getting caught up in those first-time-parent worries, (What if he dies in his sleep? and, I'm not stimulating him enough - I must buy Mozart tapes! to name my top two,) that adulterated the incredible joy I felt watching the Baby Boy progress through his first few months of life.

What I didn't anticipate was how tough it would be to be the pregnant woman's partner once the pregnancy was over. I know from experience (have I mentioned the matching c-section scars?) how hard those first few days were for AR as she was trying to figure out the care and feeding of our Littlest Tiny while recovering from major surgery. But I started to feel like she had the easier job as I made endless trips from the hospital to the neighbor's to pick up The Boy and back to the hospital, then home to feed the dogs and maybe do a load of laundry, then back to the neighbor's to drop The Boy off and then to the hospital and back to The Boy to take him to school... when all I wanted to do was sequester myself in that hospital room to take care of poor AnnaRay and get to know the Littlest Tiny.

I thought things would be a little better when AR and LT came home from the hospital. I was at work when AR called to say she was finally getting discharged - the baby's jaundice had cleared up and so had her own post-op infection - and I felt like one of those 50s sit-com dad's passing out cigars in the hospital waiting room. I couldn't wait to pick up The Boy and get everyone home so we could start our new life together as a family of four. But as soon as we walked in the door, there were the dogs to walk and a meal to prepare and some shopping to do and The Boy to take care of and drugs to pick up at the pharmacy and more errands to run and more laundry to do and one thing after another pulling me away from that blissful new-baby haze.

The second one was supposed to be easier. We know more, for one thing, and I've noticed that big siblings, if nothing else, are a source of endless fascination for their younger siblings, so you have this built-in baby entertainment system. But even though this is our second child, it's still AR's first pregnancy, and we're finding that my experience - with nursing in particular - has not helped us much in informing hers. And while The Boy has taken to his role as big brother like a Southerner to barbeque, the logistics involved in the care and feeding of two are exponentially more complicated than one. Someone pointed out to us recently that having a second child isn't really like having two; it's more like having six.

So I go to work and take the Boy to school, while AR spends the day struggling with the nursing and the post-partum anxiety and depression, and the first moment we get alone together is also the last, when we drop into bed, exhausted. Sometimes I feel like AR and I are battling a war on different fronts, and I've barely had a chance to get to know my new daughter.

Like a prayer

Twice in recent weeks we've hosted dinner guests who begin their meals by recounting all of the things they're thankful for on any particular day. It's a lovely custom, and we're trying to adopt (steal) it for ourselves. Usually, we remember halfway through the meal.

We are not, you see, the most prayerful people. I'm not entirely sure about the whole god thing, and Judybat ... well, Judybat knows that when my father and stepmother are in town, she's supposed to wait to eat until they've prayed. But it almost invariably takes a kick under the table to remind her.

But grateful -- oh, are we ever grateful. Grateful for modern medicine keeping both of us from dying in childbirth. Grateful to have a little boy who is as whiz-bang smart as TheBoy keeps turning out to be. Grateful to have a baby who is already capable of sleeping at night for a four and a half hour stretch. Grateful to have so many wonderful friends, and so few real worries, and reasonably decent health. Grateful that my Zoloft will, I'm told, eventually kick in. Grateful that TheBoy has adjusted to the fact that both his mommies have become sleep-deprived, cranky harpies with little permanent emotional damage, at least that we can tell.

With all that in mind, we've started making this countdown of gratitude a regular part of the dinnertime ritual. The fact that we usually don't remember until midway through the meal should not be taken as a sign that we're not serious about it.

Where'd we go?

A friend pointed out the other day that we haven't posted anything since I first mentioned Zoloft. I'm sure that's just a coincidence although, after contemplating it for all of a day, I called my midwife and said, 'Hook me up with the Happy Juice.'

It's supposed to take a couple of weeks at least to really kick in, but I'm already feeling a bit better. The overwhelming anxiety and need to cry has morphed into a general, underlying sense of unease. Doom, in other words, is no longer right around the corner but rather lurking somewhere down the highway. It's a nice change.

Every day gets a little easier for us here in the little green house. TheBoy is a tad whinier than usual, but remains very happy to have 'my baby' around. He's especially fond of her long, long fingers.

And she is doing great. After some initial difficulties with her weight -- difficulties that were nowhere near as stressful as my hormone-addled brain made them out to be -- she's blown past her birthweight and is now rapidly approaching double digits. Big mom, big girl. TheBoy is going to be in deep trouble in, say, five or six years.

That, plus the general lack of sleep, is really all the news we have for now. We're still trying to establish some sense of normalcy, at which point we'll resume regular programming.

The bottom line

The kid and I received our hospital bills in the mail today. Total cost for delivery, room and board, plenty of post-partum drugs and other services: $13,580.80. Total cost for the kid's time in the nursery, lab work and other nursing: $5,880.45.

All I can say is, thank goodness for health insurance.