An Open Letter To: Holiday Travel

Dear Holiday Travel:

It's "that time of year" again, when trillions of people around the world, even in countries that are not dominated by Judeo-Christian dogma, will take to the roads and skies (and rails, probably) to visit "loved ones" in other cities and towns.

And we all get cranky about it.

Because, let's face it, traveling at a time of year when every other human being is also traveling is a pain in the ass. It's the kind of thing that can kill the Holiday spirit and make those of us who otherwise are all about stuff like peace on earth or whatever into giant Crankypantses.

My family's journey to Miami last week was fine, in which "fine" = "nothing bad happened." Unless you count my 3-year old son's tantrum just as we were boarding the plane, which I do not. Look, he had a toy airplane, and the little girl his age nearby at the gate also had a toy airplane, and 3-year olds generally don't understand the concept of "Now boarding all passengers in Group 2," so much. They just want to play, and if you try to take that away from them it is possible they will scream bloody murder like you are hacking off one of their limbs, throw themselves on the floor in front of other passengers, and cry like the little babies they are.

Thankfully the tantrum ended before we got on the plane. 

For the record, my son is an excellent flier. He has never once had a tantrum in the air. Not to brag, Holiday Travel, but my kid is the one other parents wish they had when they fly.

But I digress.

Our flight back to New York was...I think the correct term is "a shit show."

Here are some things I can live without during future Holiday Travels, in no particular order of importance:

• TSA employees who don't let a pregnant woman with a 3-year old into the "family line" at security because we don't have a stroller, and then proceed to allow another stroller-less family into that very same "family line"
• TSA employees who steal little girls' shoes. The family ahead of us mysteriously "lost" their daughter's purple sneakers, which the TSA agents swore up and down must have been stolen by a fellow passenger. Later, I overheard the father tell another passenger that the little girl herself found her shoes - behind the TSA counter, while the agents insisted they were "lost." For shame, Holiday Travel.
• TSA employees who think it is OK to snark to my son that he is "too old" for a pacifier or blankie. I'm sorry, did I ask for your opinion on my son's creature comforts while traveling?
• The entire TSA in general.
• Fellow passengers who see a child and automatically pass judgement on me, my parenting, and my kid. Hey, my kid is an awesome flier, probably better than many adults, so just shut your face. And to the lady behind us in the security line who snarked, "Look at all these kids. They shouldn't be allowed to fly," - be thankful that you weren't on our flight because I myself would have kicked your seat the whole time, asshole.
• Incompetent flight attendants who are so slow with the beverage and snack cart that they are still serving "refreshments" during the descent.
• Miami International Airport

Here's the thing, Holiday Travel. The Holidays happen at the same time every year, and yet airline and airport employees act like they are completely taken by surprise. "What? Thanksgiving? When did this happen and why did no one warn me? IS THERE NO GOD???"


If that retail store I hate but can't stop shopping at - the big red discount one that rhymes with "Margaret" - can pull Halloween decorations off the shelves to make room for Christmas lights on October 20 (no joke), then surely your people can get their act together? It's not like air travel is new. It's not like Thanksgiving or Christmas are new. I made a calendar full of photos of my son, the Juban Princeling, for my husband to take to work. If I get you a copy, Holiday Travel, will you please use it to mark sometime before Thanksgiving when you need to start anticipating a giant tsunami of travelers, many of whom have small children (who necessarily need their pacis, and shoes)? Because there really is no reason for the extra-surly employees (who snark and steal) and the crazy long lines to check bags and go through security.


If it seems like I am being particularly harsh on you Holiday Travel, it's because I hate you. Get it together and maybe one day years from now I'll venture outside the five boroughs for some major holiday travel again.


Sincerely,
Meredith L.

Dancing With the Stars Post-Mortem: The Finale

This year for Thanksgiving I am grateful for my wonderful family, my health, my baby-to-be, Twizzlers, the Red Sox failure to make it into the post-season, and J.R. Martinez winning Dancing With the Stars Season 13.

What I am not thankful for is the 2-hour finale starting at 9. Some of us are tired. Some of us are pregnant. Some of us need sleep, and staying up until 11 is mean. You could have started at 8, DWTS, is all I'm saying.


I've been predicting since Week 4 that J.R. would win, so I wasn't that surprised. But I did worry that the judges' collective crush on Rob Kardashian might create an unpleasant upset. Not that Rob isn't adorable and cute and a good dancer, but if J.R. lost it would be like shaking hands with Hitler: disturbing, wrong, and un-American.


J.R.: "Thank you to everyone who voted for me!"
Me: "YOU'RE WELCOME."


In one of many shockers of the night, Ricki Lake came in third place, but she seemed to be a good sport about it, which is good, because I remember when Layla Ali wasn't a good sport about coming in third and that made me lose respect for her which then made me afraid of her because I bet she could totally feel my lack of respect through the T.V. and wanted to reach out and punch me in the face, like it's somehow my fault she doesn't know how to lose gracefully. At least Ricki didn't do that, though maybe she did and they just didn't show it? No, I can't sleep at night thinking about that, so we're all going to pretend that Ricki was a graceful nerd with a hairy chest. Did anyone else do that rhyme growing up? "First is worst, second's best, third is the nerd with the hairy chest." No? Ok.


The biggest shocker of the night, in my opinion, was that J.R. did not choose his Samba from Week 5 for his third dance of the night. That was probably my favorite dance of the entire season. But later on, when he had to do an Instant Samba, it sort of made more sense. And he didn't do the Waltz from Week 3, but I kind of get that because it is super-emotional, and if it made me cry my eyes out and I don't even know J.R. personally and am not, you know, him, then I can't imagine him forcing himself to do it again. 

So, whatever, he did his Jive and it was fine, but here's the thing: forcing the dancers to do 3-4 dances in two nights was just cruel. In spite of the judges' gushing accolades, J.R., Rob, and even Ricki just fell flat last night. I know, I'm not supposed to say that, I'm supposed to be all, "It was everyone's best dances ever and the crowning jewel in the Dancing With the Stars tiara of joy!" But I can't. Because that's a lie. Everyone was tired, and I think forcing Rob and J.R. to do an instant Samba was unnecessary and made me feel bad for them because they were clearly exhausted. At that point in the show I seriously doubt the Instant Samba made the difference in who won, and it wasn't fun to watch.


Know what was fun to watch? Carson Kressley's dance to Madonna's "Vogue." Well, it was fun if you ignore the fact that poor Carson can't dance his way out of a wet paper bag, but I still enjoyed it.


And I'm glad that Chynna Philips got to redeem herself with her Tango, but more importantly, I'm glad I got to see my Tony dance one last time this season. I LOVE YOU TONY YOU ARE TOTALLY MY FAVORITE PRO!!! <3 <3 <3

But if we're going to talk about the finals, and I mean really talk about the finals here in the intimacy of my blog, we need to talk about the freestyle dances from Monday night, specifically J.R. and Karina's lifts. Did they turn off the gravity in the DWTS ballroom for those? Is Karina hollow inside? IS J.R. REALLY SUPERMAN??? I think Carrie-Ann summed up those lifts best: "sick." In a good way. 

Anyway, I'm at the point in this post-mortem where there is probably tons more to say, but I can't, because J.R. won and all is right with the world, and also I am trying to spend time with my family for the holiday week. Next season starts a few days after my due date, so we'll see if I am capable of doing these post-mortems. We'll see, but hopefully I will be back with these in March, despite a newborn. Priorities, you know.


Thanks for hanging in there with me, everyone, and especially thank you to my awesome husband for putting up with my obsession even though he hates the show. <3

...don't say anything at all

This being my second go-round on the Pregnancy Carousel of Suck, I am well aware of the fact that my baby bump tends to make other people stupid. 

Oh, it makes me forgetful. Lately I've taken to a sort of Tara Gregson approach to what is commonly called "Pregnancy Brain." Like this:

Husband: "What's that actor's name?"
Me: "Oh, man. Non-Pregnant Meredith knows this off the top of her head. I'm going to have to look it up."

or

Form at the doctor's office: "Name:"
Me: *pulling out my driver's license*

The other day at the supermarket I meant to grab two containers of orange juice, and the next thing I knew I was standing by our shopping cart, checking to see if I had put one of them in there yet. Turns out I had only grabbed one, but the point is half a second after I would have put an oj into my cart I forgot whether or not I had done so.

While that's not nearly as bad as "How I Met Your Mother" would have us believe when earlier this season Lily gave a stapler and a bottle of wine to some trick-or-treaters, it's still not fun, especially when you usually have a mind like a steel trap. Steel! Trap! WHAT???

But, you know, at least I have the excuse of being pregnant to explain away my forgetfulness. Hormones, building a person from scratch, not being able to get comfortable when I sleep, waking several times a night to pee - none of that is good for the ol' noggin. 

Know who does not have an excuse for being stupid? Other people. Especially other (non-adoptive) mothers. You'd think that, of anyone on the entire planet, other women who have gone through the whole pregnancy rigormorale would be a little more careful about what comes out of their mouths, but they aren't. They're pretty dumb.

First, there were the several women who told me how much better sons are than daughters during my first pregnancy. Around that same time I wore a pink t-shirt one day to work and a cashier at the drugstore commented, "Oh, are you having a girl?" Because I guess failure to create another uterus inside your own bans you from the color pink forever.


Then there was my former building super, who told me over and over how his wife walked for miles every day during her pregnancies and both her labors were, like, minutes long, because as we all know, walking is the one and only key to a quick and painless labor.

A pregnant friend of mine today informed me that she told a co-worker how she now goes to bed at 9pm, to which the co-worker responded with, "You need to get a hobby!" Because if there's one thing pregnant women are, it's bored, especially when you work and already have a 2 1/2-year old.

Today I treated myself to a pre-Holiday haircut and eyebrow shaping because even feminists sometimes like to look like pretty ladies, and the woman waxing my brows - who has four grown sons of her own - said to me, "Wow, you're only about a month away, aren't you?" 

Now, my reply: "Actually, I have another four months to go," would normally embarrass and silence most people. Most people would blush and apologize, but not my brow waxer! She continued, "Wow, you're really big!"

I had no witty retort to that, so I just sort of shrugged and said, "Yeah, I'm carrying really high."

Which I am. I'm carrying so high that the baby may well come out of my rib cage ala John Hurt in "Alien," unlike my last son, whom I carried so low that by the end I had to hold him in with my knees locked together, afraid that a hard sneeze or laugh would send him shooting across the room.

So, I'm carrying high this time, but I still don't think I'm carrying particularly BIG, you know? And it certainly isn't the job of anyone else to comment on my size.


Which...bothered me, at first. As a feminist, I make a conscious effort not to fat-shame myself, which is why I can happily report that I am writing this while eating an entire pack of Twizzlers. But if I'm not feeling fat-shamed for that woman's comment, then why did it bother me so? And the answer came to me a while later: because pregnancy, like so much else concerning women's bodies, is considered public domain. Total strangers feel the need to comment upon mine, like the bartender at the Japanese restaurant my husband and I went to (DON'T WORRY, PREGNANCY POLICE, I DID NOT EAT SUSHI!), who asked me, "You're going to breastfeed, right?" while going through the motions of honking his non-existent breast. 


Because ultimately, strangers commenting on whether I look big or small is really their way of commenting on whether they think my unborn child is healthy or not, on whether I'm taking care of myself - and, more importantly, my fetus - or not. I would like to think that it's heartwarming to see such an outpouring of community concern for the well-being of the unborn next generation, but I doubt these strangers are coming from an "It Takes a Village" place. More likely they are coming from a place of judgment, something almost every mother is familiar with. Mothers are a favorite whipping-girl of our society, starting with the nanosecond our baby bumps become obvious.


For those of you who need a take-away from all of this, here is a list of perfectly nice, acceptable, non-judgey things you can say to a pregnant woman:

"You look beautiful!"


"Here's a bottle of Macallan 18-year old Scotch* for when you pop that kid out!"


"Would you like a free foot massage at the expensive day spa nearby?"


"I hope labor and delivery go according to your birth plan!"


"That child is already so lucky to have you as a mother!"


"May your baby never get colic!"


"You're already doing an awesome job!"

"I've heard that chocolate in the womb helps babies develop higher IQs and love their mothers more!"

"May your child be the first gay Jewish-Cuban President of the United States!"

And, of course, there is what my husband tells me on a nearly daily basis: "You are one sexy pregger pants." He's a smart one, is that guy.






*I did not receive any compensation or requests to endorse Macallan Scotch Whisky for this statement, but if they read this and want to send me a free bottle anyway, for when I pop this kid out, I will not protest.