Recently I went on a little backpacking trip with my old backpacking camp: Young Life's Wilderness Ranch. My guide partner and I took a group of Baylor's finest Young Life leaders out for the best week of their lives and brought them back with a small going away present.
Giardia.
Affectionately known as the G Rock.
Because it rocks your socks off. And not in a good way.
This is not an easy feat, mind you. I am a little bit proud of us. I guided for two summers without ever receiving this little friend, and after one week back on the trail, he's decided to make a home in my tummy. And I'm pretty sure he's made his home in the tummies of all my new Baylor friends as well. Neat.
For those of you who know what giardia is and are thinking "ew. gross. why are you telling me about this?", you can stop thinking less of me and forever labeling me as the giardia girl because I didn't have the normal symptoms, ok. Hopefully you catch my drift and I don't have to tell you what that means. But you can stop judging me now.
I am, however, really proud of my excellent nursy skills because I correctly diagnosed myself even when the Nurse Practitioner listened to my symptoms and didn't actually believe I had it. She ordered a test anyway, and low and behold, it came back positive. HA! I WIN! Slash, I lose. Because you never really win when you have giardia.
On a side note, I am also proud of my excellent nursy skills because I totally fixed some guy's dislocated finger the other day in the park! Yes! Two nurse points in one week! Winner!
Back to the story.
So the NP prescribes me this antibiotic. An antibiotic I am to take in one dose. Four pink horse pills all at once. Yikes! Not my idea of a good time. I gag them down all the while considering what havoc they're going to wreak on my body. I mean, they must be fairly powerful if they're going to knock out the bacteria that's been eating away at my insides for a month in one fell swoop. Right? Right. My stomach is now upset because of the medication and my mouth tastes like I'm lapping up the inside of a tin can continually. Yuck.
Oh, and to boot, I can't have any lactose for a month. Because apparently the G Rock can cause permanent lactose intolerance and if I stay away from it for a month maybe I'll be spared from being a lactard for the rest of my life. Cool. So now my mouth tastes like metal and I can't even enjoy my morning latte. It's the best part of waking up/working at a coffee shop and I can't even partake! Nor can I have cheese. Or butter. It's been two days and I'm pretty sure every pitcher of milk I steam and every cheesy bagel sandwich I make beckons me to come back to it. And then laughs in my face when I tell it I have to stay away from it for a while. But just for a little while, I say. Don't worry, my friend. I will never let you go!
This is my nightmare. And I have spent the last two days whining about it to anyone who will listen. And now I am continuing to whine about it on a blog that I know at least 70 some-odd people will read. And I'm sorry. Only not. Because I imagine you at least got to laugh a little at my misfortune which ultimately makes up for the whining. Right?
Love and Kombucha (for the probiotics, of course).
And milk.
And cheese.
And butter.
And cream cheese.
And sour cream.
And milk chocolate.
And cottage cheese.
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Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Britney Spears and Lady Antebellum
Really, Britney? You spell your name like that? Dear Wikipedia: Did Britney's parents decide to spell her name like that or did she decide it was going to make her look cooler if she changed it?..............
(Brief interlude while I actually go ask Wiki)
Apparently Britney's birth name is Britney Jean Spears. I only believe her name was originally spelled that way because her middle name is Jean. Nobody would change their name to Jean to be cool. Believe me. My middle name is Jo. Which, maybe if you're a country singer is cool, but not if you want to be credited with "influencing the revival of teen pop during the late 1990s". Thanks Wiki. You have ALL the answers.
Apparently this means I spelled her name wrong when I put it in my Facebook status today. Which I only care about because I hate making stupid spelling/grammatical errors in my status updates. (And in related news, apparently Facebook is still not recognized as a real word in the dictionary because Firefox tells me it's spelled wrong. But Firefox recognizes the word Firefox as being spelled correctly. Hmmmmm......)
In other news I went to the garden center today to buy some plants to finally start my garden. Mind you, I am not incredibly late doing this. Just a couple weeks. The frost date is May 14th in Denver, so I couldn't even think about planting the little guys until then.
I made many new friends at the garden center. Mainly vegetables. And Adam. My new high school buddy. Adam was SO helpful. I aimlessly wandered the aisles looking for the vegetable section for quite a while before I found Adam. He asked if he could help me and I thought to myself 'aren't you a little young to be working? There have to be child labor laws against this type of thing'. But as it turns out, Adam was quite knowledgeable. Or else he pretended to be knowledgeable. Either way, he helped me pick out some great seedlings.
On a quick side note, I am incapable of writing while listening to music. So I just made a big sacrifice and turned off my awesome Pandora station.
So there I am at the garden center. I really didn't know what I wanted to plant so I told Adam I was in the market for some vegetable seedlings and he took the reigns. "Well, here we are in front of the squash. Would you like some squash?" "Why yes! Yes I would! I want both zucchini AND spaghetti squash. Thank you!". "How about peppers? Do you want some peppers?" "Well, I had forgotten about peppers, Adam. But yes! I certainly do want peppers!"
If only Adam could get a glimpse of the inner workings of my mind. He had no idea the recipes he was sparking into creation as he suggested his smorgasbord of vegetable delight.
I started gaining confidence as I imagined the possibilities: "How about tomatoes? I would love some tomatoes." "Well, we have a lot of tomatoes. They're all over there. Would you like me to get you a cart?"
What a nice young man! He is going to make some pretty lady so very happy one day.
He brings the cart and we start picking my seedlings. I tell him I would like some grape or cherry tomatoes. But I am still fairly new to the gardening business so I asked Adam to pick my plants for me. I told him we could name them all. He REALLY got into it! First up: Jeffrey. I think Jeffrey was the warm up. The names got better from there. However, I like Jeffrey for the grape tomatoes because they're cute and small and Jeffrey reminds me of a little boy.
Next up I asked for some normal size tomatoes. Adam got a little spark in his eye. "You should go for the celebrity tomatoes because then you can name them Britney Spears!!!". Well all right, Adam! I like your style!
This name game thing was going to be better than I thought! On to the peppers. Pedro the jalapeno (because he will be used in my salsa). I'm pretty sure he'll grow up to be a Spanish speaking pepper. Then came Edna the bell pepper. I'm not sure where that came from. It was Adam's idea. I think he named her that because she is a Lady Bell pepper. I may or may not have changed her name to Lady Antebellum. I thought it was more appropriate. Don't tell Adam.
Then came Mario the spaghetti squash because he's from Italy and Charles the zucchini squash because he's an aristocrat squash. We thought Charles was very appropriate. Well, Adam wanted to name him after Prince William. I decided Prince Charles was better. Sorry Adam. After all, these are going to be my plants. I think I should get the trump card.
However, you did win one round. You talked me into fertilizer. Which is probably a good idea. But I still kind of hate the idea of paying for a bag of poop.
After my cart was full of poop and veggies, Adam walked me to the checkout counter, had a hilarious interaction with a senior citizen, and then helped me carry my poop to the car. I was glad to know that our conversation didn't lack once outside the store. There's always the possibility that you hit it off inside the walls of a place and then once outside those walls everything turns awkward. Believe me. It happens. Mostly when I try to be real friends with my regulars at the coffee shop where I work. Never works out. Pure awkwardness.
But Adam and I bonded once again over his interaction with the little old lady. "Guess what today is?" He says to me, drenched in sarcasm. "Senior Citizen discount day. Every Tuesday. I love it." Then we talked about how I have at least one of those interactions every day and I tell him that I work at the coffee shop a couple blocks away. Maybe he'll come visit me sometime. Maybe not. He's probably too young to drink coffee. And the magic probably wouldn't be the same outside the garden center. So, farewell Adam! Wish me luck with my new friends. We'll speak of you often with pride in our bellies and laughter in our hearts.
Yep. Pride in our bellies. Whatever that means.
AND in totally unrelated news, my first client is due very soon!!! I'm so excited to be a part of her and her partner's birth experience. They are truly a delight! My next post might just be about my first birth attended as a doula. Stay tuned!
(Brief interlude while I actually go ask Wiki)
Apparently Britney's birth name is Britney Jean Spears. I only believe her name was originally spelled that way because her middle name is Jean. Nobody would change their name to Jean to be cool. Believe me. My middle name is Jo. Which, maybe if you're a country singer is cool, but not if you want to be credited with "influencing the revival of teen pop during the late 1990s". Thanks Wiki. You have ALL the answers.
Apparently this means I spelled her name wrong when I put it in my Facebook status today. Which I only care about because I hate making stupid spelling/grammatical errors in my status updates. (And in related news, apparently Facebook is still not recognized as a real word in the dictionary because Firefox tells me it's spelled wrong. But Firefox recognizes the word Firefox as being spelled correctly. Hmmmmm......)
In other news I went to the garden center today to buy some plants to finally start my garden. Mind you, I am not incredibly late doing this. Just a couple weeks. The frost date is May 14th in Denver, so I couldn't even think about planting the little guys until then.
I made many new friends at the garden center. Mainly vegetables. And Adam. My new high school buddy. Adam was SO helpful. I aimlessly wandered the aisles looking for the vegetable section for quite a while before I found Adam. He asked if he could help me and I thought to myself 'aren't you a little young to be working? There have to be child labor laws against this type of thing'. But as it turns out, Adam was quite knowledgeable. Or else he pretended to be knowledgeable. Either way, he helped me pick out some great seedlings.
On a quick side note, I am incapable of writing while listening to music. So I just made a big sacrifice and turned off my awesome Pandora station.
So there I am at the garden center. I really didn't know what I wanted to plant so I told Adam I was in the market for some vegetable seedlings and he took the reigns. "Well, here we are in front of the squash. Would you like some squash?" "Why yes! Yes I would! I want both zucchini AND spaghetti squash. Thank you!". "How about peppers? Do you want some peppers?" "Well, I had forgotten about peppers, Adam. But yes! I certainly do want peppers!"
If only Adam could get a glimpse of the inner workings of my mind. He had no idea the recipes he was sparking into creation as he suggested his smorgasbord of vegetable delight.
I started gaining confidence as I imagined the possibilities: "How about tomatoes? I would love some tomatoes." "Well, we have a lot of tomatoes. They're all over there. Would you like me to get you a cart?"
What a nice young man! He is going to make some pretty lady so very happy one day.
He brings the cart and we start picking my seedlings. I tell him I would like some grape or cherry tomatoes. But I am still fairly new to the gardening business so I asked Adam to pick my plants for me. I told him we could name them all. He REALLY got into it! First up: Jeffrey. I think Jeffrey was the warm up. The names got better from there. However, I like Jeffrey for the grape tomatoes because they're cute and small and Jeffrey reminds me of a little boy.
Next up I asked for some normal size tomatoes. Adam got a little spark in his eye. "You should go for the celebrity tomatoes because then you can name them Britney Spears!!!". Well all right, Adam! I like your style!
This name game thing was going to be better than I thought! On to the peppers. Pedro the jalapeno (because he will be used in my salsa). I'm pretty sure he'll grow up to be a Spanish speaking pepper. Then came Edna the bell pepper. I'm not sure where that came from. It was Adam's idea. I think he named her that because she is a Lady Bell pepper. I may or may not have changed her name to Lady Antebellum. I thought it was more appropriate. Don't tell Adam.
Then came Mario the spaghetti squash because he's from Italy and Charles the zucchini squash because he's an aristocrat squash. We thought Charles was very appropriate. Well, Adam wanted to name him after Prince William. I decided Prince Charles was better. Sorry Adam. After all, these are going to be my plants. I think I should get the trump card.
However, you did win one round. You talked me into fertilizer. Which is probably a good idea. But I still kind of hate the idea of paying for a bag of poop.
After my cart was full of poop and veggies, Adam walked me to the checkout counter, had a hilarious interaction with a senior citizen, and then helped me carry my poop to the car. I was glad to know that our conversation didn't lack once outside the store. There's always the possibility that you hit it off inside the walls of a place and then once outside those walls everything turns awkward. Believe me. It happens. Mostly when I try to be real friends with my regulars at the coffee shop where I work. Never works out. Pure awkwardness.
But Adam and I bonded once again over his interaction with the little old lady. "Guess what today is?" He says to me, drenched in sarcasm. "Senior Citizen discount day. Every Tuesday. I love it." Then we talked about how I have at least one of those interactions every day and I tell him that I work at the coffee shop a couple blocks away. Maybe he'll come visit me sometime. Maybe not. He's probably too young to drink coffee. And the magic probably wouldn't be the same outside the garden center. So, farewell Adam! Wish me luck with my new friends. We'll speak of you often with pride in our bellies and laughter in our hearts.
Yep. Pride in our bellies. Whatever that means.
AND in totally unrelated news, my first client is due very soon!!! I'm so excited to be a part of her and her partner's birth experience. They are truly a delight! My next post might just be about my first birth attended as a doula. Stay tuned!
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Social Experiments
I've been very interested lately in conducting some highly specialized social experiments. I'm not sure if this is out of a need to engage my brain in some form of research or out of complete and utter (I almost just wrote udder) boredom, but whatever it is, it's rather fun.
It all started because I don't have a particular style to which I ascribe. One day I will wear jeans and a t-shirt, one day I will look like a hippie. I embrace my love for Colorado with a fleece and chacos, or I embrace my Missouri roots with an old school Chiefs (go Chiefs!) sweatshirt and some sweatpants. I've always wanted to learn how to look like a Hipster, but I'm still not quite sure what that means. My friend Kim tells me that to dress like a Hipster you have to wear all of your clothes and accessories at once. I think she's right.
Anyway, I work at a little coffee shop here in Denver and therefore see a whole lot of people each day. We don't have a uniform, so I wear whatever suits my fancy that day (or actually, I pick out my clothes the night before like a good little girl. partly because I'm anal and my closet is color coordinated, and partly because I really like getting up at the last possible second when I have to be at work by 5am). While at work, I began noticing a pattern. And the pattern was that people on a fairly frequent basis would comment on my clothing or hair style of the day. Mostly these people were my regulars, and mostly they were men. Older men. Married older men. Huh. I find this a bit confusing and more than a little creepy. My boss tells me that it's because married men are taught to notice details about their wives, and therefore notice things about their barista as well. Maybe. My friend tells me it's because they can't think of anything else to talk about and they don't want to just give me the normal "how are you today?" because that gets boring and cliche after a while, so they move on to a topic that is more in depth, but still not getting personal. Ok. I can believe that one.
Deciding to turn this strange phenomenon into a game, I started a tally system. I wore a crazy headband rambo style and donned my funkiest pair of hippie jeans and headed to work with a new passion: to prove that I wasn't crazy; that old men really did comment on my outfit more than is necessarily comfortable. And to throw in a control group I added a tally column for women too. It was neck and neck all day, but eventually after 6 hours and 13 comments the men had it by a hair. 7 to 6: men to women. I wasn't crazy, but I was at least a little comforted that women were commenting too.
Having success in this experiment, I eagerly looked for new opportunities to entertain me. I even went so far as to ask the front desk man at my financial adviser's office if he ever conducted social experiments to see where people sat down when they entered the office (I think this made him very confused. apparently he doesn't entertain himself the way I do). You see, there are four chairs. Each perfectly arranged in a square so that you either have to sit uncomfortably close to someone or directly opposite them. Both are equally awkward. Believe me, there was a man sitting there when I arrived and I had to choose between the seat next to him (that felt a little too intimate) or the seat right across from him where I was guaranteed to either have to stare at the table in front of me the whole time or risk several instances of awkward accidental eye contact. He looked nervous and was dressed in a very nice suit. And so I amused myself with the thought of asking him if he was there for an interview and then telling him I was there for one too. And then laugh inwardly as he appraised my appearance (it was a t-shirt and chacos day). I would have said "oh man, maybe I should have dressed up more!. And then I would have kept an excellently straight face. Just to see what he would do. (yet another social experiment).
My financial planner saved me from the awkwardness and as we went back to his office, he told me that you could always tell someone was there for an interview because they were either reading the paper or looking at their phone. Apparently he likes social experiments too. And this guy was doing both, so his hypothesis proves true...at least in this instance.
Anyway, this has been long. We are now going to conduct a social experiment to see who made it this far. And the way we're going to do that is by looking at the stats of how many page visits this blog gets and how many page visits MY NEW WEBSITE gets. So click on it. Please! Google needs to start recognizing that it exists so that pregnant mamas can find me! Ok go!
It all started because I don't have a particular style to which I ascribe. One day I will wear jeans and a t-shirt, one day I will look like a hippie. I embrace my love for Colorado with a fleece and chacos, or I embrace my Missouri roots with an old school Chiefs (go Chiefs!) sweatshirt and some sweatpants. I've always wanted to learn how to look like a Hipster, but I'm still not quite sure what that means. My friend Kim tells me that to dress like a Hipster you have to wear all of your clothes and accessories at once. I think she's right.
Anyway, I work at a little coffee shop here in Denver and therefore see a whole lot of people each day. We don't have a uniform, so I wear whatever suits my fancy that day (or actually, I pick out my clothes the night before like a good little girl. partly because I'm anal and my closet is color coordinated, and partly because I really like getting up at the last possible second when I have to be at work by 5am). While at work, I began noticing a pattern. And the pattern was that people on a fairly frequent basis would comment on my clothing or hair style of the day. Mostly these people were my regulars, and mostly they were men. Older men. Married older men. Huh. I find this a bit confusing and more than a little creepy. My boss tells me that it's because married men are taught to notice details about their wives, and therefore notice things about their barista as well. Maybe. My friend tells me it's because they can't think of anything else to talk about and they don't want to just give me the normal "how are you today?" because that gets boring and cliche after a while, so they move on to a topic that is more in depth, but still not getting personal. Ok. I can believe that one.
Deciding to turn this strange phenomenon into a game, I started a tally system. I wore a crazy headband rambo style and donned my funkiest pair of hippie jeans and headed to work with a new passion: to prove that I wasn't crazy; that old men really did comment on my outfit more than is necessarily comfortable. And to throw in a control group I added a tally column for women too. It was neck and neck all day, but eventually after 6 hours and 13 comments the men had it by a hair. 7 to 6: men to women. I wasn't crazy, but I was at least a little comforted that women were commenting too.
Having success in this experiment, I eagerly looked for new opportunities to entertain me. I even went so far as to ask the front desk man at my financial adviser's office if he ever conducted social experiments to see where people sat down when they entered the office (I think this made him very confused. apparently he doesn't entertain himself the way I do). You see, there are four chairs. Each perfectly arranged in a square so that you either have to sit uncomfortably close to someone or directly opposite them. Both are equally awkward. Believe me, there was a man sitting there when I arrived and I had to choose between the seat next to him (that felt a little too intimate) or the seat right across from him where I was guaranteed to either have to stare at the table in front of me the whole time or risk several instances of awkward accidental eye contact. He looked nervous and was dressed in a very nice suit. And so I amused myself with the thought of asking him if he was there for an interview and then telling him I was there for one too. And then laugh inwardly as he appraised my appearance (it was a t-shirt and chacos day). I would have said "oh man, maybe I should have dressed up more!. And then I would have kept an excellently straight face. Just to see what he would do. (yet another social experiment).
My financial planner saved me from the awkwardness and as we went back to his office, he told me that you could always tell someone was there for an interview because they were either reading the paper or looking at their phone. Apparently he likes social experiments too. And this guy was doing both, so his hypothesis proves true...at least in this instance.
Anyway, this has been long. We are now going to conduct a social experiment to see who made it this far. And the way we're going to do that is by looking at the stats of how many page visits this blog gets and how many page visits MY NEW WEBSITE gets. So click on it. Please! Google needs to start recognizing that it exists so that pregnant mamas can find me! Ok go!
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Laughing Yoga (and there's a picture!)
I've recently decided it's time to start working out again. I took about a 9 month hiatus after my last half marathon and am now back to it. Half marathons are supposed to get you in shape, but I'm pretty sure all my half marathon accomplished was driving every single ounce of desire to work out far far away from me. So, while I have enjoyed these past nine months of gluttonous behavior, I feel like it might be time to make a lifestyle change. After all, I do live in Colorado. I feel it is my duty to be active. You know, keep our stats in good standings.
I actually find the activity level in Colorado kind of hilarious. At any given moment I can look out my window to find runners, dog walkers, bikers, roller bladers, and the like. I see entire families jumping on trampolines together. I see people riding around on the strangest things on wheels propelling themselves with poles that have rubber tips, whose likeness closely resemble those of the tips on the bottoms of walkers for the elderly. Today I happened upon a young man roller blading along a main thoroughfare, sneakers in hand. He gave me a good laugh as he crossed the street on his blades, stopped at the light post and almost accidentally rolled back out onto the street. Toe Pick! (Anyone? The Cutting Edge? Great 90's movie about figure skating).
This young man, however, did not even come close to making my day like my own personal Santa Clause. Let me explain. As I continued on my drive home, I looked up and saw a man in a red hooded sweatshirt running on the sidewalk at an angle heading directly towards the edge of the sidewalk as if he were going to run headlong into oncoming traffic. My first thought towards Santa was worry for his safety. But just as soon as I'd had the thought about him running into my car, he quickly zigged in the opposite direction. He was chasing something. That something was a rock. He was playing soccer with a rock on the sidewalk. And he was about 65 years old. My own personal Santa Clause! The bringer of laughter and joy. You made my day, Santa. I thought only small boys were supposed to kick rocks on the sidewalk.
*As a side note, boys' fascination with rocks has always been intriguing to me. I.E. take a boy to the beach and he will immediately find a rock and throw it into the water. This happens from an extremely young age. And it seems to be an innate instinct. No one has taught this little boy to throw rocks. You don't see little girls throwing rocks. It's purely instinctual to boys. And one that apparently doesn't lessen with age.
Anyway. Back to me exercising. I've decided I would like my exercise regimen to include two things. And I would like to find a gym that offers these two things and then, in turn, offers me a membership. For a very low introductory price....
Laser Tag.
And Jump Street.
Together at last.
Ooooh! Laser tag WHILE jumping on trampolines! But that combination will only be offered to individuals with a high skill level. This is not a playground for beginners. This could cause serious injury.
If anyone would like to take my idea and make me a gym like this I would greatly appreciate it. I wouldn't even charge a fee for my idea. I would just ask that you give me free membership because you will be making a fortune! Imagine the possibilities. They're endless. Ok, maybe not endless. Just trampolines. And laser tag. And any combination of the two.
Anyway, until then I will be trying my hand at yoga. Because yoga doesn't make me run.
And in unrelated news, my friend Kelli Babcock designed a logo and business card for DouLa La. Check it out. It's at the top. I couldn't figure out how to make it land down here. Newby blogger.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Do it if You're Cool!
Hello faithful followers. (Apparently I can say that because I have had at least a few people tell me in the past week that I need to write again.) I didn't know anyone was paying attention. Thanks guys. You're the best!
I haven't written lately because I don't know that I've been seeing the world through my "funny eyes" as of late and I just didn't know what to write about. That, and I've been super busy playing laser tag and going to Jump Street with my 11-year-old sister. I'm SO not cut out for that kind of life. But I tell you what, I certainly felt like a god kicking little kids' butts on the laser tag court. Court? Field? War Zone? Whatever. I was SO GOOD at laser tag! And I hadn't played in years! Mainly I feel like this may have been because I was playing against many 8-year-olds, but I don't care. I'll take my kicks where I can get them.
Here's a question for you. In a fight to the death, how many 8-year-olds do you think you could take down before they took you down? Now think about this long and hard. Some of you men out there may think you could pop off an easy 20 at least. But I challenge you to really stop and think about this one. This is a fight TO THE DEATH! They are not tickling you here. They are trying to take your life! They are mean, vicious 8-year-olds. You may be able to outrun them for a while. You may even be able to pick one up and use him as your weapon for a while. But eventually you will be overcome. I think I could do 6. That's right. I'm a realist. This is not my first playground experience. 8-year-olds have so much more energy than I do. I don't think I'd last more than 10 minutes with those little buggers.
Ok. Stop judging me. Admit it. It's funny.
However, kicking little kid butt is not the point of this blog. The point of today's lesson is to teach you all the power of the chant. The chant, for me, originated with a single phrase "Do it if you're cool". Simple at first glance, but when chanted in succession this is a powerful tool for peer pressure. And when you add a fist pump, people are all but powerless to its effect. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't believe peer pressure is actually a good idea. Albeit funny, it apparently gets a lot of people in trouble. So use this phrase wisely. And don't blame me if your friend starts doing drugs because of it. That's what they taught us in elementary school. Peer pressure leads to drugs. Just say no. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. Broken record technique. Almost as effective as the chant itself.
Over the years the chant has grown and changed into something beautiful in my life. I think it really brings people together. I used to chant alone. Now all of my roommates have caught on and chant with me. It spreads like wildfire once people catch on to its catchiness. Things like chanting each others' names in encouragement: "Amy! Amy! Amy!" was one I used recently to encourage my roommate on her licensure exam. I used it both before the exam to encourage victory and as a celebratory technique after the exam was over to congratulate her on passing. Both are equally effective and so simple. I mean, one word says it all!
You can also use the chant to liven up every day activities. It makes mundane tasks exciting. I.e. "Mop that floor! Mop that floor! Mop that floor!". It makes simple vegetables unique and beautiful "Carrots! Carrots! Carrots!". Don't believe me? Try it. Try it in the comfort of your own home right now. Look around you. Start chanting the name of an inanimate object "slippers! slippers! slippers!" Watch them come alive before your eyes! They are not just slippers any more. They are so much more than slippers! They are slippers full of wonder and possibility.
Have a to-do list today? (That sucks. It's Saturday). Try chanting yourself into getting excited about it! "Laundry! Laundry! Laundry!" or the old stand by "Do it if you're cool! Do it if you're cool! Do it if you're cool!" always seems to help in these situations.
You guys think I'm kidding about this. And part of me is. But there is actual evidence that during labor rhythmic breathing and phrasing is actually incredibly beneficial. I'm not sure I will be fist pumping and chanting "Do it if you're cool" in the birth room, but I will certainly be using the same essential technique to work through contractions with a mama. If I repeat the same phrase or set of encouragement over and over in a rhythmic way during a contraction it has a soothing and calming effect. "You are incredible! You are strong! You can do this!" Or whatever phrase is best suited for the mama. Maybe do it if you're cool would be effective. Who knows? If I ever give birth I might ask my doula to chant that with a fist-pump attached. I think a little humor might be just the ticket for me.
Try the chant. I dare you. I double-dog dare you. Do it if you're cool!
I haven't written lately because I don't know that I've been seeing the world through my "funny eyes" as of late and I just didn't know what to write about. That, and I've been super busy playing laser tag and going to Jump Street with my 11-year-old sister. I'm SO not cut out for that kind of life. But I tell you what, I certainly felt like a god kicking little kids' butts on the laser tag court. Court? Field? War Zone? Whatever. I was SO GOOD at laser tag! And I hadn't played in years! Mainly I feel like this may have been because I was playing against many 8-year-olds, but I don't care. I'll take my kicks where I can get them.
Here's a question for you. In a fight to the death, how many 8-year-olds do you think you could take down before they took you down? Now think about this long and hard. Some of you men out there may think you could pop off an easy 20 at least. But I challenge you to really stop and think about this one. This is a fight TO THE DEATH! They are not tickling you here. They are trying to take your life! They are mean, vicious 8-year-olds. You may be able to outrun them for a while. You may even be able to pick one up and use him as your weapon for a while. But eventually you will be overcome. I think I could do 6. That's right. I'm a realist. This is not my first playground experience. 8-year-olds have so much more energy than I do. I don't think I'd last more than 10 minutes with those little buggers.
Ok. Stop judging me. Admit it. It's funny.
However, kicking little kid butt is not the point of this blog. The point of today's lesson is to teach you all the power of the chant. The chant, for me, originated with a single phrase "Do it if you're cool". Simple at first glance, but when chanted in succession this is a powerful tool for peer pressure. And when you add a fist pump, people are all but powerless to its effect. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't believe peer pressure is actually a good idea. Albeit funny, it apparently gets a lot of people in trouble. So use this phrase wisely. And don't blame me if your friend starts doing drugs because of it. That's what they taught us in elementary school. Peer pressure leads to drugs. Just say no. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. Broken record technique. Almost as effective as the chant itself.
Over the years the chant has grown and changed into something beautiful in my life. I think it really brings people together. I used to chant alone. Now all of my roommates have caught on and chant with me. It spreads like wildfire once people catch on to its catchiness. Things like chanting each others' names in encouragement: "Amy! Amy! Amy!" was one I used recently to encourage my roommate on her licensure exam. I used it both before the exam to encourage victory and as a celebratory technique after the exam was over to congratulate her on passing. Both are equally effective and so simple. I mean, one word says it all!
You can also use the chant to liven up every day activities. It makes mundane tasks exciting. I.e. "Mop that floor! Mop that floor! Mop that floor!". It makes simple vegetables unique and beautiful "Carrots! Carrots! Carrots!". Don't believe me? Try it. Try it in the comfort of your own home right now. Look around you. Start chanting the name of an inanimate object "slippers! slippers! slippers!" Watch them come alive before your eyes! They are not just slippers any more. They are so much more than slippers! They are slippers full of wonder and possibility.
Have a to-do list today? (That sucks. It's Saturday). Try chanting yourself into getting excited about it! "Laundry! Laundry! Laundry!" or the old stand by "Do it if you're cool! Do it if you're cool! Do it if you're cool!" always seems to help in these situations.
You guys think I'm kidding about this. And part of me is. But there is actual evidence that during labor rhythmic breathing and phrasing is actually incredibly beneficial. I'm not sure I will be fist pumping and chanting "Do it if you're cool" in the birth room, but I will certainly be using the same essential technique to work through contractions with a mama. If I repeat the same phrase or set of encouragement over and over in a rhythmic way during a contraction it has a soothing and calming effect. "You are incredible! You are strong! You can do this!" Or whatever phrase is best suited for the mama. Maybe do it if you're cool would be effective. Who knows? If I ever give birth I might ask my doula to chant that with a fist-pump attached. I think a little humor might be just the ticket for me.
Try the chant. I dare you. I double-dog dare you. Do it if you're cool!
Saturday, March 5, 2011
This one isn't funny.....
My cousin told me that in order to have a good blog you need to post at least every other day. But I haven't written in a while because I haven't been inspired by anything especially hilarious lately. Epic Fail.
New Tactic: Write whatever the heck I want without worrying about whether or not I'm going to wow my audience with another "funny" blog. I'm not sure why I put 'funny' in quotations. They actually have been funny. I feel like Joey on friends when he doesn't know how to use air quotes correctly.
So today I'm going to talk to you about something not particularly funny. But I feel like I've had a bit of an epiphany lately and I thought I'd share it here.
Apparently people in this world die. Not a new epiphany, I know, but stick with me here. I know that people die. People die every day. Most of us have probably experienced some sort of loss in our lives at some point, some of us more often than others. I, however, have not experienced a whole lot of it in my life. And, with that being said, I don't think I have ever quite known how to love people well when they experience a loss. Especially people I am not close with.
But apparently, God is trying to teach me a little lesson on how to step into people's lives and grief because during this past week I have heard more about suffering and loss than I have in the past year. It started when one of my regulars at my coffee shop came in to the shop to tell us that her mother had passed away. This regular is wonderful. Around my mother's age but I wouldn't say we're close necessarily. However, when she arrived at our shop crying I felt compelled to sit with her. To hug her. To tell her we are here for her in whatever way she needs. And as I sat there next to her I was silently shocked at the way I handled the whole thing. I could have stayed on the other side of the counter and told her how sorry I was, but something in me told me to enter into that grief with her. I realized nothing I could do nor say could take away the pain, but it didn't matter. Pain is meant to be shared and I think the older I get, the more I realize that emotions are not something to run away from, but something to be embraced, even when they're not my own.
Today I had two more encounters. A friend I've known for 2 and a half years opened up about a tragedy in her own family from long ago and a random man walked in to get a cup of coffee after coming home from his father's funeral. With both of these experiences I was surprised at how present I was and how I wasn't afraid to enter into the experience with them. And in turn was able to open up about some of my own grief that I haven't really dealt with over the years. I was surprised to find myself tearing up after talking about it. Usually I think I just push it all down deep inside and refuse to actually deal with any of it. I talk about things that have affected me, but I talk about them nonchalantly; as if they don't actually affect me at all.
I met a man named Sean Sheridan last night. He wrote a book called Testimony Africa. You should look into it. But I'm not here to talk about the book (I haven't actually read it, but I can't wait to read it soon), I'm here to talk about something he said that I find rather profound. He said that the one thing to which we can all relate is suffering. We have all suffered in some way, whether it was loss or tragedy, whether we live here or in Africa or anywhere else for that matter, we have experienced it and it binds us together; gives us something over which to relate. And I think I have found that recently. There is no use running away from pain or from loss or even from emotions. They will find us all eventually. If we embrace them, we can embrace each other. And how beautiful is that?
I think for a while I had been a little afraid that not having any children of my own would negatively affect my ability to support a woman in labor. But I'm realizing more and more that is not the truth. I have been in pain. I have experienced suffering. I have experienced joy and celebration. It doesn't matter if I have experienced labor and birth before. I have experiences I can relate with a mother on and as long as I am willing to enter into that experience with her, it will be powerful and beautiful and everything in between.
So there you go. Food for thought. Speaking of food, I made myself some delicious nachos today. Want to know one of my favorite jokes? "What kind of cheese is not yours?" "NACHO cheese!" HA! Ha Ha HA HA Ha Ha Ha...... It never gets old! I found it on a laffy taffy one time. Did that effectively liven the mood? Oh good.
New Tactic: Write whatever the heck I want without worrying about whether or not I'm going to wow my audience with another "funny" blog. I'm not sure why I put 'funny' in quotations. They actually have been funny. I feel like Joey on friends when he doesn't know how to use air quotes correctly.
So today I'm going to talk to you about something not particularly funny. But I feel like I've had a bit of an epiphany lately and I thought I'd share it here.
Apparently people in this world die. Not a new epiphany, I know, but stick with me here. I know that people die. People die every day. Most of us have probably experienced some sort of loss in our lives at some point, some of us more often than others. I, however, have not experienced a whole lot of it in my life. And, with that being said, I don't think I have ever quite known how to love people well when they experience a loss. Especially people I am not close with.
But apparently, God is trying to teach me a little lesson on how to step into people's lives and grief because during this past week I have heard more about suffering and loss than I have in the past year. It started when one of my regulars at my coffee shop came in to the shop to tell us that her mother had passed away. This regular is wonderful. Around my mother's age but I wouldn't say we're close necessarily. However, when she arrived at our shop crying I felt compelled to sit with her. To hug her. To tell her we are here for her in whatever way she needs. And as I sat there next to her I was silently shocked at the way I handled the whole thing. I could have stayed on the other side of the counter and told her how sorry I was, but something in me told me to enter into that grief with her. I realized nothing I could do nor say could take away the pain, but it didn't matter. Pain is meant to be shared and I think the older I get, the more I realize that emotions are not something to run away from, but something to be embraced, even when they're not my own.
Today I had two more encounters. A friend I've known for 2 and a half years opened up about a tragedy in her own family from long ago and a random man walked in to get a cup of coffee after coming home from his father's funeral. With both of these experiences I was surprised at how present I was and how I wasn't afraid to enter into the experience with them. And in turn was able to open up about some of my own grief that I haven't really dealt with over the years. I was surprised to find myself tearing up after talking about it. Usually I think I just push it all down deep inside and refuse to actually deal with any of it. I talk about things that have affected me, but I talk about them nonchalantly; as if they don't actually affect me at all.
I met a man named Sean Sheridan last night. He wrote a book called Testimony Africa. You should look into it. But I'm not here to talk about the book (I haven't actually read it, but I can't wait to read it soon), I'm here to talk about something he said that I find rather profound. He said that the one thing to which we can all relate is suffering. We have all suffered in some way, whether it was loss or tragedy, whether we live here or in Africa or anywhere else for that matter, we have experienced it and it binds us together; gives us something over which to relate. And I think I have found that recently. There is no use running away from pain or from loss or even from emotions. They will find us all eventually. If we embrace them, we can embrace each other. And how beautiful is that?
I think for a while I had been a little afraid that not having any children of my own would negatively affect my ability to support a woman in labor. But I'm realizing more and more that is not the truth. I have been in pain. I have experienced suffering. I have experienced joy and celebration. It doesn't matter if I have experienced labor and birth before. I have experiences I can relate with a mother on and as long as I am willing to enter into that experience with her, it will be powerful and beautiful and everything in between.
So there you go. Food for thought. Speaking of food, I made myself some delicious nachos today. Want to know one of my favorite jokes? "What kind of cheese is not yours?" "NACHO cheese!" HA! Ha Ha HA HA Ha Ha Ha...... It never gets old! I found it on a laffy taffy one time. Did that effectively liven the mood? Oh good.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Kid in an Adult Candy Shop
Today was a day for running errands. We're having a bit of a bachelorette party for one of my roommates tonight so I had a some preparing to do. We'll be having dinner at our house first so I had to go grocery shopping and then we're going out on the town so I had to go party favor shopping.
Girl Scouts are certainly in season right now and I had yet another encounter while grocery shopping today. I was impressed by the skill level of this bunch. 3 girl scouts are always stronger than 1. As I walked out the door I mentally prepared myself for the ever-so-sweet "would you like to buy some girl scout cookies?". Determined to be strong and not give in to their huge puppy dog eyes I responded in an equally sweet manner "No thank you. But good luck!". I was walking away when the second wave hit. "Well then would you like a recipe for Thin Mint brownies?" Crap! They were unrelenting! I turned around slowly. "And would you like to try one?". I knew it was over. I begrudgingly admitted defeat, tried a brownie and told them I would buy a box of Thin Mints. This is not the first time an unsuspecting customer has been seduced by these cookie selling fiends. My friend Luke got chanted into buying a box yesterday. "One more box! One more box!" was chanted at him as he left a store and he succumbed to the power of the chant almost immediately. So I decided these girls could use a little marketing hint and suggested they start chanting that towards the end of their day as an extra push to sell a few more boxes. One of their dads laughed. The girls stared at me blankly. Clearly they have never experienced the power of the chant. They will one day. And they'll think back on me fondly.
A story about girl scout cookies, however, is just a teaser to the real excitement of the day. A trip to candyland. And by candyland I mean an adult store which will go unnamed. You know, for party favors. I really had to gear up for this one. Never have I ever entered one of these stores. I really didn't know what to expect. All I knew was that I found it hilarious to be going to one. Apparently I'm still in middle school. I even came up with funny little anecdotes to say to the desk clerk on the way in. Such as "Would you point me to the penis paraphernalia please?". Such great alliteration in that sentence! However, I decided that probably wouldn't get me very far because there is a lot of paraphernalia of the penile type in such a store.
I drove up. Parked. Put my game face on. And walked to the front door. (Not carrying my mace as my grandmother had insisted upon. Apparently these places are supposedly sketchier than I thought.) As I walked through the front door I noticed a large poster for a play toy that said "Have we met?". Classy, adult store...very classy. I went in, immediately saw a "bachelorette party" section and made a bee-line for it. This might be easier than I'd thought! But there was very little to offer and I was a slightly disappointed so I decided to venture through the rest of the store. Wow. That's all I have to say. It really was like being in a candy store. So many different colors, flavors, sparkly things, toys, outfits...if the pictures on the boxes didn't make me blush I might have had a really fun time giggling to myself as I walked around the store. When I had scoured every rack and found nothing (except the x-rated section. oops) I went back to the clerk and when she asked if she could help me I resisted the urge to say "I'm looking for some penises". (peni?) What's the plural? I don't think I've ever used that word in the plural form. I instead told the clerk I was throwing a bachelorette party and was wondering if there was anything else besides what was on the display. She told me to go upstairs. There was a whole second level! Who knew the need for these kinds of things was so widespread?!
I went upstairs. Resisted the urge to buy a veil with penis sequins and bought a sash instead that said Miss Bachelorette. Plus an inappropriate shot glass. I couldn't help myself. And I also made an impulse purchase. Which I would not have expected of myself. But it's a gift. For Jen Seris. Because she deserves it for coming up with all of those excellent Doula names. Don't worry, Mary. If you're reading this, it goes in the kitchen. Not in the bedroom :)
Anyway. I learned a little lesson today. Which I think I already knew, but it never gets old. Confidence gets you a lot of places. In life, in adult stores, in the labor room, etc. I'm just starting out as a doula, but as I continue to learn and grow as such confidence will help me support women so much better. Confidence in encouragement. Confidence in healing touch. Confidence in suggesting pain relieving techniques. Confidence.
And a little humor goes a long way as well!
Girl Scouts are certainly in season right now and I had yet another encounter while grocery shopping today. I was impressed by the skill level of this bunch. 3 girl scouts are always stronger than 1. As I walked out the door I mentally prepared myself for the ever-so-sweet "would you like to buy some girl scout cookies?". Determined to be strong and not give in to their huge puppy dog eyes I responded in an equally sweet manner "No thank you. But good luck!". I was walking away when the second wave hit. "Well then would you like a recipe for Thin Mint brownies?" Crap! They were unrelenting! I turned around slowly. "And would you like to try one?". I knew it was over. I begrudgingly admitted defeat, tried a brownie and told them I would buy a box of Thin Mints. This is not the first time an unsuspecting customer has been seduced by these cookie selling fiends. My friend Luke got chanted into buying a box yesterday. "One more box! One more box!" was chanted at him as he left a store and he succumbed to the power of the chant almost immediately. So I decided these girls could use a little marketing hint and suggested they start chanting that towards the end of their day as an extra push to sell a few more boxes. One of their dads laughed. The girls stared at me blankly. Clearly they have never experienced the power of the chant. They will one day. And they'll think back on me fondly.
A story about girl scout cookies, however, is just a teaser to the real excitement of the day. A trip to candyland. And by candyland I mean an adult store which will go unnamed. You know, for party favors. I really had to gear up for this one. Never have I ever entered one of these stores. I really didn't know what to expect. All I knew was that I found it hilarious to be going to one. Apparently I'm still in middle school. I even came up with funny little anecdotes to say to the desk clerk on the way in. Such as "Would you point me to the penis paraphernalia please?". Such great alliteration in that sentence! However, I decided that probably wouldn't get me very far because there is a lot of paraphernalia of the penile type in such a store.
I drove up. Parked. Put my game face on. And walked to the front door. (Not carrying my mace as my grandmother had insisted upon. Apparently these places are supposedly sketchier than I thought.) As I walked through the front door I noticed a large poster for a play toy that said "Have we met?". Classy, adult store...very classy. I went in, immediately saw a "bachelorette party" section and made a bee-line for it. This might be easier than I'd thought! But there was very little to offer and I was a slightly disappointed so I decided to venture through the rest of the store. Wow. That's all I have to say. It really was like being in a candy store. So many different colors, flavors, sparkly things, toys, outfits...if the pictures on the boxes didn't make me blush I might have had a really fun time giggling to myself as I walked around the store. When I had scoured every rack and found nothing (except the x-rated section. oops) I went back to the clerk and when she asked if she could help me I resisted the urge to say "I'm looking for some penises". (peni?) What's the plural? I don't think I've ever used that word in the plural form. I instead told the clerk I was throwing a bachelorette party and was wondering if there was anything else besides what was on the display. She told me to go upstairs. There was a whole second level! Who knew the need for these kinds of things was so widespread?!
I went upstairs. Resisted the urge to buy a veil with penis sequins and bought a sash instead that said Miss Bachelorette. Plus an inappropriate shot glass. I couldn't help myself. And I also made an impulse purchase. Which I would not have expected of myself. But it's a gift. For Jen Seris. Because she deserves it for coming up with all of those excellent Doula names. Don't worry, Mary. If you're reading this, it goes in the kitchen. Not in the bedroom :)
Anyway. I learned a little lesson today. Which I think I already knew, but it never gets old. Confidence gets you a lot of places. In life, in adult stores, in the labor room, etc. I'm just starting out as a doula, but as I continue to learn and grow as such confidence will help me support women so much better. Confidence in encouragement. Confidence in healing touch. Confidence in suggesting pain relieving techniques. Confidence.
And a little humor goes a long way as well!
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Big Girl Pants
So I had to put on my big girl pants this week. Not my hot pants or my party pants, both of which I wear on a regular basis, but my big girl pants. Big girl pants can be worn to accomplish all sorts of grown up like situations. For instance, I wore my big girl pants to the grocery store yesterday partly because I made myself buy items for a salad even though most of the time I don't want to eat salad and partly because I had to go to the grocery store twice because I forgot some things for the soup I was making. I HATE the grocery store. But this is what happens when you're a grown up. You do things you hate because it's the right thing to do. While at the grocery store, though, I did come across a middle school-aged girl scout selling girl scout cookies. Oh how I wanted to buy cookies from her. Not because I really want to eat girl scout cookies, mind you. I don't really like sweet things. However, I felt this innate need to support her in what she was doing. Poor girl was at least in upper middle school and she was still in girl scouts. I mean, by that age, you are usually questioning your girl scout identity. Wondering if you still have any chance at being cool, wondering why you are still selling cookies when you now know that selling cookies is not as exciting as it seems. You have to sit in the cold to sell cookies and you really don't make much money off of each box. That, and people expect to buy cookies from the cute little brownie (that's a young girl scout) not a teenager.
How do I have such excellent insight into a middle school girl scout's psyche you ask? Oh because I was one. Until I graduated from high school. That's right. And I actually enjoyed it for the most part. I mean, slightly embarrassing, but mainly enjoyable. And I'm not just writing that because my mom might read this and she was the leader. So there you go. Something most people don't know about me. I sold A LOT of girl scout cookies in my day. And I paid for a girl scout trip to Hawaii mostly through bake sales. If you've ever wondered why I'm a good baker you now know you can thank my girl scouting career.
But let's get back to the point of my blog. Me being a doula. And wearing my big girl pants as such. I received a phone call last week from a woman hoping to hire a doula for her upcoming birth. My phone rang, I let it go to voicemail because it was a number I didn't recognize, and when I listened to the message, all I could hear was "Hi Megan, this is ______ I got your number from ______ and _____________________________________________". So I knew she was calling the right number but had no idea who she was or who had given her said number.
I called her back with the full expectation that she was a Yobel volunteer because I get a lot of calls from people I don't know wanting to volunteer with us. So when she told me Ana had given her my number I was very confused. I don't know any Ana's! I think I missed the whole first part of our conversation because all I could think was "Ana? Ana? Ana? Ana? Ana?". As if repeating a person's name over and over will help you place that person. Yeah right. She finally told me Ana was my instructor. Oh! Light bulb! My doula instructor! Ok, now I understand the context of this call. I switch into doula mode (whatever that means) and start answering questions about my natural birth philosophy (which I have not fully defined yet) and what my price is (which I also have not defined yet). Thank you high school debate for teaching me to think on my feet and make it up as I go (yep. still a nerd over here). All in all, I think the conversation went well for me being completely caught off guard and slightly awkward and she emailed me back a few days later asking if we could meet to discuss a few more questions she had.
At this point I remembered doula training 101 and thought to ask her due date. There's no point in us meeting if I can't actually attend her birth. She emails back and tells me her due date is essentially in 1 WEEK! Woah! While I am available a week from now, I don't actually think I am ready to attend a birth a week from now. Not only do I not have all of my paperwork together but this would be my first birth attended as a doula. And as a new doula I really need time to build a relationship with my client before I can know how to support them well in labor. So, while I really wanted to jump in and take a client, I decided to decline. Because I didn't feel like it would be fair to her. She wants to do things naturally and if I can't support her well, she may not be able to accomplish that goal.
I emailed her. Told her why I wouldn't be a good fit and suggested a more experienced doula. And then I cried a little on the inside. But, she emailed me back, told me thank you for my honesty and that I would make a great doula someday. I decided there's no use crying over spilled milk and I am counting this experience as a growing one and one that puts me not only in the world of big girl pants, but also in the world of professionals. Success.
All that to say, if anyone knows anyone due in a couple months, sign me up! Like my first potential client said, I'm going to be a great doula. Just maybe not in a week.
How do I have such excellent insight into a middle school girl scout's psyche you ask? Oh because I was one. Until I graduated from high school. That's right. And I actually enjoyed it for the most part. I mean, slightly embarrassing, but mainly enjoyable. And I'm not just writing that because my mom might read this and she was the leader. So there you go. Something most people don't know about me. I sold A LOT of girl scout cookies in my day. And I paid for a girl scout trip to Hawaii mostly through bake sales. If you've ever wondered why I'm a good baker you now know you can thank my girl scouting career.
But let's get back to the point of my blog. Me being a doula. And wearing my big girl pants as such. I received a phone call last week from a woman hoping to hire a doula for her upcoming birth. My phone rang, I let it go to voicemail because it was a number I didn't recognize, and when I listened to the message, all I could hear was "Hi Megan, this is ______ I got your number from ______ and _____________________________________________". So I knew she was calling the right number but had no idea who she was or who had given her said number.
I called her back with the full expectation that she was a Yobel volunteer because I get a lot of calls from people I don't know wanting to volunteer with us. So when she told me Ana had given her my number I was very confused. I don't know any Ana's! I think I missed the whole first part of our conversation because all I could think was "Ana? Ana? Ana? Ana? Ana?". As if repeating a person's name over and over will help you place that person. Yeah right. She finally told me Ana was my instructor. Oh! Light bulb! My doula instructor! Ok, now I understand the context of this call. I switch into doula mode (whatever that means) and start answering questions about my natural birth philosophy (which I have not fully defined yet) and what my price is (which I also have not defined yet). Thank you high school debate for teaching me to think on my feet and make it up as I go (yep. still a nerd over here). All in all, I think the conversation went well for me being completely caught off guard and slightly awkward and she emailed me back a few days later asking if we could meet to discuss a few more questions she had.
At this point I remembered doula training 101 and thought to ask her due date. There's no point in us meeting if I can't actually attend her birth. She emails back and tells me her due date is essentially in 1 WEEK! Woah! While I am available a week from now, I don't actually think I am ready to attend a birth a week from now. Not only do I not have all of my paperwork together but this would be my first birth attended as a doula. And as a new doula I really need time to build a relationship with my client before I can know how to support them well in labor. So, while I really wanted to jump in and take a client, I decided to decline. Because I didn't feel like it would be fair to her. She wants to do things naturally and if I can't support her well, she may not be able to accomplish that goal.
I emailed her. Told her why I wouldn't be a good fit and suggested a more experienced doula. And then I cried a little on the inside. But, she emailed me back, told me thank you for my honesty and that I would make a great doula someday. I decided there's no use crying over spilled milk and I am counting this experience as a growing one and one that puts me not only in the world of big girl pants, but also in the world of professionals. Success.
All that to say, if anyone knows anyone due in a couple months, sign me up! Like my first potential client said, I'm going to be a great doula. Just maybe not in a week.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
(Black) Eye of the Beholder
This past weekend I went to Fairplay for a retreat with Yobel Market. It was fantastic! I hung out with our incredible volunteers, ate great food, worshiped the Lord, cast vision for the upcoming year, and played many many games. One game, in particular, I had never played before. It is called 'Psychiatrist'. Essentially the object of the game is for everyone in the room to be in on a secret and to ostracize one person and make them guess what that secret is.
My friend Hannah told me she thought I'd be great at being the person in the middle which of course made me want to do it immediately! I can't be sure if she was lying just to me to get me to do it or if she actually believed I would be good at guessing secrets but either way I accepted the challenge. You see, peer pressure doesn't work on me, but lavishing me with complements will usually get me to do something. You can all now use that to your advantage.
I was relegated to the basement which we had deemed the "man cave" while they told secrets. Supposedly this was the only place in the house where I wouldn't here them telling secrets without me. (I like to whisper too). I plodded down the steps dutifully, and arrived in the man cave with nothing to do but wait. Which is never a good idea for me. I get bored. And then I do stupid things. As I looked around the man cave/make-shift tool shed I got a little idea. Why not pull a little prank while I'm down here? I immediately went to work. I didn't have much time, so I did as much damage in as little time as possible. Objective: Place as many uncomfortable things in as many of my friends' beds as possible. Objects: A blow torch, a screw gun, a hammer, some dowel rods. If it makes you feel any better, I did hesitate for the briefest of moments when trying to decide whether or not to put a blow torch in someone's bed. I had visions of them getting under the covers, running their foot along the on switch not knowing it was there and the blowtorch turning on and catching my friend's leg hair on fire as well as his bedding and then naturally the whole house. But I ignored my inner momming and decided to put the torch there anyway. The chances of that happening were minimal.
But apparently there is such a thing as Karma (ok, I don't really believe in this) because while I was collecting my tools I reached to grab the hammer from under the shelf and came up too quickly, misjudged the proximity of the upper shelf and hit my eyebrow so hard that I gave myself a black eye. Awesome.
Don't worry, I am a pranking pro and I only let this phase me for a couple of seconds. I finished my prank, put on every item of clothing I could find that wasn't mine and raced up the stairs wearing men's jeans, men's swim trunks, a very large striped shirt and a towel for a cape. You know, just to wow them. I eventually guessed the secret. I think it had something to do with my new found superpower that came along with wearing a cape. And now I sit here writing this to you with a swollen eye that's nice and pink. I can only hope it turns purple, then green, then yellow, etc. If I'm going to have a black eye, I may as well have a good one, right?
Other than games and black eyes, a lot of my time at the retreat was spent talking about this new endeavor I'm embarking on. I felt really well supported by friends and family. Many of them didn't know what a doula was until they read my first blog or until I told them about it this weekend, but overall I'd say I was super encouraged by the people who have come around me and are excited about this new adventure for me. I started reading "The Doula Book" by Klaus, Kennell & Klaus which is really informative and exciting. And I had a chance to do some education as well! I had conversations ranging from the cultural influence of Western medicine on births in the U.S. to the importance of a doula for both the mother and the father to perineal massage (Men, if you don't know what this is, don't google it. You won't like the pictures that come up). All in all a great weekend, thanks Yobel for providing a space for greatness!
My friend Hannah told me she thought I'd be great at being the person in the middle which of course made me want to do it immediately! I can't be sure if she was lying just to me to get me to do it or if she actually believed I would be good at guessing secrets but either way I accepted the challenge. You see, peer pressure doesn't work on me, but lavishing me with complements will usually get me to do something. You can all now use that to your advantage.
I was relegated to the basement which we had deemed the "man cave" while they told secrets. Supposedly this was the only place in the house where I wouldn't here them telling secrets without me. (I like to whisper too). I plodded down the steps dutifully, and arrived in the man cave with nothing to do but wait. Which is never a good idea for me. I get bored. And then I do stupid things. As I looked around the man cave/make-shift tool shed I got a little idea. Why not pull a little prank while I'm down here? I immediately went to work. I didn't have much time, so I did as much damage in as little time as possible. Objective: Place as many uncomfortable things in as many of my friends' beds as possible. Objects: A blow torch, a screw gun, a hammer, some dowel rods. If it makes you feel any better, I did hesitate for the briefest of moments when trying to decide whether or not to put a blow torch in someone's bed. I had visions of them getting under the covers, running their foot along the on switch not knowing it was there and the blowtorch turning on and catching my friend's leg hair on fire as well as his bedding and then naturally the whole house. But I ignored my inner momming and decided to put the torch there anyway. The chances of that happening were minimal.
But apparently there is such a thing as Karma (ok, I don't really believe in this) because while I was collecting my tools I reached to grab the hammer from under the shelf and came up too quickly, misjudged the proximity of the upper shelf and hit my eyebrow so hard that I gave myself a black eye. Awesome.
Don't worry, I am a pranking pro and I only let this phase me for a couple of seconds. I finished my prank, put on every item of clothing I could find that wasn't mine and raced up the stairs wearing men's jeans, men's swim trunks, a very large striped shirt and a towel for a cape. You know, just to wow them. I eventually guessed the secret. I think it had something to do with my new found superpower that came along with wearing a cape. And now I sit here writing this to you with a swollen eye that's nice and pink. I can only hope it turns purple, then green, then yellow, etc. If I'm going to have a black eye, I may as well have a good one, right?
Other than games and black eyes, a lot of my time at the retreat was spent talking about this new endeavor I'm embarking on. I felt really well supported by friends and family. Many of them didn't know what a doula was until they read my first blog or until I told them about it this weekend, but overall I'd say I was super encouraged by the people who have come around me and are excited about this new adventure for me. I started reading "The Doula Book" by Klaus, Kennell & Klaus which is really informative and exciting. And I had a chance to do some education as well! I had conversations ranging from the cultural influence of Western medicine on births in the U.S. to the importance of a doula for both the mother and the father to perineal massage (Men, if you don't know what this is, don't google it. You won't like the pictures that come up). All in all a great weekend, thanks Yobel for providing a space for greatness!
Thursday, February 17, 2011
The Origin of the Doula (La)
I have never created a blog before. I can't decide whether I'm really excited or just really self-absorbed. I remember when blogs started popping up in the 90s. I thought they were a little weird; some sort of "online diary". That's right. I said diary. I was probably still writing about boys in my diary at that point in time. I have now graduated to calling it a journal. I'm very mature. As time traveled on my view of blogs traveled on as well. I began seeing them as outlets for the world-traveler or, and I'm apologizing in advance for this comment, an outlet for the self-absorbed. The people who like to hear themselves talk. But, just like pointy toed heels and skinny jeans, I've finally succumbed to the fad and 15 years later I'm writing this thing called a blog for the first time. That's right. It's an outlet to hear myself talk. But mostly I'm writing it because I think that as I really start embracing my doulaness women who look into using me as their support person might want to read some of these things, you know, learn about who I am through what I've written.
I hope they don't read this first one. Yikes!
Now that that's out of the way, I would like to make my first blog topic a memoir. Wait. Memoir? Memory? I don't know. Regardless, you're going to read about how I chose the name "DouLa La"....which is a memory of mine. So...memory? Anyway, if I'm really honest about it, sometimes I still have a hard time believing I actually chose that name and want to be counted as a professional. So here we go, my reasoning/excuses:
Once upon a time someone named Mark Zuckerberg created this little thing called Facebook. Facebook, just like pointy-toed high heels, skinny jeans and blogging, was a trend I ran away from at first but have now embraced with absolute fervor. They continually "improve" Facebook to make it more "user friendly" and News Feed was one of those improvements (unfortunately they failed recently in the improvement category by adding the little black box picture framey thingy that I hate with the fire of a thousand swords).
So News Feed, tangent aside, was a great aid in creating the name for my new doula business. I simply asked what I should name my business and people responded over and over because it kept popping (I almost wrote pooping) up on their News Feed rendering them utterly useless against its power of persuasion. That, and I offered the winner cookies. So if you didn't read it there or you'd like to read it again here were the suggestions from my clever friends and family:
Baby whisperer, Doula it the right way: Doula it the Galloway, Doula wished I'd said banana, WWJDoula, DouLa-La, Doulacious, Doulivah yo baybay, the Doulagins, Doulapagos Islands (but only if I moved to a remote island and specialized in very large tortoises), "G.O.O.D" Doula Services- Galloway Outreach to Optimize Delivery- Doula Services, "GO Doula" Galloway Optimal Doula!, Doula a Favor, Doula-iver Me Baby!, Doula-ots of 'em, Doula have a baby I could borrow?, Doula doulda doula doula... Doulda all day long.... Doula doula doula doula... Everybody sing along!, Doula Gal, Doula Hoop, Nobody's Cool-ah than a Doula, Follow the Rule-ahs and Hire a Doula, Doulas-R-US, Sheep Teat Doula Inc. (inside joke), From the Groin Up (because I work at From the Ground Up coffee shop), Dou-la-la (yet again!), At Your Cervix, How Doula Do, Howdie Doula, Somebody do ya? Call a doula!, Shoo-be-doo-be-doula, Push It (Push it Real Good), Spread your legs for Megs, Fortieth Week’s Welcome, Megan’s Labor of Love, The Parturient Peddler, The Rocky Mountain Monitrice, Mile High Fundus, Denver’s Doyenne of Doulas, Tender Loving Doula
Phew! I mean, really?! You guys are awesome! I could never have come up with most of those. And I certainly wouldn't have come up with some of them. Spread your legs for Megs? Sinner...
But all kidding aside, DouLa La continued to jump out at me. Maybe because two people suggested it, maybe because I just really liked it. But here I am, a new business owner, registered by the trade name DouLa La. And it works. It fits. It has my personality written all over it. And it has my practicality all under it. (I know that didn't make sense, but I liked the way it sounded, so leave it alone.) It will pop up in Google searches and when people see that name amongst a hundred other Doula names, they'll go to my website simply because it pops out at them.
So there it is. The end of my first blog and my excuses for not only starting a blog but for naming my business what I did. I will be making no further excuses. Thank you for reading. This has been very therapeutic. I'm off to make my friend Luke some cookies for winning the name game.
How do I end this? Signing off? 10-4 good buddy? I don't know...you probably didn't even read this far it doesn't matter anyway. Ugh! I'm so long-winded! I can't even sign off without being long-winded. That's it. I'm done. The end.
I hope they don't read this first one. Yikes!
Now that that's out of the way, I would like to make my first blog topic a memoir. Wait. Memoir? Memory? I don't know. Regardless, you're going to read about how I chose the name "DouLa La"....which is a memory of mine. So...memory? Anyway, if I'm really honest about it, sometimes I still have a hard time believing I actually chose that name and want to be counted as a professional. So here we go, my reasoning/excuses:
Once upon a time someone named Mark Zuckerberg created this little thing called Facebook. Facebook, just like pointy-toed high heels, skinny jeans and blogging, was a trend I ran away from at first but have now embraced with absolute fervor. They continually "improve" Facebook to make it more "user friendly" and News Feed was one of those improvements (unfortunately they failed recently in the improvement category by adding the little black box picture framey thingy that I hate with the fire of a thousand swords).
So News Feed, tangent aside, was a great aid in creating the name for my new doula business. I simply asked what I should name my business and people responded over and over because it kept popping (I almost wrote pooping) up on their News Feed rendering them utterly useless against its power of persuasion. That, and I offered the winner cookies. So if you didn't read it there or you'd like to read it again here were the suggestions from my clever friends and family:
Baby whisperer, Doula it the right way: Doula it the Galloway, Doula wished I'd said banana, WWJDoula, DouLa-La, Doulacious, Doulivah yo baybay, the Doulagins, Doulapagos Islands (but only if I moved to a remote island and specialized in very large tortoises), "G.O.O.D" Doula Services- Galloway Outreach to Optimize Delivery- Doula Services, "GO Doula" Galloway Optimal Doula!, Doula a Favor, Doula-iver Me Baby!, Doula-ots of 'em, Doula have a baby I could borrow?, Doula doulda doula doula... Doulda all day long.... Doula doula doula doula... Everybody sing along!, Doula Gal, Doula Hoop, Nobody's Cool-ah than a Doula, Follow the Rule-ahs and Hire a Doula, Doulas-R-US, Sheep Teat Doula Inc. (inside joke), From the Groin Up (because I work at From the Ground Up coffee shop), Dou-la-la (yet again!), At Your Cervix, How Doula Do, Howdie Doula, Somebody do ya? Call a doula!, Shoo-be-doo-be-doula, Push It (Push it Real Good), Spread your legs for Megs, Fortieth Week’s Welcome, Megan’s Labor of Love, The Parturient Peddler, The Rocky Mountain Monitrice, Mile High Fundus, Denver’s Doyenne of Doulas, Tender Loving Doula
Phew! I mean, really?! You guys are awesome! I could never have come up with most of those. And I certainly wouldn't have come up with some of them. Spread your legs for Megs? Sinner...
But all kidding aside, DouLa La continued to jump out at me. Maybe because two people suggested it, maybe because I just really liked it. But here I am, a new business owner, registered by the trade name DouLa La. And it works. It fits. It has my personality written all over it. And it has my practicality all under it. (I know that didn't make sense, but I liked the way it sounded, so leave it alone.) It will pop up in Google searches and when people see that name amongst a hundred other Doula names, they'll go to my website simply because it pops out at them.
So there it is. The end of my first blog and my excuses for not only starting a blog but for naming my business what I did. I will be making no further excuses. Thank you for reading. This has been very therapeutic. I'm off to make my friend Luke some cookies for winning the name game.
How do I end this? Signing off? 10-4 good buddy? I don't know...you probably didn't even read this far it doesn't matter anyway. Ugh! I'm so long-winded! I can't even sign off without being long-winded. That's it. I'm done. The end.
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