You Got Holes in Your Ears or What?

by Cathy

I was up watching television in bed the other night - my usual wind-down routine before bedtime. As I usually do, I had it tuned into Friends reruns on cable. Yes, I enjoy watching this show because for me, these television Friends were almost like my real-life friends - I laughed, loved and cried (and sometimes cried from laughter) - through all of their trials and tribulations. We grew up together in some kind of parallel universe. So for the purposes of this post, I'm going to assume that you grew up in this universe and are familiar with the cast of the show. If not, well then, carry on.

In this particular episode, Rachel's sister (Christina Applegate) takes Rachel's daughter Emma (a toddler) to get her ears pierced as a surprise, goodwill gesture. Apparently, this is what the "fun, cool aunts do," she had to explain herself. You see, Rachel didn't see this "gesture" as fun, or even cool. In fact, she lost her cool and reprimanded her sister for this obvious act of barbarianism. When Ross, the baby's father, gets wind of the little studs on his daughter's little ears, he blamed Rachel for leaving their child with someone SO irresponsible. I mean, really, you would think she brought the baby back looking like this:

Hey there, you punky princess. What's YOUR name?

My husband, who surprisingly wasn't alseep yet, and even more surprisingly, was watching Friends, turned to me and said, "What is it with people freaking out about getting a little girl's ears pierced?"

"I know, riiiiiight?! I don't understand why it's such a big deal!" I agreed, shocked that he would even care to comment on this.

"I mean, don't all girls get their ears pierced?" he pushed.

"Of course they do, otherwise they can kiss half of their fashion sense goodbye," I replied. "Who the heck wears clip-ons now? Hell, who the heck sells clip-ons?"

I pondered this some more, now intrigued at why some were so opposed to getting a toddler's ears pierced than others.
"It must be an ethnic thing," I concluded.
Joe looked at me half quizzically and half incredulously.
"Think about it," I attempted. "You're half Mexican. Mexicans pierce their baby girls' ears practically at birth. My sister and I both got ours pierced when we were very young; I don't even remember it. And I had both our girls' ears pierced before they turned a year old," I continued. "Granted, it was mainly because I heard that getting them pierced when they're really young is better since they don't remember the pain and aren't as cognizant of the studs in their ears so they don't keep touching and infecting them..."

"Maybe you're right," he shrugged as he yawned, clearly wishing he was now asleep.

"I'm serious! Think about it," I nudged.

Earrings AND a bracelet!! GASP!

Various cultures are all for having their baby girls' ears studded moreso than Americans it seems. Honestly, I can see why this may freak them out; there is something unnatural about a slobbering, burping bundle rockin' accessories. It's not really necessary, is it? I mean, it's not like they're going to don a matching choker and a pair of heels and hit the town. It makes sense to wait until they are old enough to have it look, well...natural. I get it.

I guess we culturally-diverse folks think differently. We bling out our baby girls, polish their toenails and pull a frilly 'lil bikini over their diapers (most of the time, without the bikini top) while chilling at the beach sporting over-sized sunnies. Why? Because that's just how our cultures have always rolled and how we, in turn, now roll. Holes in our baby ears or not, eventually all of us girls - black, white, brown, yellow, blue and orange - we all get there in our own time.

The thought of dying is killing me

by Patti

I have to leave in a few days for a work trip, and that ol' friend Anxiety has already started poking at my insides. Well, actually, Anxiety has been poking at my insides long before today; it is a faithful companion when it comes to having to fly, never failing to do its job just right by me. Oh, Anxiety. You and your willingness to succeed.

Yes, I'm afraid to fly. I never was before I had S. I have had the lucky opportunity to travel to many places in the world, and before I became a mother, I never gave packing my bags and boarding a plane a second thought. After S? Why would I do that? I COULD DIE. And although I'm not too keen on dying just yet - especially in a fiery crash that might have me knowing I'm going to die for many, many torturous minutes as I hurtle mercilessly through the air in a metal tube with 200 other screaming passengers - my main fear of flying is not necessarily dying - though, I have to admit that would suck; it's dying and leaving S motherless.

And it's not just flying. Before I had S, I have to admit: I did alot of crazy things. Things I did without regard to consequence. Like the time M and I went skydiving, for example. I mean, REALLY? Would I REALLY strap on some fabric fashioned into a supposed life-saving parachute and jump out of a perfectly good plane when my daughter needs a mother to take her shopping for a prom dress? I mean, M has good taste and all, but I need to stay alive for that someday purchase of coquettish chiffon and a boutonniere. If he takes her shopping for a prom dress, S will likely end up going to her prom in this:

I'm too sexy for my habit

So, yeah: The mere thought of skydiving now sends my stomach into a mile-high skydive of its own - sans parachute.

I have to give my mind credit: It is pretty adept at coming up with every possible way to die. Aside from the usual culprtis like cancer and other assorted 21st century diseases (ebola, anyone?), my creative little mind has convinced me that going for a stroll in the park will leave me stabbed; driving will leave me decapitated; eating a burger will leave me all Mad Cow; swimming in the ocean will leave me either sucked under by a rip tide or legless-by-shark; running on the treadmill will cause my heart to stop, causing me to collapse onto the rapidly moving surface so that my head gets sucked into the machine; walking to the mailbox will leave me kidnapped - and depending on what kind of mood M is in, I may or may not be rescued by the resulting ransom....

Oh, I could go on (and on),  but the point is: However and whenver the great big clock in the sky points to my Time to Go, I don't want it to be when S still needs me. Dying on its own is some scary shit; dying and leaving behind my daughter when she still doesn't know the difference between long-wearing and thickening mascaras; when she still hasn't gotten her first period; when she still hasn't had her heart broken in the ways that make a girl a woman; when she still hasn't known the fear that motherhood instills in a woman's heart - I simply can't leave. Not yet.

But the mystery of "when" remains, and so the possibility that my brain will explode as I am innocently falling asleep does too. Let's just hope that by then, S is leaning on her cane, her grandchildren around her, her husband's arm circling her waist. What a way to go.