What Not Even Your Girlfriends Will Tell You About Childbirth

The other day Yum and I were talking about having more children. (We were not talking about having more children together - so all you girl-on-girl-action lovers can stop daydreaming about the two of us in bed with a turkey baster and a twinkle in our eyes.)

We each have one toddler. I've got Petunia; she's got FS Jr. They're basically the same age - two and a half. Plenty of parents of two-and-a-half-year-olds have second kids already (hello, Nora June!), and others are actively planning. So it doesn't feel crazy to be thinking seriously about throwing the condoms out the window.

But for me, it has been a long road getting to this point.

I had physical problems following the birth of Petunia, and only in the past six months have I finally healed for good and gotten past the trauma. I've talked about my issues with close friends in veiled terms, but I've never really spelled it all out - in person or online.

I feel like there is some value in telling my story to the world, because I'm sure there are other mothers out there who are going through what I went through. I don't want them to feel alone or fucked up beyond repair.

Not even the Girlfriends Guide to Pregnancy, which purports to be 'everything your doctor won't tell you,' talks much about what your body should be after having been a part of the miracle of life. Seriously, there's like 6 pages about how you might not ever lose the weight and your boobs may droop.

See, my problems were more significant than weight loss and boob shape. I was in pain. For weeks and months. Pain with a giant capital P. Pain that made my eyes water. Pain that made me cry at night. I didn't have postpartum depression or anything; I was just in so much fucking pain.

The first significant source of pain was my breasts. I had decided during my pregnancy that I was going to breastfeed Petunia, and I did a lot of reading up and talking to other moms. Everyone says that breastfeeding can hurt a little at the beginning but that if you're doing it right (the breastfeeding brigade catchphrase is 'check your latch'), things will get better in a couple of weeks. They say you have to be committed, especially in the first month.

Well, after five weeks, I was doing it perfectly. Petunia was doing it perfectly. The lactation consultants told us this plenty of times. As mother and daughter, we were the illustration of successful breastfeeding technique - if you could overlook the blood oozing from the welts in my nipples and the horrible grimace on my face as I tried to nurse my baby while feeling like I was being tortured.

Guess what? I had a yeast infection in my breasts. Sometimes this is called thrush. Often, babies have white patches in their mouths. My baby never did, but I most certainly had the infection. The characteristic feeling was that of a hot ice pick being jammed into my nipple, through my breast and into my shoulder blade. The visible symptoms were welts that wouldn't heal and blisters on my nipples.

Having a yeast infection in your breasts inducts you into The Sorority of Pain. Women who have had thrush are joined by a bond of horror that others cannot imagine. When I told other moms what I was battling, the ones who had had it themselves got very serious looks on their faces, grabbed my arm firmly and said with heartfelt emotion, 'I am SO sorry for you.' Women who had never had thrush said innocently, 'Isn't that the thing where the baby's mouth gets white stuff in it?'

The worst part was, I had to self-diagnose. I kept waiting for the pain to go away, for the welts to heal. And they didn't. So I had to go digging through the annals of the La Leche League website, new mom discussion boards and other reference sites to find descriptions of my symptoms before going to the lactation consultants to demand treatment.

Even then, it took almost two weeks to get the infection under control. Why? Because the lactation consultants were prescribing wimpy remedies (eat plenty of yogurt, paint Nystatin on your breasts) for an incredibly advanced, rampant infection. It was only when I went to my OB-GYN that I finally got what I needed: a prescription for massive amounts of Diflucan. In the end, I had to take 9000 mg (that's not a typo) over six weeks to rid my body of the yeast that had spread throughout my milk ducts and everything associated with them. Once the infection was gone, I really enjoyed breastfeeding.

The second source of pain was my, um, private girl parts. (btw, that's what we tell Petunia they are. I hate made-up phrases like 'woo-woo,' but I don't want to use terms beyond what Petunia can understand at this point. I'll never forget some friends' three-year-old who couldn't stop talking about her vagina during dinner, though I think she actually was discussing her vulva. We figure we'll help Petunia will put specific names to specific body parts when she's old enough to realize that there are many distinct body parts between her legs.)

When I went to see my doctor for the six week checkup, she declared me to be healing nicely, despite a second degree tear when giving birth. Well, because we were both so fixated on healing my breasts, my wonderful doctor didn't pay as much attention to my private girl parts as she should have. So I left that appointment thinking that I was on the way to normalcy.

Imagine how I felt when months had passed by, and having sex still hurt so bad that it made me wince and cry. I felt like I had been lied to. No one told me it would be so awful after having a baby. Alternately, I felt like maybe I just had a really low threshhold for pain, because none of my postpartum friends seemed to find sex as painful as I did.

At six months postpartum, I had my regular annual GYN well exam. At the visit, I told my doctor that I was still experiencing a lot of pain with intercourse (one of the terrible parts about this experience was using biology text book words with a straight face), and she gave things down south a closer look. She sat up looking a bit embarassed and explained that I wasn't crazy to be feeling pain. Turns out that my stitches had never entirely dissolved, and I basically had a small open wound where I had torn during delivery.

To fix the matter, she had to physically cut the last stitch or two out and then apply what she lovingly referred to as a 'chemical peel' to the wound, in order to eat the top layer of cells off and get my body making new skin again. HOW FUN! I waddled out of the doctors office in tears that day, with many of the same physical sensations I had coming home from the maternity ward. I went back to see my doctor a week later, and she did another 'chemical peel' treatment, pronounced me to be solidly on the road to recovery and sent me home with the promise of happy sex in my near future.

After that, things certainly improved. Sex is so much better when there are no open wounds involved! However, things never were really, totally right. I still had some mild pain and a lot of discomfort when doing the horizontal mambo, and at this point, I was sure it was all in my head. I mean, after all that, what else could be going on? I felt doomed to live the rest of my life with sub-standard girl parts, never able to fully enjoy sex again.

At my next GYN well exam, a full 10 months after I went through the 'chemical peel' regime, I explained my discomfort to my doctor - despite feeling like a psychosomatic asshole. She did a lot of palpating various parts of my reproductive anatomy and then said that I wasn't crazy. I had a lot of thick scar tissue where my tear had healed, and it was very tender and sensitive.

Unfortunately, she didn't really give me any options for treatment. She told me that during my next childbirth, I would likely tear again and during the repar they could make sure to fix the scar tissue from my first birth. Well, given that I was not pregnant and not planning to be pregnant anytime soon, I was pretty disheartened at the idea of waiting two years or more to have this problem fixed.

It was during a random conversation with my chiropractor about scar tissue in my shoulder that I gently broached the problem with painful scar tissue in my girl parts. My wonderful, wonderful chiro did not flinch and said, 'Oh, I know someone who can help you.' She referred me to a physical therapist who, in addition to traditional treatments, does physical therapy on private girl parts. I am not kidding you. This saintly woman in Fairfax VA (who sadly closed her practice six months ago for reasons unknown to me) showed me how to do compression on my painful scar tissue to get my body healing internally and sent me home with some tips about how and when to use the technique she had shown me.

Well, within a couple of months of doing this scar tissue compression religiously, I started to realize that sex didn't hurt anymore. I had gotten so used to bracing myself for the discomfort that I hardly believed myself when it wasn't there anymore. In fact, I had grown so accustomed to the sensation that it took me another couple of months of pain-free sex to stop holding my breath whenever Basil and I did the nasty. In the past several months, I dare say that I have gotten my mojo back - initiating sex and enjoying myself like I used to.

Eighteen months ago (hell, ten months ago), I wasn't so sure this day would ever come. And back then, I had no urge to repeat all the pain by going through a second pregnancy and birth. But now, I'm starting to trust my body again. And I've realized that I had some pretty bad luck following Petunia's birth. Now, I know what's normal and what's not. I know what to expect and when to break the silence and speak up for myself. I also know when to tell the medical establishment and conventional wisdom to fuck themselves.

And I hope that by telling my story, I will empower some woman, somewhere, to refuse to accept unnecessary pain in the weeks and months following childbirth. No one should have to relive my bad experience - thinking all the while that it's normal.

Parenting: Buy the Book

One of the things that terrifies me most about parenting a daughter is the prospect of middle school. I hate to think what will befall Petunia, as I remember my own awkward days. Like every 12- or 13-year-old, I should have had yellow "under construction" tape around me at all times. But what made it so much worse was the cattiness rampant among me and my peers.

If you've ever been a teenage girl or seen the movie "Mean Girls," you know what I'm talking about. While that movie was a bit exaggerated, it certainly had the aggressive, manipulative relationships right on the money.

"Mean Girls" was born out of the book "Queen Bees and Wannabees" by Rosalind Wiseman. I read it several years ago - either when I was pregnant with Petunia or when she was just a few months old. I think Wiseman really captured the social structure of the teen/tween girl world, which is brutal and petty all at once. I thought the book was fascinating, and I read it quickly.

Now, Wiseman has turned her eagle eyes toward parents.

I'm going to have to track this one down in hardcover: "Queen Bee Moms & Kingpin Dads." It's all about the social structure of parents and how they interact with each other, teachers, counselors, coaches and authority figures. The book caught my eye this morning, as it was the focus of the cover story of the Washington Post Health section. This quote in the Post article especially gave me pause: "Some things are the same in Perfect Parent World. You have to be thin, no matter how many pregnancies you have."

If you had your head in the internet sand for the past ten days or if you don't make the rounds among enough mommyblogs, maybe you missed the Morphing Into Mama fracas about gaining weight after getting married and whether that constituted false advertising. MIM's original post was the subject of a holy ton of responses. Two blogs I regularly read, Suburban Bliss and Half Changed World, both offered some thoughts on the matter and plenty of links to other posts as well.

Anyway, in the reading of all the responses and cross-posting related to the MIM fallout (btw, poor MIM - no matter what you think about what she wrote, she doesn't deserve to have people telling her she has an ass like a Buick in her comments section), Moxie raised an interesting point: "It doesn't end once the child is out of infancy. Thin, attractive mothers have the advantage at the playground and in school admissions, on school committees and at parent-teacher conferences. The mother is usually the face of the family at school, so a more attractive mother indicates a more successful family, and this influences teachers and administrators' opinions of the children."

When that idea collides with the concept of the overindulgent, obscenely rich parents that I referenced in my last post, my head wants to explode. All of a sudden, I feel even more terrified at the idea of being a parent to a middle-schooler - not only for Petunia and the cattiness she's sure to encounter but also for myself and the drama that I'm bound to encounter.

I've really tried to keep myself out of the world of competitive parenting, but I'm worried that someday it's going to come crashing in on me and Basil, whether we like it or not. Maybe it will come via a tween-aged Petunia, who wants to conform to the world around her and is frustrated that we're not doing our part. Maybe we'll feel like we're creating disadvantages for her or other future children by not playing nice with all the other mommies and daddies.

I especially hate the idea that my size 12 ass (which is sometimes a size 14, depending on the month) could impact my kid's chances in this world. I already drag enough baggage around related to my weight. Do I really need to worry that I'm doing wrong by my child by not having a flat stomach?

It's probably better to know what's coming at me, even if it's not coming from everyone I know, even if I don't drink their Kool-Aid. I can't wait to get Wiseman's new book, but after reading the previews and all the online discussions about weight, I'm certainly in no hurry for Petunia to get into middle school.

For Keeps?

This summer will be my tenth here in the DC metro area. In 1996, I did an internship on Capitol Hill before completing my senior year of college. Upon graduating the following summer, I moved to Arlington, and I've been bouncing around inside the Beltway ever since.

Somehow, I'm starting to feel like a Washingtonian.

I never really intended it. I came here for a master's degree from GWU, with a strong interest in politics and journalism. That turned into a short career on Capitol Hill, which took a turn into lobbying. Basil came to Washington for the same master's program as me, but his career has been one of campaign consulting.

When the time came for us to get married, I didn't want to go back to northern Kentucky. It may have offended my family, but I didn't care. I grew up in a Southern Baptist church - a religious tradition that I quickly left as soon as I became an adult - and I didn't want my wedding to be there. Also, I felt like I had moved past Kentucky and the life that it offered. Why have my wedding someplace associated with my past? I wanted my wedding day to be pointed squarely toward my future.

Basil and I decided to join an Episcopal church in Old Town Alexandria, and by the time we were married there, we really felt at home. Over the years, St. Paul's has helped tie us to the community where we live.

But Washington is a transient place. People come and go easily here. Almost everyone you meet is from somewhere else, and they often pack up and head back from whence they came.

Last year, HugNKiss and her hubby Dr. McDreamy moved away from our fair city. McDreamy got a residency assignment in the Land of Cleve, and off they went for the midwest. While they were the first of our closest friends to leave, we've had other friends and acquaintances head for the country's interior in the years we've been here. Now FS and Yum are pulling the plug, cashing out and following the trail of Terrible Towels back to Pittsburgh.

Most of the people who leave DC seem to want to be closer to family, a different pace of life or a lower cost of living - or all three things. I get that desire; I really do. I always swore that while I was comfortable with the idea of having children here, I never wanted to raise them here. I felt (and still feel to some degree) that life here is a bit out of touch with the rest of America. In some ways that's a good thing - incredible diversity, proximity to the city/beach/mountains/whatever and access to history and the arts.

But in some ways, being out of touch is bad. This area seems to have the richest of the rich and the poorest of the poor. It's the richest part that worries me. I know at some point, my daughter is going to be whining and complaining that we're not sending her and her friends on a ski trip to Aspen for her birthday - like her peers. (Just find that Washington Post magazine article about the Great Zucchini, and you'll see the kind of excessive indulgence and parental competitiveness that I'm talking about.)

And because this is such a transient place, will Petunia's friends be forever moving away?

Sometimes I really do feel badly that Petunia only sees her grandparents and extended family a few times a year. We do our best, and our parents do their best. But at this point, I can't imagine giving up all we've built in Washington just to be within a couple hours' drive of our families.

Not to mention, God knows what we would do in Real America. Several years ago, Basil and I talked about staking a claim in Columbus, Ohio - the halfway point between my family and Basil's and a state capital, presumably with political jobs for a campaign consultant and a lobbyist. But finding niche jobs like ours in a much smaller market would be a daunting task.

And I just can't imagine starting over in a new community at this point - not when we're just starting to feel like our roots are taking hold. I'm paying attention to the upcoming school board and city council elections, and I'm considering new ways to get involved at church.

Maybe we'll be the last ones standing, battling the high cost of living and coworkers who think nothing of sending their kids to $30,000-a-year boarding school. All of our closest friends will be off in exotic places like Indianapolis, and we'll still be here in DC. Maybe it won't be so bad. After all, I never thought we'd make it this far.

Bourbon Apparently Does Not Cause Migraines

I think that I'm finally done being hungover. I'm pretty sure I drank my weight in Crown Royal this weekend, which I'm a little out of practice doing, being a boring suburban mommy who keeps her cardigan buttoned most of the time.

The occasion was my cousin Cristy's wedding in Louisville, and man, was it a good time.

I really love my mom's side of the family, especially my mom's younger sister and her kids. I had a wonderful time visiting with them last summer, and we had fun at my sister's wedding in the fall. But in November, I was the maid of honor (which, of course, required that I be part of time-consuming duties like pictures and toasting and sitting at the head table). Plus, Basil, my younger brother and I had to take turns throughout the reception babysitting my dad, who weaves in and out of being on the wagon the way he drives when he's packing a bottle of Wild Turkey under the driver's seat. He had seven scotches in four hours that night, though thankfully he behaved himself - no doubt, in part, because of our constant watchfulness.

But this past weekend, Basil and I were unencumbered. No wedding duties (other than helping my aunt and uncle out with transporting their parents from church to reception) and no babysitting anyone. In fact, we didn't even have to babysit our own kid! My mother did a spectacular job of being Grandma, and she not only kept an eye on Petunia at the reception but also stayed in the hotel with Petunia after the reception, when the rest of us went out to enjoy Fourth Street Live - Louisville's downtown strip of fun bars, clubs and restaurants.

The first indicator that the night was going to be trouble was when the priest officiating the wedding opened his homily with a talk about the luck of the Irish, my cousin's love for Notre Dame football and the fun they all had the previous night on St. Patrick's Day.

Next, at the church, my uncle was offering me drinks from the Hummer limo while the photographer did his thing with the wedding party after the ceremony was over.

Finally, we get to the reception and remember that my cousin has just married a salesman/distributor for a liquor wholesaler! Top-shelf open bar for more than 4 hours. Now, that is just dangerous.

By the time Basil, my sister, her hub and I got changed and headed out to Fourth Street Live, we were already quite happy. We hit the Maker's Mark Lounge and each had two drinks there. By the time we got to Howl at the Moon Saloon (where the newlyweds had told everyone to gather and meet up), we were drunk enough to sing along to The Time Warp from Rocky Horror Picture Show and all the Johnny Cash songs they kept trotting out. My Puerto Rican brother-in-law just kept shaking his head and saying, 'I see white people!'

When we finally hooked up with the bride and groom and their families, we were Mr. & Mrs. Drunkety Drunkerson.

We had a great time with Cristy, her new husband, her hubby's parents and my aunt. My uncle apparently had his head in a trash can back at the hotel (too much fun at the reception) so we didn't see him. My other cousin Scoots (the bride's brother) made it out eventually, after he got his sick/tired fiancee to sleep in the hotel.

It was just so fun being out as grownups (or, I should say, being of legal drinking age) with my cousins and my sister. My cousins and my sister and I had so much fun growing up together, and going to my aunt and uncle's in Indiana or having them come to our place in northern Kentucky was always a happy event. No matter what we were playing, we girls used to make poor Scoots the equivalent of the dog when playing 'house.' My mother's favorite memory is the time we played 'hostage' and tied Scoots to a chair in the closet.

Now, Cristy is a physical therapist with a great husband and a good head on her shoulders. (Her Little Sister through the Big Brother-Big Sisters program was in her wedding, and it just about made me sob every time I looked at how good my cousin was being to that awkward 12-year-old, who was clearly having the best time of her entire life.) And Scoots is a high school civics teacher who is taller than me and loves politics and policy. It wouldn't surprise me if he and his soon wife came to visit us here in DC soon.

Not that we don't take advantage of every time my daughter does not require our attention (ahem), but I think our time in Louisville while Petunia was hanging with Grandma was particularly well spent. That was the most fun - and the most bourbon - I've had in ages.

For Mars

It's been six weeks since we visited Friends of Homeless Animals with the hopes of finding a family dog. Lilah has been with us five weeks now, and we love her to pieces. She's a mellow companion, a quick learner and a sweet girl to have around. And while we're very happy with our decision and have no regrets, I have wondered about the also-rans.

I have checked the FOHA website off and on for the past month, and of the four dogs we met, three have been adopted. It's no surprise that the two low-energy, mellow dogs went quickly. But I was shocked this week to see that the crazy biter apparently had been adopted. What breaks my heart is that Mars, the guy we went to see, the one who caught my eye on the website, is still there.

He is a great dog. (Too much energy for us and our townhouse, but things probably would have worked out if we had a big backyard.) He is so sweet and affecionate, and we really really liked him. Besides, look at how gorgeous he is! How could he not be adopted yet?

It really kills me that Mars is still living at FOHA. I mean, it's a great place, as dog shelters go. Each dog has its own indoor/outdoor run, and everybody has a little cot to sleep on and a few toys to play with. The dogs get walked on the weekends by volunteers, and the FOHA staff are very attentive about giving good veterinary care and high quality food to their dogs.

But really, it's no place for any dog to live for long periods of time. And at this point, Mars has been there more than two months.

I know that in the world of animals, there is no rhyme or reason. I am floored that anyone wouldn't have wanted Lilah. We feel soooo lucky to have her, especially since she is eager to please us and gentle with Petunia. She spends most of her time lying on the floor inside, and she's housetrained. What on earth would make someone put her on a chain outside for any length of time and then give her up to the county pound? What would make anyone treat a dog like that?

But still, we had high hopes for Mars. We walked away from FOHA on that cold, wet day in early February having made our decision about Lilah (then Reba) and telling ourselves that Mars would be adopted in no time. With his good looks and joyous personality, he'd be snapped up by someone in a heartbeat.

There's not much for us to do at this point. We cannot have two dogs, and we love Lilah. The least I felt like I could do was to tell the world about Mars.

So...if you are looking for a beautiful, affectionate, exuberant dog or know someone in the DC metro area who is, call the good folks at FOHA, take a scenic drive out to Loudon County this weekend and give Mars a chance.

Put Me in the Zoo

Like half of the greater Washington area, we woke up on Saturday, stepped out into the gorgeous weather and decided it was a perfect day to go to the National Zoo. We got to the zoo at 10 am, and each of the five parking lots was full, and the neighborhood traffic was starting to reach fever pitch. We bagged Woodley Park and drove down to the GWU campus (plenty of parking with no crowds). After a pleasant walk to Dupont Circle and a short Metro ride, we were finally in the vicinity of some animals.

We try to go to the zoo a couple of times a year, so we never feel the need to keep up with the fanny pack-laden tourists pushing their five-year-olds in rented FONZ strollers to see! every! single! animal! Instead, we meander and wait for Petunia to tell us what she wants to see.

On this trip, most of the animals were outside in their yards, so we got to see a giraffe, some elephants, two tigers, a couple of gorillas, a wild horse and a pair of sleeping lions without going into any smelly buildings. Basil took Petunia through the Small Mammal House (while I sat outside and watched kids climb the bronze anteater sculpture outside), and we picnicked on a bench near the orangutan run. Petunia seemed satisfied with the animal viewing, and Basil and I richly enjoyed the people.

I have always been a fan of people-watching. One of my fondest memories of my first trip to Washington (as a high school senior attending Presidential Classroom) was arriving at the old Washington National Airport with a few other students from my school long before the shuttle buses started running for our program. We passed the time by watching people in the terminal, giving voice to the thoughts in their heads and creating story lines for them. Our favorite was "Marge," the small Asian-American security guard whose wooden leg was KILLING her from standing around on the job all day while her worthless, slacker coworker "Steve" was late again to relieve her.

The National Zoo is a great spot for people watching. You've got all ages, shapes and kinds of folks wandering around with the animals. While the lions, tigers and elephants always seem the same, the people can run the gamut. It's hard to say who was my favorite on this trip.

One of the finalists was definitely a woman walking in front of us with her toddler daughter and her husband. The woman was wearing an Ann Taylor-esque garden print dress with a wide-brimmed straw hat, oversized Coach sunglasses and metallic flats. She was holding her daughters hand and literally smiling at strangers on the bench as she and her family walked by, as if she were riding an antique convertible in a parade. I half-expected her to start doing the wrist-wagging Princess wave to the fans in her head. When she turned a little, it became apparent that she was six or seven months pregnant. I'm not sure whether she was letting the world bask in her glory because she had the perfect basketball stomach or because she just thought everyone was impressed with her outfit. Either way, it was kind of amusing in a sea of denim and cotton and baseball caps.

I can't tell you how many women I saw in the Suburban Mom uniform: a slightly dumpy white woman in khaki capris, white ankle socks and white Keds, pushing a giant double stroller, a frazzled look in her eyes and huffing slightly as she muscles her family and all its seventeen bags of stuff through this outing.

There were teenagers in Converse high-heels and minidresses over jeans, some with streaky hair, all with cell phones in hand.

It's such a bad stereotype, but there were countless Asian male tourists with cameras hanging around their necks. Most of them wearing white polo shirts or T-shirts, so the black cameras really stood out.

I think the winner, though, was a pair of extremely large-breasted African-American women in animal print camisoles, black leather mini skirts and black leather knee boots. One was wearing leopard print, and the other zebra. I wonder if they wear fishnets to the aquarium and collars to the dog park. Yknow, solidarity with the animals and all that.

Our fun zoo day was capped off by a long walk down Connecticut Avenue and a couple of drinks. It was so pleasant, and the walk was all downhill, so we decided to skip the train. Petunia fell asleep in her stroller for the first time in about nine months, and we took advantage of her slumber by stopping to have drinks outside at The Front Page. (It was like a free, unexpected babysitter!) My bloody Mary was good and Basil enjoyed his beer, but I think I pushed our luck by ordering a greyhound. Halfway through my second vodka drink of the day (at 2 pm, no less!), a fire truck roared by and soon after, one of the other outside dining tables greeted a friend with a loud 'Hey!' That was the end of our spontaneous, childless, boozy brunch, and we turned back into parents again, giving hugs to our cranky toddler and paying the bill in record time.

Despite having to pound my drink, it was pretty much a perfect unscripted Saturday.

Spring Break

I've mentioned in passing that I'm teaching a class this semester. The truth is, it's not really a class at all. It's a skills practicum associated with The George Washington University's Semester in Washington program, and I am a practicum leader (though the letter I got from the university confirming my position was addressed to Professor Merseydotes, which I thought was hilarious).

I am leading a team of six undergrads who are in Washington for the semester from all over the country. They are working to develop a strategy to defeat a fictitious Senate floor amendment to Endangered Species Act reform legislation. It's a bit of a complex scenario, but it's totally believeable.

It's been great fun so far, watching these kids (who are, yknow, ages 20-22) go from being totally blank slates to understanding some basics about Washington and lobbying to developing some really advanced strategic ideas. They seem to get it a little more each week, and it's exciting to watch the transformation.

In the past two weeks, they've finalized a list of targeted Senators who will decide the fate of the fake amendment we're working to defeat, they've fleshed out a message grid and they've assigned themselves roles as campaign 'staff.' Each one of them is in charge of a different element of the campaign plan, and they are digging into their respective duties, whether they be grassroots/coalitions or communications/PR or opposition research.

Last night, I had a friend guest lecture about fundraisi--er, development, and my team was so engaged. They were asking great questions about donor maintenance and list buying, and I was so proud of them.

In the next couple of weeks, they will come up with some ideas for a 30-second TV ad, and at our next meeting, we'll figure out which one they want to shoot so they can start scripting and storyboarding. They actually get access to a real media studio, and they shoot and produce a 30-second spot to show to the judges during their final presentation.

This program is very cool.

The only thing that has been a drag about this experience is the meeting time. We meet on Mondays from 7:10 to 9:40 pm. It's a rare night when we go all the way til 9:40, but we needed it last night, so I didn't get home until almost 10:15. Man, am I tired today.

Thankfully, it's Spring Break next week, so I get a free Monday at home with my family, and I can give poor Basil a break from taping '24' (despite my feeble attempts to repay the favor by actually watching the missed episode before the next new one airs).

This practicum only goes for another 7 1/2 weeks, so the light at the end of the tunnel is starting to shine. I'm certainly enjoying it and would definitely consider doing it again, though I think one semester per year is about all I've got in me.

One of the most interesting parts of this experience, and one that I hadn't really considered, is being on the other side of the table, watching the personalities play out. Man, I always hated group projects in college. Having to work with annoying people that I would never hang out with in real life and collaborating with people who had totally different work styles than me.


This group has a real variety of people, and I can tell where there's a little tension, but they seem to be figuring out how to be a team despite it all. Last night, as I walked out of class with two of my students, I found myself wondering if they had hooked up. And then I started wondering if my professors could ever tell who I was getting it on with by the way I behaved in class.

Maybe my view of the teaching experience would be different if I were doing this fulltime, constantly around undergrads and watching the way they interact and work. But right now, it's exciting and amusing all at once, and - best of all - I feel like I'm actually imparting some knowledge to my team. It's a lot of Socratic dialogue and not much lecture, but I think I'm helping them to develop some applicable skills, especially if they ever hope to have real jobs in Washington.

Professor Merseydotes gives this experience an A-.