Fitbit or bust? An introduction to my complicated relationship with food and exercise.

Today I wore my new Fitbit. It’s a watch that reveals my deepest secrets. I have owned several Fitbits. They have either gotten lost or I have gotten frustrated with charging them or angry at myself for not reaching my goals. I’ve even gotten angry at myself when I’ve reached my goals, but they weren’t recorded by my Fitbit because it wasn’t charged or I forgot to wear it. If your Fitbit didn’t count the steps, they weren’t walked. Right?

So with my new Fitbit, I walked to the beach. Given that it’s summer and that I’m jet lagged, and my kids are jetlagged, I spend a lot of time sitting. So, I made myself get off the couch and walk to the beach. It would be the only way for me to reach my 10,000 steps today, never mind that we own a treadmill that I’ve used twice in the year that we’ve had it. I would allegedly use it more if my husband installed the shelf he promised to install so that I could watch t.v. on the ipad. Why should I try to install it myself or call the elderly handyman to do it? If I did that, then I’d have to walk on the treadmill or feel worse about the fact that I don’t.

See? I'm athletic.

It's not that I'm not athletic. I have some athletic ability. I have good hand-eye coordination. I can play sports. I just have issues with physical fitness and have, sadly, for more than 30 years. (Or perhaps sadder is all of the energy I spent lamenting, and obsessing over my size eight jeans when now I wear a 10 or 12. Or to cropping pictures that I felt made me look fat when now I have an actual pouch.)

There is little that I feel more defeatist and more negative about than exercise and my weight. I’ve felt this way since I was 9 or 10, when I realized I was overweight. I’ve never wanted to exercise more and eat less, even, or perhaps especially, when I’ve committed to do so.

I could lie to you and say that I don’t have time to exercise or that I barely eat. But it’s not true. You may look at me empathetically and say, “Well, you do work full time, and you do have two small children.” But the thing is, I do have time, I just choose not to exercise. There are moms who work more hours with more children who exercise.  I also know how not to exceed my calorie intake-exercise ratio, but I really just want to eat what I want to eat.

So, one might argue that I should embrace my slovenliness. There are body acceptance movements that I’ve thought of being apart of. They don’t discourage exercise, but they do forbid body shaming. I don’t know if I can get on board with being proud of my body. Deprogramming years of contrary messages would take more work than, well, exercising and being part of a Facebook group.

Now usually comes the time when several friends will recommend yoga. You should do yoga (which is code for “you need a therapist.”) I have tried doing yoga probably 100 times. And each time I’ve hated it. First of all, I never feel like I’ve worked out. I trust all of the beautiful celebrities that it’s a workout, but it’s never felt like one to me. I also hated being adjusted by the instructor and because I’m uncoordinated and not flexible, I constantly needed adjusting. Sure, most instructors would ask, “Can I adjust you?” But saying no seemed really aggressive, even though in my head I thought “Noooooooooo!!!!!!” The last time I did yoga, at my gym in Chicago, during shivasana (so annoying the cultural appropriation), I made a promise to myself: I will never do yoga again. I have been very committed to that practice.

I’ve also been committed to working out with a trainer once a week. I’ve been working out with a trainer for about 15 years. Here’s the thing with working out with a trainer. After the first five years, you really shouldn’t need a trainer unless your problem is motivation, which mine is. I started working out with a trainer after an exbf encouraged me to run. He was a marathon runner and being fit was super important to him. I jogged with him for one minute and I immediately ran out of breath. He said something I will never forget, “It’s disgusting that you can’t run a few hundred feet without getting winded.” This guy wasn’t particularly emotionally abusive at this point in our relationship, but that line certainly was. Later he apologized by saying that he was used to dating physically fit women, but I had other good qualities. Thanks?

Running has never been my thing. I played soccer, goalie, and until I got to high school my slow pace never mattered. However, in high school, that wasn’t the case. For three years, every day at the end of summer and during the fall, the entire team would run in two lines. The person in the back would have to sprint to the front. This went on during the entire run (at least that’s how I recall it). I could last a couple of laps, and then I had to go at my own pace. Then, after the team had completed all of their laps, the captains would have to come out and bring the stragglers home (read: run more). I was always a straggler and perhaps there were one or two others. However, I was the consistent weak link.

The first three years, I didn’t mind the humiliation of being escorted by the captains. The captains were not my close friends. And honestly, I did try my best. I did train during the year. However, my senior year two of my close friends were captains. The third captainwasn’t a close friend, but still a peer I respected who could outrun anybody with two huge knee braces on her legs.  During that first practice, they had to bring me home w after doing many, many of those sprint-laps in the midwest summer heat. As we ran in, and the rest of the team looked on and clapped for the senior straggler, I thought about how many times my friends would have to “bring me home” that season. The next day I came to practice and told the coach that I quit. It wasn’t easy. Despite what I’ve written, I’m not a quitter. However, I couldn’t take the guilt and humiliation of those laps day after day.

After quitting soccer, I barely ever ran. I tried 5ks, but I was so slow, I didn’t see the point of paying 30 bucks for my lack of fitness recorded in a database. Also, the snacks at the finish line usually erased any calories I burned at the 5k. Also, every time I would run as an adult, I would get injured.  I did ride in Little 500 my freshman year of college. I also rode in the MS 150 when I was 30. There have been times when I could commit to fitness. But these have been short lived.

MS 150. Could have used a road bike. 

So after the disgusting comment, I hired a trainer. Training has been really wonderful for me, but very costly. However, I keep spending the money because otherwise I wouldn’t work out even once a week. In addition, it has increased my strength, although still not my cardiovascular health. I do credit training to making my deliveries and postnatal recoveries easier. (If you need a trainer in Chicago, LA, or Israel, I can recommend some great ones).

Buzz buzz. Oh, thank God. I hit my 10,000 steps. Will I hit them tomorrow? Or the next day? Or next week? I hope so. Otherwise my husband has already called dibs on the Fitbit so he can use it while he’s running on the treadmill.

My First Relationship

We just had another fight, and now I’m sitting here thinking, reflecting as they say, on what I have done. We’ve been fighting a lot, and I’ve been reflecting a lot thinking about how we got here; how I got here. It’s true, much of this is my fault. Today’s fight began when I woke up this morning and she came into my room. Yes, we are sleeping in separate bedrooms now, which makes me so angry, frustrated, and sad. She came in to say good morning, and I threw something at her. Then when I got out of bed, she tried to kiss me, and I hit her, twice. I know it’s wrong to hit a woman, to hit anyone for that matter. So now, I sit and reflect.

It was love at first sight, as trite as that sounds. For the first few months, we were inseparable, as is typical in new relationships. We took soooo many selfies together. The one on Valentine’s Day got over a hundred likes on Instagram. We would sit for hours watching reality t.v., listening to music, or reading. A lot of times, we’d be up in the middle of the night, just her and me. To be honest, I wasn’t easy. I was emotional. I wasn’t good at communicating what I wanted or needed. But she always seemed to know how to make me smile. It was after those first few blissful months, fourteen weeks to be exact, that our problems initially began. I started seeing another woman. She didn’t seem to mind, and at that point, I was still in her bed.

Recently, though, something has changed. Like a few weeks ago, she went to Prague for “work.” It’s not like I don’t know other people or am totally alone. But, how could she leave me? Did she not want to stroll with me on the Charles Bridge? Man, I was a beast to be around that weekend. When she came home, at first I was so happy to see her, but then I remembered how she left me and maintained my distance. I could see it upset her, but how could I trust her now? Truth be told, the Prague trip isn’t why I am so full of rage. The catalyst for my anger was when she kicked me out of her room into the other bedroom a few months ago. I threw a fit, but she insisted that it was time. I was so angry.

God, I love this woman.

However, I can see the toll our relationship has taken on her. Since we first started seeing each other she had grown older, more tired. When we first met, she wore contacts. Now, she only wears loose fitting glasses, and her skin is branded with sun spots. Our relationship has also been costly. I can’t remember the last time she bought a new dress or did something for herself. Still, what right does she have to kick me out of her room for me to sleep all alone with nothing for comfort except linens?

So, this morning, I lost it and hit her. It wasn’t the first time. She grabbed me by the arm and put me in this so called “thinking chair,” or naughty chair, or “in time out” to reflect on what I had done. After two long minutes, one minute per year I’ve been alive, she sat down next to me. She told me that she would always love me, but that I shouldn’t hit mommy, and I shouldn’t hit anyone.

I want to say that I am sorry. I want to tell her that I love her. I want to tell her that yes, I am two and a half, and it is absolutely the right thing to do to have me sleep in my own bed in my own room. But I can only weep as she holds me, and when I finally find the words, all that comes out is - I want Mickey Mouse.

Jewish Man's Rebellion

I've been caught up reading the reactions to Carey Purcell's article (given the green light by editor Lisa Bonos) I'm tired of being a Jewish Man's Rebellion.  Ms. Purcell has been branded by the twitterverse as being at worst a Nazi and at best a terrible writer.

Whatever my thoughts on the article, I would not label Ms. Purcell as anti semitic. I think Ms. Bonos is more problematic for publishing the article, but that's for the Washington Post to sort out.  What I do think Ms. Purcell was trying to do was explain the unexplainable.

In life we have control over almost everything except our genetics and ultimately who wishes to settle down with us. If a break up was as clear as changing car insurance companies (lower price, more coverage), there would be no such title as "my psycho ex" or description of a person as bitter over a prior relationship. The word baggage would simply mean luggage.

I experienced a lot of breaks up during the 35 years prior to getting married, and although I could surmise why men no longer wanted to be with me, I never actually knew for certain. I remember being told:

1. My feelings aren't developing for you at the rate that I'd like.
2. I don't love you anymore.
3. I met someone else and am going with her.
4. I'm not the right guy for you.
5. You are too old and too Jewish for me.
5. And my favorite - (silence).  I guess that's called ghosting these days.

By blaming her two failed relationships on being Christian and on being a "Jewish Man's Rebellion,"  she is simply trying to make sense of loves' endings. Unfortunately for her, and for all people trying to find "the one," she is not entitled and probably will never know the exact reason why her relationships did not work out.

It is an incredibly difficult part of life; one that I found especially challenging to navigate.  It sounds like Ms. Purcell is having a hard time, too.

Jewish Man's Rebellion on Passover. Those bagels looks so good right now. 

Polish Government Criminalizes History

These are Facebook posts I wrote about Poland criminalizing talking about Polish atrocities during the Holocaust. 


The Polish government is releasing disgusting, sophisticated propaganda to justify their asinine, autocratic, ethnonationalist, backwards law criminalizing discussing Polish atrocities during the Holocaust. No one refutes that the Polish people suffered during WWII. No one refutes that many Poles were righteous among the nations. Also, no one thinks that Poles today need to take responsibility for the atrocities of their ancestors. HOWEVER, that does not change the fact that ordinary Poles indeed committed atrocities against their Jewish neighbors. You can't change history to suit your narrative and these lies spit in the faces of not only those murdered, but the Poles who were righteous. This is a shameful turn in Polish history and portends more bad things to come.

........

The Polish Prime Minister explains that Jews perpetrated the Holocaust to explain criminalizing history. Some Polish people are excited by this! But guess what? That's not news.

To my Polish friends, there were Jews who collaborated with Nazis: Capos and the head of the Judenrat. But they all met the same fate as the people that they betrayed, and if they didn't, they were put on trial for war crimes or exiled from the community. During slavery in the South, there were slaves who supervised other slaves or were the head of the household. Does that mean they weren't slaves? The Jewish collaborators were so few when you think of the 6 million who died. But why is your prime minister's focus on this? Why does he have no problem calling out these problematic figures, yet he supports a law that criminalizes mention of Polish atrocities during the Holocaust. There is no such laws about discussing or learning about Judenrat or Capos in Israel or anywhere else in the world that is democratic. When your leader and your people feel the need to distort history, you are heading down a very dark path. I hope that the people of Poland have the courage to confront their leaders and leave the past in tact, for better or worse.

There are many Nikolas' Cruz's in the world but only one America

Let's take a look a Nikolas Cruz: Adopted father died 10 years ago. Adopted mother died suddenly in November. Suffered from depression. Was bullied. Wrote scary, stupid things on social media. Fixation on guns. This profile is not that unique, especially on a global scale. However, the difference between Nikolas and the rest of boys in the world with this profile is that he had easy access to buying an "5.56×45mm, magazine-fed, gas-operated semi-automatic rifle." So the argument that people kill people; guns don't kill people, is really stupid. Because if you gave every depressed orphan boy in the world, who was fixated on guns and hated other people an AR-15, you would have even more violence in the world. (In fact, those people are often illegally conscripted as child soldiers.) You want to own a hand gun? Fine. Buy a hand gun with a certain number of bullets. You want a couple of hunting rifles to go kill bunnies. I think that's crazy, but go ahead. No one needs an AR-15 in their home. So here's the thing. We are at a crossroads. If Congress does not pass common sense gun legislation, our representatives are actively saying that they want children to be killed; that the NRA's money is more important than the lives of children. Let's be clear. If you vote for someone who takes money from the NRA, you are voting for someone who is okay that children will be killed. You are prioritizing whatever it is that makes you vote for said person over the lives of children. That's your choice, that's democracy, but own your choices.

The Stroller

The Stroller

At 7:30 a.m. every day, Hannah walks around the neighborhood, like many moms, pushing her stroller. 

….

It was their fourth child, an accident if there are such things, and after acknowledging when she was 38 weeks pregnant that this was really happening and that they needed to take out the stroller from storage, they discovered that the decade old City-Mini was covered in mold. So they purchased a new one, with new features that they didn’t pay attention to as the salesperson calculated his commission, and opened their brand new, light weight green stroller with an attachable bassinet. 

Hannah and her husband moved to Israel to a new neighborhood with all of the trappings of America. They purchased the apartment with the money she inherited from her parents when they died; a four bedroom, two and a half bathroom, large apartment with a partially obstructed view of the Mediterranean. Hannah was a 45-year-old orphan who was pregnant. Hannah was an anxious person, and during pregnancies her anxiety was off the charts. During her first pregnancy she reached out to a friend in San Francisco, a high risk OBGYN, who affirmed her difficulties: every mental health problem that you have when you are not pregnant is exacerbated by when you are. 

She didn’t take antidepressants with her first child until she was 20 weeks pregnant. She had stopped taking them, under doctor supervision, two months prior to getting pregnant. However, despite upping the number of times she saw her therapist, psychiatrist, and attending mindfulness classes, her anxiety increased until her heart beat as if it were going to leap from her throat. So, with each of her pregnancies she took an antidepressant, Zoloft, and dealt with the silent and sometimes vocal judgment of the neonatal pediatricians after her children were born.  Her husband Jacob was supportive of her decision to medicate, grateful in fact. Their marriage was built on being supportive of one another and being honest with each other. 

They named the fourth child Lev Shmuel in Hebrew and Lev Samuel in English, after her father. Despite the financial pressure having a fourth child would place on them, he was now an indelible part of their hearts. Her husband was against the name Shmuel, because no respectable liberal Israeli would name their child “Shmuel,” but it was her father, and Jacob had loved her father, even though he never called him “Dad” like Americans do with their fathers in law. Besides, no one pays attention to middle names.

Delivering a child is not easy, but Hannah worked out through her pregnancy and was ”fit but fat,” as they say. At the end of the 24-hour labor, the epidural had worn off, and the pain she experienced was surreal, indescribable in fact, but then he was born. And all of the cliches of motherhood, once again, came true. She loved him fiercely from the moment he was born. She felt great and was ready to leave the hospital before they were ready to release her. 

The other three children loved their litter brother. They wanted to call him “Tauti,” which means my “my mistake” in Hebrew, but Hannah and Jacob wouldn’t let them. So they called him “Tooti” which means “my strawberry.” They were too tired to argue with them, and it was their fault that they had overheard them talking about how the pregnancy was accidental, if there are any accidents. Eventually, they noted their nonverbal cues, and by the time he was three-months old called him “Levi,” my heart. 

In Israel, everyone puts their babies until they can sit up in bassinets attached to strollers. Hannah conformed to the bassinet by her third child because she received comments from her in-laws and strangers when they saw the infant strapped into a car seat that attached to the stroller. 

“The baby needs to move.” 

“The baby’s head will be flat.”

“The baby will not learn how to turn over.”

The child is not properly secured in the bassinet, but it did seem as if there was more freedom of movement there. Also, the bassinet could then be removed and used as a co-sleeper at night so they didn’t have to buy or rent another one. 

Hannah dealt with her postpartum anxiety by walking and of course taking antidepressants. It also helped her lose the 10 kilos she had gained while being pregnant. She received a lot of feedback from strangers on these walks. “He needs another layer of clothing.” “He needs warmer socks.” “He needs a heavier blanket.” She thought that the bassinet would alleviate the need for pedestrians to make their comments, but it’s the nature of the culture. One time when she wore the baby in a wrap, she was stopped on the sidewalk and asked if he could breathe properly or if his circulation was being cut off. Hannah didn’t get annoyed by these comments. She knew that in Israel that everyone felt like every child was their own, and that the remarks were coming from a good place. Jacob found them more annoying. 

“Just tell them to shut up,” he said. 

Like she would do that. 

…..

Every morning at 7:30 a.m. for the next seven years Hannah would walk with the stroller. Her husband would sometimes accompany her as would one or two of her children. But usually, she walked alone. When she walked, people would stare. They would whisper. Her children noticed, but she didn’t notice. Her daughter Eva wondered if this what was like for Hester Prynne when she exercised. The walk became so much a part of her routine that she never returned to work full time. School started at 8, and she could only get there at 9 because of the walk. Her husband was supportive and they lived with less money. 

….

During the seventh year, Jacob’s mother Nadia came over to stay with the family for Shabbat. On Saturday morning, at 7:30 a.m., Hannah took the stroller and went for a walk. The eldest child David, home from the army, accompanied her. 

“See you in an hour,” Jacob said. 

“I love you,” Hannah said. 

As the door shut Jacob’s mother, ignoring the fact that the two other children were there, began her planned intervention.

“Jacob, she has to stop going on these walks,” Nadia said

“Why?” Jacob asked.

“It’s time. It’s not good for the children. It’s not good for her. It makes the neighbors uncomfortable. They speak about her like she is a freak,” Nadia said.

“Let them talk,” he said. “The children understand. I understand.” 

“It has been seven years, Jacob. Seven years! She can’t do this forever,” Nadia exclaimed. 

Jacob grew angry. He didn’t usually grow angry, but he knew it was the only way to quiet his mother.

“Neither you or our neighbors are the gatekeepers of time and healing. She disassociates for one hour a day and then she is a loving mother, successful teacher, and doting wife. Why the fuck do you care?” he said. 

She didn’t relent. 

“I did the math. She has spent 150,000 minutes on these walks. Nine million seconds. When will enough be enough?” Nadia asked. 

“First of all, you are off by one day. Second of all, that’s not our decision to make. We don’t get to control her grief,” Jacob said looking down at his phone. The gesture and his tone made it clear that the subject was closed. 

…..

Seven years prior, on one of those walks on a very warm spring day at 7:30 a.m., Hannah and Lev were in the crosswalk when they were struck by a speeding motorcyclist who was on his phone. The bassinet did not protect Lev from the impact, and they said that he died immediately, although Hannah wondered how anyone could possibly know that. Hannah suffered a broken arm and skeletal-muscular problems that were already problematic from four pregnancies, but she would heal, physically. At the shiva, as she sat on the floor using the wall to support her back, a friend’s three year old daughter, Mia, asked if she could sign Hannah’s cast. 

Just prior to the shiva, before the doors flooded with friends and family, Hannah had, using her working left hand, set up a play area for her friends’ children filled with markers paper and Hello Kitty stamps. The rabbi had gently scolded her: “Shiva is a time when people are supposed to focus on you. You are breaking the spirit of shiva.” Hannah gave him her trademark teacher stare and he backed away. Hannah told Mia to grab a marker. The little girl drew a misshapen heart, as she did not know yet how to sign her name. Her friend was mortified that Mia had asked Hannah to sign her cast. She told her friend to relax; the heart was perfect.  

Not Enough Diapers

When I was about 7 months pregnant with my son, I was offered and accepted the opportunity to spearhead the design of the school’s new website to complete my teaching contract. This opportunity was afforded to me because In 2000, I graduated from the first New Media Journalism class at the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University. Even back then, I could see the decline of newspapers and knew my print media degree from Indiana University was not going to mean a secure career. I was right. Although since the election of Donald Trump, online subscriptions to newspapers and magazines have skyrocketed, still, during the last recession, almost everyone I knew in the business lost their jobs or changed careers.

I was trained in Dreamweaver, some HTML, Photoshop, and a bit of Flash. My first job after grad school was working for a  website that covered news of the US Supreme Court. However, while getting my New Media degree I had already decided to become a teacher. And although I obviously went in that direction, still, life has always brought me back to this 21st century form of media. Even at my first school I was in charge of technology and the e-newsletter. At my last job, I updated the website and wrote very simple code for the back end of a database.

So here I was, history repeating itself, my third year at my new school, working on the school web site. Only, this time I had a two year old, an infant, and a husband who travelled a lot, and when he was home, was busy on training calls in the evening.

On such an evening, my husband and I had double booked training conference calls.  However, we determined that I would take the baby during my call; luckily, our toddler daughter would be asleep. The baby would also probably just sleep or I could feed him. Although a terrible sleeper, he was a happy, easy going baby. My conference call was with the hosts and “designers” of our web site. I put “designers” in quotes because they really expected us to do all of the work. So, I needed to be trained on how to use their web site development tools. The company is in the USA and the conference call has to be scheduled at night in Israel.

Like any multitasking mom, I came prepared for the call. I looked over the development tools and I had 10 diapers, a pack of wipes, and a bottle ready. I had enough juice in my computer, and it was plugged in. The internet was working well. I also had my hippy mom wrap in case the baby needed to be held the entire time and burp cloths. I was ready.

Do you think Pamper's would sponsor this post? :)

It was time for the videoconference to begin. I logged onto Skype. It would be just Tina and me. Although we would be using Skype, it was against their company’s policy for me to see whoever I was talking to. I can only imagine the origins of said policy, but it made for odd communication. However, by the end of this training call I was grateful for said policy.

When the Skype tune sang, I closed my other tabs, so that I could use the time well and focus.

“Hi, Sharna, I’m Tina, corporate trainer.”

“Hi Tina, nice to meet you.”

“Are you ready to get started?”

“Yes,” I said.

At that moment the baby burped. I’m referring to him as the baby because he no longer resembles that tiny, tiny, helpless infant that he was then.

“What was that?” she said.

“Oh, I’m here with my son. He just burped. But he’s very good. He’ll be quiet,” I said.

Now, you can tell a lot about a person by what she says next after learning that you are doing business with your child in the room.  If she asks “how old is he?” or “does he have siblings” the person would be working-mom friendly. If she doesn’t, she probably isn’t. It isn’t indicative of whether or not she has kids if she is working-mom friendly. Frankly the most intolerant people of working moms are not single women or stay at home moms, but other working moms.

“I see,” she said, not hiding her disappointment.

“Do you have kids?” I asked cheerfully, hoping that my theory was wrong.

“Yes, they are with their nanny,” she said a bit condescendingly.

Tina was probably the type to make sure she and her spouse’’s schedules didn’t conflict, and if they did, she would have the proper child care arranged, and a backup for that child care, etc.

“Let’s get started,” she said.

At first, I was very attentive and the baby was fine. But like storm clouds on the horizon,  his face grimaced and turned red.

“Now our web site is very user friendly. I’m going to show you what every button and icon mean and how to use them,” Tina said getting more excited with every word. “This horizontal icon…”

And that’s when the gas began. He sounded like a steamboat featuring a fireworks show. I raced to mute the audio and did as Tina continued not missing a beat even with the loud noises coming from my end, or I guess the baby’s end.

While the gas was embarrassing, it was manageable as long as I could mute my audio. But every time Tina would ask me a question like, “Do you see how your school could use the multimedia feature?,” I’d have to press unmute the button to answer, and the baby would pass gas, which as the call progressed was getting worse and worse. The noise emerging from him sounded as if I had put a microphone and amplifier in his diaper. But what was strange is that Tina never reacted to the noise, never once asked what was going on. There was no nervous giggle. No sigh. Nothing.

The sounds emerging from the baby continued at their alarming decibels when suddenly his face tightened, tightened, and tightened some more until a look fell over him that again was new and alarming.

Then came the loudest sound of all, a cargo ship pulling into port if you will, followed by a rancid smell that I can only describe as bile mixed with phosphorous.

“Now, we recommend that you include action buttons on every page,” Tina said as the baby began to unleash the biggest poop of his life. At first, I was relieved. I’ll just change him and it will be over. So I grabbed wipes and diaper, still listening to Tina, cleaned him up, but the poop wouldn’t stop. It came out like a yellow and green snake hiding part of itself in the bushes. At first, it just seemed like a regular snake poop, but this poop was the king snake of the jungle. I started catching the poop with diapers, but understand, that infant diapers are very small. They are not meant to handle a king snake.

Tina continued, “Action buttons are typically red, but some of our customers use other colors. I don’t recommend it though.”

I had brought in 10 diapers for the conference call and had gone through them all. So I took out a disposable changing pad and decided to just let the snake come out as it would.

“Sharna, do you plan on using action buttons?”

I unmuted the audio surrounded by tiny diapers and a disposable changing pad filled with poop, “Yes, (insert terrible pooping sound) I believe so.”

“Good, so let me tell you about another feature,” Tina said.

Ten diapers, two packets of wipes, and five disposable changing pads later, the epic poop was finished. I also had poop on me, so I  rubbed antibacterial alcohol gel on my body and on the computer. The baby was exhausted. I put on my hippie mommy wrap and inserted him in the little pouch. At this point he was wearing a diaper I had fashioned out of a burp cloth and put together with safety pins. I knew I would end up with pee all over me, but I needed to get through this training phone call.

“Okay, Sharna, now it’s time for the quiz,” Tina said, very seriously.

“Quiz?” I asked after I unmuted the computer.

“Yes, you must get the majority of questions correct or you will have to repeat the seminar, which will be at an extra cost to you school,” she said, suddenly sounding like a driver’s ed instructor

“Really, a quiz, is this necessary?” I asked feeling the drops of warm pee sieve through the makeshift diaper.

“It’s corporate policy,” Tina said.

Ok, I can do this.

“Which color button do you move when you want to publish a page?”

“Green,” I answered definitively

When uploading multimedia to the web site, what extra step must you take?

“Compression?” I answered.

“No, you must click yes that you would like it uploaded.”

1-1. The baby was wet. I was wet with pee.”

“If you want to save your work, but not publish it, which button do you select?”

“The yellow one?” I asked.

“Nooooooo,” her voice rising in concern. “It’s orange.”

1-2

If you are uploading a photo to the site, what do you have to select to ensure that it’s uploaded?”

“Start upload now. “

“Correct.”

2-2

“Now, you must get this next one right, or you will need to repeat the seminar, at an extra cost to your school.”

I pulled the wrap tight, focused on the screen, determined never to talk to this woman again for the rest of my life.

“If you want to tell call your viewers attention to the website to let them know something was important, what would you use?”

“What is an Action Button?”  I screamed like I had just won the lottery.

“Correct,”  she said, sounding relieved. “Well, Sharna, you just passed. Thank you for taking part in the training. Do you have any questions?”

“No,” I said, looking at all of this poop filled diapers and laundry.

“I also have great news for you,” Tina said. “This audio was recorded so that you can revisit this training it any time you are having problems.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I said thinking about all of the gross sounds that would live forever as an MP4.

“Already emailed it to you,” Tina said cheerfully.

And then I prayed:

Dear Internet Gods, Wherever that audio is stored, please strike the server where it sits with lightning. Thank you.

After my prayer, I chucked all the diapers down the chute, bathed the baby, and went to see how long my husband had remaining on his conference call.  

There he was sitting at his computer reading the New York Times.

“Did your call end early?” I asked.

“No, it was cancelled,” he said, still staring at the computer. “Was the baby okay during the call? I would have taken him, but I didn’t want to interrupt.”