The Anarchist Comes (clumsily, tenaciously, loudly) Into the World: an epic tragicomedy

Our little miracle.

As I type this, I am holding the Anarchist on my lap.  She is scrawling her name all over everything with a highlighter she has stolen from the Bureaucrat's supply and demanding--loudly--that I stop what I am doing and type her name repeatedly all over the blog/or start playing Petville on Facebook.  She is becoming increasingly whiny.  I am considering tossing  her out the (first story) window.  "To the curb!" as we say in our (ever so loving) family. 

Of course, I would never do such a thing.  The Bureaucrat would have a fit if I removed the window screens.  And of course, the neighbors might start to wonder.  Also, the Anarchist is our little miracle.  And you don't toss miracles out of windows...even gently.

In about a week, we celebrate the miracle that is the birth of the Anarchist.  While every birth is, without question, a miracle, the Anarchist's birth is a different kind of miracle because it's the kind of miracle that looked, for a very long time, like it was going to be the opposite of a miracle.  It's the kind of miracle you struggle towards, doubt the possibility of, resign yourself to the lack of, and simultaneously have enough faith to behave as if it might just happen.  This miracle involved 6 am abdominal poking/prodding, sleeping pill-induced hallucinations, hospital jello cups, excessive watching of What Not to Wear on tiny hospital television screens, feeding tubes and spinal taps.  It was a strange miracle, not glowing and awesome and all-in-an-instant miraculous, but difficult, uncomfortable, drawn out and crammed with as much doubt as hope.  And it smelled like hospital.

Even now when I wash my hands at a doctor's office and smell the distinctive hospital soap, I'm hit with vivid flashbacks and get a little misty-eyed.  It looks like this: semi-normal looking mother of two helps children wash hands in pediatrician's office bathroom, lifts hands to face, breathes deeply, commences weeping. Alright, having written that, I'm starting to realize how crazy that must come off to a casual bystander.  I have to remember to stop sniffing my hands.

If any of this seems cryptic to you, it's probably because I haven't actually explained that the Anarchist was a preemie.  She was born three months early, after I had spent three months in the hospital holding very, very still and attempting to maintain a perfectly static and neutral emotional state so as not to agitate her tiny, fetal self.  If I had realized how resilient that tiny, fetal personality was, I might have allowed myself to get up and use the bathroom more frequently.  She probably could have withstood the turbulence.

Her tiny, fetal self.

Anyway, in honor of the Anarchist's super-miraculous, super-dramatic entry into the world four years ago Saturday, I am going to inundate you with her story.  Oh yes, friends, this is just the first installment in an epic miniseries celebrating my Anarchist.  Don't worry, no one will force you to read it.  But I feel the need to document it for posterity, so that when she grows up to be a famous geneticist/ballerina/rock star/race car driver/anarchist, it's already set down for her biographers.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to go sniff some hospital soap.  I need inspiration for Part II.

The McDonald's Season

The Dictator prepares to head
to her dance recitals.  Guess
where we ate between shows?

Confession.  This is something that has filled me with gnawing shame and guilt for quite some time.  As a mother who spent the first couple of years of her first child's life plying her with organic foods, shunning additives and avoiding sugar like a trooper, I can't believe how far I've turned to the dark side.  But necessity is the mother of obesity, and necessity has led me--repeatedly--straight into the arms/drive-thru of the Golden Arches.

Yes.  I'm aware that their food has a history of containing unfoodlike substances.  Yes.  I know they serve Coke products, which we have fondly labeled "the blood of the innocents" for Coke's consistent record of violently suppressing union activity in Central America (think: hired assassins).  Yes.  I know that McDonald's contributes to childhood obesity.  But guess what?  They have a drive-thru, "food" my children are willing to consume, and the added bonus that I won't be tempted to eat anything unhealthy, as I don't consider most of their menu items "food" per se (although I may or may not have a weakness for Wildberry smoothies and french fries).

The fact of the matter is that most of the year, my family eats home cooked meals with fresh vegetables and fruits, organic milk (and lots and lots of cheese, but we won't discuss that right now).  I can pride myself on at least being a semi-competent mom in the "nourishing" category.

But now we have entered into what I am officially calling "McDonald's Season."  This season is marked by an increase in busy-ness: piano rehearsals/recitals, dance pictures/rehearsals/recitals, birthday parties, random social events in which no one in Michigan would even dream of participating during the winter months, etc.  It is also marked by a clown-shaped blight on my parenting skills.

My McWeakness

I know McDonald's Season is upon us when I look up from turning down the volume of NPR's in-depth discussion on locavores, chemical food additives, and food justice on the car's radio and realize that I am, in fact, gazing at the drive-thru menu of McDonald's with my window rolled down and the Anarchist and the Dictator shouting "Chicken nuggets!  Chocolate milk, chocolate milk!  French Fries!  I want a GIRL toy!  Hamburger...no, cheeseburger!" at me from the backseat.  How did I get here?  What happened to my elitist hatred of corporate America and all the oppression it stands for?  Where is my refined sense of culinary taste hiding?  And why do I suddenly have a craving for a Large French Fry and Chocolate Milkshake?

Too late to back out now.  I have places to be, limited time, and hungry little mouths to feed with something that they insist upon calling "food."  I politely thank the teenager at the window, bust open plastic bags of plastic marketing ploys...I mean...toys, wipe off pickles and onions, adeptly split french fries (to be strategically withheld until apple-like wedges are consumed), dislocate my arm in an effort not to spill chocolate milk while I blindly pass it to groping hands in the seat behind me, and plunge face first into a pile of french fries.

Our Highbrow, Cultured, Educational Family Excursion (we went to Frankenmuth)

A super-sophisticated Morton family vacation.

This year at Easter, the Morton family was blessed to have coinciding breaks.  To take advantage, we decided to find an out-of-the-way vacation spot and explore its cultural riches together.  We relented to the Dictator's ceaseless demands that we go to Frankenmuth "right away."  My mother was also able to accompany us and we procured private transportation, making the short, pleasant journey in about an hour's time.  We made my mom let us use her CRV, we all crammed inside (guess who got the back seat wedged between the Anarchist and the Dictator?), the Bureaucrat drove in the torrential rain, and I tried to remain calm as tiny elbows and pages of coloring books smacked me in the face and arms.  

We selected a quaint location, away from major urban centers and renowned for its many cultural distinctions (highest concentration of Lutherans outside of Germany or A Prairie Home Companion, most buttered noodles per capita, major pilgrimage site of the Red Hat Society). 

Guess who this bus brought to town?

Answer:  A big ol' colorful load of
these folks.  Awesome.

What displaced Lutheran Bavarians do
to pass the time. 

We decided to immediately sample the local fare at a corner bistro (family style fried chicken and buttered noodles served by a lady in a German lady costume).  We had a light meal, as we planned a hike and a swim in the local springs later that evening. I totally polished of, like, three or four bowls of buttered noodles and mashed potatoes all by myself, managed to toddle out to the car to drive the 0.5 miles back to the hotel where I promptly forced everyone to either nap or watch Nickelodeon before swimming in one of the three or four Bavarian-themed hotel pools, complete with water guns.

Morbid Childhood Obesity-inducing
fried goodness.

After a short rest, the family explored the beautiful grounds of the hotel, the sparkling river, weeping willows, and rolling hills.  My mother, and the Anarchist--who,thinking I was too lame to be her mother any longer, had adopted my mother as her mother--went outside and ran around on the balcony for twenty minutes while the Dictator drew and watched Dora the Explorer, the Bureaucrat made big plans, and I continued to nap, buried in a happy lump under hotel covers. 

On the hotel grounds, subtle details abound.

As we dressed for the springs (hotel pool with water guns), we made time to enjoy the local color, evidenced in the architecture and history of the hotel room. Tammi Ann, Terri Ann, and Pammi Ann Popp, decked out in their finest '80's attire, grinned mad 80's grins at us, while some super-haunted looking pictures of a couple of elderly, turn-of-the-century Popps made ominous faces at us from the walls of our "Popp family themed" hotel room.  The room's designer was clever in carrying the 80's motif from the Tammi/Terri/Pammi Ann picture throughout the room.  Classy.

In an area renowned for its beauty and health(y portions of fried things), swimming was really a lovely experience.  All of us took to the spring to renew our youth and vibrancy.  The Dictator made a careful ritual out of a detailed "swimming" circuit.  The Anarchist sat on the water fountains and pretended that it was "pee pee."  The Bureaucrat was an ever-attentive father.  My mother was an ever-attentive grandmother.  I desperately tried to keep my hair dry, suck my stomach in, and hide my super-pasty legs from sight.

The Anarchist, inspired by our room's theme,
strikes an '80s glamor pose in her new swimsuit.
Just call her Anarchist Ann.

Dinner took us to a local pub, a place to really immerse ourselves in the culture: a culture distinctive for its alarmingly high rate of childhood morbid obesity, most likely due to constant access to buttered noodles, I theorized.   We had the opportunity to eat classic pub fare (greasy pizza, Kraft macaroni) and take in authentic entertainment (Power Puff girls on one television, NCIS on the other...the Anarchist was really getting into that one).

It really doesn't get any classier than this.

 After dinner, we headed to the theater to take in an edgy, ironic, post-modern satire of contemporary society.  The girls went down a slide a bajillion times, rode a Bob the Builder coin-operated truck, played games with a terrifying resemblance to slot machines, played Whack-a-Mole (okay, I played Whack-a-Mole...I'm pretty darned good, too...lots of pent up aggression), ski ball, and the like.

We ended the evening by procuring small souvenirs from a local gallery.  The Anarchist and Dictator, under the guidance of the Bureaucrat and my mother, selected flipping frogs, Crazy Band rings, flashing-light turtles (or epilepsy turtles), and plastic cars in exchange for an inordinate amount of game tickets.  I think the Bureaucrat cheated somehow...or else I am just that good  at Whack-a-Mole.



 The following morning we began with a refreshing pre-breakfast dip in the spring.  The Bureaucrat threatened to get me out of bed by farting on me. I stumbled into my swimsuit, terribly conscious of my ever-growing pre-shower leg stubble.  We swam in the pools for about 20 minutes, and it was actually not as awful of an idea as I thought it would be.  My mother somehow found a way of remaining out of the water for the duration of this little early morning dip.  Smart cookie, that one.

Please do me the courtesy of squinting when you look at this
photograph, so that you won't notice my abundant leg stubble.
Thank you.

About to straddle it for maximum "pee pee"faking realism.

The Dictator makes her obsessive rounds in the pool.

Breakfast was at a small, out-of-the-way cafe, where we ordered crepes (pancakes and banana bread french toast), frothy cappuccinos (black hotel coffee), and delectable omelets (yup). Oh, and there were potato cheese dumplings, did I mention the potato cheese dumplings?  Because there were potato cheese dumplings, which really complete a light, post-German-food-gluttony breakfast.  Mmmm...

The remainder of our trip was spent exploring the unique boutiques and galleries of the downtown area, which was decorated tastefully for the Easter season.  We definitely went to the Cheese Haus to sample various cheese dips, look at personalized shot glasses and fantasize about what we might look like in that "Everything I need to know, I learned in jail" t-shirt.

The Bureaucrat admires a tasteful Easter decoration.

The Bureaucrat and the Anarchist become a
tasteful Easter decoration.  The Dictator was
"never going to do anything but go to the car,
ever again!"  Hence her absence.

Upside down Christmas trees festooned with plastic eggs and
yellow ribbon.  Hands down winner of the Classiest Easter Decor
award.

All in all, it was a lovely trip.  The girls learned about new cultures.  The girls learned that if they whine enough and make cute, pitiful faces, they'll get extra souvenirs...plastic Dinosaur Train characters and a Fancy Nancy book?  Unheard of!  We sampled local delicacies.  I am a buttered noodle glutton.  And we got to spend a fun time together as a family.  And we got to spend a fun time together as a family.  The girls are already plotting next year's trip to the same location, and, while I would prefer a quaint Vermont getaway, a trip to Chicago, Paris or Dublin, I have a feeling they'll get their wish.  Because, let's be honest, am I even capable of turning down an offer of limitless noodles?  I think not.