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Time bandits

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Contestant No. 3

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TABLE TALK

Should pregnant women be allowed in the military? Defend your position in the Mothers section of Table Talk

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ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

[ CONTESTANT No. 1 ]

AH, THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS ...
By Jill Stuart
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When I wasn't at the local newspaper working, I was spending every waking hour preparing for Christmas. It wasn't that big of a deal -- that's what I have to do, year after year, in order for Christmas to even vaguely happen in my house.

On the Monday before the Big Day -- when I was planning to spend my lunch break shopping and the hours after work buying groceries -- I got a call from our baby sitter, who said both my 1-year-old son and 3-year-old daughter were coughing a lot. So I left work early, much to the scorn of my boss, who has directly said that he thinks working moms should just stay home and take care of the kids instead of "pretending" to work.

During the hour-long wait for our pediatrician, in a small white room, my 1-year-old became intent on plunging his little hands into the Biohazard disposal can. Not good. When the doctor finally entered and listened to my daughter's chest, he announced, "She's got bronchitis." He then moved on to the next sickling, my son, who was coughing even more than his sister. "Oooooh, you're not going to like this," he deadpanned: "Pneumonia."

So I stayed home the next day with the kids, even though I was supposed to be: A) working, B) buying Christmas presents and C) cooking a gourmet Christmas Eve feast for the next day. About noon the biggest snow storm of the season began, a storm that, up until the time it began snowing, the weathermen assured us would be only rain. At 7:30 that night in walked our house guests for the holidays, dear friends from Germany who were going to stay for three weeks. By midnight my son's breathing was getting very shallow, and despite my husband's assurances that he was just "breathing a little fast," I headed to the emergency room. After two hours of nebulizers and oxygen tests, a passing intern mentioned, "You realize you are not going home with him, right?" So on the morning of Christmas Eve, we moved into our spacious digs -- an iron crib, complete with an oxygen tent. "Hot" said our son as he saw the mist of oxygen spewing into the crib.

On Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and the day after, we sat in the tent watching hour after hour after hour of Barney. At the end of every tape our son would pick up his head enough to say, "More, more." For my dinner on Christmas Eve, my sister-in-law brought me a McDonald's cheeseburger, but my son chose that hour to begin throwing up, so the cheeseburger sat on the bureau for two hours. When he was finally settled down, I turned to get my burger but it wasn't there -- some kind nurse had thrown out my Christmas Eve feast from McDonald's. (My husband was home with our guests eating shrimp, lobster and champagne.)

My son was discharged at 9 p.m. on the night of the 26th. At least he was coming home, but at 8:45 p.m., while we were gathering up our life's supply of Barney tapes, they handed us two prescriptions that needed to be filled that night. The nearest pharmacy that was open was a half-hour drive each way. Gotta love those HMOs that throw you out into the night with a 20-month-old so they won't be charged for another day. And the final injustice was that when my husband called the HMO to report that my son was hospitalized, the representative noted the call, but said our claim would probably be rejected because they never checked to see if subscribers actually called in to report their hospitalization. AARRGGHHH!!!!!

I think I'll leave the country next Christmas.
SALON | Jan. 19, 1998

Contestant No. 1 | Contestant No. 2 | Contestant No. 3 | Vote now!