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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Hand holding for moms
One father's ode to his doula -- the woman who remembered everything he forgot in Lamaze class.
By David Brauer
[12/07/99]

Trapped and torn
Locked in by a chain of protesters, I wanted to kick myself. My kids were at home and I was about to be pummeled for all the wrong reasons.
By Lisa Guide
[12/03/99]

Wild in the streets
What better place to find a hottie than at a riot conveniently taking place in my neighborhood?
By Annie Culver
[12/03/99]

Taking a chance on love
Suddenly, we would be allowed to adopt a baby -- if we could accept the very real possibility that, one day, he would be mentally ill.
By Jane Smith
[12/01/99]

Giving in to Ritalin
I hate it, but my son needs it.
By Karen Shoemaker
[11/30/99]

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Perhaps my most celebrated swoon occurred when I saw something vaguely bloody on the family television.  In my attempt to run away, I succeeded in crumbling against the wall in such a way that my face, on its way to the floor, hit the light switch and plunged everyone into darkness with me.

Also Today Hand holding for moms One father's ode to his doula -- the woman who remembered everything he forgot in Lamaze class. By David Brauer

At times I've thought myself cured.  To celebrate one such victory, I decided to donate a pint of blood.  According to my girlfriend, Ruth, who tagged along to witness my bravery, I dove into unconsciousness with such abandon and moaning and flopping around that some of the other donors spontaneously stopped bleeding.  After cracking out the smelling salts, the nurses suggested that I never give blood again.  If I had to be of service, they insisted, I should just "come hand out cookies."   I was struck by Ruth's tenderness during that excursion into blackness.  She showed such warmth while I fought my way back into existence, such patience when I puked in the parking lot, that as soon as the uncontrollable trembling had stopped, I knew I was in love.  She had everything I was looking for in a woman: The ability to put up with me.

One year later we were married -- without a blood test. Several years after that, she was pregnant. My problem -- the very thing that had drawn us together --  threatened to separate us during the birth of our baby. I had nine months to overcome a lifetime of being a wuss.

My first stop was an elderly acupuncturist.  Honestly, I don't know what I was thinking.  A friend had found him useful for depression, and I thought it was the blood, not the needles, that pushed me over into darkness. I owe that acupuncturist an apology.

He had succeeded in installing only two needles in my ankle before I blanched and sank helplessly into a stupor.  Even when conscious, I'm pale; unconscious, I must have looked like a corpse on his table.  He panicked and began an "emergency procedure," which entailed jabbing a large needle into my upper lip.  The pain did indeed wake me long enough for me to notice him stabbing my face, but this was insufficient incentive for me to remain conscious.  I ducked back under, causing him to redouble his efforts.  We might have seesawed like that for hours if he hadn't had what looked like a mild heart attack.

In desperation, I went to a psychotherapist who specialized in phobias.  He had me list the disturbing things I thought I would encounter during birth and rate them, on a scale of one to 10, as to how likely they were to make me pass out.  He observed a narcissistic trend in my list: My wife's screams of agony rated only a six, while the smell of iodine was an eight.  It seemed that, in addition to being a fainter, I was also a selfish bastard.  My therapist assured me that the fainting was curable.

Next page | "Exercise for Moms" meets "Shocking Brain Surgery"