Part Two, Etc.

Before I get into the sequel, a couple of random observances:

1. We have new neighbors. When they moved in, G saw them unload a huge cage full of live chickens. Reminder: we do not live in the country. Fortunately, they're not our direct next door neighbors - they're a house away. But I haven't heard much clucking in the last few days, so I'm thinking the chickens weren't pets.

2. I'm almost at 40 weeks, depending on who you ask. Doc says my cervix is high and tight. It's a wonder I get pregnant at all with this puritanical cervix of mine.

A's Birth Story, Part Two

Thursday, September 5: When we last left our heroine, she'd been hooked up to a low dose of pitocin for about 8 hours with nothing happening. The gel had been tried 7 times, and was equally ineffective. By this time I was almost 42 weeks and the show needed to get on the road. They don't let you go overdue 6 weeks the way they used to. Nurses kept teling me that no one is pregnant forever, but I was beginning to lose faith.

10:30am: So they turned up the pitocin and I headed into labor land. Ouch, but bearable. We called our doula, my sisters and my best friend. We were upgraded to a labor and delivery room (on each admission, we got progressively nicer rooms), which was nice and big. They wouldn't let me eat or drink anything, but they did give me a popsicle which I promptly threw up. We all thought we were having a baby that day.

12:00pm: The contractions started coming on hard and strong, my water broke and I was shaking violently. I wasn't cold, but the contractions were so hard and close together, I couldn't relax in between them. I always thought I'd sort of close my eyes and breathe heavily during contractions. I didn't think I'd be a moaner. Man, was I vocal. "Uuuuhhhh, uhhhhhhh, uuuhhhhh" during each one. No wonder they moved me to the end of the hallway. Not even 4 cm yet and I was sounding like I was birthing a hippo. I was pouring sweat, and the ice pack we'd brought just wasn't big enough for my whole body. I remember grabbing people's hands and, if they were cool, pressing them all over my body. Thank goodness I was among friends and family. Later I said something to the doula like, "I sweat a lot," and she said, "Yeah, I noticed."

I kept asking, "Is this as bad as they get?" The doula thought for a moment, and said, "Yes." Thank goodness she's not always brutally honest.

"You have to give me something," Ms. Natural Childbirth told the midwife.

"Well, we don't like to give anything until you're in active labor."

I ripped the IV's out, grabbed scissors from the bedside stand and stabbed her.

No, I didn't, but I did ask what the hell wasn't active about my shaking and moaning. Since I probably did look rather homicidal, she agreed to give me some Fentanyl. I hadn't wanted a narcotic because it gets into the baby's bloodstream, but at that point, I would've been happy to shoot me up some heroin.

They turned down the pitocin a little because they were sick of hearing me moan. I think I got 2 doses of the Fentanyl. When I'm dying, I want Fentanyl. Lots of it. I want to go out high as a kite on the stuff.

4pm: I was still 3 cm, but I couldn't have any more Fentanyl, so the midwife took pity on me and everyone else and said I could have an epidural. The nicest man in the hospital came and stuck a needle in my back. Much better. I couldn't walk around, but I could lie on my side all I wanted.

6pm: Nurses tried to roll me over to my left side, but my blood pressure dropped, the baby’s heart rate dropped and all havoc broke loose. A whole bunch of people suddenly arrived in my room, and I thought, "Oh, look at all the people in here. They must be training or helping out or something." Well, no, the baby was crashing. They threw an oxygen mask on me, rolled me back to my right side and apparently we were both fine as long as I stayed on my right side. A woman stuck her hand up me and fastened a monitor onto the baby’s head. I was so used to spreading my legs for anyone at this point that I would've spread them for the janitor if he'd given me a couple more centimeters. Nurse told me I would probably be pushing around midnight.

Midnight: 6 cm. La de dah de dah. They kept turning up the pitocin. I could feel the contractions on my left side because the epidural was concentrated in the right side of my spine since that was the side I was lying on. I was getting a fever because of an intrauterine infection, since it had been so long since my water broke and so many fingers had been up there. Sisters and friend went to our house to rest. G lay on the chair/bed thing they have in the room. I tried to sleep, but no go. Doula pulled out some sort of craft thingy. I told her, "This must be really boring for you." She answered, "Yeah, sometimes." Now, see, there was another point where she really didn't have to be so honest.

4am: Stuck at 8 cm. The baby’s head was pressing so hard against the cervix with each contraction that the cervix was swelling. Swelling? How unfair was that? They told me that if there was no progress in an hour, we’d have a C-section. I burst into sobs. I'd had nothing to drink for 26 hours and was dying of thirst, had been lying on my right side for 12 hours, no sleep for several days, and they were going to end up cutting him out anyway? G wanted to wait a little and see if the swelling cervix spread anymore. I told him I was exhausted and I didn't think I could do much more. My fever was around 102 by then. G. asked the doula what the risks of a C-section were. She says, "Um, death." Now see, yet another point where she didn't have to be so honest. The doctor, Dr. Massengill (yeah, I'm sure he's heard all the jokes too), comes in and tells me that "I think we should just be glad that we have this option." Um, OK. I'm glad I don't have to give birth in a rice field, too, I guess.

6am: Started getting prepped for surgery. Now THAT'S all kinds of fun - getting shaved isn't so bad, it's anticipating it all growing back in and all the itching that will accompany it that's awful.

6:45am: Was visited by the gurney demolition-derby team, who knocked me into every single doorway and wall possible while wheeling me into the operating room around 6:45am. I was told it would feel weird, like they're grabbing my rib cage and rocking me back and forth. It did feel weird. I was shaking and the anesthesiologist asked if I want my arms bound to the arm rests. I told her I didn't know her well enough for that kinda stuff.

Doc cut into me, and called out, "We have meconium!" and again, havoc broke loose. There was lots of activity and some running around by staff. They lifted A. out at 7:25am. G. said, "Wow, he's got big feet....oh my gosh, he's really hung, too." You could hear the respect in his voice. I couldn't see what was happening, but I guess a nurse waved him over to watch them aspirate A., and that was the last I saw of G. for a while. The anesthesiologist, who is the only one paying any attention at all to me at this point, tells me not to worry that I'm not hearing him cry. I finally heard him start up a tiny wail after being aspirated, and I got all teary. G. brought him over to see me after they got him all cleaned up. I was a little disappointed that I didn't get to see him with all the gunk on him, because it felt like I went numb for a while and then suddenly, out of nowhere, appeared a baby in a little hospital blanket. Like I missed the whole thing.

8am: G. accompanied A. to the NICU, I went to recovery. G. got into a fight with the NICU nurse who was trying to get him to leave his brand new son so they can do change of shift, which involved sharing confidential information about patients and G. wasn't supposed to be in the room while they did that. He stood his ground, and told them they needed to find a place where he and his 30-minute-old son could be together. So they all (G., A. and a rather cranky NICU nurse) joined me in recovery. I noticed that he had the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen on a baby. I mean, seriously, they reached up past his eyebrows. And a recessed chin. "Where'd he get that? Is that from your side? It's not from my side!" I complained to G. My sister later told me that all newborns have recessed chins. Well, there's a bit of information I could've used earlier. I was all morphined up but still dying of thirst and begged for some liquid. They finally took pity on me and let me have some 7-Up in my ice chips.

So. We started induction on Sunday, and he was finally born on Friday. My recovery was OK, but not fun. The hospital did "rooming in," where the baby stays next to the mother, which was fine, except that no one could stay with me because there were no private rooms. Since I had a roommate, G. couldn't stay the night to help, which sucked because I could barely move. Roomie's baby was in the NICU with jaundice, and she got to sleep. I did not, until the nurses again took pity on me and wheeled him out to the nurse's station for about 2 hours. Keep in mind that I had gotten maybe 10 hours of sleep total in the last week. They wouldn't let me eat, either, which makes me think I could be an FBI agent with the torture I endured. I was anemic, gassy, in pain and stunned. Frankly, I think I was remarkable perky and good-spirited, considering all that.

Oh, let me not forget this episode: I guess A. was having trouble some trouble latching on correctly. The nurses and LC told me I had flat nipples. In fact, one nurse yelled down the hallway, "Hey, who has the pump? I got one with extremely flat nipples here!" Who knew? I had to pump my breasts up to a state of attention, and then I guess he could latch on. You just learn all kinds of things about yourself during birth.

A's Birth Story

I like reading other people's birth stories. Just in case there's anyone else out there with the same inclination, here's what happened 2.5 years ago:

Tuesday, August 15, 2002: Dr. says I'm 1 cm dilated and 50% effaced. She doesn't think I'll be overdue.

Tuesday, August 22: We watch A's due date come and go.

Wednesday, August 28: Dr. DeGusta has changed her mind about A. not being late. We try stripping the membranes and I go walk 2 miles after. Don't get anything but sore hips. I'm scheduled for induction on Saturday. G. is pushing the "sex for natural induction" method and is quite optimistic about it.

Thursday, August 29: Maybe acupuncture will help. Our friend Dr. Ralf comes over to do some. “Wow, you’re really closed up tight, aren't cha?” he says, feeling my pulses and sticking in needles. The only natural induction method I don't try is the eggs cooked in castor oil recommended by the doula. I don't like eggs under the best of circumstances. Greg’s feeling like he’s getting sick.

Saturday, August 31: We postpone the induction because Greg’s sick ("It's a VIRUS, not a COLD!" he tells me so that I will appreciate the gravity of his illness), and I need him to take care of me, not himself. We’re told to call tomorrow at 8:30am.

Sunday, September 1: We call at 8:30am, but L&D is too busy. We call back at 12, 4, and finally they let us come in at 6:30pm. I thought I was going in to have a baby. Hah. Got 3 doses of prostaglandin gel at 9pm, 1:30am, and 5am. That stuff's fun because you have to lie down for 2 hours and can't even get up to use the bathroom. Know how hard it is not to think of an elephant when someone tells you not to? Tell someone, "You can't use the bathroom for 2 hours," add a chronic UTI and a very pregnant woman to that and you have hell in bed for 2 hours. Also, the nurse tells us the beds in L&D aren't really made for sleeping - that's why they're so uncomfortable. No kidding. I dozed and dreamt that the waiting room was full of laboring women and a doctor was standing outside my room and asked a nurse why I had a room when I wasn’t even in labor. (This will become relevant later).

Monday, September 2: No contractions by morning. Staff suggests we go home, rest and see if anything starts. There are several jokes about it being "Labor Day." We’re told to come back Tuesday morning.

Tuesday, September 3: Return to L&D, thinking again (silly me!) that I'm going in to have a baby this time, and get another dose of the gel. They plan to start pitocin at 2pm. At the appointed time, the midwife tells us the delivery room is full of women who "are really in labor" and they need the room and I need to leave. (See? It was my dream!) I consider going out to the waiting room and yelling at all of them that it's my turn, damnit. The nerve - I'd essentially been there since Sunday and they think they can just come in and cut in line. I have a little meltdown where I start crying on the bed and decide I don’t really want children after all. I'm secretly afraid that my fear and anxiety about labor and having my life turned upside down by an infant is causing my body to resist labor. We go home.

Wednesday, September 4: We’re back. On the way to the hospital, I have another little meltdown and ask G., "What if he's born and we don't like him?" G. wisely says, "Well, let's give it a few weeks to get to know him and then we can give him away if we really don't like him."

Get 3 more applications of the gel (that's a total of 7, for those keeping count). I look at the nurse’s board where they have the patients listed with weeks of gestation and note that I’ve been pregnant longer than anyone else on the board. Yell at nurse, "It's MY turn, damnit!" Nurse replies, “Yeah, well, you’re not exactly winning any races, are you?” Greg buys me a cheeseburger for dinner (the famous “last meal”). I think, it's gotta happen soon. I'm soon to be 42 weeks and they can't keep sending me home forever.

Thursday, September 5: 2:30am – They conclude the gel isn't working (duh) so we start the pitocin drip on a low level. Not a damn thing happens.

(to be continued....)

OK, OK...

I'm back - not that I ever really left. I'm a big ol' whining pregnant woman right now, so I haven't been posting much.

But we had some of G's friends over for dinner tonight, and they told me a funny story I had to share. Regular readers are familiar with G's nocturnal utterings (I keep wanting to write "emissions," :::snicker:::).

So he went to a Catholic college and would sometimes go to 11pm mass on Saturday nights to get his obligation out of the way. And he was a really, really good boy in college so it's not like he had anything else to do on Saturday night.

Anyway, he's at Mass one night, it's late and the church is kind of dark, and he dozes off. Something startles him awake, and he shouts out, "Do this in memory of me!" which, for all you non-Catholics, is something the priest says, quoting Jesus, during the blessing of the host. His friends in the pew with him were mortified.

You might have to be Catholic or live with a sleep-talker to appreciate this story, but believe me, I had tears from laughing so hard.

Another tear-jerker (for me):

In first grade (again with the Catholic school), G. had circle time. The teacher was talking about how Jesus did good deeds for others. They went around the circle with everyone giving an example of a good deed they'd done in the last week. G. choked and couldn't think of anything. In his panic, he remembered some story about Jesus clothing the naked, so he made up a story about how there was this naked kid walking down the street and he and his mother gave him some clothes. I'm sure the teacher looked up his address after school that day and vowed not to venture into that neighborhood. (Unless she was naked, I guess, in which case it would be good to remember G's address).

Last one:

Remember a while back when he was searching for the meaning of time in the middle of the night? Well, the other night he sits up, glares over me at my clock and announces that it's 12:58 am. OK, so I'm used to that "meaning" something dire, so I say:

Me: What does that mean?

G: What do you mean 'what does that mean'?

Me: What does it mean that it's 12:58am?

G: (scoffing with a level of disgust that he never uses when awake): It Means It's Almost 1 AM. Sheez. (rolls over and goes back to sleep).

I thought of torturing him by falling off the bed, but went back to sleep instead.

Thank goodness for G. He's always good for some material.

She's Ours!

For finding your mother,
There's one certain test.
You must look for the creature
Who loves you the best.
~ Little Miss Spider; David Kirk

Middle Sister decided, years ago, that she wanted to be a foster parent to infants. So when her youngest entered his teens, she convinced her husband to go along with the program and they began the long process of being approved as a foster home.

It took a while, but they were finally approved as an emergency infant foster care home. That meant they'd get infants and keep them for just a couple of weeks.

Three years and two days ago, they picked up their first baby at the hospital. At the time, I was just entering my second trimester with A., and I was thrilled to get some practice. I practiced bathing, bottlefeeding, and carrying an infant carrier without dislocating my shoulder.

She was only going to stay for a few weeks, but a few weeks turned into a few months, and it wasn't long before they knew she belonged with them.

Today it was made official - according to the judge, the county agrees that it is K.'s best interests that Middle Sister and Husband be her parents forever and ever.

Big Sister is 19 years older than I, and it's rare that we find a family with a bigger spread. Middle Sister (12 years older), in typical middle child fashion, has to outdo us with a 24-year-old, a 21-year-old, a 15-year-old and a 3-year-old. But some people are just meant to be mothers.

Post Valentine's Day Post

G. is one of the most romantic guys I've ever met, let alone dated. Check it out:

1. For Valentine's Day one year, he made a customized magnetic poetry set with our names, places we'd been, special words we used, memories, etc. He made it look just like the professional magnetic poetry sets by printing the words on labels and adhering them to magnetic sheets and cutting them all out by hand. Then he put them all on a cookie sheet and wrapped it up.

2. He proposed by taking me on a hike in a local regional park. I thought it was a bit strange that he'd take his backpack along on a short hike, but I am extremely good at humoring him, so I said nothing. Along the hike he pointed to the top of a hill and said, "Look! There's a red-tailed hawk! Let's go see!" I had just been looking in that direction, and there was no bird anywhere near there, but again, see comment about humoring him.

We got to the top and he took out a box. He got down on bended knee with a beautiful ring. He asked me to marry him, and I said, "OK." (Obviously, he's way more romantic and poetic than I am). Then he gave me a 5 x 7 box. Inside the box, wrapped in red velvet, were 50 small paper collages that he'd made himself - each one a different reason he loved me. He used handmade papers, and stuff cut out from magazines and cards, and handwrote something on each one, like "You let me be myself and accept me as I am," and "With you I've found my home".

I found out later that he'd been up there the week before to scout out the location and clear out the coyote dung.

3. He makes jewelry. He made me a gorgeous amethyst bracelet, a mommy bracelet with A's name on it, and a really pretty garnet lariat necklace, among others. Whenever we're out shopping and I look at jewelry, he always asks what I like and tries to remember what I like and duplicate it.


We've been together for 8 years now, married for 4.5. Valentine's Day was a little lean this year due to a lack of money, energy and time. He bought me a card and a box of chocolates. I made him two cards - one from me and one from A. We both worked, so that was pretty much it. But, what he does now on a daily basis is at least as romantic to me as anything he's done before, if not more so. Check it out:

1. He gets up every morning with A. and lets me sleep in. When I get up, sometimes an hour and a half later, he never makes me feel guilty for sleeping more. He always acts happy to greet me whenever I get up and however disheveled I am.

2. He remembers to buy me Caffeine-Free Diet Coke when he goes grocery shopping even though he never drinks it.

3. He also remembers to buy ice cream (he does eat that - sometimes he makes me crazy by leaving one teaspoon-full in the carton and putting it back in the freezer - but I know the intent is to leave at least one bite for me).

4. He takes care of all the household maintenance stuff without complaining.

5. Even when he's worked all day, he always takes over A. when he gets home - if it's early enough, he'll give him his bath and put him to bed.

6. If I say my back hurts, he always asks if I want a massage.

7. He tells me often that I'm a great mother.

8. When we took the train into the city over the weekend, he tried to carry A., my heavy bag AND the stroller so I wouldn't have to. I did end up taking the stroller.

So...a Happy Belated Valentine's Day to my Everyday Love.

~Your Everyday Lunasea.

Rambling Randomness

1. You know that song by Dido, "White Flag?" Until today, I thought the line was, "I won't poke my eyes out and surrender." Today I finally heard it as "I won't hold my hands up and surrender." I did think the line was a little violent the way I heard it, but I think I got the sentiment right.

2. Tonight when I kissed A. goodnight, I said, "Goodnight, sweetheart," and he said, "Goodnight, boobs!" The obsession continues.

3. Who would've thought that "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" would be the tearjerker of the season? Can anyone watch that show without clutching their chest and getting all teary-eyed? Geez, it's like "Brian's Song" every week. Did you see that one where the kids lost both parents and the designers put a stained glass skylight with two doves in the front entry to represent their parents watching over them? That was in a town near me. And the houses turn out so nice, it almost makes you wish for a tragic life. I don't think being super-pregnant and being uncomfortable at night qualifies.

I can see Ty at my house now. "Lunasea is so uncomfortable at night that she sometimes can't roll over to reach her Maalox. We're going to build a special Maalox holder right next to her pillow so she won't have that problem anymore. And we're building a special bed that will turn her automatically without a crane." :::sniffle:::

4. Last night's conversation with G, around 1 am:

G: Are you there!?

Me: Yeah, what?

G: Did you put your hat on??

Me: Um, yeah.

G: Good. Good.

Back Down to Earth

Sometimes I think A. is so smart. He figures stuff out really quickly, and his memory is amazing. In Target today, he saw a poster for the movie "Dodgeball," said, "There's Dodgeball!" and commented that our 11-year-old friend G. had picked it out to rent when he stayed with us over a MONTH ago. "G. pick out Dodgeball." We only watched it once, and haven't mentioned it since.

Then he does something like try to open a book while kneeling on top of it, or insist on pushing himself while sitting in the shopping cart.

"I try it!" He says, pushing my hands off the handlebar.

Yeah, OK, kid, see how far you get.

"Uuuuuuuggggghhh!" He pulls really really hard on the handlebar. While sitting in the seat.

I shouldn't laugh, but where else am I going to get my entertainment?

Big Day in the Lunasea Household

Because we're bad parents, we completely missed A.'s first use of the potty.

I rented "Once Upon a Potty" from the library and we've been watching it (and I've had that stupid "Yes, I'm going to the potty, potty" song stuck in my head for a couple of days now and it's making me crazier than I already am) while he sits on the potty chair after his bath. We don't make a big deal out of it, and we don't do it every night, I just wanted to help him get the idea. So far, he's shown very little understanding of what the potty's actually for, but he enjoys sitting on it sometimes.

So we did our little potty-sitting ritual on Friday night. The video ended, we put diapers and jammies on.

Saturday morning, we'd been up for about 2 hours when A. pointed into the potty chair and said, "Pee!"

I said, "Not yet, sweetie, but someday you'll pee in there."

"Pee!" he insisted.

G. went over and said, "Oh my God. There IS pee in there." A. was still in his sleeper and hasn't mastered getting undressed yet, so we knew it didn't happen that morning.

There's a possibility he managed to pour his morning orange juice in there, but it's unlikely. So we did the whole parade to the bathroom with applause and praise. We felt kind of bad that he'd apparently used the potty the night before and neither of us noticed it. And that there was pee sitting in the potty chair, in our TV room, for probably over 12 hours. Don't let this dissuade you from visiting, though. We're way better at checking the potty now.

As a Matter of Fact, It Is All About Me

There's been much hoopla surrounding the NY Times article on Mommy blogging. I haven't commented because I've only read the comments regarding the article, not the article itself because I'm too lazy to go over and register at the NY Times site and look it up.

I've gotten the gist, though - we Mommy bloggers are a selfish bunch writing about our kids to fill our constant need for narcissistic mirroring.

Sheesh. Like that's a bad thing.

Here's a great rebuttal, though. Thanks to Fussy for the link.

An excerpt:

...the overall message of the article seems to be, "Who wants to read about parenting?" and "what is wrong with the people who write these blogs?" And though they include a smattering of token daddies, it is clearly a critique of a feminine genre of writing. Since the article is about not only women, but mothers, there is of course a need to call in psychiatric experts to explain the pathology behind recording parenting in public, and raise concerns about how mommy blogging might damage the very offspring who inspire it in the first place.

My Little Labile One

All 2-year-olds cry and whine. A. is particularly good at using "no" as his default answer to everything. But there's this particular look A. gets when he's about to have a real meltdown that's different from the "I don't want to stop playing and get my diaper changed" complaining.

At first, he's soundless, but he gets this look like his head is going to explode, and his eyes start watering. He starts shaking his head, still soundless. It doesn't happen that often, and usually only when he's really tired or overstimulated, but we all know to flee when we see it, much like you would an exploding volcano or an avalanche. Then the wailing and flailing begins. He likes to add some fake mime-like pushing directed at whoever he can't stand at that moment.

Yesterday I made the huge mistake of putting him in his car seat when we were leaving the library. He scrunched up his face, started shaking, and most tellingly, didn't say anything, so I thought, "Uh oh." But I'm the boss, so I buckled him in and got into the driver's seat. Fortunately it was a short drive home while he wailed and flailed. When he gets like this he can't tell me what's wrong, so I guessed it was that I didn't let him climb into the seat himself.

When we got home, he insisted on having what we therapists call a "corrective experience". I took him out of the seat, put him down and he immediately climbed back in. OK, fine. Let's do it again. Whatever. Oh, great, now he won't get out. Not even for macky cheese. He just sits there silently and stares straight ahead. Sometimes he reminds me so much of my mother it freaks me out.

"You're just going to sit there in the car?" I ask.

"Yes," he answers.

"Fine." I have yet to meet a kid I couldn't wait out. I unload the trunk and ignore him.

All of a sudden, as I'm walking by the open car door, he leans out and says with a big smile, "Play soccer ball?" I suggest that maybe Papa is available to play soccer ball with him and he says, "OK!" and jumps out, all fine and happy. I know this is normal 2-year-old-ness, but it's still weird.

Great. And This Chick's Principal-in-Chief?

Thanks to Catawampus for the graphic.

So Margaret Spelling thinks we don't want our children exposed to a ::gasp:: family headed by a lesbian couple? I'll take a functional lesbian couple over many of the families I've seen any day.

Sweetie, how 'bout focusing your efforts on the idiots who don't know who their baby daddy is? (Oh, shoot, I forgot - if we just taught abstinence in the schools, that little problem would be taken care of). I saw a TV ad today for a talk show where the mother's had something like 35 men tested to see if she can find her baby daddy - clearly the abstinence talk had an effect on her.

Or how 'bout the sweethearts who don't want their kids? Here's my therapist disclaimer before someone takes away my couch: if these parents came into my office I'd find empathy for them and I'd try to get to the pain underneath the hurtful crap they're projecting onto their child.

Frankly, I'm can relate to the conservatives in that I'd rather A. didn't know right now that children lived in the kinds of families I'm talking about, and I wouldn't be happy to see these families depicted on Buster. But someday he will know, he has to know, and someday he'll have to make his own judgments. I hope he'll have some compassion.

My point, which I seem to have lost somewhere along the way, is that there are so many threats to kids from their families that are really serious problems, so let's focus on the threats that we know exist. We know that certain family structures and stresses are more likely to produce criminals and abusers, and those families aren't lesbian or gay.

Emotional and physical abuse, neglect, poverty and a broken educational system are bigger threats to your students than lesbian parents, Margey.