I knew there would be a second part to Paul Harvey Had It Right.
I just didn't think it'd take this long. Or BE this long.
I was waiting on some information to be made public before sharing more opinions, but it is taking longer than I had anticipated, so just know that there could be a Part Three. That's all.
Before my head explodes, I'll dump what has been collecting there these past couple months regarding law enforcement.
If you are here and have yet to read my previous post, please take the time to go back and read it. It's not full of accurate statistics or deep, moving, well-thought-out arguments. It's simply a perspective.
Growing up, I had a lot of respect for my uncle who served as a DEC officer. Though I never knew exactly what he did on a day to day basis, I knew the essence of his work. One day, as I sat up in the window watching him train his beautiful (yet scary!) K-9, I started to really wonder about the nature of his job. When he came inside, I met him at the door with my questions.
"What did you do at work today? Where did you go? Was it hard work? Who taught you how to do your work?"
He grinned.
In a deep, uncle voice, he answered.
"Well, first I yelled at some kids in a boat."
gasp!
My uncle yelled at some kids?! Why? Ugh. What did they do? He shouldn't YELL!
My heart sank. I never knew this about my uncle.
I challenged him.
"You shouldn't yell at kids in boats. They are big kids and they don't need life jackets. I don't even need a life jacket 'cuz I'm big now," I insisted with a confident little nod.
He sat down and pulled me up on his knee. He looked me straight in the eye, paused until he had my full attention and said
"Those kids were in a boat without life jackets. They were drinking booze and acting stupid and there were just too many of them for a boat that size. I yelled at them to scare them. I would rather scare them now than dive for their bodies later."
Huh.
My uncle dove for bodies?
What did drinking booze and acting stupid have to do with drowning?
Drowning is for people who can't swim!
Did he actually yell or does he mean he just scolded them?
And what IS booze, anyway?
I slid down from his lap to go play, temporarily satisfied with his answer.
Fast forward about 10 years
I'm in a car, heading to prom with a friend and another couple.
We get pulled over. A state trooper walks up to the car and questions my friend, Jim, who was driving. "Do you know how fast you were going?" Ahh, the famous question!
I was suddenly quite curious to hear the answer.
Jim admitted that he actually had no idea how fast he was driving.
He went on to explain that his mom had let us borrow her new car for prom and it rode "really smooth" compared to his jalopy truck. He confessed that he was probably going "way too fast".
"77 in a 55, to be exact."
I was shocked. It hadn't felt 77. I wasn't scared or nervous about Jim's speed or his driving.
It wasn't reckless.
But the fact is, he was breaking the law.
The trooper bent down and looked past Jim straight at me.
"You look beautiful. I'm sure you spent a lot of time curling your hair and putting on that make-up. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not be back out here later scraping your dead body off the pavement."
Before he walked away, he looked back at Jim and in a stern voice said, "Slow down."
Not one word from anyone the rest of the ride.
The trooper's words rang over and over in my mind.
"...scraping your dead body..."
"...scraping your dead body..."
"...scraping your dead body..."
It didn't feel like a selfish request.
It didn't feel like unnecessary drama.
It felt exactly like-
a warning.
A warning we should heed.
A warning with weight and pull and meaning.
A warning from someone who actually SEES SUCH THINGS.
Who even sees dead bodies on pavement?
That guy.
And I don't.
And neither do you.
Again, I'm not saying there aren't issues in our country with abuse of power or that every officer of the law has integrity or is a prime example of how every citizen should walk. Of course those issues exist. But maybe before we wildly debate and form strong opinions about all officers of the law, we should open our eyes and ears to the wisdom in hearing both sides of the story. Gain perspective by studying natural law and what you believe about that theory. Gain perspective by making an effort to find out what they really do day in and day out, as opposed to clinging to a CNN headline or your traumatizing cell phone ticket experience. Listen to a scanner app on your phone. Hear the calls that come in. Heart-attacks, robberies, rapes, home invasions, drug overdoses, domestic abuse situations, hit & run, on goes the list. Be thankful that should you ever find yourself a victim of such things, you have someone ready and willing to come to your aid.
An interesting piece you should read.
At this point, I guess I just feel like I can support the police profession without cheering on the conduct of every single officer.
Just because I don't allow my children to complain about or blame the referees from their game, doesn't mean I agreed with every single call.
After the game, my children will find them, look them in the eye, shake their hand and say, "Thank you".
How much more someone who risks their life to preserve order in society.
Just my opinion.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Monday, December 22, 2014
Paul Harvey Had It Right
Here It Is.
Here Is My Blog Post.
Here Is My Blog Post With My Opinion.
A blog post with my opinion about the recent police CRAZINESS.
And it is SHEER craziness, people. In my opinion, of course.
The day when the problem of police brutality (and I do acknowledge that it is a problem with some officers) sparks a national riot and causes the whole country to rise up against law enforcement as a whole, is the day when an an abusive husband causes all women to stand up against marriage. We know that there are men who hit their wives, so why aren't there crowds gathering to chant, "What do we want? DEAD HUSBANDS! When do we want them? WE WANT THEM NOW!"
My thought? It's because we have an issue with authority. We always have. We blame LEOs for the same reason we blame referees after our kids lose their soccer game or the same reason we blame their teacher when they fail science. Of course it's deeper and more complex than this, but overall it's the same root problem- we despise authority.
I am not suggesting that because someone is over us in authority they are justified in misusing or abusing their power. Not at all. But what I am suggesting is this: do we act like guilty children sometimes and scream "ow! you're hurting me!" before someone ever has ever laid a hand on us? Do we complain about getting a speeding ticket when we were, in fact, speeding? Do we ramble on and on about how the local PD is lame because all they do is issue tickets for public urination and noise pollution?
Might I suggest that we, as a society, are actually ignorant to what LEOs really do on a daily basis? Unless you have a close friend or family member who serves, you are probably ignorant.
The only other way you might be aware of what they actually do is if you listen to a police scanner on a regular basis. Even that gives only a partial picture.
SILENCE.
On Thursday, I took my children to SLU so we could play in the snow with our adopted student before she heads back to Bangladesh. We parked at the bookstore, and as we got out of the vehicle to gather up our snow gear and gifts I could see a campus security officer watching the process. She was counting heads, as most people do, but as we walked past her vehicle she made a comment that isn't the norm. She said, "They're all yours? Wow. That's awesome. Good for you!" The kids smiled and in return, a couple of the twins responded: "Yeah, well thank YOU for your service."
Awkward silence.
A strange look.
And then more awkward silence.
My kids walked on but I stayed behind. I saw the look on her face change from a light-hearted smile to a genuine "I don't even know how to respond to this right now". She laughed nervously and explained herself. "Sorry, I usually only get cursed at. That's amazing that children that age would say thank you to me." I said, "Truth is, we are thankful for what you do and I will always teach my children to express it."
This is not the Criscitello family bowing down to people who serve in this way. This is not putting a man or woman up on a pedestal. This is simply saying thank you to the men and woman who RESPOND. Choosing to respect them by not joining in the current protests, but rather taking an active role in building up and letting them know their job is important.
DEEDS.
I was really hoping officers of the law wouldn't feel pressured to start recording and spreading videos of their good deeds, but it looks like it has already begun. Since the Brown and Garner decisions, the public opinion of law enforcement has been heavily criticized (bashed, tainted, infected) by the media. The serving and protecting they used to do as part of their everyday routine is now being pushed out for the public eye to see. It is some desperate attempt to balance out the blanket evil that has been painted of all law enforcement, when in reality, there are a small bunch of arrogant and angry cops. Yes! There are! I believe it and admit it. How important it is that we have these conversations. I'm not saying that the news reporting on these good stories is a bad thing, per se, but I just think the motive is not pure. That's all. My opinion. There should be no need to all of a sudden brag or boast about something just because mainstream media is covering the negative. That's their job, after all- to increase numbers.
SADNESS.
You don't have to grow up a child of an NYPD officer to wonder whether or not your dad is coming home. When I was ten and eleven years old, I remember spending lots of time with my great grandmother Mary at her apartment in Watertown. She and I would eat cheese danish and drink tea together, watch WWF and talk about her teenage days of dancing jigs and snow sledding with friends. One night when I was sleeping at her house, we saw a WWNY report of a police officer who had been shot and killed in the Watertown area. No further details were available at that time. My dad was working! I was sick over hearing this news at 7pm, knowing that the next report wouldn't be until 11. She suggested I call my mom, no answer. I called my step-mom, no answer. I called my grandmother, she had seen the report but knew nothing. I didn't cry but I sure had a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit. Eleven o'clock seemed an eternity away. No scanner. No updates. The phone rang once and it was my mother, but she knew nothing. My mind raced. I knew that the 7 o'clock report mentioned Pillar Point. My dad's new wife had a family cottage there, but what did that have to do with anything? Nothing. Something? Everything! The fold-out cot I was sleeping on was so ridiculously uncomfortable that it was making me angry. Or maybe it was the fact that a man shot an officer dead that was making me angry. He took the life of a person who helps lock up the bad guys. He shot dead the one who helps comfort the little ones when their daddy is beating up on them or when their mommy is passed out from drugs and forgot to pick them up from school.
When eleven o'clock finally rolled around, I learned that it wasn't my daddy who had been shot and killed, but somehow I didn't feel much better. Instead I learned that another man, some guy named Vincent, was murdered, as well as Police Chief Samuel Johnson. I didn't feel more sad about the murder of Chief Johnson than I did about the other man because even at a young age I knew to value all life. But I was afraid of the man who shot and killed them both. I have a vivid memory of hearing this detail: Moss was shot and struck at least four or five times and still was not taken down until he was pinned with a police cruiser. Wow. Was this guy under the influence of something? Was he superhuman? I pictured him in my mind at that moment as looking like The Hulk. Why was the news report not showing a photo? Film footage? I was SO MAD. Why couldn't I talk to my dad? Why wasn't my mom calling? She knew I'd be sad and emotional. Why did my dad have to even BE a police officer? This was really, really hard. I felt all alone. Finally, the tears started to come. In fact, I sobbed and sobbed the whole night through. I cried on and off and until sunrise and slept a little in between. Reality is, what I experienced that night is absolutely nothing compared to what the friends and family of the slain NYPD officers are experiencing today. They were the victims of evil and hate. Hate that is being promoted and is escalating through protests. As much as I support the right to peaceably assemble and the freedom of speech, I have no desire to participate in any of the current protests that are happening in our country today opposing law enforcement. I don't have all the facts. I wasn't there. I haven't read all the grand jury testimony or seen all the evidence. It would be easy for me to watch a gut-wrenching video and come forward with an emotional response, pretending I have all the answers. But I don't. So I won't. I only have my perspective and my willingness to listen and learn and grow.
And this season, be it right or wrong, I'm teaching my children to say thank you to those responders who are there for us when we need to call on them.
Thank you to all my friends and family who serve and protect their community members
(or who have in the past)! You know who you are.
Paul Harvey had it right.
“A policeman is a composite of what all men are, I guess, a mingling of saint and sinner, dust and deity. What that really means is that they are exceptional, they are unusual. They are not commonplace. Buried under the froth is the fact, the fact is that less than one half of one percent of policeman misfit that uniform, and that is a better average than you’d find among clergymen.
“What is a policeman?
“He of all men is at once the most needed, and the most wanted, a strangely nameless creature who is sir to his face and pig or worse behind his back. He must be such a diplomat that he can settle differences between individuals so that each will think he won, but, if a policeman is neat, he’s conceited, if he’s careless he’s a bum, if he’s pleasant, he’s a flirt, if he’s not, he’s a grouch.
“He must make instant decisions that would require months for a lawyer but if he hurries he’s careless, if he’s deliberate, he’s lazy. He must be first to an accident, infallible with diagnoses. He must be able to start breathing, stop bleeding, tie splints and above all, be sure the victim goes home without a limp.
“The police officer must know every gun, draw on the run and hit where it doesn’t hurt.
“He must be able to whip two men twice his size and half his age without damaging his uniform, and without being brutal. If you hit him he’s a coward, if he hits you, he’s a bully. The policeman from a single human hair must be able to describe the crime, the weapon the criminal, and tell you where the criminal is hiding but, if he catches the criminal he’s lucky, if he doesn’t he’s a dunce.
“He runs files and writes reports until his eyes ache to build a case against some felon who will get dealt out by some shameless shamus. The policeman must be a minister, a social worker, a diplomat, a tough guy, and a gentle man. And of course, he’ll have to be a genius, because he’ll have to feed a family on a policeman’s salary.”
_____________________________________________________________________________
http://centralny.twcnews.com/content/news/136384/could-suspected-cop-killer-be-set-free-/?ap=1&MP4
To be continued.
Here Is My Blog Post.
Here Is My Blog Post With My Opinion.
A blog post with my opinion about the recent police CRAZINESS.
And it is SHEER craziness, people. In my opinion, of course.
The day when the problem of police brutality (and I do acknowledge that it is a problem with some officers) sparks a national riot and causes the whole country to rise up against law enforcement as a whole, is the day when an an abusive husband causes all women to stand up against marriage. We know that there are men who hit their wives, so why aren't there crowds gathering to chant, "What do we want? DEAD HUSBANDS! When do we want them? WE WANT THEM NOW!"
My thought? It's because we have an issue with authority. We always have. We blame LEOs for the same reason we blame referees after our kids lose their soccer game or the same reason we blame their teacher when they fail science. Of course it's deeper and more complex than this, but overall it's the same root problem- we despise authority.
I am not suggesting that because someone is over us in authority they are justified in misusing or abusing their power. Not at all. But what I am suggesting is this: do we act like guilty children sometimes and scream "ow! you're hurting me!" before someone ever has ever laid a hand on us? Do we complain about getting a speeding ticket when we were, in fact, speeding? Do we ramble on and on about how the local PD is lame because all they do is issue tickets for public urination and noise pollution?
Might I suggest that we, as a society, are actually ignorant to what LEOs really do on a daily basis? Unless you have a close friend or family member who serves, you are probably ignorant.
The only other way you might be aware of what they actually do is if you listen to a police scanner on a regular basis. Even that gives only a partial picture.
SILENCE.
On Thursday, I took my children to SLU so we could play in the snow with our adopted student before she heads back to Bangladesh. We parked at the bookstore, and as we got out of the vehicle to gather up our snow gear and gifts I could see a campus security officer watching the process. She was counting heads, as most people do, but as we walked past her vehicle she made a comment that isn't the norm. She said, "They're all yours? Wow. That's awesome. Good for you!" The kids smiled and in return, a couple of the twins responded: "Yeah, well thank YOU for your service."
Awkward silence.
A strange look.
And then more awkward silence.
My kids walked on but I stayed behind. I saw the look on her face change from a light-hearted smile to a genuine "I don't even know how to respond to this right now". She laughed nervously and explained herself. "Sorry, I usually only get cursed at. That's amazing that children that age would say thank you to me." I said, "Truth is, we are thankful for what you do and I will always teach my children to express it."
This is not the Criscitello family bowing down to people who serve in this way. This is not putting a man or woman up on a pedestal. This is simply saying thank you to the men and woman who RESPOND. Choosing to respect them by not joining in the current protests, but rather taking an active role in building up and letting them know their job is important.
DEEDS.
I was really hoping officers of the law wouldn't feel pressured to start recording and spreading videos of their good deeds, but it looks like it has already begun. Since the Brown and Garner decisions, the public opinion of law enforcement has been heavily criticized (bashed, tainted, infected) by the media. The serving and protecting they used to do as part of their everyday routine is now being pushed out for the public eye to see. It is some desperate attempt to balance out the blanket evil that has been painted of all law enforcement, when in reality, there are a small bunch of arrogant and angry cops. Yes! There are! I believe it and admit it. How important it is that we have these conversations. I'm not saying that the news reporting on these good stories is a bad thing, per se, but I just think the motive is not pure. That's all. My opinion. There should be no need to all of a sudden brag or boast about something just because mainstream media is covering the negative. That's their job, after all- to increase numbers.
SADNESS.
You don't have to grow up a child of an NYPD officer to wonder whether or not your dad is coming home. When I was ten and eleven years old, I remember spending lots of time with my great grandmother Mary at her apartment in Watertown. She and I would eat cheese danish and drink tea together, watch WWF and talk about her teenage days of dancing jigs and snow sledding with friends. One night when I was sleeping at her house, we saw a WWNY report of a police officer who had been shot and killed in the Watertown area. No further details were available at that time. My dad was working! I was sick over hearing this news at 7pm, knowing that the next report wouldn't be until 11. She suggested I call my mom, no answer. I called my step-mom, no answer. I called my grandmother, she had seen the report but knew nothing. I didn't cry but I sure had a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit. Eleven o'clock seemed an eternity away. No scanner. No updates. The phone rang once and it was my mother, but she knew nothing. My mind raced. I knew that the 7 o'clock report mentioned Pillar Point. My dad's new wife had a family cottage there, but what did that have to do with anything? Nothing. Something? Everything! The fold-out cot I was sleeping on was so ridiculously uncomfortable that it was making me angry. Or maybe it was the fact that a man shot an officer dead that was making me angry. He took the life of a person who helps lock up the bad guys. He shot dead the one who helps comfort the little ones when their daddy is beating up on them or when their mommy is passed out from drugs and forgot to pick them up from school.
When eleven o'clock finally rolled around, I learned that it wasn't my daddy who had been shot and killed, but somehow I didn't feel much better. Instead I learned that another man, some guy named Vincent, was murdered, as well as Police Chief Samuel Johnson. I didn't feel more sad about the murder of Chief Johnson than I did about the other man because even at a young age I knew to value all life. But I was afraid of the man who shot and killed them both. I have a vivid memory of hearing this detail: Moss was shot and struck at least four or five times and still was not taken down until he was pinned with a police cruiser. Wow. Was this guy under the influence of something? Was he superhuman? I pictured him in my mind at that moment as looking like The Hulk. Why was the news report not showing a photo? Film footage? I was SO MAD. Why couldn't I talk to my dad? Why wasn't my mom calling? She knew I'd be sad and emotional. Why did my dad have to even BE a police officer? This was really, really hard. I felt all alone. Finally, the tears started to come. In fact, I sobbed and sobbed the whole night through. I cried on and off and until sunrise and slept a little in between. Reality is, what I experienced that night is absolutely nothing compared to what the friends and family of the slain NYPD officers are experiencing today. They were the victims of evil and hate. Hate that is being promoted and is escalating through protests. As much as I support the right to peaceably assemble and the freedom of speech, I have no desire to participate in any of the current protests that are happening in our country today opposing law enforcement. I don't have all the facts. I wasn't there. I haven't read all the grand jury testimony or seen all the evidence. It would be easy for me to watch a gut-wrenching video and come forward with an emotional response, pretending I have all the answers. But I don't. So I won't. I only have my perspective and my willingness to listen and learn and grow.
And this season, be it right or wrong, I'm teaching my children to say thank you to those responders who are there for us when we need to call on them.
Thank you to all my friends and family who serve and protect their community members
(or who have in the past)! You know who you are.
Paul Harvey had it right.
“A policeman is a composite of what all men are, I guess, a mingling of saint and sinner, dust and deity. What that really means is that they are exceptional, they are unusual. They are not commonplace. Buried under the froth is the fact, the fact is that less than one half of one percent of policeman misfit that uniform, and that is a better average than you’d find among clergymen.
“What is a policeman?
“He of all men is at once the most needed, and the most wanted, a strangely nameless creature who is sir to his face and pig or worse behind his back. He must be such a diplomat that he can settle differences between individuals so that each will think he won, but, if a policeman is neat, he’s conceited, if he’s careless he’s a bum, if he’s pleasant, he’s a flirt, if he’s not, he’s a grouch.
“He must make instant decisions that would require months for a lawyer but if he hurries he’s careless, if he’s deliberate, he’s lazy. He must be first to an accident, infallible with diagnoses. He must be able to start breathing, stop bleeding, tie splints and above all, be sure the victim goes home without a limp.
“The police officer must know every gun, draw on the run and hit where it doesn’t hurt.
“He must be able to whip two men twice his size and half his age without damaging his uniform, and without being brutal. If you hit him he’s a coward, if he hits you, he’s a bully. The policeman from a single human hair must be able to describe the crime, the weapon the criminal, and tell you where the criminal is hiding but, if he catches the criminal he’s lucky, if he doesn’t he’s a dunce.
“He runs files and writes reports until his eyes ache to build a case against some felon who will get dealt out by some shameless shamus. The policeman must be a minister, a social worker, a diplomat, a tough guy, and a gentle man. And of course, he’ll have to be a genius, because he’ll have to feed a family on a policeman’s salary.”
_____________________________________________________________________________
http://centralny.twcnews.com/content/news/136384/could-suspected-cop-killer-be-set-free-/?ap=1&MP4
To be continued.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
I Miss You, Old Friend!
Moishe's Famous Coleslaw
Organic Salmon Tartare
New York Strip
French Pastry Platter
Saturday, September 21, 2013
FELICITY JANE, Part Four
We hit Syracuse by about 5:30pm. I knew I wasn't ready to go to the hospital. I texted my sister-in-law to let her know we'd be stopping by her place for a bit. As always, she was glad to have us. In fact, she ended up feeding us dinner! Delicious Corn Chowder w/Ham & Corn Muffins. Yes, I was ravenous and yes, I remember that warm corn muffin like it was yesterday.
After dinner, we went down into Shey's 'man cave' to check out the new sound system and 3D television. At this point, I was starting to tune out the conversations going on around me. I headed back upstairs to be by myself for a bit. It was then I realized exactly what I was doing. LABORING at HOME. Because I was a VBAC and because this wasn't my regular hospital, the docs asked that I avoid doing one thing: labor at home. Oops! As much as I would have loved the comfort and care of family during those next couple hours, I knew it was wrong. Not wanting to go back on my word, I called down to Eric. "Hey, honey. We better go."
Shey helped me into my boots and Gina hugged my neck. I bet they even prayed for me. We were off. 11 minutes flat to the Crouse parking garage. The contractions were getting harder to walk through and everything started to seem LOUD. Glad we left when we did. God's peace ruled my heart.
The poor old man working security saw me coming. "Oh, Lord have mercy! Go on, just go through. I'll tell the 8th floor you comin'. Don't stop! Just go, darlin'. Go. Go. Go." I laughed and tried to convince him I was fine. "Lord, have mercy, girl. You ain't fine. You havin' a baby. Go on now. Stop talkin' and get. in. that. elevator."
By the time we walked out of the elevator and onto the 8th floor, I was becoming very curious. Would I labor for hours and hours to come or would I deliver rather soon?
The nurses and ladies at check-in started running around and screeching as soon as they heard this was my tenth. I looked at one lady going crazy and said, "Trust me. My baby isn't going to fall out." She paused for a second, considered what I said, and said, "Nope, I don't trust you. Get in a room. Any room! This room right here (pointing to the first room she saw)."
I changed and collapsed onto the bed. SERIOUSLY TIRED ALREADY! I noticed the time- 8:02. I wondered if I would get to meet my baby this day, the 20th of December. The next couple hours consisted of lots of laughter. Lots of shushing people and pain and breathing, too. But lots of laughing and joking. With the nurses. With my husband. And even via texts from friends. It was a bit like live tweeting, really. "8 cm now"and "ok, I'm 10" and then "ready to push". Those are some really good friends, I tell you.
Felicity Jane Criscitello was born at 10:02pm on 12-20-12. Love those even numbers! And as soon as she was out I had the urge to break out and GO HOME. She would meet her siblings exactly 24 hours later. Great recovery, as is typical with me as long as I am not cut open.
Docs were great. Nurses were great. Eric was great. Friends & family were great. Felicity was great. And as always, God held & protected me the entire time.
After dinner, we went down into Shey's 'man cave' to check out the new sound system and 3D television. At this point, I was starting to tune out the conversations going on around me. I headed back upstairs to be by myself for a bit. It was then I realized exactly what I was doing. LABORING at HOME. Because I was a VBAC and because this wasn't my regular hospital, the docs asked that I avoid doing one thing: labor at home. Oops! As much as I would have loved the comfort and care of family during those next couple hours, I knew it was wrong. Not wanting to go back on my word, I called down to Eric. "Hey, honey. We better go."
Shey helped me into my boots and Gina hugged my neck. I bet they even prayed for me. We were off. 11 minutes flat to the Crouse parking garage. The contractions were getting harder to walk through and everything started to seem LOUD. Glad we left when we did. God's peace ruled my heart.
The poor old man working security saw me coming. "Oh, Lord have mercy! Go on, just go through. I'll tell the 8th floor you comin'. Don't stop! Just go, darlin'. Go. Go. Go." I laughed and tried to convince him I was fine. "Lord, have mercy, girl. You ain't fine. You havin' a baby. Go on now. Stop talkin' and get. in. that. elevator."
By the time we walked out of the elevator and onto the 8th floor, I was becoming very curious. Would I labor for hours and hours to come or would I deliver rather soon?
The nurses and ladies at check-in started running around and screeching as soon as they heard this was my tenth. I looked at one lady going crazy and said, "Trust me. My baby isn't going to fall out." She paused for a second, considered what I said, and said, "Nope, I don't trust you. Get in a room. Any room! This room right here (pointing to the first room she saw)."
I changed and collapsed onto the bed. SERIOUSLY TIRED ALREADY! I noticed the time- 8:02. I wondered if I would get to meet my baby this day, the 20th of December. The next couple hours consisted of lots of laughter. Lots of shushing people and pain and breathing, too. But lots of laughing and joking. With the nurses. With my husband. And even via texts from friends. It was a bit like live tweeting, really. "8 cm now"and "ok, I'm 10" and then "ready to push". Those are some really good friends, I tell you.
Felicity Jane Criscitello was born at 10:02pm on 12-20-12. Love those even numbers! And as soon as she was out I had the urge to break out and GO HOME. She would meet her siblings exactly 24 hours later. Great recovery, as is typical with me as long as I am not cut open.
Docs were great. Nurses were great. Eric was great. Friends & family were great. Felicity was great. And as always, God held & protected me the entire time.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
FELICITY JANE, Part Three
I had the coolest due-date ever! December 12th, 2012. How sweet to be able to write that down as your date of birth? "Yeah, I was born on 12-12-12. Be jealous."
*sigh
Never mind that my due date came and went.
On Thursday the 13th, the day after my official due date, I did make the trip down to 'Cuse for a quick ultrasound and chat with the docs. The way Dr. Silverman put it, "As long as you can show me that your baby isn't 10 1/2 pounds or more, and that you still have an adequate amount of fluid in there, we'll just hang out and wait." Music to my ears! I'm all about hanging out and waiting.
There is a really big push (no pun intended) these days to induce labor when you are postdates. Not quite sure I'll ever understand that one, yet it's the norm. My midwife and I were both convinced that Syracuse would want to do something when I hit the "one week overdue" mark. They offered to set up an appointment to "discuss options" but I kindly refused. Driving down at that point just for an appointment seemed a bit pointless.
One of the kids suggested we have a "Kiss Your Due Date Goodbye" Party. When I asked what we should do at the party, they suggested eating snacks and picking a name. Sounded fun to me! I threw some Buffalo Wing Dip in the oven and cut up some celery sticks. While the dip was baking, I scribbled down a list of names I had heard thrown out there over the previous months. As I scribbled, it was all I could do to fight off a decent-sized pity party. I loved the name Paisley and I was alone. Not one other family member could even stand the name. We eventually gathered in the living room and talked about the name. Kids were whining and complaining. Eric was on the computer, caring less. More kids were arguing over who came up with what name and how so-and-so was named and blah blah blah. Finally, after mounting frustration, I yelled. "OK! Here we go! I'm READING the list. Here's the list. I'm READING IT ALOUD! If you HATE the name and can't live with a daughter or sibling WITH THIS NAME, RAISE your hand."
Me: "Whitney"
hands.
On Thursday, December 20th, as I began to prepare lunch, I noticed that my Braxton Hicks were feeling a bit... well, real-ish. It took me a few solid hard ones to realize that this might be "it". By the seventh or eighth real-ish contraction, I announced to the kids that I need a timer. They all went running for scrap paper and pencils and watches, except Colby who almost tossed his cookies right then and there. The poor kid gets super queasy at even the thought of anything labor or birth.
We were eating a late lunch and I was having them one right after another. They were coming about 3 minutes apart at that point. Avery asked, "Why aren't you texting Dad?" Oh, yeah. I guess that would be a good idea, huh? I texted Eric and suggested, "Wrap up whatever you're doing because I'm going to need a ride to Syracuse in awhile." It was 2pm.
By 3 pm, Eric arrived home and his parents showed up at around the same time. They would be staying here with the kids while we were away to have the Little Miss. For those of you who don't know my in-laws, they are the best people I know. Serving, loving, forgiving, and all around delightful! They prayed for me and they prayed for the baby and they prayed for our trip. We headed out the door at 3:30pm. I was 99.5% sure this was GO time.
What is it about that stupid half of a percent?
A conversation on the road, only 20 minutes from home:
Me: "What if I'm wrong and this isn't it?"
Eric: "We'll turn around and come back home."
Me: "Yeah, but what if I'm WRONG?!"
Eric: (long pause) "Really?"
Me: "I wish I could be 100% sure."
Eric: "Lisa, stop talking."
By the time we hit Watertown, I was saying all the same crazy things that I say when it's the real deal. Things like, "I can't do this" and "Oh, I can't believe what I'm about to have to go through." He smirked. He knew that half of a percent was long gone.
For those of you who know Riley & Avery's birth story, you know that Eric has no problem making good time to Syracuse when his wife is in labor. Understatement!
*sigh
Never mind that my due date came and went.
On Thursday the 13th, the day after my official due date, I did make the trip down to 'Cuse for a quick ultrasound and chat with the docs. The way Dr. Silverman put it, "As long as you can show me that your baby isn't 10 1/2 pounds or more, and that you still have an adequate amount of fluid in there, we'll just hang out and wait." Music to my ears! I'm all about hanging out and waiting.
There is a really big push (no pun intended) these days to induce labor when you are postdates. Not quite sure I'll ever understand that one, yet it's the norm. My midwife and I were both convinced that Syracuse would want to do something when I hit the "one week overdue" mark. They offered to set up an appointment to "discuss options" but I kindly refused. Driving down at that point just for an appointment seemed a bit pointless.
One of the kids suggested we have a "Kiss Your Due Date Goodbye" Party. When I asked what we should do at the party, they suggested eating snacks and picking a name. Sounded fun to me! I threw some Buffalo Wing Dip in the oven and cut up some celery sticks. While the dip was baking, I scribbled down a list of names I had heard thrown out there over the previous months. As I scribbled, it was all I could do to fight off a decent-sized pity party. I loved the name Paisley and I was alone. Not one other family member could even stand the name. We eventually gathered in the living room and talked about the name. Kids were whining and complaining. Eric was on the computer, caring less. More kids were arguing over who came up with what name and how so-and-so was named and blah blah blah. Finally, after mounting frustration, I yelled. "OK! Here we go! I'm READING the list. Here's the list. I'm READING IT ALOUD! If you HATE the name and can't live with a daughter or sibling WITH THIS NAME, RAISE your hand."
Me: "Daisy"
hands.
Me: "Sydney"
hands.
Me: "Penny"
hands.
Me: "Courtney"
hands.
Me: "Whitney"
hands.
Me: "Tory"
hands.
Me: (pause) "Paisley"
LOTS of hands.
Me: "Felicity"
no comments. no arguing. no complaining. no concerns.
and no hands.
And so it was decided.
Our baby girl had a name.
On Thursday, December 20th, as I began to prepare lunch, I noticed that my Braxton Hicks were feeling a bit... well, real-ish. It took me a few solid hard ones to realize that this might be "it". By the seventh or eighth real-ish contraction, I announced to the kids that I need a timer. They all went running for scrap paper and pencils and watches, except Colby who almost tossed his cookies right then and there. The poor kid gets super queasy at even the thought of anything labor or birth.
We were eating a late lunch and I was having them one right after another. They were coming about 3 minutes apart at that point. Avery asked, "Why aren't you texting Dad?" Oh, yeah. I guess that would be a good idea, huh? I texted Eric and suggested, "Wrap up whatever you're doing because I'm going to need a ride to Syracuse in awhile." It was 2pm.
By 3 pm, Eric arrived home and his parents showed up at around the same time. They would be staying here with the kids while we were away to have the Little Miss. For those of you who don't know my in-laws, they are the best people I know. Serving, loving, forgiving, and all around delightful! They prayed for me and they prayed for the baby and they prayed for our trip. We headed out the door at 3:30pm. I was 99.5% sure this was GO time.
What is it about that stupid half of a percent?
A conversation on the road, only 20 minutes from home:
Me: "What if I'm wrong and this isn't it?"
Eric: "We'll turn around and come back home."
Me: "Yeah, but what if I'm WRONG?!"
Eric: (long pause) "Really?"
Me: "I wish I could be 100% sure."
Eric: "Lisa, stop talking."
By the time we hit Watertown, I was saying all the same crazy things that I say when it's the real deal. Things like, "I can't do this" and "Oh, I can't believe what I'm about to have to go through." He smirked. He knew that half of a percent was long gone.
For those of you who know Riley & Avery's birth story, you know that Eric has no problem making good time to Syracuse when his wife is in labor. Understatement!
More apologies for breaking this up, but duty-in-the-form-of-10-kids calls!
To be cont'd.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
FELICITY JANE, Part Two
I continued to have Braxton Hicks between Thanksgiving and my actual day of delivery. This was a bit new and confusing to me, since I had never really had any kind of practice contractions. My typical pattern of the past was boring, I guess: pregnancy, labor, delivery, boom. This time around, the lines were fuzzy. Labor was creeping back into the pregnancy part! This made the call for Syracuse departure pretty difficult. I tortured my friends with texts on many occasions. "What should I do? Is this it? Why don't I know? What is wrong with me? It's not like I haven't done this before! HELP!" Do you have any idea how loving and patient my friends are? They prayed. They shared godly wisdom and helpful, practical advice. It was a test for me. Will I wait with grace or will I fear not knowing the exact time? Eric kept me sane with his constant reminders, "I'm here. I'm ready. Just text me when you KNOW it's time."
The constant question rolling around in my mind was this: What if I wait too long?
Eric was serious about only one thing, and that is I not wait too long.
The midwife providing my pre-natal care tried to corner him several times for an "emergency car birth lesson". He came up with all kinds of reasons (excuses) why he couldn't participate. They ranged from "Gotta run, gym time!" to "Why would I ever need to know about that? That is NOT happening to us!"
She would respond, "You're in denial." Then he would respond, "No. I can just drive fast." Back and forth they went, and all the while I would just sit there thinking, "Why does THIS have to be the Braxton Hicks pregnancy?"
My good friends kept reminding me, "When it's the real deal, you'll KNOW."
My mid-wife kept reminding me, "When it's the real deal, you'll KNOW."
And all I could ever think was, "When it's the real deal, I'll have NO IDEA."
They were right and I was wrong.
To be cont'd.
The constant question rolling around in my mind was this: What if I wait too long?
Eric was serious about only one thing, and that is I not wait too long.
The midwife providing my pre-natal care tried to corner him several times for an "emergency car birth lesson". He came up with all kinds of reasons (excuses) why he couldn't participate. They ranged from "Gotta run, gym time!" to "Why would I ever need to know about that? That is NOT happening to us!"
She would respond, "You're in denial." Then he would respond, "No. I can just drive fast." Back and forth they went, and all the while I would just sit there thinking, "Why does THIS have to be the Braxton Hicks pregnancy?"
My good friends kept reminding me, "When it's the real deal, you'll KNOW."
My mid-wife kept reminding me, "When it's the real deal, you'll KNOW."
And all I could ever think was, "When it's the real deal, I'll have NO IDEA."
They were right and I was wrong.
To be cont'd.
NOT the most flattering picture of me,
but the kids love it because of the ears and antlers.
I love it because Kailey was telling the baby,
"Don't worry, little baby, I'll teach you how to moonwalk!"
Friday, September 6, 2013
FELICITY JANE, Part One
I have a sneaking suspicion that this story will be dished out in at least four parts.
I'm a busy woman and don't have a lot of uninterrupted free time.
Who does, right?
Even numbers galore.
Better news yet, another daughter was on the way.
Sugar and spice and everything nice.
Little Miss would even up the teams... 5 boys against 5 girls!
We were VERY excited about this precious little gift about to make her way into the world, into our family, and into our hearts.
Carrying her proved to be pretty uneventful, but I was really feeling my age this time around.
That whole "not-a-spring-chicken-anymore" concept was creeping in on me.
I was 21 when I had Colby.
Now I was 36. Wife, mother, and manager of The Criscitello Homestead.
Because of a prior c-section with my second set of twins, I was having to fight for a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) once again. My two previous births had been successful VBACs, delivered by my family doc right here at our local hospital. Since the birth of our five year old, Libby, the climate had changed enough that the hospital now had a strict "No-VBAC" policy. Too risky, they decided. So off I go to take my business elsewhere.
Crouse in Syracuse will always have a special place in my heart. After all, it was the place where docs were willing and even excited to care for me with my first twin pregnancy. That pregnancy was a bit of a train wreck. Pre-PROM (pre- premature rupture of membranes) at 12 weeks with twins put me into a high-risk category. Crouse didn't blink an eyelash while local docs were urging me to abort. That's another story for another day. I will say that the end is beautiful, though. God worked a miracle and we now have two strong, perfectly healthy ten year old boys!
The plan for baby #10: Pre-natal care at home with a local midwife and drive to Crouse in Syracuse when labor starts. If we made good time and got there before I was ready to go to the hospital, Gina and Shey live in the area and graciously opened their home should I need a place to kill time. If we got caught in a snowstorm on 81 halfway between Watertown and Syracuse, well, let's just say there wasn't a plan for that.
On the night of Thanksgiving, I began having very tricky contractions. I couldn't tell if they were Braxton Hicks or the real deal. I drank lots of water. I put my feet up and rested. I soaked in the tub. At 3 am, I woke Eric up and told him that my contractions were painful and steady. He gave me the classic Eric line, "What do you want me to do?" I said I didn't want him to DO anything, other than be prepared to hop out of bed at any given moment and pack for Syracuse. I agreed to wake him again if things picked up. They did not.
To be cont'd.
Libby being a bit sad.
Libby deciding to be happy about a baby coming soon.
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