The emergency room lights were giving me a splitting headache.  But nothing was bothering Claire.  She was sitting on the floor playing with a faded wooden train.  The woman sitting across from me inquired, “How old is she?”

“Three.”

“She’s a little angel.”

“Thank you.”

I kept my responses polite but short.  It was a habit I had developed since Claire arrived.  I had grown more reluctant to talk to strangers since then.

At first I had considered it a blessing Claire rarely cried.  I had been afraid I would have a colicky child.  Instead, Claire’s calm silence had been a pleasant surprise.

So had her looks.  Her platinum hair framed perfect features.  Her azure eyes were like a windy day on Lake Michigan.  I couldn’t help doubting she was mine.  I had not been an attractive child.  My nose was too big and for years I had an enormous gap between my front teeth.  That I could produce a beauty like Claire seemed impossible.

But here she was.  I knew she was mine.  One of the few clear memories I have of that terrible day was of looking down into Claire’s beautiful eyes when the nurse put her in my arms.

Labor had been difficult.  I had always winced in pain at what most would consider mild discomfort.  In high school, my menstrual cramps made it impossible for me to go to school.  One Saturday when I was 17 the pain was so bad my mother had to take me to the emergency room.  She believed me, even when the doctor didn’t, that I wasn’t having a miscarriage.

That doctor’s visit and many others weighed on my mind as my contractions grew more intense and closer together.  I knew the epidural wouldn’t help.  Dentists had never listened when I told them I could feel pain no matter how many shots of Novocain they gave me.  My physician looked equally skeptical when I told him no matter how much Vicodin I took, the pain in my chest lingered weeks after I had recovered from pneumonia.  I was sure I had coughed my way to a broken rib, but three rounds of x-rays revealed nothing.  Six months later, the tiny shadow of calcification on a follow-up x-ray proved me right.  That a fracture invisible to my doctor was so excruciating did not calm my fears about childbirth.

My fears were justified.  Words cannot describe what I felt as Claire was ripped from my body.  I prayed Claire would never experience such pain.

Cruelly, God answered my prayer.  My baby was born completely unable to feel pain.

This was not on the list of things Adam had tried to reassure me about as we discussed making a baby.

“What if our kid is stupid?”

“We’ll love it anyway.”

“What if I don’t love it?”

“You will.”

“What if I am a bad mother?”

“Impossible.”

I was quiet for a while, letting the warmth of Adam’s body envelop me.  Every once in a while he would squeeze me, and I would have to remind him not to crush me.

“What if I don’t like taking care of a baby?”

“I’ll stay home.”

Another pause.

“Do I have to hang out with other mothers?”

“No.”

It was settled.

We first suspected something was wrong when Claire was a few days old.  One morning I noticed her left eye was swollen and red, but she wasn’t crying.

Even though she kept a stiff upper lip, I was concerned.  Adam and I rushed her to urgent care.  Claire was unnervingly calm while the doctor poked and prodded her eye.  He found a massive scratch across her cornea.

One morning not long after Claire’s teeth started coming in, I found her with her face covered in blood.  But she wore a look of perfect unconcern.  When I cleared away enough blood, I saw she had chewed through her lower lip.

The emergency room physician was dumbfounded.  He advised me to go to her regular pediatrician the next day to find out what was wrong.

Instead of being a relief, identifying Claire’s condition was only the beginning of our troubles.  Her imperviousness to pain meant she was constantly in danger.  Turning my back on her for one moment was what landed us in the emergency room again.

I had been getting ready for Christmas using my mother’s fudge recipe.  The scent of melting chocolate brought back warm memories.

When I went to spread the mixture into the pan, I turned my back on the stove.  When I turned back, Claire was standing on a chair with her hand on the burner.  Panicked, I snatched her away from danger.  But it was too late.  Her palm was already blistering.

While other families were home wrapping presents and laughing over hot chocolate, we were in a cold, sterile hospital waiting room.

When the nurse saw Claire’s hand, her face was stricken with horror.  “Have you been abusing this child?” she demanded.

“No.  She was climbing on the stove and…”

“A child would not hold her own hand down on a stove long enough to burn it like this.  Looks like somebody else held it down for her.”

“I can explain…”

I knew when our regular doctor was in the office tomorrow he could explain and document Claire’s medical condition.  That would stem the tide of inquiries for a while, but it wouldn’t wash away the shame and rage I felt at that moment.  Nor would it prevent another incident from occurring, forcing me to justify myself to hostile strangers again and again.

When we got home, I was too exhausted to continue my Christmas preparations.  Once Claire and Adam were asleep, I slipped out of bed and went downstairs.  As I sat in the dark looking up at the platinum-haired angel at the top of the tree, I silently began to cry.

As I write this, my pants and carry-on bag are soaked with my own breast milk. Because I forgot one tiny piece of my pumping assembly (elastic bands to secure the mouths of my breast milk collection bags to the pump), what should have been only an awkward and unsanitary attempt to pump down my breasts between flights turned into a complete disaster.

I’ve pumped in my share of airport bathroom stalls. The Executive Director of a trade association and the mother of a nursing infant, I’ve had to come up with my share of creative ways to balance the demands of my career and baby. The low point was pumping in a broom closet between the front and back nines while trying to close a deal on the golf course.

Both of my jobs would have been made easier if the world were designed to simultaneously accommodate my needs as a mother and as an executive. More than once I’ve considered giving up my job in disgust because it’s just too hard to meet the challenges of both roles.

If we’re really serious about correcting the under-representation of women in leadership roles, maybe the place to start is not with some grand, revolutionary gesture, but rather by making simple, practical shifts like the ones I recommend below.

   1.  Give Women a Convenient, Comfortable Place to Pump Breast Milk

This suggestion applies equally to the office, the airport, and the golf course. It’s not fun to furtively hand-pump breast milk in a bathroom stall as though I am a heroin addict or a pervert. My needs are modest. A small private space with a table, chair, and access to an electrical outlet would do. A few extras, like spare elastic bands and storage bags in case we forget ours, would be even better.

   2.  Don’t Schedule Meetings For 8:00 a.m. (Or Worse, 7:30)

It’s hard enough fighting traffic to make an 8:00 a.m. meeting under the best of circumstances. Throw in a baby who wakes up to eat every three or four hours all night and then needs to be dropped off at daycare in the morning and it becomes downright impossible.

   3.  Schedule Reasonable Breaks During Full-Day Meetings or Events

At the risk of making this all about my breasts: a 10-minute break every three hours might be enough time to make a couple of phone calls, but it is not enough time to pump and make it back to my seat on time. Give me 20 minutes, please.

   4.  Repeal “The Lombardi Rule”

Several of the men I work with subscribe to the notion, attributed to Vince Lombardi, that it’s a sign of professionalism to show up at least 15 minutes early for every meeting. To me, this is just plain stupid. Do these guys realize how much time they are wasting by following this rule?

Let’s say you average two meetings every working day (which is probably on the low side for most busy professionals). That’s a half hour of wasted time every single day. That’s 150 minutes (two-and-a-half hours) of wasted time every single week. That’s 7,500 minutes a year, assuming you take two weeks of vacation, which equals 125 hours per year. That’s more than three weeks of wasted time every single year! Are you kidding me?

Instead of spending time trying to impress each other by showing up early, let’s spend it doing something productive, like strategic planning, completing projects, taking a vacation, or even sleeping. With another three weeks a year, most working women could move mountains.

Just before he died, I had lunch with my friend and mentor Bob Friebert, the juggernaut who was the law firm of Friebert, Finerty & St. John, to talk about the impending arrival of my first child.  Neither of us knew he was dying.  A month later he was blindsided by a lung cancer so ferocious it ate him alive.  I’m glad we didn’t know.  I prefer to remember Bob as he was that day: full of mirth and the vitality of a man one-third his age.

Bob gave me some fantastic advice about child-rearing at that lunch.  He told me to get a diary and label it “Therapy Journal.”  In it, he advised me to write down every major mistake I ever make in raising my child so that 30 years from now, he can just hand the book to his psychotherapist and start from there.

While not every piece of advice Bob gave me that day was stellar—he also advised me to take a Valium before the last breast-feeding session of the day to help my child sleep through the night—this seemed like an admonition worth following.  So, in tribute to Bob, I begin Baby Sammy’s “Therapy Journal.”

November 4, 2013

Dear Sammy:

I have a confession to make.  I used your butt cream on my lips.

It was a desperation move. You had been suffering for a week with hand, foot, and mouth virus. Then, I woke up Sunday morning with a ring of golden crust around my own mouth. That’s when it finally dawned on me that the rawness of my lips was something more than chapping caused by kissing you too much during heating season.

But I didn’t want to bother my doctor at home on a Sunday. He works hard and has too little time with his family as it is.

But the weeping and itching of my lips grew more insistent. When I looked in the mirror, a hideous, crusty-faced beast stared back at me. That’s when your diaper-changing station started beckoning.

“Use the butt cream,” it whispered.

In all fairness, it’s not “butt cream” per se. It’s antibacterial ointment that happened to be prescribed for your butt.

“Use the butt cream,” the diaper station urged more loudly.

I was at a crossroads. I could either interrupt my doctor’s day at home with his own children or resort to a MacGyver-like maneuver to buy me precious hours until his office opened in the morning. Girding my loins, I chose the latter.

Tentatively, I squeezed out a pea-sized dollop. I rolled it around between my finger and thumb for a while, pretending to spread it out for easier application, but really buying more time while I contemplated the enormity of what I was about to do. I knew I was risking a strong reproof from my doctor not only for self-diagnosing, but also for using someone else’s prescription. Yes, I knew it was wrong. But I did it anyway.

Ultimately, my conscience got the better of me. At some point in the haze that was yesterday, I switched from the prescription butt cream to an over-the-counter topical antibiotic so I could preserve plausible deniability if my doctor inquired how I had been treating my rash.

While discussing my options for treatment this afternoon, I mentioned to the doc that your pediatrician had prescribed an ointment for your rash. I savored the irony when my doctor asked, “Do you have any left?” then sent me home with a prescription for the same cream.

December 29, 2013

Dear Sammy:

I’m sorry my vigorous cheering for the Packers made you cry.

January 1, 2014

Apparently babies don’t like loud, sudden noises. Who knew?

January 6, 2014

Dear Sammy,

Today I tricked you into eating the sweet potatoes you so loathe by mixing them with oatmeal and formula, then heating them up and calling them “sweet potato pie.”  Perhaps this deception was beneath me.

But you need the vitamins, minerals, and fiber that sweet potatoes can provide.  Maybe someday you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.  I know one thing you won’t find in your heart, however: artery-blocking plaque.  Because of all the sweet potatoes.

January 10, 2013

Dear Sammy,

Because you had just eaten, I asked you to promise not to spit up on me if we played airplane. I guess I shouldn’t have interpreted your silence as assent.

This isn’t the first time I’ve shit my pants.

The first time I fatally gambled and lost was on my way to the SAT.  I thought it was only a fart, so I squeezed for dear life, only to realize there was liquid there.  It was too late to drive back across town to get a new pair of underwear, so I had to stew in my own juices while I took the college placement exam.  Maybe that explains the lower-than-I-would-have-liked score.  Thank god for do-overs.

But a do-over wasn’t an option the next time I shit my pants.  This time it was on my way to an interview for my first real job.  I had graduated from college a month before and was doing a summer internship in the desolate wasteland of Greencastle, Indiana.  One weekend I packed up my Eagle Talon and headed north for Chicago.  When I left my apartment, I was wearing my best suit.  I was in heavy traffic in the Chicago suburbs when a big fart started stewing.  To my horror, when I gleefully forced that sucker out of my anus, a warm, heavy wetness came with it.

Panicked, I pulled over at the nearest McDonald’s to rinse out my underwear.  As I hurried toward the back of the restaurant, the workers behind the front counter caught my eye.  A wave of guilt washed over me as I considered how rude it would be to just use their bathroom and leave without buying anything.  So, I altered my course and got in line to buy a Coke.

When I finally reached the bathroom—which, miraculously, was a single-seater—I gingerly removed my underpants and rinsed them out in the sink.  I replaced them with a clean pair from my suitcase.  Satisfied with my work, I prepared to continue my journey to the job interview.  But as I turned to go, I caught a glimpse of my backside in the mirror.  In shock, I realized there was a large, brown mark in the middle of my ass.  My face reddened as I thought about the people behind me in line who had probably had a front-row seat to my shit-stain.

I tore off my skirt and started running cold water over the fecal smear.  Then I scrubbed it with soap.  But this was a particularly stubborn stain.  As the minutes until my job interview ticked away, the real panicking began.  At last I realized there was nothing to do but find a change of clothes.  So I took off my suit jacket at tied it around my waste, grunge-rocker style.  Then I bolted out into the parking lot and began rooting through the trunk of my car.

The only garment I had with me that was even remotely appropriate for a job interview was the white crepe pantsuit I had brought with me to wear clubbing.  I use the word “appropriate” loosely.  This thing had a sleeveless top with fake crystal buttons and pants that were flared like bell bottoms.  I loved this outfit because it kept my sweaty body reasonably cool on the dance floor without making me look like a total slut.  But it definitely did not scream, “Take me seriously as a professional!” Out of options, however, I snatched it from the trunk and headed back to the bathroom.  I changed as quickly as I could, then sighed like a deflating balloon when I saw how ridiculous I looked.

The interview went surprisingly well given the circumstances, but I didn’t get the job.  I think they had a more experienced candidate.  Probably a candidate who hadn’t just shit herself.  Or who had at least had the foresight to pack another suit.

Losing that job opportunity was nothing, however, compared to losing the last shreds of my dignity during my most recent experience with self-defecation.  I cringe with horror when I reflect on how I desecrated the picturesque isle of Zanzibar with the putrid mess I expelled from my innards.

My husband, Joel, and I had wandered down the beach in search of a snorkeling expedition.  The concierge at a resort much nicer than the dive where we were staying recommended a friend of his who owned a small wooden boat.  He said this guy charged half the price of other carriers because he didn’t bother with frills like life jackets.

The boat was an open affair about the size of a 15-passenger van.  The seats were simply wooden slats that ran along each side.  There was no bathroom and, worst of all, no place to hide.  When we embarked, there was a Belgian family already on board.  It was a couple in their forties and their three children, two girls and a boy ranging in age from 11 to 5.  There was a moment of conflict at the beginning of the journey when the father realized there were no life jackets aboard, but after a while he settled down and we had a lovely chat as we moved out to sea.

As we talked about all the places we’d been, an undercurrent of anxiety gripped me.  Its cause was the increasingly insistent rumbling in my bowels.  At length, I whispered to Joel that I was going to have explosive diarrhea.  He whispered back that I should do it in the water once we were snorkeling.  He said the fish would eat my poo and no one would ever know.

After about an hour, we reached the reef.  Relieved, I suited up and slipped into the water.  My plan was to swim away from the rest of the group and nonchalantly projectile-diarrhea into the ocean.  Unfortunately, my bowels had other plans.  Maybe it was because I had been clenching them closed for so long.  Maybe it was because my body wasn’t used to the water.  Or maybe it was because the poop gods were playing some sadistic joke on me.  Whatever the cause, my ass refused to shit.  In fact, I couldn’t even tinkle into the ocean, although my bladder was also about to explode.  For an hour or so I floundered around in the water pretending to look at fish but secretly panicking at my inability to let go of my bowels.  When we got back on board the boat, I confided my secret to Joel.  He gave me a worried look.

As soon as the boat was in motion again, the poop gods played their trump card.  My bowels started to unclench, and I realized in horror that I wasn’t going to make it back to shore.  I whispered this to Joel, who quickly hatched a plan.  He gave me his beach towel and told me to wrap it around my bottom and my waist like a diaper.  Then, he said, just let go whenever you feel the need.

Within moments, I felt the need.  I felt the need like I had never felt it before.  As I sat there making small talk with the Belgians, my bowels and bladder released themselves violently into the diaper.  Fortunately, the towel was navy blue.  A consummate small-talker, I was able to maintain a flow of chatter with the Belgians even while Mt. Saint Helen’s erupted out of my ass.  At length, I unloaded all of my burdens and sat stewing in a warm sludge of feces, urine and sea water.  During all of it, I maintained eye contact with the Belgians as I calmly inquired about their trip to Iceland.

The poo gods showed their mercy by making the Belgians’ hotel the first stop on the way back.  That way I was spared the humiliation of having to stand up and let sewage leak down my legs in front of them.  After we said our goodbyes, Joel told me the next part of his plan.  “As soon as we pull up to our hotel, jump overboard and start splashing around in the ocean.  You can pretend to be swimming while you are rinsing out the towel and your swim suit.”  I praised Jesus for Joel’s quick thinking.

As I tried to free some of the pea-soup-colored atrocity from the fabric, Joel settled up with the captain and his mate.  When he reached me, I said, “Do you think they knew what was going on?”

“I saw them looking at the floor beneath the bench where you were sitting,” he said.  “They figured out that it was shit, but I think they blamed it on one of the Belgian kids.”

I’m starting a list of great headlines to help remind me how to write them.  This headline from today is the first one on the list.

Out of the Nest

Last week I took a leap of faith.  I quit my job to start my own freelance copywriting business, Lauri Rollings Communications, LLC.  It is at once thrilling and terrifying.  Kind of like jumping off a cliff into a raging glacier-fed river.  Which I’ve done.  Which was less terrifying.

I’ve spent the last several days setting up the infrastructure for my business, which takes a lot longer than I thought.  Or maybe it’s just that I’m finding any excuse I possibly can to avoid picking up that phone and making cold calls to potential clients.  Something I know I need to do.  A fate I fear worse than death.

But it’s swim or sink when you are out on your own.  So, I’m going to learn how to swim.  Or at least to float for a while.