A Mother of a Problem

As much as I am a news junkie, my brain just doesn't have the capacity for too much of the national chatter lately. But last week's Ann Romney vs. Hilary Rosen smackdown over stay-at-home motherhood caught my attention.

Mom and the bosses

I'm not particularly interested in discussing the nuances of stay-at-home parenting work vs. at-the-office work. It's an old debate. But every time the subject of motherhood enters the news, I listen, especially when we're talking about valuing motherhood (and fatherhood) as an important part of our society.

I always hope the conversation trickles toward a topic that is pathetically neglected in the United States: the support we as a nation offer new parents.

Let's play a game: You're a grocery store clerk. You're married to a construction worker. You don't make a ton of money, but you're not desperate economically. You find out you're pregnant. As you prepare for the birth, your plans include what you will do for maternity leave when the baby comes.

If you live in Sweden, your government guarantees 480 days of leave -- that's one year, four-ish months. Two months of it is guaranteed for your husband. You'll receive 80 percent of your regular pay for the first 390 days of your leave, then a flat rate. You start imagining a world of playdates and snuggling, of being there to see your baby smile and crawl and walk, without a thought of how you're going to pay for it.

But Sweden's the usual suspect, right? You pay taxes out the nose for benefits like this, which Americans don't stomach well. But how about a country that's a little closer cousin to the USA?

If you live in the U.K., your employer must offer you up to one year of leave. Your employer will give you 90 percent of your regular pay for the first six weeks and a flat rate for weeks 7-39 (and it doesn't matter that you work for a small business, because public money will reimburse them for most of it). Weeks 40-52 are unpaid, but available. You're relieved to know you're guaranteed a few weeks to recover physically and emotionally from your birth. You and your husband decide you can afford an additional four months off -- enough time to establish breastfeeding, get in some form of sleep routine, and relax with your new little critter before you head back to work.

Doesn't sound too bad, but Britain is still a pretty wealthy country. It can't be so good everywhere, right?

In Serbia you'll get a year off, 100 percent paid by the government, as long as Baby is your first or second kid.

In Poland you get five months, 100 percent paid. In Kazahkstan you'll get a little more than four months, 100 percent paid. In Indonesia you'll get three months, 100 percent paid. In Venezuela you get 18 weeks, 100 percent paid. In Algeria you'll get 14 weeks, 100 percent paid.

In Somalia you get up to 14 weeks at 50 percent of your pay.

In Afghanistan you get 90 days at 100 percent of your pay.

And what about here at home?

In the United States, your employer must give you up to 12 weeks off under the Family and Medical Leave Act*. They can pay you but don't have to, and most don't. The government, federally and in the vast majority of states, offers you nothing.

You save up some vacation time, but it's tricky -- you only have two weeks to work with. You have one week of sick leave and you use it up on morning sickness and doctor's appointments. You scrimp and save, but the birth itself is going to cost so much -- a few thousand dollars, even with your insurance, and you make just enough not to qualify for Medicaid. Your husband can pick up some overtime, but you want him at home to help you navigate new motherhood and bond with his child. Your parents would love to help, but they're not rolling in the dough either.

Your baby is due in just a month, and you still haven't figured out how to get more than four weeks off. What if you have a C-section and have to recover? What if the baby's colicky and you never sleep? Your boss is sweet and supportive, but reminds you that you need your FMLA paperwork in, and soon, so you have to decide.

So what do you do? (Going in the bathroom and crying is an option, but it won't get you far.)

And what do we as Americans do about this? It seems we're pretty content. I can't believe we are.

This isn't a question of taxes or state's rights or big government or whatever. It's a question of what we really value.

We say we value families, that healthy children are the path to a healthy future, that good parenting is the bedrock of our society. The vast majority of people do consider parenthood a job, whether one performed full-time or in conjunction with others.

So if we consider parenting so important -- as Ann Romney said, good ol' Mitt often told her that her job was more important than his -- why are we content to have one of the poorest family leave policies on the planet?

I lean toward supporting a federal  program. For better or worse, the government is the existing system able to pay for and administer policies like family leave. (And yes, I'm saying I'd pay more in taxes to support a federal program. Happily.)

Most countries listed above go the federal route, though some (like Somalia and Afghanistan) put the burden on employers -- which I can't imagine would fly well in our land of small businesses. Heck, if you're really against the government getting involved, we could always create a network of nonprofits that help people afford to stay home with their children.

And if you're  against improving our parental leave policies, tell me why. Let's get this debate started -- because the rest of the world is laughing at us for failing to.



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* - as pointed out by astute reader cadylee, this only applies if you work for a company big enough to have to abide by FMLA at all.
Facts and figures in this blog come from the incredible interactive NPR map found here.

Read and Respond

When I shuffle through my Facebook feed every day, I inevitably run into a post -- or three or ten -- that makes me want to slam my face on my desk.

Sometimes it's because I strongly disagree. Sometimes it's because I agree strongly but am frustrated with the way the thought was expressed. A few times lately it's because I've seen people I really like picking fights with each other, sometimes directly, sometimes with subtle, indirect jabs that are still so well-placed. (And yeah, sometimes it's also because I'm friends with my teenage cousins, and most of what they say is like a secret code to me, and that makes me feel old.)

Day after day, I keep running into these posts and news stories and ideas that make me want to respond, but the idea of responding makes me feel like a scared little rabbit with a too-small cage and a too-fast heartbeat. (Unless they're sleeping, I imagine that rabbits have a running commentary in their heads something along the lines of "Ohgoshohgoshohgoshohnoohcrapohgosh...")

Part of me feels like a wuss for never, or at least very rarely, responding. When I do, it's usually to request clarification, to make a joke, or to offer up something along the lines of "this is just my personal point of view, but ..."  Something very safe. Something couched in fluff. Something that keeps the little rabbit in the too-small cage because at least that's better than the too-big world.

Abundance

I like to think I’m a grocery store Jedi – able to get in and out with a maximum amount of nutritious, tasty food for a minimum bill, all while talking myself out of the expensive junk food I so desire. (These are not the Pop Tarts you are looking for …)

During this week’s grocery trip, though, I decided to look for something at the store I hadn’t before: empty shelves.

You can probably guess that I didn’t find any. No sold-out items, or even waning ones. My cheese was one of scores of blocks. My milk was surrounded by dozens of identical gallons. Even the less common items – this week it was maaagical Odwalla bars, to fill my need as a nursing mother for massive amounts of food all day long – were sold in boxes and stacks and piles.

The store had an abundance of everything.

Here is what got me thinking about this:

Yayyyy fuzzy cell phone picture!

Yup, that’s a table full of bread. It’s in the lobby of my church, which runs a food pantry. Last week, that table was one of four holding breads, rolls, cookies, pastries, and cakes that we ran out of room for on the four big shelves in the food pantry itself.

Boldly Go, Vandals

The Idaho State Board of Education made a wildly unpopular decision yesterday to yank the word “flagship” out of the University of Idaho’s mission statement, as proposed by Boise State alumnus and SBOE member Milford Terrell.

The move is obviously political – a way to stroke the quivering egos of the Bronco crowd, who are dang good at celebrating the big Whatever Bowl win, but less able to quit pouting that the UI just straight-up shuts them down at academic pursuits.

But – what’s done is done. The real question now is what we do next. If we’re not Idaho’s flagship university anymore, what the heck should we be?

Here’s my proposal:

(Are you ready for this? Cause it’s awesome. And it was actually Tim’s idea, but I’m expanding on it and he doesn’t have a blog, so whatever. Annnnyway – awesome time …)

The starship university.

Heck. Yeah.

On containing multitudes

I was at a church event a few years back, visiting with a man I didn’t know. The conversation turned toward my profession, and I said I worked at the newspaper.

 His eyes widened. “Oh,” he said, “that must be so hard for you.”

I asked why he thought that.

“That paper is so liberal,” he said. “All those things on the opinion page. It must be really hard to deal with that.”

I let about 30 different responses, some of them less polite than others, bounce around in my head before finally responding that I actually thought our opinion page had an interesting mix of liberal and conservative opinions, as did our newsroom, and that I quite liked my job. Then I changed the subject.

But what I kind of felt like saying is what I’ll say here: “Actually, I’m kind of a liberal. And I probably wrote some of those things you don’t like.”

Guest Post: That Post On The Healthcare System

Hello, loyal Tarababble readers! The following is a guest post by my friend Melanie (of Musings of a Renaissance Girl) -- I've been pestering her about it for a while, and I'm excited to be sharing it with you.

When she was 16, Melanie was diagnosed with cancer. Her family had to face the terrifying threat of losing her -- and of losing everything they had to pay for the treatments that eventually saved her life. Here's her story.

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I realized something today.  I realized that I've been putting off blogging, primarily because I had promised a post on the healthcare system, which I felt unequal to for a number of reasons.  One is a lack of organization, one a distaste for controversy, but primarily I've been avoiding the subject here because it involves going back there, and there is a place I've successfully managed to steer clear of for several years now.


However, I do think what I have to say needs to be said, and luckily it is not up to me to offer the perfect solution to solve all our problems and create a disease and debt-free paradise.  I can only point out the problems as I see them.  Sit back and relax.  This promises to be a longish post.


I was sixteen years old when I was diagnosed with stage three (stage four being worst-case, stage one best) Hodgkins Lymphoma, a cancer of the lymph system.  It came out of nowhere for our family.  Someone later made a remark to my mother, as if it was something she should have done, about how they were "concentrating on prevention" themselves.  Now, my sister and I lived about the healthiest lives possible.  We lived on the side of a mountain, breathed clean air, climbed trees, ran around in fields, not to mention having ballet classes every week.  My mother cooked everything we ate from scratch, we drank soda perhaps once a year.  We were always healthy, and because we were always healthy, when our family couldn't afford health insurance, just about the time I turned sixteen, it didn't seem like a big loss.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd been to the doctor.

Big, Blue Button

Here it is:

Recently I went to the Idaho Department of Health and Welfare’s Medicaid website in search of a phone number. It should have been easy to find – the 800 number for the processing center that deals with most Medicaid inquiries in the state – but that important number was tricky to track down.

You know what wasn’t hard to find, though? The giant blue button with big, bold “Report Public Assistance Fraud.” 

That button was right there on every page. As I saw it, and saw it, and saw it, I realized something.

That big, blue button was more prominent than any of the links to learn about how to apply for Medicaid, for food stamps, for emergency assistance. It’s easier to find than the information—like that phone number—that would help people currently using public assistance make sure they are communicating clearly with the state.

To me, that blue button is saying that the state of Idaho thinks I’m more likely to commit fraud than seek to use the public programs my family benefits from the way they are intended to be used.

I’m not saying fraud isn’t a problem, or it shouldn’t be reported (though Idaho apparently doesn’t have such a concern about legislators committing tax evasion, but whatevs).

The issue also isn’t whether Medicaid or other forms of public assistance should exist, or whether they’re the most efficient and effective ways to help those in need. The fact is, at this point in time, they’re the best way for families to receive help.

And the issue here is how we treat people who ask for help.

Troublebabble

I spent a while last night writing a blog post that -- for now -- you don't get to read.

It may or may not be an awesome blog post. Right now it's actually like the Schroedinger's Cat of blog posts -- simultaneously awesome and not awesome because it is not yet observed. Ooooh.

To extend (and slightly mangle) the S-Cat metaphor -- I'm reluctant about posting this blog because it could potentially set off dangerous material.

What do I mean? A story:

About 2 1/2 years ago, I got ticked off about a newspaper columnist's lament about the loss of personal responsibility, including a reference to people on public assistance as being "on the dole." So I -- who worked at said newspaper and wrote a blog about saving money -- wrote a post about being on Medicaid for the birth of my older son, and my mixed feelings of thankfulness and guilt about needing to ask for help to pay my medical bills.

I'd link to that post, but it's lost in the mists of the Internet. And frankly, I'm kind of relieved. That post was the most well-read thing I've ever written, and certainly the most responded to. But for all the nice back-pats that congratulated me for my honesty, there was a flood of negative responses. It was brutal. Some of the people who disagreed with me did so thoughtfully, with well-articulated arguments presenting their perspective.

But most most people didn't. Posters called me lazy and irresponsible, insulted my husband, even questioned whether I was fit to be a mother. Some made some pretty sweeping judgments about my financial situation,  suggesting that I was a fraud and should pay back any money I had received. (Seriously people, do you know how much small-town journalists earn?)