I’ve just read an article on MomLogic about a ruling an Cali to make a small Mexican chain pay just over $45,000 in fines, penalties, and a settlement for the mom. Way to go California government.
You may need to read the article to get where I’m coming from.
In case you didn’t know, the law states that a woman can not be fired while on maternity leave. It states this because it is illegal to fire someone for being pregnant, and being pregnant (and breastfeeding) is a woman issue. Because it is a woman issue, it is deemed sexist to fire her. Now I don’t believe in sexism but I think the law is stupid. Wait…I think the interpretation of the law is stupid. If a man had to be off work because of something to do with his prostate he wouldn’t be fired. If he were, it wouldn’t be seen as sexist.
Do I think Acosta Taco is wrong? Yes. Absolutely. Did they get what they deserved? Yes. Should this woman’s job be protected while she is on maternity leave and doing everything she is suppose to do for her job AND her child? You damn right! I just don’t agree with the interpretation of the law.
I know this is kind of late but better late than never.
So this year has been filled with so much that I don’t know where to begin. I guess I should start at the beginning.
Well I started out pregnant with Beany while Dad prepared for his arrival.
Then it was off to Italy for our Babymoon. Traveling between cities by train, we visited Rome, Venice, Florence, and Sienna. And Dad tried some of the local cuisine.
Then Beany was born. We loved having him home that we never wanted to put him down. Nor did his grandparents.
Soon, Beany had his own friends and was having a barrel of laughs.
In September we had a party where Beany got to meet some of his cousins. They wanted to play with him at any cost.
After the party, Mom and Dad got to go to the U.S. Open.
We got a new house and moved in.
Things slowed down a bit while Beany learned to sit unassisted.
But after he learned there was nothing he couldn’t conquer, there was no stopping him.
Beany had his first trip (he was an angel on the plane both ways), where he met some Mom’s family for the first time and saw Dad’s sister for the first time since his party.
Then we hosted Thanksgiving and Christmas. David saw a lot of family and got a lot of presents.
All in all, it was a great year.
Ok. So my morning commute leaves me tainted for abut an hour at work and I don’t want to talk to anyone. The problem is that I HATE for strangers to touch me. Living in New York and using public mass transit, this is somthing that is unavoidable. This morning, I stood on the platform of the 6 train. We knew where the doors were going to stop so we stood just off to the side in a line waiting for the next train. I’m second or third in line when this woman wearing a gaudy suede coat and fake fur hat dashes right in front of me. She was so close I could see my breath making her fake fur feathers move. I tried to stay calm because I realize that I’m not in London and lines aren’t important to people in the good ole US of A. Fortunately, when the train came so many people poured out that she was pushed back and I made my way in. Unfortunately, she ended up standing right behind me. It annoyed me when she bumped me so I bumped back. Then, at my stop, she reaches out and touches my arm to get me move me out of the way with her nasty hand that had been just touching an infested NYC subway pole. I grimmaced, yelled, “EXCUSE YOU! DON’T TOUCH ME!”, nearly pushed her, and made my way off the train. She bolted by me and I had the urge to follow her just so i could keep touching her with random pieces of garbage all the way to her destination.
Ok. So this whole hormone thing that happens with pregnancy is everything that people make it out to be. You really do feel like the littlest something is a monsterous catastrophe.
Example: Tom and I were going to celebrate some great news he got at work by me cooking his favorite dish, meatloaf (yes, I can cook). Well I was getting home before him so the plan was that after getting home he would have to wait no longer than a half hour before eating. So on my way in, I stopped off at the grocery store to pick up all the ingredients. It was packed but I got lucky and was second in line. I got in and began to prepare when I realized I didn’t have a backing pan. It was the only thing I forgot. I had to get back before Tom. It was hard to run, so let’s just say I rushed back to the store, grabbed a pack of disposable pans, got to the front, and saw that the lines were worse than before. I stood in the 10 items or less line where there was a new casheir waiting on all the WIC, EBT, and food stamp holders. It was excruciating. I stood there longer than it took to complete the entire first trip from entry to exit. At the front of the line, I threw the $2 at the guya and ran from the store without my change or a bag. The whole time I was on my way back I kept thinking, “Please don’t let me see him walking across the street. Please don’t let him be at home.” I turn the key in the lock after jogging up the stairs and, of course, there’s Tom taking off his coat. I collapsed on the couch and began sobbing like my dog had just died. Tom obviously freaked, as this was a first for both of us. He tried to comfort me, but nothing seemed to stop it from happening. I tried to relay my story only to release more sobs instead. It was an incrdible pregnancy milestone that I hope I will forget.
Apparently I live in a place where it’s ok to spit indoors. A man can shove a pregnant lady out of his way so he can get to the seat before she does. It’s okay to stare at the car and driver that almost hit you when you were crossing, diagonally, through the intersection at 96th & Broadway. It’s okay to call the subway conductor a bitch because when she said stand clear of the closing doors you just stood there with one arm in the train talking to some woman across the platform that you don’t even know.
And the stupid people in New York are even worse. How many times, loud enough to drown out the sound of bustling commuters, I’ve heard over the P.A. “The number one train will make it’s last stop at 96th Street. Again, there is no number one train service beyond 96th Street. To get beyond 96th Street please transfer to the A, B, C, or E trains located just under your nose.” They’ll repeat this twelve times. That’s not the stupid part. The stupid part is the number of people walking up to attendants and other passengers asking, “So the one isn’t going above 96th Street?”, “Is the one going to stop at 96th Street?”, “Will the one still stop and 125th Street?”, “What train do I transfer to to get beyond 96th Street?” Agh! People, please. It’s not rocket science. How long do you have to live in this city (most of the questions I hear have a Bronx accent) before you realize just how to navigate your way home?
So after seeing all of this on the way home, I was tempted to do some good. I saw an old lady carrying so many bags that her cane had become more of a nuisance than an aid. I thought, “Maybe she could use some help. I know my gran walked much better holding an elbow than a cane.” But then something flashed in my head. A headline in the next morning’s Post: “Good Samaritan Slays Granny After Being Caned to Miscarraige” Let’s just say those whimsical thoughts of holding this place together, one good deed at a time, have fled from my mind.