What's a rhyme for "pediatric stenosing tenosynovitis"?

Do you remember several years back, at the beginning of the second Iraq war, when there was kerfluffle because the lead singer of The Dixie Chicks made some disparaging comments about President Bush?  No?  Well, in a nut shell, Natalie Maines said she was embarrassed that Mr. Bush was from her home state of Texas, so all her fans in red states got mad, stopped listening to the Dixie Chicks, and had CD-burning bonfire parties.  Meanwhile, in the blue states, people pricked up their ears and said, "Who are these feisty attractive southern ladies with political opinions?" and bought Dixie Chicks CDs.  The result was that the Dixie Chicks continued to make over-produced but otherwise respectable enough pop music, and, of course, boat loads of cash.  No big surprises there, but someone made a documentary about it anyway.

The movie, Shut Up and Sing, follows the band members through the controversy, and the resultant career break during which all three women had babies.  It's a warm fuzzy movie about the virtues of political dissent and how cuddly little humans are.  (No surprise that I liked it!)  The only sour note is Emily Robison.  While the other women gush about how overwhelmed they are by their love for their children, and how motherhood has brought them incredible new balance and perspective, Emily sits slack-armed and a little dazed.  "I just feel so beaten up by my twins," she says.  "I'm exhausted."

When I watched the movie back in grad school, I thought, "What is her problem?"  And now, I know.  Oh, Emily, do I ever know.

Last night I went to a friend's baby shower.  It will be her second baby.  When people asked her what she needed, she said, "Only food."  The result was the loveliest shower that I've had the pleasure of attending.  Everyone brought homemade canned goods, and dry goods, and musical instruments.  After we ooh-ed and aah-ed over the food, we sat down and wrote a lullaby for the baby.  Then we sang and recorded it -- accompanied by a guitar, a cello, a fiddle, and the cries of one contraband baby sneaked into the party.

I say "we," but in fact, I mostly sat back and kept my knitting needles moving.  I was sick, too hoarse to sing, and quite content to enjoy the music and the rare opportunity to be in the company of other women my age.  Maybe because I was sick, it was an oddly emotional evening for me.  On the one hand, I was so grateful to sit quietly for a couple of hours, and to be included in such a warm companionable event.  On the other hand, I was tired and sad.  There was such a gulf between my own experience of pregnancy and new motherhood and the support and community in that room.  Just by sheer contrast, I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for myself.  I never had a baby shower, because we moved when I was pregnant and left our friends and family 1500 and 3000 miles behind, respectively.  Humming along to the lullaby at the shower, I remembered the day Duncan and Tristan were born, then whisked away to the NICU.  People were bustling in the hallways, carrying balloons and flowers, jostling one another in their rush to coo over the babies and mothers in the rooms all around me.  I was sitting alone in a room with no babies and no visitors, the picture of an anticlimax, wondering, "Should I try to figure out how to turn on the TV?" 

Three years and another cross-country move later, I'm less alone -- and very grateful.  But I'm still a little apart.  In a room of women crooning to second babies, and dreaming of first ones, I am channeling Emily Robison.  A new friend who became an aunt yesterday -- and who is glowing with maternal hope and optimism -- asks me, "Were you excited when you found out you were having twins?"  And I croak, "I was TERRIFIED." 

Everyone at the shower was given a piece of paper, so that we could each write a couplet to include in the song.  Each couplet was supposed to contain a wish for the baby.  The other women took their paper, sat back, twiddled their pens, scratched their heads, smiled, frowned, scribbled, and came up with thoughts like these:

"May your dreams be as sweet as your tiny little feet, may you grow up real big and strong.
Be nice to your sister, each night you must kiss her, and obey the lady singin' you this song . . ."

"Baby boy rest your head and know that I love you, cry no more, our bond is so true.
Smile away all your sadness and tears, for tomorrow there'll be sunshine and clear skies of blue . . ."

"Little baby, dream of forest paths and birdsong tunes, long bright days and big old harvest moons.
There's a big endless road stretchin' out before you, as you walk it know your mama adores you . . ."

With all that clear, pure energy around me, I hunched forward and wrote quickly, "Little baby,  I hope that you don't have colic or croup, or any of that real sticky poop."

Let us all be grateful that I couldn't think of a rhyme for osteomyelitis.

So, there you have it.  I've become a sour old crone who shouldn't be allowed near wholesome young women with their dreams of frilled baskets and downy heads.  But I certainly did enjoy their company.   Thank you, ladies.