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First-hand
Account of Second-hand Smoke When
I discovered that I was pregnant with my first child, I was not
prepared. My life was still a party, albeit one that included a fiancé.
Stop smoking? Huh? You’re kidding, right?
I didn’t. I smoked until the nurse strapped me to the
delivery table. Yeah, I was screaming for a cigarette the whole time
although not as loud as I was screaming for painkillers. But that’s
another story altogether. My
first child was born as healthy as they get with an APGAR reading of
9.9. This really pissed off my doctor as she had been telling me for
eight and a half months that I would deliver a blue, oxygen-starved,
nicotine-addicted baby. My baby was on the small side, sure. She
weighed in at 5 pounds something. She didn’t look small to me, nor
did she feel small pushing her way through my birth canal. At that
point, I was thrilled to have smoked a pack a day of downsize while
lugging her around in my belly. So,
leap forward a few years to our house. Both my husband (yeah we got
married) and I smoked … in the house. We did make a concession not
to smoke in the nursery, however. Our daughter did not suffer from
asthma or unusual bronchial trauma, thank God. She thrived and grew
beautifully. Her subsequent mounds of hair and pint sized clothing did
smell like a bar but she was not apparently any worse for wear. Same
with our second child. Now,
we all hear the dangers of second-hand smoke. We KNOW it’s not a
good thing, nor should we be setting the smoking example for our kids.
We wish we had more will power to quit the little bastards but we
don’t. We would be a lot nicer parents if we didn’t smoke in our
homes, true. But we’re a little selfish; not quite believers of the
sheer horror of second-hand smoke stories that have yet to be
scientifically proven beyond a shadow of a doubt and we scoff at
supposed laws of retribution. Don’t we? I certainly don’t want my
children to die or come down with an avoidable disease due to my lack
of constraint. I just think calm, relaxed parents are better parents.
Calm, relaxed, non-smoking parents are even better but two outta three
works for me at the moment. What
annoys the shit out of me most are parents who sneak-smoke. You know
the ones: they bum a cigarette off us, then go hide somewhere and
smoke it so their children won’t see them imbibing in oral
gratification. They would deny smoking to their death. They tell their
kids to be honest and to never tell a lie but they go around sneaking
a smoke for Christ’s sake. At
least my kids know I smoke. They hate it and probably won’t smoke
because they realize I have little control over my habit. They watch
me leave a restaurant to have a ciggie outside, even if it’s 20
below and sleet like razor blades is tearing at my face. They know how
bad I stink and that no reasonable man will date me. (Yeah, I divorced
hubby after all this but that’s another story altogether…) I
somehow feel they are better off knowing the ugly truth; having to
breathe that dreaded second-hand shit that fills the air around me but
at least they can judge for themselves whether I’m a scum-bag for
smoking or just an irresponsible mom and pity me. All I know is that, while I love my kids, I love my freedom and need for reality, too. Not more mind you, just too, also and as well. Shame on me. © Reality Mom - 2002
Buy
your ciggies online here: Big
Daddy Smokes
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