Originally published by National Review Online, Aug.1, 2003

The Silent Crisis of a First-Time Caller

By Jennifer Nicholson Graham

Some people have their 15 minutes of fame; others, their 15 minutes of shame. Count me among the latter.

It's been a couple of years now, but the memory of my first ­ and last ­ call into the Rush Limbaugh show can still make me blush. They say only 1 to 3 percent of talk-radio listeners ever actually call into a show. I never should have joined their ranks.

I was listening to Rush on a lazy summer day while visiting my grandmother's house. Gram introduced me to Rush, back when he first went national, and the radio is always on the EIB at her house. She was in the backyard with my kids, while I scanned the morning papers.

On this day, Rush was ranting about Hillary Clinton, who had recently called the state of childcare in this country a "silent crisis." I, who had once left an infant son in the clutches of a facility called Lollipop Lane, happened to agree with Hillary, for once. I was still indignant over the cookie-making crack, but on this matter, we'd found common ground.

Rush, I grumbled to myself, has no clue what it's like. He's no mom. He has no right to make light of a problem that does indeed approach crisis proportions for mothers without prosperous mates.

A sensible woman would have kept those thoughts to herself. But, propelled by excellent coffee, I reached for the phone and punched in the number.

The first time, the line was busy. As I hit redial, a discomforting thought flitted through my righteously angry right-brain: I have no actual, reasoned arguments to make if I wind up on the air. But, hey, what were the chances of that? I'd been trying to get through to Dr. Laura for a year. Besides, even if I did get through, I'd have 30 minutes or more to sit on hold and collect my thoughts.

Wrong.

On the fourth ring, the call screener picks up while I am inspecting the day's vinegar hints from Heloise.

"What's your first name, and where are you from?" he barks.

Blessed Mother, stumped already. "Uh, I'm from Virginia, but I'm calling from South Carolina," I stammer.

"What's your point?"

Point? I gotta have a point?

I blurt out something about day care --- something breezy, witty, erudite, like "It is TOO a crisis!" ---- and he interrupts. "You're next," he says, and disappears from the line.

It appears that when Rush wants people to disagree with him, he wastes no time putting them on.

I jump up and sprint through the house, looking for someone, anyone, with whom to share the glorious moment. No sign of anyone. And I'm now out of breath.

"And, now, Jennifer, in Columbia, South Carolina," Rush says cheerfully and turns the show over to me.

Twenty million people are listening, and I am panting like a Labrador who has run too far in the heat.. Rush probably fears he's inadvertently let a pervert on the air.

"You" ­ gasp ­ "are" ­ gasp ­ "wrong" ­ extended inhalation ­ "about day care."

Lamaze, I think, frantically. Cleansing breaths, cleansing breaths!

Mercifully, Rush takes pity on me. Either that, or he needs time to call the police. "I think it's time for a break. Can you hold on through the break?"

I think maybe we're going to have a private conversation; he's going to reassure me and pump me up. Wrong again. I find myself back on hold.

Briefly, I think of hanging up. Instead, I locate my grandmother and the kids, now sitting on the front porch, examining a caterpillar, oblivious to the crisis inside.

"Get the radio!" I hiss. "I'm on the phone with Rush Limbaugh!"

My grandmother looks uninterested. "You know, even if you get through, you might not get on the air," she said.

"I AM on the air!" I shriek.

Unconvinced, she trudges into the house with the kids, retrieves a battery-powered radio and retires to the backyard. I sit down, moaning and clutching my head. Then suddenly, Rush is back, inviting me to make my point.

I blather. I sputter. I vacillate. I question his knowledge of day care, then apologize for the offense. He is kind, speaking slowly and enunciating carefully, as one talks to a frightened child.

I manage to tell the nation that I have been a stay-at-home for a year, and had employed a nanny and used day care before that, providing me with experience that he, Rush Limbaugh, lacks. But beyond that, I cannot muster any articulate defense of my position, proving only that I spend way too much time with preschoolers. I'm back to my
original position: "There is TOO a day-care crisis, so there!"

Things couldn't get worse, but they did. At this point, my children ­ I think they were 3 and 4 at the time ­ fling open the kitchen door, clutch my legs and burst into tears.

"What IS that?" Rush asks.

Mortified, I fight the urge to whack the kids with the phone.

"That's my children crying. My grandmother is supposed to be watching them," I say helplessly.

I look out the window, where my grandmother is sitting in her lawn chair, radio to her ear. A seven-second tape delay later, she looks alarmed, leaps to her feet and hurries toward the door.

At this point, I get off my only good line of the day. With my son still crying on national radio, I say forlornly, "I guess maybe I DO need government day care."

I find this wildly funny. Rush, he does not laugh. After a few more stilted exchanges, he puts me out of my misery and lets me hang up the phone. "You've been a good sport, Jennifer," he says. It is a cryptic adieu, notifying me that, sometime in the past five minutes, I must have been cruelly insulted.

Whatever.  I sink into a chair, grateful the ordeal is over. "Well," my grandmother says brightly. "That was something!"

In the poem "Snake" by D.H. Lawrence, the narrator encounters a magnificent snake at a watering trough and feels awe and reverence until, inexplicably, he throws a stick at the creature and is consumed with shame. It ends: "And so, I have missed my chance with one of the lords of life. And I have something to expiate, a pettiness."

I know exactly how he feels.