Archive for March, 2009
Sam is a wonderful napper. Um, during the day, that is. She’s actually not sure what the difference between night and day IS, so every evening/morning/ha ha WHATEVER between 11 p.m. and 5 a.m. (the timing, it is marvelously unpredictable!), there is The Screaming. The Screaming FROM HELL. The painful, bloody murder screaming that implies that I’m ripping her toes off and stuffing them in her mouth. (Wait, you’re not supposed to do that to babies?) (I KID OMG.)
The first few times were hellish. I mean, TRULY HELLISH. She screamed, I cried, Adam Googled, we all lost our collective shit. It’s gotten a little easier because I know it’s all temporary — eventually, she stops screaming and just passes right the hell out in my arms, so exhausted from whatever leg-wriggling pain, real or imagined, she was in. It eventually stops. Mercifully, it EVENTUALLY STOPS.
I’m not sure it’s anything beyond the normal witching hour stuff, just at a most inconvenient time of day, because 90% of the time, she’s the happiest baby ever, and sleeps like a true champion (you know, in two-hour chunks, not through the night or anything), provided she’s properly swaddled. (ALL HAIL THE SWADDLE ME) (TM)
Anyway! A word about sleep deprivation and the childless.I don’t know why I feel a responsibility to debunk all the asshole things parents said to me before I had a kid, and to give people who don’t have kids a little respect, but I do. So! To the “Sleep now…” or “You think you’re tired NOW!” people: Let me say that although I am getting less sleep than I’ve ever gotten in my entire life, I am not nearly as tired as I was after a night of no sleep Before Sam. I don’t know what kicks in — adrenaline, love, whatever — but it’s not nearly as bad as I thought it would be, even on the nights when she doesn’t sleep AT ALL.
I don’t think you can compare the two experiences, because one includes the enormity of a COLOSSAL RESPONSIBILITY OF A TINY PERSON and you know, the need to KEEP ANOTHER PERSON ALIVE, whereas the other is just incredibly fucking annoying, and you are cut no breaks whatsoever, because you don’t have any responsibilities, you sad, childless, lazy sow! How DARE you require eight hours of sleep!
And so, to the sleepless childless people out there: you probably are more tired than me, in a weird way. It’s all relative.
Not that I’m not really fucking tired. Because OH I AM. I’m literally weeping by the time 4 p.m. rolls around every afternoon, and my evenings are filled with a special kind of dread. Sadly, the person who is suffering from my exhaustion is Adam, not Sam. I have no patience for him, and he hasn’t even done anything wrong — in fact, he’s done everything he can to make this easier on me and then some. I think that’s the biggest challenge — remembering that I’m also married to someone, not just a mom, and treating him as a person who also deserves attention and nice words, especially since he can actually understand what I’m saying, unlike the pants pooper among us. Not that she’s not worthy, of course, because she is.
Finally, I will leave you with the most ridiculous thing I have done to date, and I … oh God, whatever. So Sam was laid up with her first head cold last week, and I’m sorry, there is NOTHING more pitiful than the sound of a newborn snorfling and snuffling because girlfriend can’t breathe. It’s awful. Awful.
Of course, she’s way too little to dose up with Sudafed and sack out for the night (DARE TO DREAM), so we were pretty much stuck with homeopathic remedies, including hot steamy showers, humidifiers and irrigating her nostrils with saline and the snot sucker. Except that Adam performed some constructive Googling and determined that breastmilk in the nostril was helpful (?!) and … well, you see where this is going. Desperation led me to the most ridiculous position of my life, wherein I hovered over my daughter, boob in hand and I tried to actually shoot breastmilk up my child’s nostrils.
I don’t even know who I am anymore.
Happy day! Or night! WHATEVER! HA HA HA.
I promise one day I’ll stop talking about the baby all the time. I PROMISE. Please bear with me.
March 31st, 2009
Now that I’m on the other side of pregnancy, I can tell you with total fearlessness that being pregnant is my least favorite state of being ever. EVER. I hated it so very much, and though there were a few bright spots like baby kicks and ultrasounds, nothing highlights that hatred like having an actual, real live baby which, sleeplessness and fussiness aside, beats the living PANTS off of gestating.
It is only now that she’s here that I feel remotely capable of becoming pregnant again. Seriously. DID NOT LIKE.
Therefore, I would like to tell any woman who hates being pregnant that she has the absolute right to punch ANYONE in the face who tells her a) to savor this “special time”; b) sleep now, for you’ll NEVER SLEEP AGAIN or b) enjoy XX, YY or ZZ before the baby comes, because it’s all downhill from here. I don’t think anyone who says those things really understands what a miserable pregnancy is like, because I will take a screaming, sleepless, fussy Samantha (and we’ve had her at her textbook worst, see: last night) over the vast majority of pregnancy. I’m absolutely serious.
I didn’t admit it much, but I spent the most of pregnancy being very, very anxious. Anxious that I would hate being a mother, anxious that I wouldn’t bond with her or even LIKE her — I felt surprisingly detached from the whole thing, and it freaked me out immensely. I was excited, sure, but it was always ALWAYS tempered with a healthy dose of terror and anxiety. I cried A LOT. One evening late in my third trimester, Adam was joking with me about something totally benign, and when he turned back to me, I was absolutely bawling and muttering incoherent things like, “YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT THIS IS LIKE. YOU AREN’T GIVING BIRTH AND CHANGING YOUR WHOLE LIFE.”
Of course, this is patently untrue, as his life is as irrevocably changed as mine, but as the primary caregiver and carrier, I felt singularly responsible for the whole thing — never mind that Adam is the best kind of partner, and I’ve never been alone in this, not for one second — and worse, I felt WOEFULLY unprepared.
I cried pretty much every day in pregnancy. Mostly from barfing, but just as often from wild hormonal swings and bald terror. Every day. I don’t even think I realized this until now — I don’t think I realized HOW BAD it was until I came out the other side.
Truthfully, I felt this way up until AND INCLUDING the moment my water broke. I kept thinking, over and over again, “I am not ready. I am not ready. I am not ready.”
I loved her — or at least, the idea of her — in the way that I thought if anything happened to her in there or during childbirth, I would pretty much want to die myself, but I promise you, I wasn’t fully ready until I saw her face. And when I did, I was instantly in love with her. Game over. Done. Sold.
I cried every single day in pregnancy. I have not cried ONCE since she’s been born out of anything but happiness and a desire to eat her like a barbecue chicken. I think we all have parts of this that are impossibly hard, and while this IS hard — in the way that a marathon or a long hike is hard, as my friend Jenny said to me not five minutes ago — I had no idea how easy it would seem compared to pregnancy, for at least I have my head about me.
Dude, you guys, I had no idea how miserable I really was. NO IDEA. And you know what else? It’s not about the baby, as pregnancy lovers like to tell you. It’s not because you’re not ready or won’t love your baby, or aren’t grateful enough. It’s because, in my case, my hormones were so completely fucking tweaked which, combined with my general fear of the unknown, created a horrid, horrid state of being.
I’m hopeful that the next time (and, God willing, there will be), I’ll be able to remember this perspective and realize that the other side is more than worth it, and this this, too, shall pass. And hopefully I’ll feel a lot less guilty about it, and will remember to tell all the people who told me to savor this magical, gooey time that no, really, pregnancy sucks, but babies are AWESOME, and to kindly shut up.
By the way? I’m sleeping better now than I did in pregnancy. Two contiguous hours of actual sleep is more than I EVER got in pregnancy. Sleep now because you’ll never sleep again, MY POSTPARTUM BEHIND, FOLKS. You heard it here first.
Totally worth every second of misery. TOTALLY.
Happy, um, day, whatever it is.
*Badly Drawn Boy
March 25th, 2009
Things have gotten harder AND easier, if you can believe it. Easier because we’re no longer terrified we’re going to break her, and we’re used to her weird-ass movements and herky-jerky startle reflexes. Harder, because, if you didn’t know it before, sleep deprivation is cumulative.
(Side note: seriously, God? Newborns are FUCKED UP. The crazy leg shaking! The eye-rolling! The sneezing, hiccuping and grunting! And spitting up! The Moro reflex! SHIT THAT IS NORMAL BUT SHOULD NOT BE GOOGLED, LEST WE PANIC.)
(Needless to say, we Googled, freaked ourselves out for a moment and … well, she’s fine. Normal. Healthy. How do I know this? Because I called the pediatrician ON A SATURDAY with totally normal newborn behavior. Thank God she’s understanding, because IT WILL NOT BE THE LAST TIME.)
Anyway, despite being perpetually exhausted, she’s still absurdly over-the-top worth it, obviously, and is becoming more alert by the day. And on occasion, getting excited and very interested in her older sister:
Sunny, by the way, has been great with Sam, although we’re too scared to let her get too close to her because she’s like an anvil on four tiny feet, but as soon as the kid porks up a little, I’m anticipating a little BFF action. Sunny is truly all NOM NOM WANT TO LICK BABY. GIMME. (And obviously we’re very careful, never leave them alone together, blah blah common sense blah.)
Anyway, I, uh, had more that I intended to write about baby gear, no less, but I am a little too wiped to even think about it and the kid is FINALLY ASLEEP. So, perhaps tomorrow.
For compensation for this lazy-ass excuse of an entry, would you accept baby lips?
I thought so.
Happy Monday! Or whatever day it is! I STILL DO NOT KNOW.
March 22nd, 2009
Oh MAN, you guys. First of all, my dad and stepmom are here pretty much waiting on us hand and foot, and it’s EMBARRASSING, but also really fabulous, because we’re eating food that doesn’t come from a package or the freezer. When they asked what we typically did for dinner since Sam’s been home, I had to admit that to date, our culinary adventures involved previously frozen lasagna and Hot Pockets. Last night’s dinner involved pork chops of Flintstone proportions and by the time they leave, we’re going to need to be rolled around our house like Weebles, barely able to care for our wee sprout.
I have managed thus far to shower every other day which I feel is a tremendous accomplishment, but did you know that brushing your teeth is bizarrely challenging? I know! SO GROSS. AND I DO NOT KNOW WHY THIS IS, especially because until last Friday, I’ve flossed every day of my entire life. Perhaps it’s that my hair is CLEARLY messy and in need of washing, whereas my mossy teeth are only noticeable by me. I don’t know, but we are in dire need of an oral hygiene intervention, stat.
We interrupt this tirade for a moment of baby cheeks:
Dude, this kid looks JUST LIKE her father and as I mused on Flickr, if I didn’t push her out myself, I’d wonder if she was mine.
I’ll tell you though, I don’t know if I’m still on a hormonal high or what, but I’m still enjoying this far more than I expected. So much so that I almost cried this morning when I noticed that her hands have already gotten bigger and that she’s growing and becoming more alert every day. HOW DARE SHE.
Also? She’s close to rolling over on her belly already. SHE IS NOT EVEN TWO WEEKS OLD, WTF.
This is … well, this is the best, most fun thing I’ve ever done, and I’m shocked that I feel that way. I mean, yes, it’s relentless, and when I change her diaper for the 4,567,950th time at 4 a.m., it feels like I am never, ever going to be able to sleep again, much less get my hair cut or leave the house alone, but the trade-offs have made those feelings seem hilariously minor when I look at the big picture. The only time I felt remotely trapped was when I saw the panic in my husband’s eyes when I told him I was running across the street (seriously, like two-hundred feet) to the store for some, uh, maxi pads, so he didn’t have to. I was gone fifteen minutes, but you’d think I was gearing up for a LIFETIME AWAY, such was his terror — not that he’s afraid to be alone with her, but because he can’t feed her … more on that later.
Anyway, the fact that I love it already makes me feel guilty, like by saying it’s enjoyable for me, I’m discounting the experiences of those it isn’t easy for, which, OMFG no. This shit is HARD, yo, and I think a lot of it is that I have an exceptionally easy baby by some stroke of dumbass luck. (Seriously, WTF? I AM NEVER LUCKY.)
(Please don’t get colic, Sam, and ruin this miraculous thing we’re rocking here. PLEASE. THANKS.)
Sigh. I am a guilt-machine, what can I say.
I am breastfeeding, as a few have asked, and I didn’t know it was possible to feel guilty for that, too, but I do, especially since it’s been relatively easy for me, because by saying that I don’t want to imply that I think it should be/would be easy for EVERYONE, but that there are a select group of lucky biological factors at work here that make it easier, and that if those factors weren’t at play, I could see how it could be a massive suckfest of epic proportions.
I mean, to be clear. I have not and will not turn into one of those breastfeeding zealots who insists not on whipping out her boob on the floor of Target and makes a daily political statement by boycotting Denny’s and screeching about it every chance she gets.
Not that there’s anything, uh, wrong with that, but this is one area where there seems to be absolutely no public middle ground and it makes me INSANE. I … I cover up when out in public, and even at home with my parents, because really, I don’t care how “natural” it is, it’s still MY BOOB, you know? I enjoy it (I KNOW WTF WHO AM I) and am surprised by that fact, but I still don’t give the slightest rip what anyone else does, because I don’t think it matters in the long run. And if nothing else, I have even less tolerance for those who are intolerant, if only because I can now at least say I’ve been on one side of the whole shebang.
In other words, my feelings on all of the big stuff haven’t changed, no matter what my personal experiences are. I’m still me, and thank God.
Speaking of, have I sung the praises of this product yet? I think I’d have lost my mind ages ago if not for the awesomeness that is the original Bebe Au Lait nursing cover. I can be social without having to flash my boob to my father. Miraculous!
At any rate, my head is pounding, the kid is sleeping and I should go join her, however brief the respite may be. Lately she’s had these moments at 3 a.m. where she is WIDE AWAKE and SO HAPPY TO BE UP AND AT ‘EM, and I … well, dude, I’m sorry, but YOU try to ignore an alert, happy newborn with chipmunk cheeks at any hour, no matter how wrong the books tell you it is to indulge her that late. We’re watching plenty of TiVo’d West Wing reruns and the occasional Millionaire Matchmaker, and I think she has a girlcrush on Patti Stanger. I’m trying in vain to talk her out of it.
March 17th, 2009
I never know how much detail people want about things like birth stories and transitioning to motherhood and all that crap. On the one hand, I loved reading others, because I think this is one area where there is not enough information from real people, no matter HOW many people tell their stories, at least to those who are thinking about making the leap themselves. On the other, my God, really? Does anyone care about tearing in the hoo-ha other than the person who is torn? Really?
I’m forging ahead anyway, because I don’t want to forget and because again, dude, I was a sponge for this sort of stuff before I experienced it myself.
And first of all, let me say that everything so far has been way more pleasant — nay, MUCH MORE FUN — than I ever imagined, but again, let me remind you that I was expecting BAMBOO SHOOTS in my fingernails and misery the likes of which I’d never seen. But, just as many of you warned, I could not have anticipated how happy I would be to see and spend time with my daughter outside of the confines of my body. So yes, it’s hard. Yes, it has moments of flat-out ohmygodwhatthehell, but for me, it’s been a thousand times better than I expected. I can’t believe how happy I am, and I am honestly flabbergasted by how much I love her.
I am amazed and astounded and more than a little humbled at how beautiful she is, how lucky I am and … well. No one could have prepared me for any of THAT, I tell you. And I don’t know what I ever did to deserve it, but I am beyond grateful. And also a newfound sap. How lovely for everyone.
Onward! To birth! Though I had no real birth plan to speak of, there WERE four things that I was hoping to skip heading into this whole thing, and one of them surprised even me:
1) Pitocin. I’d heard horror stories of the miserable labors it wrought, not to mention higher incidence of C-sections (see: fear of strapped-down Jesus arms), and I was, apparently, secretly hoping that I would go into labor on my own so I could see if I could hack it.
2) Epidural. I know! Shocker for me, too! But remember, my birth instructor scared me, and I still harbored terror of the death/paralysis portion, thanks to hippie birthy lady and her fearmongering. So really, trust me, this wasn’t because I’m all NATURAL and shit, it was because I was TOO SCARED.
3) Tearing in places the sun doesn’t shine. Does ANYONE want this?
4) Um, that thing that really should be #2, if you know what I’m saying. As in the appearance of that number during, um, LABOR. And uh, whose list of “wants” does this TOP? Or even MAKE?
Let us guess what happened during labor, folks. ALL FOUR OF THESE THINGS. Sorry for the detail, but I could have used someone admitting to #4 before I’d gone in there and been so freakin’ horrified. (I even SAID SOMETHING ABOUT IT DURING PUSHING, so upset was I.) So there. I’m admitting it. Now you know. It happens to real people, not just the vague, “Will I or won’t I?” statistical people designed to make you feel better. So if it happens to you, know that it happened to me and was so not a big deal. Let me repeat, it was SO NOT A BIG DEAL AT ALL.
My water broke with a pop at 6 a.m. during a dream I was having about, uh, Cheech & Chong. I don’t know why I remember this, but I was having a conversation with Cheech Marin when I woke to a weird little start somewhere in the general vicinity and when I hit the bathroom, I KNEW.
And off we went, where I was monitored and checked out and sent away … to breakfast, to see if I started labor on my own. It was quite the joy telling my parents over pancakes that no, I wasn’t in the hospital, I was at Henry’s Diner giving the hostess a heart attack when she overheard that my water broke, fearing the birth of an infant on her nice clean floors.
Needless to say, I started nothing but the mildest of contractions, and with bigtime water breakage, the risk of infection increases after six or more hours, and though I hated to do it, I reluctantly welcomed Pitocin into my life. Fuck.ing. Pit.O.Cin. Not only does it come with a mandatory IV of, you know, PITOCIN, but it also includes bags and bags of fluids to ensure that you’re peeing every ten seconds and puffed out like a balloon with Hobbit feet. Oh, and a fetal monitor, that, even though wireless and waterproof, SO does not stay on during contractions, requiring an L&D nurse TOUCHING YOU during contractions, which is basically THE LAST THING YOU WANT.
Oh yes, PLEASE. Touch me and hover in my ear while I’m enduring agony the likes of which I’ve never SEEN.
And the contractions! HA HA. That seems to imply that there was more than ONE GIANT SUICIDAL CONTRACTION, because even though they were two minutes apart, they were not dying down between, and no matter what I tried — the birthing ball, the bathtub, walking around — I was a sniveling MESS and in so much pain I thought I’d die. Oh, and while in the bathtub, I got pummeled by a rogue birthing ball that appeared out of NOWHERE, clonking me on the head mid-contraction while again, a nurse hovered over my ridiculous naked body telling me to picture my baby heading down the “tight turtleneck of my cervix” and wasn’t that a great visual to get me through it?
No. No, it wasn’t, and I told her so, after I deflected the birthing ball hurtling towards my head. That sounds like it hurts, right? THE TIGHT TURTLENECK OF THE CERVIX. WHAT A MOTIVATING VISUAL.
Anyway, after four hours, I’d had enough and sobbed my way through the epidural, grilling the pants off of the anesthesiologist over and over again saying things like, “Please don’t let me die or be paralyzed. No, really, I WANT TO WALK.” To his credit, he indulged me every time, explaining that no no, I would survive, really, don’t worry. And he was right, because I actually felt my legs and could walk through the whole rest of labor if I wanted to. Which again, is a fact I did not know was feasible. Birth: a learning experience!
Clearly, it made a bit of a difference:
It also sped things up incredibly, and within the hour of having the epidural, I went from five to nine centimeters and HOLLA! There was pushing, and let me just say that the epidural spared me ZERO of the ah, BEAUTY that is childbirth and ramming a kid out of your Special Lady Area (TM Emily) and an hour after that? Well. As much as I hate to be a walking cliche, let me just say that it was the single greatest moment of my life, bar none.
I think I said, “It’s you! It’s you! It’s YOU!” over and over again, because she was, of course, weirdly familiar, with a hearty cry and freakishly large feet. And even while they, ahem, stitched me up — talking through the finer points as they TAUGHT A RESIDENT how to stitch a vagina (“Heather, see how this tear is angled like this? Let me show you how to stitch that …” SERIOUSLY.), I didn’t care or even notice, because she was here, she was healthy and oh, my fracking God, I’d do it all over again, a thousand times, I swear I would.
(TOTAL SAP. TOLD YOU.)
Today? I want twelve babies. Octomom better move her ass over, is what I’m saying.
Then again, I’m pretty sure I’ll change my mind about this. But if they’re all like her? HELL YES SIGN ME UP.
(I don’t think I really mean that. Right?)
(I will post more pictures of her, but Adam keeps hogging the camera and downloading them before I can see them.)
Happy whatever day today is! I have NO IDEA!
*Pet Shop Boys
March 12th, 2009
Oh y’all. This is probably old news by now, thanks to my husband’s connection to the Internets while we were in the hospital, but she’s here. And if I do say so, she’s pretty awesome.
More to come certainly, as we just got home, but we have answers to some of my burning questions pre-labor, and Pitocin and epidurals and OH MY. But, hello, let me for the moment state the incredibly obvious and overly earnest and just say that she was worth every single second of everything — of puking, of crying, of sleepless nights (and those to come) and of the labor I thought for a little while was sure to kill me dead (I think I threatened to leave my own labor and GO TO THE MALL at one point. People thought I was kidding, but I kind of wasn’t).
In the meantime, indulge me and take a look at her, less than one day old here, our little Samantha Brooke, born at 9:02 p.m. Friday, March 6, and named in part, for Adam’s beloved grandmother, who I’ve talked about before here, and who I hope is smiling very, very broadly somewhere.
Welcome to the world, kid.
Thank you all for the well wishes — to Adam, to me and to, oddly, her through her Twitter feed. Much, much love.
*Reindeer Section, which is what was playing when she finally decided to show up for good. Which is amazing, considering it’s a hell of a beautiful song. Lucky us.
March 8th, 2009
My friend Kathleen killed me the other day when she likened checking my blog every morning to Ben Affleck’s character in Good Will Hunting — while she’s happy to see me, every morning she hopes I won’t be here because it’ll mean I’ve had the baby. Or you know, gone to California to follow my dream to be a successful hipster mathematician and a life with Minnie Driver, but whatever! Baby, Minnie — it’s all the same. You know, she’s Ben and I’m Matt and … of course you get it.
I’m still here, obviously. Sorry, Kath. And it’s largely why I’m writing, because though I have little to say, if I don’t say something, I get 5,000 phone calls of, “ZOMG SHE’S HERE AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME.”
No, dudes. I would TOTALLY tell you. I promise. And if not, you can check my husband’s Twitter feed or, better yet, Tehbaby‘s, because though I have no plans to live-ANYTHING the birth and will not be bringing my laptop with me to the hospital so you can be updated hourly on the status of my girly bits and the girl who’s coming out of them.
And because I am somewhat bored with all this WAITING, and look, I know I’m supposed to enjoy it, but really, daytime TV gets old, the house is organized and hey, do you guys want to eat off of my floor? Because I’m about to STEAM CLEAN IT out of desperation. And yet I’m afraid to GO ANYWHERE because I have to pee every .009 seconds and … well, whatever. You know. Alas, I can’t even concentrate long enough on a book, so there goes that. Sad.
So! A random list of bulleted whatevers!
– Is there a more compelling tune out there than the McDonald’s Filet O Fish song? No.
– My brother called my cell phone yesterday and after a series of questions and apologies for catching me while I was driving, I had to confess that actually, I wasn’t driving but was sitting in the parking lot of the grocery store stuffing a brownie in my mouth because I couldn’t wait the FIVE MINUTES it would take to drive home. So uh, sure, now is a good time to talk as any. Have brownie, will relax.
– Speaking of phone calls, there are few things worse than calling my friends and family and hearing their voices rise in near-hysterical excitement, only to hear them fall desperately when I explain that no, um, I’m SO SORRY, but do you know, uh, how much sugar I need for the pizzelle recipe? My mother is the worst with this. I swear, every single phone call is answered in a near-breathless voice, “HHHEEELOOO!?” I love her, but have officially begun avoiding speaking with her, because I just continually DISAPPOINT her. It’s like my teenage years all over again.
– I’ve been watching a bit too much A Baby Story, which is not doing any good at all, and in fact, is doing nothing but alternately scaring me and pissing me off beyond all reason. The fear is deliberate, as half the commercial breaks end dramatically as they intone, “Will Celine and her baby survive her C-section?” As if TLC would let us all unwittingly watch a DEATH, and yet … I find myself wondering and waiting all breathless for the damn conclusion and inevitably healthy baby.
But the fury. OH, THE FURY. For example, there are people’s MOTHERS and SISTERS who actually try to convince the birthing mother that she shouldn’t get an epidural because it’s dangerous and awful and bad for the baby and how dare she! Then they try to make her feel GUILTY. And I’m all, LADIES. THIS IS NOT YOUR BABY. And also? SHUT UP. PUSH YOUR OWN BABY OUT YOUR VAGINA THE WAY YOU WANT TO, BUT THIS IS HER VAGINA.
– After the consumption of a gigantor burrito, I ended up with an upset stomach, which resulted in a bit of excitement and hysteria on the part of my husband, leaving me to convince him that NO, SERIOUSLY DUDE. JUST GAS. He had a similar reaction this afternoon when I IM’d him some good news from our insurance agent and HOO BOY, the man is On Edge. So the drive to the hospital should be Teh Awesome.
Further evidence: Adam just yelled, pretty much out of nowhere: “CAN’T YOU AT LEAST HAVE A BRAXTON-HICKS OR SOMETHING?”
We win at Patience.
Happy Friday! And weekend! And due date! HA HA.
March 5th, 2009
After all the brouhaha after last night’s Bachelor, I kind of wish I’d watched it this season so that I, too, could be jam-packed with righteous indignation. Instead, I will have to live vicariously through Miss Banshee, who made me laugh out loud with repeated references to him as “The Douchelor.” Which, you know, is kind of awesome.
I went back to the doctor yesterday for the weekly check-up and really, one word: meh. See also: ow. No progress, not really dilated, was given pity figure for effacement, and so on. She actually suggested we make a fancy couples dinner date for our due date so that we wouldn’t be too disappointed when it comes and goes. Le sigh. I shall live to waddle another day.
What was fairly awesome, however, was at this stage of the game, Adam is coming with me to all my appointments in the unlikely event that they screech that I am mysteriously in labor without realizing it and AIEE, let us go to the hospital NOW NOW NOW!
And look, I maintain that the gynecologist’s office is rarely not funny, kind of like seeing people fall down. It just is. It’s almost ALWAYS funny, unless you’re there for something really and truly dire. Even if you’re Emily and the doctor heats up the speculum to a temperature that could cauterize noses, it’s still mildly amusing, at least in retrospect. For crying out loud, there are STIRRUPS involved and people are jamming things in places that should never have unwanted visitors. It has to be funny, otherwise it would be very, very pitiful and sad.
My friend Alex’s* wife is pregnant, as I’ve mentioned, and when I talked to him earlier this week, he announced that he had finally seen “the stirrups behind the green curtain” during her last ultrasound. Adam delivered further confirmation of this bizarre sense of mysticism yesterday when, after the nurse wordlessly left me with a paper sheet, I started to disrobe from the waist down.
“What … WHAAT? Oh my God, why are you taking your pants off? WHY ARE YOU TAKING YOUR PANTS OFF? OH MY GOD.”
So not kidding. You’d think I’d pulled out a pack of matches and lit the place on fire. Apparently, in Man World, you never take your pants off without instructions expressly demanding that you do so, and with explicit directions for precisely the point in the appointment that it is acceptable to do so. Or something. But I can’t help but think that he might be a wee bit traumatized and that this may have prepared him for the birth and not in a good way. I mean, he’d been to appointments with me before, but my pants stayed on until more recently, obviously.
Anyway! In exciting news, a piece of art arrived for the baby’s room done by the incredible hands of Lawyerish‘s mom herself and you guys, it’s amazing. It’s so amazing I wish I could take a picture of it and show you all RIGHT NOW, but unfortunately, Boy Scout Adam has the car packed and loaded for labor and the camera is IN THE BAG and God forbid we disturb the sacred birthing bag. Never mind that until yesterday the bag didn’t contain CLOTHES for me to go home in, because he didn’t think I needed them, NEVER MIND.
(Speaking of Lawyerish, did you know she’s back? Because she is and with all kinds of updates, both heartbreaking and hopeful.)
And finally, this evening I flicked on American Idol for no reason at all (I never watch it, and that will become clear in a moment) and found myself Tweeting that the dude who sang Mandolin Rain had “axe murderer eyes” and was all, what the hell’s with the guy’s EYES? He looks scary! Very scary! And mean!
Fortunately or unfortunately as these things go, I was about to launch off on something else when someone informed me that hi, um, he’s actually blind. Yes, BLIND. OH HI HO. Is there another pile of shit I can step in?
Please, someone let me know where I can show up for my sensitivity award, because clearly I deserve one.
*Alex, he of Facebook Mom fame. By the way, he informed me of a post I’d missed, wherein he mentions beer and she FAH-REEKS OUT on his public profile, screeching that he should not be drinking in front of his wife and for the love of God, doesn’t he know about FETAL ALCOHOL SYNDROME? BEER IS DANGEROUS. I guess through proximal osmosis. I don’t know.
**Peter Gabriel. Toying with the idea of whipping through the birth playlist until she’s actually out.
March 3rd, 2009
Although we’re still several days away from my actual due date (this Saturday), time has taken on an eerie elastic quality where it feels like it stretches out endlessly before you, but could be just as easily snapped back to a small bit of nothing, like an overextended rubber band that’s reached its limit. She could be here tonight, or she could be here forever from now.
My feelings range from panic to excitement to BIGGER PANIC to OMG I AM SO READY to wait, wait, what was I thinking? to … well, you see the pattern emerging here. I’m all over the place, but mostly, I’m just really excited. Adding to my excitement is the fact that Adam opened up a Twitter account for our kid and since I have nothing to do with it, it’s been hilarious for me to read this vague display of pseudo-anthropomorphism, and … well, sometimes, he can be a funny dude. I think I’ll keep him.
Anyway! Today was Birth Music Day, in which I burned five CDs of songs that are the equivalent of macaroni & cheese for me: pure comfort. Nothing new, too heavy or hip and they must, on some level, be uplifting, which means that some of my favorite songs were left off of the list, but so be it. I mean, clearly some melancholy Decemberists tunes were inappropriate, not to mention Peter Gabriel’s “I Grieve,” which, you know, no one wants to remember giving birth to. It’s even worse than Live’s “Lightning Crashes.” There is enough death in the world — no one should have to deal with it on birth day.
And because I’ve got nothing else going on right now but errands, last-minute prep and fielding phone calls, not to mention not being able to call ANYONE without hearing them get VERY EXCITED, only to find out you have a question about a pasta recipe, you get to see what I’ll be suffering through for MANY HOURS! This, by the way, is Adam’s worst musical nightmare, as he’s just not, um, into these kinds of tunes.
And if you want copies to give birth to when you do, I will gleefully send them to you. After she’s here, that is.
The Birth Playlist That Even I’m A Little Embarrassed About
The Brother Kite: Lay Down Your Burden; Get On, Me
Carbon Leaf: What About Everything?, Toy Soldiers, Changeless
Celine Dion (SHUT UP): A New Day Has Come
Cocteau Twins: Iceblink Luck, Ivo, Lorelei, Heaven or Las Vegas
Dave Matthews Band: Best of What’s Around, Pig
David Gray: Babylon
ELO: Twilight; Yours Truly, 2095; Here is the News; 21st Century Man
Electronic: Getting Away With It
A Fine Frenzy: Lifesize
Frou Frou: Breathe In
Jesca Hoop: Seed of Wonder, Intelligentactile 101, Money, Dreams in the Hollow, Out the Back Door
Kate Nash: Foundations, Mariella, Pumpkin Soup
The Killers: Human, All These Things That I’ve Done, Sam’s Town, Bling (Confession of a King), Read My Mind, Where the White Boys Dance
The Lightning Seeds: The Life of Riley
Lily Allen: Knock ‘Em Out, Nan, You’re a Window Shopper
New Order: Ceremony, Temptation, Everything’s Gone Green, Perfect Kiss
Paul Simon: The Boy in the Bubble, Graceland, I Know What I Know, That Was Your Mother, The Myth of Fingerprints
Peter Gabriel: I Have the Touch, Growing Up, No Way Out, More Than This, Come Talk to Me and yes, Down to Earth (from Wall*E. Shaddup.)
Regina Spektor: Better, Hotel Song
Reindeer Section: Grand Parade, Cartwheels, Cold Water, You Are My Joy
Sara Bareilles: Bottle It Up, Love on the Rocks, Fairytale
The Shins: Caring is Creepy, Australia, Phantom Limb
The Smiths: How Soon is Now? The Boy With The Thorn In His Side
Snow Patrol: Post-Punk Progression, An Olive Grove Facing the Sea, Chocolate
And thus ends the musical comfort food-fest. For sweet lord’s sake, when do you think she’ll get here? And can I handle labor? Will I faint? SO MANY QUESTIONS. NO IDEA WHEN THEY WILL BE ANSWERED.
March 1st, 2009