The cost of health insurance for Howie each moth: $480
The cost of health insurance for Howie for April, even though he was only alive for 1.8 days of it: $480.
The cost of eight days of maternity leave that were apparently beyond my sick days: $1,900
The joy of getting hit with all of these on one paycheck: priceless.
Hello, Top Ramen! I've missed you! And Coors Lite--suddenly you look like my kind of bevvy!
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
And baby makes three.
They are all here now. All the grandbabies. So, welcome, Eleanor--last, but certainly not least, to arrive.
Your cuteness kind of makes my teeth ache. Also--could you please smile?
Your cuteness kind of makes my teeth ache. Also--could you please smile?
Two months.
Dear Howie,
Okay, this is exhibit A for either "I was cool before I knew it" or "Why my parents need to pay for my therapy", depending on you, I suppose. I don't know what you're going to want to be, see, do and listen to when you grow up. And that mystery is all the fun, isn't it?
What I do know about you is this: we honestly like you. Okay, when it comes right down to it, we love you with a fierceness that amazes me. But we also like you. You smile with your whole body. You like to watch everyone around you and sometimes things just tickle your funny bone.
You smile in your sleep, too. Sometimes you even giggle. I'd give several of my teeth to know what in your subconscious tickles you to such an extent that you giggle. You barely have a conscious--what could be sub it? Whatever it is, it's clearly awesome. And hilarious.
You're still the longest stretched-out baby I've ever met. You're in the 97th percentile for height. We've had a talk about those last two percent--but don't sweat it. You'll be what you'll be, and any height is fine, but don't be surprised that everyone who holds you is equally surprised that your legs just. Keep. Going. You've already grown out of the 0-3 months just based on your length--which is fine, because we have a much cuter variety of 3-6 month clothes.
As evidenced above.
Keep on doing your thing, Stretch. We love it.
Also: I love the chin. I apologize for occasionally nibbling. But seriously, kiddo. Irresistable. I should know, I've tried.
Love, your mama.
Okay, this is exhibit A for either "I was cool before I knew it" or "Why my parents need to pay for my therapy", depending on you, I suppose. I don't know what you're going to want to be, see, do and listen to when you grow up. And that mystery is all the fun, isn't it?
What I do know about you is this: we honestly like you. Okay, when it comes right down to it, we love you with a fierceness that amazes me. But we also like you. You smile with your whole body. You like to watch everyone around you and sometimes things just tickle your funny bone.
You smile in your sleep, too. Sometimes you even giggle. I'd give several of my teeth to know what in your subconscious tickles you to such an extent that you giggle. You barely have a conscious--what could be sub it? Whatever it is, it's clearly awesome. And hilarious.
You're still the longest stretched-out baby I've ever met. You're in the 97th percentile for height. We've had a talk about those last two percent--but don't sweat it. You'll be what you'll be, and any height is fine, but don't be surprised that everyone who holds you is equally surprised that your legs just. Keep. Going. You've already grown out of the 0-3 months just based on your length--which is fine, because we have a much cuter variety of 3-6 month clothes.
As evidenced above.
Keep on doing your thing, Stretch. We love it.
Also: I love the chin. I apologize for occasionally nibbling. But seriously, kiddo. Irresistable. I should know, I've tried.
Love, your mama.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Walking
Some days are just... perfect.
You wake up and are done sleeping. Your son is done eating a half hour before you need to go--enough time to still get ready, but close enough that you'll be able to enjoy brunch without worrying about when he'll need to eat.
You go for a walk with some of your absolutely favoritest people in the world.
The walk is not too long, not too short. There's no need to walk fast. A perfect place appears to stop for cold drinks, and you do. And then you go home.
You get stuff done, stuff that has been itching at you like a mosquito bite under a bra strap. Your kitchen is clean. Your bed is made. You know where to find your camera charger.
The other things that induce stress are distant enough that they are worries for another day. Not today.
You make a dinner that is tasty, and you don't have to do the dishes. There are even leftovers for lunch tomorrow.
The wine you enjoy as the day ends just matches the sunset. Your legs are the good tired that says, I used them but doesn't say, We quit.
Some days are just perfect.
You wake up and are done sleeping. Your son is done eating a half hour before you need to go--enough time to still get ready, but close enough that you'll be able to enjoy brunch without worrying about when he'll need to eat.
You go for a walk with some of your absolutely favoritest people in the world.
The walk is not too long, not too short. There's no need to walk fast. A perfect place appears to stop for cold drinks, and you do. And then you go home.
You get stuff done, stuff that has been itching at you like a mosquito bite under a bra strap. Your kitchen is clean. Your bed is made. You know where to find your camera charger.
The other things that induce stress are distant enough that they are worries for another day. Not today.
You make a dinner that is tasty, and you don't have to do the dishes. There are even leftovers for lunch tomorrow.
The wine you enjoy as the day ends just matches the sunset. Your legs are the good tired that says, I used them but doesn't say, We quit.
Some days are just perfect.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Both of us...
...are doing much better now. Yay modern medicine!
So, a short excerpt of a conversation.
"It's so cool. You were a baby store before, and now you're like a convenience store."
"Um. What?"
"You know, like, before you, y'know, made babies. Now you're where the baby goes to get food."
"I'm a convenience store."
"Did I say that? I didn't say that."
So, a short excerpt of a conversation.
"It's so cool. You were a baby store before, and now you're like a convenience store."
"Um. What?"
"You know, like, before you, y'know, made babies. Now you're where the baby goes to get food."
"I'm a convenience store."
"Did I say that? I didn't say that."
Monday, June 16, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Pity party
The first really nice weekend--seriously, storybook gorgeous, slight breeze, no clouds--and I'm running a fever. At last measure (about 45 minutes ago) my temperature is up to 102.2. My whole body aches like it's been used for batting practice. Muscles I haven't used in a year hurt like I had an intense workout. My toes ache.
Yay, mastitis!
So basically not only am I homebound, alternately sweating or shaking with chills (I asked Andrew to turn the temperature up, he said it's 73), but my boob hurts like the alien is going to pop out of that insteaed of my stomach. And guess which boob it is? That's right, the one that didn't hurt!
This breastfeeding thing really chaps my ass. The politics of it (SIX MONTHS! you MUST GO SIX MONTHS!) and the looks you get when you use a bottle (so much that I feel compelled to mutter about pumping while giving it to him in public) to you should be ashamed if you DO nurse in public, and you should be ashamed if you DON'T nurse in public (I am of the latter, mostly because it's a very messy affair, what with the spraying and all). Why do we, women and mothers, do this to ourselves? Why are we so judgy, without knowing all the details? So much so that I am breastfeeding in electric-shock pain, and I still feel guilty about thinking of quitting. I have this mammoth supply that other mothers would kill for, I tell myself, don't let it go to waste.
So instead, I dread the feedings. Bonding? Ha. Aside from when he curls up on my chest as I burp him, I can't say I feel particularly bondful while breastfeeding. Probably because I am gritting my teeth until the pain recedes.
Feeding had just started getting better before this happens, so this is probably the fever talking. I'll get through this course of antibiotics (yay, emergency room on a weekend!) and reevaluate. But today? Today has just sucked.
Yay, mastitis!
So basically not only am I homebound, alternately sweating or shaking with chills (I asked Andrew to turn the temperature up, he said it's 73), but my boob hurts like the alien is going to pop out of that insteaed of my stomach. And guess which boob it is? That's right, the one that didn't hurt!
This breastfeeding thing really chaps my ass. The politics of it (SIX MONTHS! you MUST GO SIX MONTHS!) and the looks you get when you use a bottle (so much that I feel compelled to mutter about pumping while giving it to him in public) to you should be ashamed if you DO nurse in public, and you should be ashamed if you DON'T nurse in public (I am of the latter, mostly because it's a very messy affair, what with the spraying and all). Why do we, women and mothers, do this to ourselves? Why are we so judgy, without knowing all the details? So much so that I am breastfeeding in electric-shock pain, and I still feel guilty about thinking of quitting. I have this mammoth supply that other mothers would kill for, I tell myself, don't let it go to waste.
So instead, I dread the feedings. Bonding? Ha. Aside from when he curls up on my chest as I burp him, I can't say I feel particularly bondful while breastfeeding. Probably because I am gritting my teeth until the pain recedes.
Feeding had just started getting better before this happens, so this is probably the fever talking. I'll get through this course of antibiotics (yay, emergency room on a weekend!) and reevaluate. But today? Today has just sucked.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Sign
We went on a walk tonight. I wanted to experiment with taking pictures of something other than le bebe.
Ah, what fodder I can find.
When they say "transitional neighborhood" this is what they mean.
Ah, what fodder I can find.
When they say "transitional neighborhood" this is what they mean.
Monday, June 09, 2008
I know I've given up when...
...I meet the painter at the kitchen door, wet spots down the front of my shirt absolutely impossible to hide. And I don't care.
It's freeing, really.
It's freeing, really.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Taking em where I can get em
I was working on a long rant rant rant about breastfeeding (hey, there's a new idea!) but frankly, it IS getting better, so it's more a rant in retrospective a.k.a. "Why did no one warn me it'd hurt like a roach clip on my nipples?" (don't worry mom, I don't ACTUALLY know what a roach clip is... ahem) But again, it's hurting less like a roach clip and more like, oh, a mild electrode.
We take the small victories.
What is being home alone with a small baby like? That sums it up in a nutshell: we take the small victories. I try to make myself acheive one small thing a day. Yesterday I put frosted film on the window in the shower. That took the entirety of Howie's afternoon nap, and then it was time to feed and then it was time to recover and then Andrew was home and they day was done.
Lee pointed out that it's not actually necessary that things get done while Howie's LESS THAN SIX WEEKS OLD, CRAZY WOMAN! (I think she put it more politely) But on Monday Andrew got home from work and asked how my day was and I looked at him and realized not only had I not put on clothes but I hadn't left the recliner since noon except to pee--or change Howie's diaper, which, if I could have done without leaving the recliner, I would have. I mildly hated myself.
So now I try to set myself one thing to do. Just one. Frost the window in shower--great. Cut back the vines on the front porch--awesome.
Last week, I replaced the seventies knobs in the built-in cabinets with cheapie ones from IKEA.
It's still tough. Maybe because Howie hasn't been interactive. He'd cry when he needed to eat or was sitting in shit (and really, wouldn't you?) but that was about it for his communication. Other than that, he'd sleep on my chest and although that is awesome all on its own, it's also really lonely.
This week, though, we turned a corner. He smiled. He smiled when he meant to. He smiled because he wanted to. He smiled because something made him smile. And he made sounds that were something other than cries or pre-cries--happy sounds, contented sounds, sounds that were about something other than food or poop.
This is no small victory. Making it this far is like winning the marathon. I can do this!
We take the small victories.
What is being home alone with a small baby like? That sums it up in a nutshell: we take the small victories. I try to make myself acheive one small thing a day. Yesterday I put frosted film on the window in the shower. That took the entirety of Howie's afternoon nap, and then it was time to feed and then it was time to recover and then Andrew was home and they day was done.
Lee pointed out that it's not actually necessary that things get done while Howie's LESS THAN SIX WEEKS OLD, CRAZY WOMAN! (I think she put it more politely) But on Monday Andrew got home from work and asked how my day was and I looked at him and realized not only had I not put on clothes but I hadn't left the recliner since noon except to pee--or change Howie's diaper, which, if I could have done without leaving the recliner, I would have. I mildly hated myself.
So now I try to set myself one thing to do. Just one. Frost the window in shower--great. Cut back the vines on the front porch--awesome.
Last week, I replaced the seventies knobs in the built-in cabinets with cheapie ones from IKEA. It's still tough. Maybe because Howie hasn't been interactive. He'd cry when he needed to eat or was sitting in shit (and really, wouldn't you?) but that was about it for his communication. Other than that, he'd sleep on my chest and although that is awesome all on its own, it's also really lonely.
This week, though, we turned a corner. He smiled. He smiled when he meant to. He smiled because he wanted to. He smiled because something made him smile. And he made sounds that were something other than cries or pre-cries--happy sounds, contented sounds, sounds that were about something other than food or poop.
This is no small victory. Making it this far is like winning the marathon. I can do this!
Thursday, June 05, 2008
That other project
Remember that OTHER project we were working on? I know, the peanut is slightly distracting, but if you recall, I in a fit of NESTING TIMES A MILLION decided it was SUPER SMART to gut one's kitchen six weeks before one gives birth?
Shocking absolutely no one, the project--which was SUPPOSED to be done before Howie entered this world--ran over. By like three weeks. So here I am, home with a newborn, and workers are all, "Mind if I come in and sand drywall?" To which my answer was "BYEEEE!" as I escaped out the back.
But, as Jon Stewart says, not only must all good things end, but so must those that are shitty and tedious. And the results? ARE HOTT. THERE ARE TWO T's, THAT'S HOW HOT THEY ARE.
Want to see the destruction to completion? There's a slideshow of views from the mudroom, and another slideshow of views from the dining room. Or you could just look at all of the pictures of the kitchen.
For the curious: all surfaces (except the floor) are courtesy of IKEA. All appliances are from Sears. We go big around these parts.
Shocking absolutely no one, the project--which was SUPPOSED to be done before Howie entered this world--ran over. By like three weeks. So here I am, home with a newborn, and workers are all, "Mind if I come in and sand drywall?" To which my answer was "BYEEEE!" as I escaped out the back.
But, as Jon Stewart says, not only must all good things end, but so must those that are shitty and tedious. And the results? ARE HOTT. THERE ARE TWO T's, THAT'S HOW HOT THEY ARE.
Want to see the destruction to completion? There's a slideshow of views from the mudroom, and another slideshow of views from the dining room. Or you could just look at all of the pictures of the kitchen.
For the curious: all surfaces (except the floor) are courtesy of IKEA. All appliances are from Sears. We go big around these parts.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Mother's Day
Yeah, it was a while ago, so what?
Mother's Day has been hard. For years. No one who hasn't had problems getting pregnant can adequately understand the sort of visceral pain that Mother's Day can be. Wait, that's a lot of negatives. Suffice it to say, I can try to describe to you what the dread is like, leading up to it, what the ads on TV, the sales in the stores, the cards at the grocery store, your friends' and family who are mothers, what the actual day is like, what the compilation of all of that does to you, but unless you've been there, it's all just words.
I did pretty okay with it, personally speaking. I think, anyway. By that I mean, I functioned, I talked about it, I didn't burst into tears at every JC Penny ad. Especially the ads about jewelry because do people really do that? Give diamonds for Mother's Day? But there would be times when it just hurt.
Especially, oh, especially the Mother's Day after my miscarriage. So many other people close to me, pregnant, and not me.
So maybe I expected this Mother's Day to be EXTRA SUPER DUPER AWESOME. I was finally in the club! I would learn the handshake and hear the secrets and make the oaths!
Andrew gave me the sweetest card ever, short and to the point, from him and Howie (I bet Howie picked it out), and a gift certificate to a massage (which, oh, I can't wait to use it!). And I love him for it. But it felt odd, unnatural, not quite comfortable yet. Maybe because I was such a new mom (seriously, Howie was like two weeks old at that point.)
But honestly, my favorite part of Mother's Day*? Was giving the gift we'd made for my mom.
Earlier that week, my sister and I had realized we had nothing for my mom for Mother's Day** and I said, "Well, I win, because I gave her a grandchild." Lee thought for a minute and said, "Hey, so did I." I looked at her. "For that matter, so did our brother."
Three new grandbabies, three words in "Happy Mother's Day"....
Mix in digital photography, email, Walgreens online photo submission, a three-way photo frame from Target and you have my mother's Mother's Day gift. Not bad for thinking of it on a Tuesday before Mother's Day.
My mom--remember, this is when she was visiting her newest grandbabie and about to buy a house and decide to move out to Oregon--lurrrrrved it. She loved it so much, she made a slightly larger version for my grandmother (making these great-grandbabies). And I have to say, I'm pretty proud of it.
But that's my favorite thing about Mother's Day 2008. Not that I was finally a mother, like some pinnacle I'd reached as if it was a milestone to be checked off. Rather, now that the painful part of Mother's Day is gone and I can finally see the day as a chance to give my mom something silly and sweet to savor for the forseeable future without the reminder of pain. And that feels good.
Now, if anyone has amazing ideas of what to do for Father's Day--I'm all (virtual) ears.
* It was at this point in the blog post that I officially got fed up with typing "Mother's Day" because every single time, I'd not capitalize it and have to go back and capitalize it--and I had the argument with myself about capitalizing but realized that if I decided not to capitalize it--mother's day--to make myself happy I'd have to go back and uncapitalize all the "Mother's Day"'s I'd already typed and that would piss me off even more.
Welcome to the inner workings of my personal issues.
**Yup, did the same thing there, and had the same argument with myself.
Mother's Day has been hard. For years. No one who hasn't had problems getting pregnant can adequately understand the sort of visceral pain that Mother's Day can be. Wait, that's a lot of negatives. Suffice it to say, I can try to describe to you what the dread is like, leading up to it, what the ads on TV, the sales in the stores, the cards at the grocery store, your friends' and family who are mothers, what the actual day is like, what the compilation of all of that does to you, but unless you've been there, it's all just words.
I did pretty okay with it, personally speaking. I think, anyway. By that I mean, I functioned, I talked about it, I didn't burst into tears at every JC Penny ad. Especially the ads about jewelry because do people really do that? Give diamonds for Mother's Day? But there would be times when it just hurt.
Especially, oh, especially the Mother's Day after my miscarriage. So many other people close to me, pregnant, and not me.
So maybe I expected this Mother's Day to be EXTRA SUPER DUPER AWESOME. I was finally in the club! I would learn the handshake and hear the secrets and make the oaths!
Andrew gave me the sweetest card ever, short and to the point, from him and Howie (I bet Howie picked it out), and a gift certificate to a massage (which, oh, I can't wait to use it!). And I love him for it. But it felt odd, unnatural, not quite comfortable yet. Maybe because I was such a new mom (seriously, Howie was like two weeks old at that point.)
But honestly, my favorite part of Mother's Day*? Was giving the gift we'd made for my mom.
Earlier that week, my sister and I had realized we had nothing for my mom for Mother's Day** and I said, "Well, I win, because I gave her a grandchild." Lee thought for a minute and said, "Hey, so did I." I looked at her. "For that matter, so did our brother."
Three new grandbabies, three words in "Happy Mother's Day"....
Mix in digital photography, email, Walgreens online photo submission, a three-way photo frame from Target and you have my mother's Mother's Day gift. Not bad for thinking of it on a Tuesday before Mother's Day.
My mom--remember, this is when she was visiting her newest grandbabie and about to buy a house and decide to move out to Oregon--lurrrrrved it. She loved it so much, she made a slightly larger version for my grandmother (making these great-grandbabies). And I have to say, I'm pretty proud of it.
But that's my favorite thing about Mother's Day 2008. Not that I was finally a mother, like some pinnacle I'd reached as if it was a milestone to be checked off. Rather, now that the painful part of Mother's Day is gone and I can finally see the day as a chance to give my mom something silly and sweet to savor for the forseeable future without the reminder of pain. And that feels good.
Now, if anyone has amazing ideas of what to do for Father's Day--I'm all (virtual) ears.
* It was at this point in the blog post that I officially got fed up with typing "Mother's Day" because every single time, I'd not capitalize it and have to go back and capitalize it--and I had the argument with myself about capitalizing but realized that if I decided not to capitalize it--mother's day--to make myself happy I'd have to go back and uncapitalize all the "Mother's Day"'s I'd already typed and that would piss me off even more.
Welcome to the inner workings of my personal issues.
**Yup, did the same thing there, and had the same argument with myself.
Monday, June 02, 2008
One month after.
I want to blog about something non-Howie, merely to show I can. Instead, my days (and nights) are filled with the sounds and images of the little man. Don't let anyone tell you different--staying at home with the kid is a test of your willpower (will I get anything at all done today?) and your sanity (will I talk to anyone who answers back?). And yet, given the opportunity to be separated from him I get cranky and uncertain and control-freaky.
We're navigating our way around each other right now, learning each others' likes and dislikes. Him: likes the mei-tai baby carrier, sleeping, and boobs, dislikes being put down, any delay in getting boob, and poopy diapers (a LOT). Me: likes are the mei-tai baby carrier, napping with a sleeping baby, and those little sounds he makes when he giggles in his sleep, dislikes are that "ehhhh ehhhhh" he makes that isn't quite crying when he's not being held, breastfeeding (yes, it still sucks--ha. ha. ha.) and poopy diapers (a LOT).
I feel pathetically grateful when there is a social event outside of my house, and at the same time I feel pathetically unentertaining when I'm there. I have nothing to contribute to conversations beyond what Howie's done recently and what I saw on "John and Kate Plus 8" yesterday (OMG did you see the episode where they flew to Utah?), but I want to see other people and maybe have a beer and it's so FUN when I do. Even when it's grey and drizzley.
So eventually I'll have something to write about that isn't centered around a pre-verbal ten pound grunting being, but today ain't that day.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Firsts
We gave Howie his first bath. He didn't hate it (he hates dirty diapers a whole lot more--and I can't say I disagree with him) but he did have a "what the hell?" look on his face for most of it. Which was pretty funny in and of itself.
What he doesn't know yet is that his grandparents just bought a house. Fifteen blocks from here. They came to visit their newest grandchild and left with a new house. That is, the house is still here, but by the time they left, ten days after they'd arrived, they had made an offer, and had it accepted, for a house that is literally down the street.
I don't know why this should surprise me. I learned to say, "A kitchen gut remodel six weeks before I'm due? Sure! Let's start tomorrow!" from somewhere.
Plus, my parents have a history of calling up their children and saying, "Guess what? we've bought/sold/remodeled a house!" So really, the only thing different is that this time I saw it happen. And I was still amazed.
So now, in the space of a spring, my sister and nephew moved here, my son was born, and my parents are moving here. One more addition to Portland's tax base and the city is going to give me a set of china.
I'm excited. I'm excited for the cousins to know each other as more than once-a-year relatives. I'm excited for my son to have a relationship with his grandparents that doesn't involve only special occasions.
I'm also nervous. This time last year, this family was spread out over nine time zones. It may be a lot to ask to have us not just in the same state, but literally within a half-mile radius of each other.
It is a little backwards, what we're doing. Most families end up dispersing. Our little family, with no real home town to return to, is--what is the opposite of dispersing? Persing? Finding some reason and some way to come together. Not at all something I would have predicted five years ago.
What he doesn't know yet is that his grandparents just bought a house. Fifteen blocks from here. They came to visit their newest grandchild and left with a new house. That is, the house is still here, but by the time they left, ten days after they'd arrived, they had made an offer, and had it accepted, for a house that is literally down the street.
I don't know why this should surprise me. I learned to say, "A kitchen gut remodel six weeks before I'm due? Sure! Let's start tomorrow!" from somewhere.
Plus, my parents have a history of calling up their children and saying, "Guess what? we've bought/sold/remodeled a house!" So really, the only thing different is that this time I saw it happen. And I was still amazed.
So now, in the space of a spring, my sister and nephew moved here, my son was born, and my parents are moving here. One more addition to Portland's tax base and the city is going to give me a set of china.
I'm excited. I'm excited for the cousins to know each other as more than once-a-year relatives. I'm excited for my son to have a relationship with his grandparents that doesn't involve only special occasions.
I'm also nervous. This time last year, this family was spread out over nine time zones. It may be a lot to ask to have us not just in the same state, but literally within a half-mile radius of each other.
It is a little backwards, what we're doing. Most families end up dispersing. Our little family, with no real home town to return to, is--what is the opposite of dispersing? Persing? Finding some reason and some way to come together. Not at all something I would have predicted five years ago.
Monday, May 19, 2008
It's all about the boobs
You know what else? Breastfeeding makes me feel myself up a lot more often.
"Does Howie need to eat yet? Let me check... mmm... no, probably not. Let's check back in about half an hour, 'kay?"
"Does Howie need to eat yet? Let me check... mmm... no, probably not. Let's check back in about half an hour, 'kay?"
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Lactation Tsunami
It used to be I couldn't see my feet because of my belly. Now I can't see them because of my boobs.
This whole breastfeeding thing? It apparently doesn't come naturally to me. Why this should be a surprise when I could neither get pregnant nor give birth without modern medicine, I don't know. But there it is. That's my big struggle right now.
It's not the milk production. Trust me, that is not the problem. It takes one look at all the milk stains all over whatever shirt I'm wearing these past two weeks to put that theory to rest. Gah, no one ever tells you in all this Breast is Best madness what an absolute mess you're going to make. Maybe not everyone. Maybe just me. But dude, just, everywhere. I can't hold my son without, say, Rightie saying, "Now? We're doing this now????" very clearly and wetly--through whatever kind of nursing pads, layers of tank tops, and maybe a jacket. And then Leftie joins in--such a follower. Wannabe. And there I am, with a sleeping son that I half pray sleeps longer and half pray wakes up soon so my poor rock hard boobs can finally get some relief, and two giant wet rorsarch tests blooming down the front of my shirt that smell faintly of sour milk.
I'm hot like that.
I'm told this is a blessing, and really, I'm sure it is, this over-abundance of milk. And I'll believe it, as soon as I can channel these powers for good. In the meantime, I can only leave the house in short fifteen minute bursts but only if I bring a spare shirt in case I suddenly need to put on an extra (dry) layer while in the middle of Target.
Hypothetically speaking.
So, yeah, it's not the production. It's more the pain. I don't know if I have an extremely low pain tolerance (possible) or Howie has the power to suck dimples of a golf ball (possible) or both or something else entirely. All I know is that I don't feel comfortable breastfeeding in front of anyone because the grimaces I make and the whimpering that comes out of my throat while trying to line the whole thing up are mildly embarassing.
It's interesting, how breastfeeding is treated. Portland is a rough town for those who don't come to it like ducks to water. It's the town with the highest percentage of breast feeders, and it also hold the record for the longest average length of breastfeeding. There's a huge unspoken--and sometimes spoken--pressure to be part of the majority here. Don't get me wrong, I agree that breast milk is the best for my son, and I want him to have the best, but how many lactation consultants do I need to see before I am allowed to say the pain is too much? What if things don't get better after a month, as everyone has promised me (well, hoped for me)?
Things have started getting better on the pain front. Today was a good day. Yesterday, though--not so much. So we'll take it as it comes, and see what happens. I'd like to start not leaking through my breast pads, for a start--leaving the house for extended periods might help my sanity.
This whole breastfeeding thing? It apparently doesn't come naturally to me. Why this should be a surprise when I could neither get pregnant nor give birth without modern medicine, I don't know. But there it is. That's my big struggle right now.
It's not the milk production. Trust me, that is not the problem. It takes one look at all the milk stains all over whatever shirt I'm wearing these past two weeks to put that theory to rest. Gah, no one ever tells you in all this Breast is Best madness what an absolute mess you're going to make. Maybe not everyone. Maybe just me. But dude, just, everywhere. I can't hold my son without, say, Rightie saying, "Now? We're doing this now????" very clearly and wetly--through whatever kind of nursing pads, layers of tank tops, and maybe a jacket. And then Leftie joins in--such a follower. Wannabe. And there I am, with a sleeping son that I half pray sleeps longer and half pray wakes up soon so my poor rock hard boobs can finally get some relief, and two giant wet rorsarch tests blooming down the front of my shirt that smell faintly of sour milk.
I'm hot like that.
I'm told this is a blessing, and really, I'm sure it is, this over-abundance of milk. And I'll believe it, as soon as I can channel these powers for good. In the meantime, I can only leave the house in short fifteen minute bursts but only if I bring a spare shirt in case I suddenly need to put on an extra (dry) layer while in the middle of Target.
Hypothetically speaking.
So, yeah, it's not the production. It's more the pain. I don't know if I have an extremely low pain tolerance (possible) or Howie has the power to suck dimples of a golf ball (possible) or both or something else entirely. All I know is that I don't feel comfortable breastfeeding in front of anyone because the grimaces I make and the whimpering that comes out of my throat while trying to line the whole thing up are mildly embarassing.
It's interesting, how breastfeeding is treated. Portland is a rough town for those who don't come to it like ducks to water. It's the town with the highest percentage of breast feeders, and it also hold the record for the longest average length of breastfeeding. There's a huge unspoken--and sometimes spoken--pressure to be part of the majority here. Don't get me wrong, I agree that breast milk is the best for my son, and I want him to have the best, but how many lactation consultants do I need to see before I am allowed to say the pain is too much? What if things don't get better after a month, as everyone has promised me (well, hoped for me)?
Things have started getting better on the pain front. Today was a good day. Yesterday, though--not so much. So we'll take it as it comes, and see what happens. I'd like to start not leaking through my breast pads, for a start--leaving the house for extended periods might help my sanity.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Life After: Week One
Huh. This has been a bit of a crazy week.
I've been trying to think of what to write. And there have been little things that would have been great to write about if I'd had a computer on hand and two hands to type with at that time, but I didn't or couldn't or chose to sleep instead and now they're gone into the ether of sleep deprivation.
At the end of our stay at the hospital--on Thursday--a nurse came into the room and was all, "Soooo... we're at capacity in the labor-and-delivery unit and we have some women coming in and if they can't get a room here they're going to have to be diverted across town and they won't get to work with their OB and... your name came up as possibly being transferred to an overflow room?"
Yeah, I'm going to say no after she puts it that way.
I can't say it didn't make sense--I was being discharged at 10 the next morning. How much of a hardship could this be?
So the room we got transferred to--holy cats, was it small. Made me realize how completely pampered we'd been in our kingdom before, what with a full-size couch and closets and chairs and what-all. The new room--and that's using the room "new" quite loosely, as it hadn't been updated since 1976, if then--could fit my hospital bed and the baby's bassinet and--if we moved everything around, squished up against the wall and then didn't breathe too deeply--a fold-out cot that fit most of Andrew. And literally, that was it.
Also, we got our own personal cop.
Apparently the maternity wing has really strict security. So strict, in fact, that I wasn't allowed to walk the halls with Howie without also pushing his Humvee of a bassinet (thereby really defeating the purpose of my walk). And now I wasn't in the maternity wing. So they had to compensate by giving me a security guard sitting outside my door--the entire time. In fact! as we were packing up, there was a beautiful floral arrangement that we wouldn't be able to take back home with us (sorry, Mom and Dad!). But I thought maybe the nurses at the maternity desk would appreciate some fresh flowers (because man do they work hard!).
The security guard wouldn't let me walk to the desk with my son unless he accompanied me. The desk was maybe 50 steps away. I'm sure I looked like a criminal suspect to everyone else staying in the hall. Damn! Now I wish I'd muttered vaguely incriminating statements as random people passed by. Ah well, missed opportunities.
At any rate, he must have done his job well because we remained unmolested. That night in the Tiny Room was rough (apparently sleeping wasn't a priority to the newest member of our family), but all I thought about was others I know who had had rougher situations. I thought of my sister, who hadn't been allowed to have visitors after 7:00. Period. My sister-in-law (among others) shared a room. Others who'd had rougher deliveries, less amazing friends. Partners who weren't willing to cram their tall selves on clearly inadequate cots.
As tiny as that room was, it didn't matter all that much. We went home, a different kind of family than we'd been when we arrived. Which, when you think about it? Is pretty damn cool.
I've been trying to think of what to write. And there have been little things that would have been great to write about if I'd had a computer on hand and two hands to type with at that time, but I didn't or couldn't or chose to sleep instead and now they're gone into the ether of sleep deprivation.
At the end of our stay at the hospital--on Thursday--a nurse came into the room and was all, "Soooo... we're at capacity in the labor-and-delivery unit and we have some women coming in and if they can't get a room here they're going to have to be diverted across town and they won't get to work with their OB and... your name came up as possibly being transferred to an overflow room?"
Yeah, I'm going to say no after she puts it that way.
I can't say it didn't make sense--I was being discharged at 10 the next morning. How much of a hardship could this be?
So the room we got transferred to--holy cats, was it small. Made me realize how completely pampered we'd been in our kingdom before, what with a full-size couch and closets and chairs and what-all. The new room--and that's using the room "new" quite loosely, as it hadn't been updated since 1976, if then--could fit my hospital bed and the baby's bassinet and--if we moved everything around, squished up against the wall and then didn't breathe too deeply--a fold-out cot that fit most of Andrew. And literally, that was it.
Also, we got our own personal cop.
Apparently the maternity wing has really strict security. So strict, in fact, that I wasn't allowed to walk the halls with Howie without also pushing his Humvee of a bassinet (thereby really defeating the purpose of my walk). And now I wasn't in the maternity wing. So they had to compensate by giving me a security guard sitting outside my door--the entire time. In fact! as we were packing up, there was a beautiful floral arrangement that we wouldn't be able to take back home with us (sorry, Mom and Dad!). But I thought maybe the nurses at the maternity desk would appreciate some fresh flowers (because man do they work hard!).
The security guard wouldn't let me walk to the desk with my son unless he accompanied me. The desk was maybe 50 steps away. I'm sure I looked like a criminal suspect to everyone else staying in the hall. Damn! Now I wish I'd muttered vaguely incriminating statements as random people passed by. Ah well, missed opportunities.
At any rate, he must have done his job well because we remained unmolested. That night in the Tiny Room was rough (apparently sleeping wasn't a priority to the newest member of our family), but all I thought about was others I know who had had rougher situations. I thought of my sister, who hadn't been allowed to have visitors after 7:00. Period. My sister-in-law (among others) shared a room. Others who'd had rougher deliveries, less amazing friends. Partners who weren't willing to cram their tall selves on clearly inadequate cots.
As tiny as that room was, it didn't matter all that much. We went home, a different kind of family than we'd been when we arrived. Which, when you think about it? Is pretty damn cool.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
And yesterday, everything changed.
So... yeah.
It took 52 minutes, from walking into the OR--yes, I walked my own self into the OR--to hearing a wee little cry, and everything changed.
Howie is in the house, y'all!
I haven't slept for more than about an hour and a half since 5 yesterday morning, and I'm currently waiting for my next dose of dilaudid so you'll have to excuse my sort of jagged piecing together of events. We went through a C-section, and after talking to several friends and family members who had an emergency C-section, apparently the planned one is the way to go. I mean, my incision is smaller and more convenient (ha!), for one thing, but we also had two hours before the actual event where we leisurely filled in the social security application, birth certificates, vaccination forms, vacation plans, etc etc etc. We've now applied for college and decided his major.
And the spinal block? That is some funky shit. Imagine being able to feel your feet, know they're there, feel the temperature, the breeze, the covering, but when you go to move them... nothing. Or being able to feel people tugging and pushing and pulling (and then eventually, apparently, sitting on your chest and hanging out, maybe having a cup of tea) but not feeling any cutting of any type--and definitely not feeling whatever is causing that burning smell. That makes it sound scary, and it was--but only in retrospect. At the time, the doctors were friendly, relaxed, and telling me what was going on as they went, even complementing my previous surgical team. I was so relaxed that when I heard one of the doctors accidentally drop some metal surgical implement, I asked, "Shouldn't you shout 'OPA!' when that happens?"
My OB laughed.
"You know you're going to miss me," I said to her.
She peeked over the barrier and said she would, but I bet she says that to all the girls.
When I first heard that baby cry--oh, that cliched moment!--I became a cliche myself and broke down. I'm even crying now as I relive that moment, easily the most intense of my life. The casualness of the hours leading up to that moment in no way prepared me for the semitruck that flattened me when I heard Howie cry for the first time. I couldn't even see him past the little curtain (a blue sheet clipped to two IV thingies) and I was gasping for air between wracking sobs, clutching Andrew's hand as he stood up to get a better view. Our little boy was here. This boy--whatever he was, whatever we went through, whatever, had just fallen away as this boy let us know that he was cold and he was not happy. And in that moment, everything changed.
I want to write more, but I can't right now. The heart, it can be so full.
It took 52 minutes, from walking into the OR--yes, I walked my own self into the OR--to hearing a wee little cry, and everything changed.
Howie is in the house, y'all!
I haven't slept for more than about an hour and a half since 5 yesterday morning, and I'm currently waiting for my next dose of dilaudid so you'll have to excuse my sort of jagged piecing together of events. We went through a C-section, and after talking to several friends and family members who had an emergency C-section, apparently the planned one is the way to go. I mean, my incision is smaller and more convenient (ha!), for one thing, but we also had two hours before the actual event where we leisurely filled in the social security application, birth certificates, vaccination forms, vacation plans, etc etc etc. We've now applied for college and decided his major.
And the spinal block? That is some funky shit. Imagine being able to feel your feet, know they're there, feel the temperature, the breeze, the covering, but when you go to move them... nothing. Or being able to feel people tugging and pushing and pulling (and then eventually, apparently, sitting on your chest and hanging out, maybe having a cup of tea) but not feeling any cutting of any type--and definitely not feeling whatever is causing that burning smell. That makes it sound scary, and it was--but only in retrospect. At the time, the doctors were friendly, relaxed, and telling me what was going on as they went, even complementing my previous surgical team. I was so relaxed that when I heard one of the doctors accidentally drop some metal surgical implement, I asked, "Shouldn't you shout 'OPA!' when that happens?"
My OB laughed.
"You know you're going to miss me," I said to her.
She peeked over the barrier and said she would, but I bet she says that to all the girls.
When I first heard that baby cry--oh, that cliched moment!--I became a cliche myself and broke down. I'm even crying now as I relive that moment, easily the most intense of my life. The casualness of the hours leading up to that moment in no way prepared me for the semitruck that flattened me when I heard Howie cry for the first time. I couldn't even see him past the little curtain (a blue sheet clipped to two IV thingies) and I was gasping for air between wracking sobs, clutching Andrew's hand as he stood up to get a better view. Our little boy was here. This boy--whatever he was, whatever we went through, whatever, had just fallen away as this boy let us know that he was cold and he was not happy. And in that moment, everything changed.
I want to write more, but I can't right now. The heart, it can be so full.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Everything changes. But not today.
Last night we went to a movie. An only okay movie ("21", a movie that was a good idea, but the middle goes on foreeeeeeeever), but it was a movie and we had soda and popcorn and Milk Duds.
I was sitting near the exit waiting for Andrew to go get the car (priveleges of swollen ankles) when a dude dressed like Jimi Hendrix (of course!) walks by.
"Any day now?" he asks me as he walks by.
I actually had to think for a moment for what the hell he was talking about. (I never said I was bright. Cute, but not bright.) Then I laughed. "Yes. Yes! In fact, Tuesday!"
It's crazy to say that, FYI. I'm not due next week, next month, or "soon", but in, like, hours. (Forty six of them, by the way, if anyone is counting.) The privelege of a scheduled C-section*.
I woke up this morning, slowly (okay, fine, I woke up with the burning need to pee as a result of a nine plus pound infant plus assorted biological accountrements sitting on my bladder, but let's run with my fairy tale here, okay?) and realized--I have one more of these left. I have one more morning where I have no pressing need to wake up at crack-of-my-ass early in the morning.
Then I have to be at the hospital at 5:30 and everything changes.
---
*Of course, all statements along these lines are accompanied by an understood "...y'know, assuming it's not earlier"
I was sitting near the exit waiting for Andrew to go get the car (priveleges of swollen ankles) when a dude dressed like Jimi Hendrix (of course!) walks by.
"Any day now?" he asks me as he walks by.
I actually had to think for a moment for what the hell he was talking about. (I never said I was bright. Cute, but not bright.) Then I laughed. "Yes. Yes! In fact, Tuesday!"
It's crazy to say that, FYI. I'm not due next week, next month, or "soon", but in, like, hours. (Forty six of them, by the way, if anyone is counting.) The privelege of a scheduled C-section*.
I woke up this morning, slowly (okay, fine, I woke up with the burning need to pee as a result of a nine plus pound infant plus assorted biological accountrements sitting on my bladder, but let's run with my fairy tale here, okay?) and realized--I have one more of these left. I have one more morning where I have no pressing need to wake up at crack-of-my-ass early in the morning.
Then I have to be at the hospital at 5:30 and everything changes.
---
*Of course, all statements along these lines are accompanied by an understood "...y'know, assuming it's not earlier"
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Big changes. In the kitchen, anyway.
Wanna see the changes I've lived through--with respect to the kitchen, anyway?
There's a slideshow of pictures taken from the same viewpoint.
Look for big changes in the next week. It'll be Andrew's job to take the pictures, but they may not get uploaded to Flickr until... well... I think we're kinda busy next week.
Again, I stress that it seemed like a good idea at the time.
There's a slideshow of pictures taken from the same viewpoint.
Look for big changes in the next week. It'll be Andrew's job to take the pictures, but they may not get uploaded to Flickr until... well... I think we're kinda busy next week.
Again, I stress that it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Friday, April 25, 2008
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Can y'all imagine how hard it is to be nesty when... well... your dining room looks like this????
Maternity leave continues apace. It's much less relaxing than you might imagine if you have to leave your house because they're sanding drywall. But fortunately, I have good friends who let me nap on their couch. I set myself one or two goals per day--like, "Buy diapers" or "Find nursing bras that could double as catapults in case of apocalypse" and that way, when I'm able to do that one thing I'm able to still feel accomplished. And I sit for long periods of time. I like that part, too. My ankles don't hurt nearly as much.
But then I get home and I can't clean, organize, nothing... to absolutely no one's surprise, they're a tad behind on the kitchen. They say that they'll finish next Friday. We'll see. On the bright side, I did organize the baby's room. In the meantime, I've managed to only have one minor meltdown this morning, which--let's consider that a bonus, shall we?
Yes, let's.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
And lo, the maternity leave begins!
Yee ha!
So, I have a sub. A sub who, as it turns out, is going to the same baby doctor clinic we went to.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
How to handle the hormotional.
I might, on occasion, have a wee little freak out.
Maybe.
Here's what Andrew's done when, perhaps, I might have started crying, and maybe saying something like, "But you're not listening to me. I don't like it when you don't listen to me."
He leads me over to a chair, and tucks me up in a quilt (that Nicole made), and then he brings me these:
and then he leaves the room to get me a drink.
Maybe.
Here's what Andrew's done when, perhaps, I might have started crying, and maybe saying something like, "But you're not listening to me. I don't like it when you don't listen to me."
He leads me over to a chair, and tucks me up in a quilt (that Nicole made), and then he brings me these:
and then he leaves the room to get me a drink.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Last Monday. Maybe.
I've been planning on starting my maternity leave at the end of this week. At first, it was just a little gift to myself, based on my friends lamentations wishing they'd been able to take more time off before.
Now, though, it's become necessity. A day of teaching immobilizes me for the rest of the day--my back and pelvis feel like they are being ripped with every move. Getting up to pee, lying down in bed, anything at all hurts. Wheee!
And of course, now that it's become a virtual necessity, bureaucracy is rearing its ugly head. The personnel department of my school district is requiring a note from my doctor's office in order for me to take that time as my sick leave. Because, you see, I can't take sick leave unless I"m actually sick. Being thirty bijillion weeks pregnant apparently isn't enough of a reason because, as the darling personnel woman told me, "some people just want to take that week off to goof off."
Dude, I'm not even going to be able to goof off.
My doctor's office refuses to write me a note to get me on maternity leave because there's nothing in my file that puts me on bed rest. And they can't fit me in before Friday, THE DAY I WANT TO GO ON MATERNITY LEAVE, for me to even try to convince them that I really really need this.
When the nurse from the doctor's office called me on my cell phone to tell me this, I was limping around the grocery store, trying to pick up some necessities for school tomorrow. "I can't write a note for you until your C section," she said.
"I'm 38 weeks pre-e-e-e-gnant," I said, starting to snuffle. "I can't wa-wa-walk. I ju-ju-ju-just want to go on mater-er-ernity leave!" There I am, staring at dog food, trying not to cry and failing miserably. So miserably that a kind elderly woman with severe osteoperosis stopped me with concern to check if I was okay. When the hunched over old lady who can't see above the third shelf is asking me if I'm okay, I'm in a bad bad way.
Upshot is, I can't figure out how to satisfy the paperwork needs of my asshole personnel department, where I can't use my sick leave unless I'm actually sick (and being hugely pregnant is apparently not enough), and my doctor's office where they won't write me a note to get me on maternity leave unless I'm actually sick enough to require bed rest. So I've been spending most of the afternoon and evening crying at the injustice, although it doesn't seem to be helping a whole lot.
I'm very confused about the whole paperwork for maternity leave. This whole thing just sucks. Andrew said, worse comes to worst, I just don't show up on Monday. Fuck, at this rate, I may just not show up tomorrow.
PS: Just to cap the shit sandwich that today is, I just found out from my Daycare Of Choice that we probably won't get in next fall. We are waitlisted everywhere but Kinderkennel, and we've been looking basically since I was four months pregnant. What the hell, karma!!!!! This is SO NOT FUCKING FAIR!
Now, though, it's become necessity. A day of teaching immobilizes me for the rest of the day--my back and pelvis feel like they are being ripped with every move. Getting up to pee, lying down in bed, anything at all hurts. Wheee!
And of course, now that it's become a virtual necessity, bureaucracy is rearing its ugly head. The personnel department of my school district is requiring a note from my doctor's office in order for me to take that time as my sick leave. Because, you see, I can't take sick leave unless I"m actually sick. Being thirty bijillion weeks pregnant apparently isn't enough of a reason because, as the darling personnel woman told me, "some people just want to take that week off to goof off."
Dude, I'm not even going to be able to goof off.
My doctor's office refuses to write me a note to get me on maternity leave because there's nothing in my file that puts me on bed rest. And they can't fit me in before Friday, THE DAY I WANT TO GO ON MATERNITY LEAVE, for me to even try to convince them that I really really need this.
When the nurse from the doctor's office called me on my cell phone to tell me this, I was limping around the grocery store, trying to pick up some necessities for school tomorrow. "I can't write a note for you until your C section," she said.
"I'm 38 weeks pre-e-e-e-gnant," I said, starting to snuffle. "I can't wa-wa-walk. I ju-ju-ju-just want to go on mater-er-ernity leave!" There I am, staring at dog food, trying not to cry and failing miserably. So miserably that a kind elderly woman with severe osteoperosis stopped me with concern to check if I was okay. When the hunched over old lady who can't see above the third shelf is asking me if I'm okay, I'm in a bad bad way.
Upshot is, I can't figure out how to satisfy the paperwork needs of my asshole personnel department, where I can't use my sick leave unless I'm actually sick (and being hugely pregnant is apparently not enough), and my doctor's office where they won't write me a note to get me on maternity leave unless I'm actually sick enough to require bed rest. So I've been spending most of the afternoon and evening crying at the injustice, although it doesn't seem to be helping a whole lot.
I'm very confused about the whole paperwork for maternity leave. This whole thing just sucks. Andrew said, worse comes to worst, I just don't show up on Monday. Fuck, at this rate, I may just not show up tomorrow.
PS: Just to cap the shit sandwich that today is, I just found out from my Daycare Of Choice that we probably won't get in next fall. We are waitlisted everywhere but Kinderkennel, and we've been looking basically since I was four months pregnant. What the hell, karma!!!!! This is SO NOT FUCKING FAIR!
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Yes. It's huge. Trust me, I've been lugging it around forever. I KNOW.
So... I'm in the 95th percentile for babies' sizes. At 36 weeks.
At my "Holy crap you're huge!" ultrasound appointment last week, they estimated my baby's weight at 7 and a half pounds.
Gain half a pound a week...
carry the one...
this is one big bowling ball that's rumblin' around in there.
So everyone who's telling me how freaking huge I am? GOT IT. Can we all just move on?
But the award for creepy interaction of the week goes to the substitute working in the room next door.
As I passed by him on my way to lunch, a sixty-ish ex-coach-looking man with the "Guest Teacher" lanyard around the neck of his athletic jacket clutches my upper arm and leans in close to my ear. "Have they told you it's twins yet?" he croons into my ear.
No, you creeptastic grossinator. Now stop touching me.
At my "Holy crap you're huge!" ultrasound appointment last week, they estimated my baby's weight at 7 and a half pounds.
Gain half a pound a week...
carry the one...
this is one big bowling ball that's rumblin' around in there.
So everyone who's telling me how freaking huge I am? GOT IT. Can we all just move on?
But the award for creepy interaction of the week goes to the substitute working in the room next door.
As I passed by him on my way to lunch, a sixty-ish ex-coach-looking man with the "Guest Teacher" lanyard around the neck of his athletic jacket clutches my upper arm and leans in close to my ear. "Have they told you it's twins yet?" he croons into my ear.
No, you creeptastic grossinator. Now stop touching me.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Looking forward
At my baby shower yesterday (with some very cool women... I'm so grateful to my friends!) someone asked me, "What--besides, well, a baby--are you most looking forward to?"
And admittedly it wasn't hard to come up with a few things. Walking without pain? That. Yeah. Wearing shoes that don't slip on? And maybe burning the three pairs of shoes I've been wearing since Christmas? That. Definitely. Wearing my wedding rings again? That too.
But I started thinking about it another way. What am I going to miss?
"You said that when you got pregnant, you wouldn't complain," my sister pointed out last month. And yeah, when I wasn't pregnant, or was trying to get pregnant, I can't even tell you how very very much it pissed me off to hear how hard it was to be pregnant, and how much it sucked. How much a parasite that unborn baby was (oh, that one was tough to hear). I was definitely going to be a better pregnant woman and approach it with the gratitude appropriate for the situation. Right?
Ahem.
Now, clearly, I'm going to have to eat my words because I have clearly done a lot of complaining. So I will totally cop to the first part--being pregnant is hard. My body has not adjusted well to its altered center of balance, to the extra weight, to the stretching ligaments.
But you know what? As hard as it has been, as hard as it still is, pregnancy still doesn't suck.
I get to feel that baby rolling around. I get to rub my belly and feel like I could be petting my baby. I get to anticipate and share that anticipation with Andrew. I also? get to lie on the couch and ask my husband to bring me a soda. And he does. A friend on his darts team told me that she's never known a man to be as excited about his child as Andrew is. So I get to see that transformation, too. I get to see Andrew become the father he was meant to be.
That said? I can't wait to give all of that up, be mobile, and hold my baby. And see Andrew actually be the father he's become.
-----------------
Nine days of work left until my maternity leave starts. Wooo hooo!
And admittedly it wasn't hard to come up with a few things. Walking without pain? That. Yeah. Wearing shoes that don't slip on? And maybe burning the three pairs of shoes I've been wearing since Christmas? That. Definitely. Wearing my wedding rings again? That too.
But I started thinking about it another way. What am I going to miss?
"You said that when you got pregnant, you wouldn't complain," my sister pointed out last month. And yeah, when I wasn't pregnant, or was trying to get pregnant, I can't even tell you how very very much it pissed me off to hear how hard it was to be pregnant, and how much it sucked. How much a parasite that unborn baby was (oh, that one was tough to hear). I was definitely going to be a better pregnant woman and approach it with the gratitude appropriate for the situation. Right?
Ahem.
Now, clearly, I'm going to have to eat my words because I have clearly done a lot of complaining. So I will totally cop to the first part--being pregnant is hard. My body has not adjusted well to its altered center of balance, to the extra weight, to the stretching ligaments.
But you know what? As hard as it has been, as hard as it still is, pregnancy still doesn't suck.
I get to feel that baby rolling around. I get to rub my belly and feel like I could be petting my baby. I get to anticipate and share that anticipation with Andrew. I also? get to lie on the couch and ask my husband to bring me a soda. And he does. A friend on his darts team told me that she's never known a man to be as excited about his child as Andrew is. So I get to see that transformation, too. I get to see Andrew become the father he was meant to be.
That said? I can't wait to give all of that up, be mobile, and hold my baby. And see Andrew actually be the father he's become.
-----------------
Nine days of work left until my maternity leave starts. Wooo hooo!
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Experiment
This is your kitchen on drugs. Or rather, without cabinets, countertop, or chair rail. And in some cases, plaster.
Family
So, my sister has moved here.
Having her as a house guest while she does things like make sure her apartment has heat has been the easiest and funnest thing ever. First of all, she does dishes, which, let's be honest, don't get done that often around here. Second, she brings the most awesome toy with her. He's about two feet tall and has the best-smelling head ever.
We've been tooling around Portland trying to get her the necessities to set up a household with a wee little boything (you know, little things, like, a bed... and maybe a crib... girl travels light) and since it isn't my money, it's been tons of fun.
I'm generous that way.
There's no plot twist to this blog entry, no funky story, just... things are good.
Having her as a house guest while she does things like make sure her apartment has heat has been the easiest and funnest thing ever. First of all, she does dishes, which, let's be honest, don't get done that often around here. Second, she brings the most awesome toy with her. He's about two feet tall and has the best-smelling head ever.
We've been tooling around Portland trying to get her the necessities to set up a household with a wee little boything (you know, little things, like, a bed... and maybe a crib... girl travels light) and since it isn't my money, it's been tons of fun.
I'm generous that way.
There's no plot twist to this blog entry, no funky story, just... things are good.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Things to say
Things a pregnant woman might like to hear even if she is fairly certain it's a lie:
"No, let me get that for you." (as said by a random parent)
"You look like you do 'being pregnant' well." (as said by the nine-fingered [female] security guard at school)
"Wow, you look like you've gained hardly any weight! I can't believe those pants still fit you so well." (as said by Em)
"From the back, you hardly look pregnant, you just look nice." (as said by Andrew)
Things a pregnant woman doesn't want to hear, even if she is fairly certain it's the truth:
"Are you having twins? Is that why you're so big?" (as said by a school counselor)
"Are you sure you have four weeks left? You look huge." (as said by the office secretary)
"Oh, look, you're waddling!" (as said by a science teacher, the other office secretary, every other math teacher in the department, and several students and students' parents)
Hee. Why yes, apparently I am measuring big, per the doctor today. But, um, have you met me? I am 6'1". And not a delicate flower 6'1". I was a ten pound baby, y'all. Little Man? The sperms what made him were from a tall person too. A betting person would put him at "above average size".
In other news:
Peace out, ya'll. Next time I update, it'll be my spring break. W00t!
"No, let me get that for you." (as said by a random parent)
"You look like you do 'being pregnant' well." (as said by the nine-fingered [female] security guard at school)
"Wow, you look like you've gained hardly any weight! I can't believe those pants still fit you so well." (as said by Em)
"From the back, you hardly look pregnant, you just look nice." (as said by Andrew)
Things a pregnant woman doesn't want to hear, even if she is fairly certain it's the truth:
"Are you having twins? Is that why you're so big?" (as said by a school counselor)
"Are you sure you have four weeks left? You look huge." (as said by the office secretary)
"Oh, look, you're waddling!" (as said by a science teacher, the other office secretary, every other math teacher in the department, and several students and students' parents)
Hee. Why yes, apparently I am measuring big, per the doctor today. But, um, have you met me? I am 6'1". And not a delicate flower 6'1". I was a ten pound baby, y'all. Little Man? The sperms what made him were from a tall person too. A betting person would put him at "above average size".
In other news:
- I don't just nest, I renovate. The kitchen is going well. We had an awesome meeting with the woman who's going to be installing our IKEA cabs and there's a few issues to address, but I think we can do that. And the moldy leak might be okay. And the engineering problem that caused the sinking second floor is taken care of. So, you know, no big deal and no stress...
- IKEA did call and say my kitchen order was available for pickup. So I showed up at the store and said, "Do I LOOK like I would order a kitchen for pickup?" They fixed it.
- My sister arrives the day after tomorrow. Her car seat arrived today. I can't wait.
- I got my hair cut. I have my first new hairstyle since the Mistake of a Boy Shag disaster from 2002.
Peace out, ya'll. Next time I update, it'll be my spring break. W00t!
Monday, March 24, 2008
Homeful and hopeful
Okay, only a mild freak-out yesterday. Today sucked, but I got through it. I only had to stay til 4:30.
I was able to meet with my sister's new landlord today. And as a further sign that Portland is the smallest big city--or the biggest small town--you've ever seen, I've met him before. In fact, five years ago, I interviewed with him for a job. Of course, he didn't remember me at all (giving some indication of how spectacularly I failed in that interview) but still. My sister is now not officially homeless. In fact, she's quite homeful.
And then I got home and--the workmen were still here! And there were changes! Huge changes! It's crazy how fast this is moving. See in that picture? that there's completely new subflooring? And the basement door opening that's already framed out? because they've already moved the basement door. (to the other side, just FYI--opening in the hallway) Here we are, one week into construction and one major move--done!
Of course, it's just that much closer to having to have everything else lined up, but here we are. I can do this. I can do what needs to be done, and then be done and relax.
I was able to meet with my sister's new landlord today. And as a further sign that Portland is the smallest big city--or the biggest small town--you've ever seen, I've met him before. In fact, five years ago, I interviewed with him for a job. Of course, he didn't remember me at all (giving some indication of how spectacularly I failed in that interview) but still. My sister is now not officially homeless. In fact, she's quite homeful.
And then I got home and--the workmen were still here! And there were changes! Huge changes! It's crazy how fast this is moving. See in that picture? that there's completely new subflooring? And the basement door opening that's already framed out? because they've already moved the basement door. (to the other side, just FYI--opening in the hallway) Here we are, one week into construction and one major move--done!
Of course, it's just that much closer to having to have everything else lined up, but here we are. I can do this. I can do what needs to be done, and then be done and relax.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Crappity crap crap
I can't do it. I am letting everyone down. 150 students, other teachers, everyone. I can't do this. I spend every single day--EVERY SINGLE DAY--with too much to do and not enough time or energy to do it. Everything is clawing for my time and attention and I can't get it done. By the end of the day, I hurt--I HURT--and all I want is to go home and put on pajama pants and put my feet up to let my ankles drain and then not have to move until I go to bed and not think. And yet, there's still more that has to be done. I could work til six at school every day (that'd be an eleven hour day) and MAYBE get caught up, except I really truly can't physically work until six. That's imagining that mentally I could do it.
You know that pregnant brain thing they say happens? it does. I can't keep track of things, and so I let deadlines slip or forget to call video services to tell them that they can't interview my science students (and so they show up anyway, and oops! we can't do the interview, sorry!), or to copy my tests for Tuesday (so I have to find time to copy them on Monday and I JUST DON'T HAVE THE TIME) or arrange for a sub for Tuesday. And that's just shit I need to take care of tomorrow. Oh, I mean, over and above teaching. Which--I have no idea what I'm going to teach tomorrow.
And that's just in my work life. The other plates I'm juggling--friends, family, oh, that whole kitchen thing? I forget to make those calls too. And I just feel like more shit. I don't have wiggle room left for deadlines, personal or private, and I feel like I'm missing them all.
You know that pregnant brain thing they say happens? it does. I can't keep track of things, and so I let deadlines slip or forget to call video services to tell them that they can't interview my science students (and so they show up anyway, and oops! we can't do the interview, sorry!), or to copy my tests for Tuesday (so I have to find time to copy them on Monday and I JUST DON'T HAVE THE TIME) or arrange for a sub for Tuesday. And that's just shit I need to take care of tomorrow. Oh, I mean, over and above teaching. Which--I have no idea what I'm going to teach tomorrow.
And that's just in my work life. The other plates I'm juggling--friends, family, oh, that whole kitchen thing? I forget to make those calls too. And I just feel like more shit. I don't have wiggle room left for deadlines, personal or private, and I feel like I'm missing them all.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Updates and countdowns
Five weeks. That's the number of weeks from tomorrow until I start my maternity leave.
Maternity leave.
Heh.
I still can't believe it. Did we really make it this far? Really?
I still pinch myself regularly and maybe giggle to myself a wee bit. There's this teeny tiny thing that'll be part of our life in, like, oh, a month. It's hard not to feel his kicks and rolls and nuzzles against my belly as some kind of ultra private communication (although I did hold Becca's hand against his movements--at her request, I might add--and her subsequent agonized writhing still makes me laugh).
I also don't feel like I've ever had a time in my life when I've laughed as much as I have in the past three months. At Andrew, with Andrew, at Mateo, at Will being the cutest ever with Mateo... just at anything.
I wish these next five weeks could just go super fast, just speed by.
Of course, I'm exhausted. Not from all the laughing. But from lugging this GIANT BELLY everywhere. "Don't take this the wrong way," a coworker said today. "But are you sure you have five weeks left? You look like you're going to pop tomorrow."
I FEEL like I'm going to pop tomorrow. My maternity pants don't fit anymore, and my maternity shirts don't go down far enough (and the bare underbelly look--totally awesome at high school... I wear a Bella Band every day underneath my shirts and over my pants, to bridge the gap, as it were). The babe spends most of the day writhing back and forth, pushing against my bellybutton (which, surprisingly, kind of hurts). My ankles regularly swell to sizes larger than my knees. I feel like I'm continually letting a deadline slip (oy, the grading I haven't done) and letting someone down by not doing something that I should be doing.
Oh, and! I found my first stretch mark. Which I'm kind of, "eh" about. It's not like I'm pissed about it (because, let's face it--as Andrew has pointed out more than once, it's not like I had a taut belly before), but I'm also not all "It's a SYMBOL of my LOVE for my CHILD" all Earth Mother blah blah blah. Actually, the day I found it, I noticed that in a certain light it'd disappear. So I spent about five minutes swinging my belly back and forth in front of the mirror all, "Hey look, hon! Now you see it! Now you don't! Now you see it! Now you don't!"
Because I'm all classy like that.
But I can't believe we're on the last countdown. It's gotten to the point where scheduling comes up at work, and I look at the date of the next meeting or the next due date and I think, I won't be here for that, because I'll be on maternity leave!
Thirty nine days until everything changes. I can't believe we made it here.
Maternity leave.
Heh.
I still can't believe it. Did we really make it this far? Really?
I still pinch myself regularly and maybe giggle to myself a wee bit. There's this teeny tiny thing that'll be part of our life in, like, oh, a month. It's hard not to feel his kicks and rolls and nuzzles against my belly as some kind of ultra private communication (although I did hold Becca's hand against his movements--at her request, I might add--and her subsequent agonized writhing still makes me laugh).
I also don't feel like I've ever had a time in my life when I've laughed as much as I have in the past three months. At Andrew, with Andrew, at Mateo, at Will being the cutest ever with Mateo... just at anything.
I wish these next five weeks could just go super fast, just speed by.
Of course, I'm exhausted. Not from all the laughing. But from lugging this GIANT BELLY everywhere. "Don't take this the wrong way," a coworker said today. "But are you sure you have five weeks left? You look like you're going to pop tomorrow."
I FEEL like I'm going to pop tomorrow. My maternity pants don't fit anymore, and my maternity shirts don't go down far enough (and the bare underbelly look--totally awesome at high school... I wear a Bella Band every day underneath my shirts and over my pants, to bridge the gap, as it were). The babe spends most of the day writhing back and forth, pushing against my bellybutton (which, surprisingly, kind of hurts). My ankles regularly swell to sizes larger than my knees. I feel like I'm continually letting a deadline slip (oy, the grading I haven't done) and letting someone down by not doing something that I should be doing.
Oh, and! I found my first stretch mark. Which I'm kind of, "eh" about. It's not like I'm pissed about it (because, let's face it--as Andrew has pointed out more than once, it's not like I had a taut belly before), but I'm also not all "It's a SYMBOL of my LOVE for my CHILD" all Earth Mother blah blah blah. Actually, the day I found it, I noticed that in a certain light it'd disappear. So I spent about five minutes swinging my belly back and forth in front of the mirror all, "Hey look, hon! Now you see it! Now you don't! Now you see it! Now you don't!"
Because I'm all classy like that.
But I can't believe we're on the last countdown. It's gotten to the point where scheduling comes up at work, and I look at the date of the next meeting or the next due date and I think, I won't be here for that, because I'll be on maternity leave!
Thirty nine days until everything changes. I can't believe we made it here.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Apartment hunting
Apartment hunting is totally way more funner when (a) landlords call you back right away, I mean, like, RIGHT AWAY, (b) you have more than one choice of apartment/house in your stated budget (c) the budget you're working with isn't your money but someone else's and (d) that someone else is totally used to renting in a crazy-expensive urban setting where they could get half the apartment for twice the price, so much so they don't even realize that they are actually looking at (virtually, at any rate) some pretty swank pads, even if they are "way out".
Saw two apartments today, have appointments for three more tomorrow. The two today--they'd do, but I totally think we could do better.
Yay apartment hunting!
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
No mo pouting!
Don't pout CNIU (cutest nephew in the universe!)! Your mama got a job! and you'll be back out here soon!
WOOO HOOO!
WOOO HOOO!
Monday, March 17, 2008
That's what I'd do, too
So. Um. What should one do if one were six weeks from welcoming a new, helpless and probably kind of needy new family member?
Start a kitchen remodel, of course!
Um. Can't go back now!
Start a kitchen remodel, of course!
Um. Can't go back now!
Sunday, March 16, 2008
That's kinda how I feel, too.
They were here for a three days. And I loved it. I took about a thousand pictures of The Cutest Nephew In the Universe, culled it down to 272 for saving on my computer, and culled further, oh the culling! to flickr. And Lee and I stayed up way too late (like, till TEN!) watching trashy reality TV and didn't even GET to the Top Chef! And it was like we'd never lived nine time zones away from each other.
She, of course, was mildly freaked out by how nice Portlanders are, taking me back to those first months in Portland when the bagger at the grocery store really did seem to care about whether my afternoon had been going okay and how that freaked me, a verteran of Minnesota Nice. And then Lee took Portland by storm, rustling up interviews for every spare hour or four. So my fingers are way crossed for her.
And then, after a whirlwind where we didn't really do anything but then were never bored either, in the dark of Daylight Savings Time Morning, they were gone. And that kind of sucks.
She, of course, was mildly freaked out by how nice Portlanders are, taking me back to those first months in Portland when the bagger at the grocery store really did seem to care about whether my afternoon had been going okay and how that freaked me, a verteran of Minnesota Nice. And then Lee took Portland by storm, rustling up interviews for every spare hour or four. So my fingers are way crossed for her.
And then, after a whirlwind where we didn't really do anything but then were never bored either, in the dark of Daylight Savings Time Morning, they were gone. And that kind of sucks.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
You can practically hear the sympathy.
Um, Ms. Whole Nother Day, I don't think I want to take this test.
Well, uh... who ever wants to take a test, doll?
But Ms. Day, I'm not ready!
I'm really sorry to hear that. But I've been talking about the test all week.
But Ms. Day, I'm not caught up on the homework--I haven't done any of it.
Pause. Deep breaths..
Well, now, that I can't help you with. That was a choice you made.
I was absent!
Two weeks ago. For a day. You've had plenty of time to get caught up, come in for help, and get ready. Do what you can, I guess.
Yes, this actually really, word-for-word happened. She answered one question out of 27.
Well, uh... who ever wants to take a test, doll?
But Ms. Day, I'm not ready!
I'm really sorry to hear that. But I've been talking about the test all week.
But Ms. Day, I'm not caught up on the homework--I haven't done any of it.
Pause. Deep breaths..
Well, now, that I can't help you with. That was a choice you made.
I was absent!
Two weeks ago. For a day. You've had plenty of time to get caught up, come in for help, and get ready. Do what you can, I guess.
Yes, this actually really, word-for-word happened. She answered one question out of 27.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Conferences
ARG. I hate this time of year, and it comes twice a year. I always always dread it. I spend days obsessing about the terrible things parents are about to accuse me of. (of which they're about to accuse me?)
And it's not the parents (mostly) that turns out to be the horrible part. It's the long ass long ass long ass day, the talk talk talk for three hours straight, the having to shift gears every six minutes and know on a dime how little Tina or little Charlie are doing as soon as the parents sit down.
Worse is the parents who sit down and assume you remember which child they go with because they met you back in October. Because, yeah, I can totally do that. OR NOT.
This time, of course, I did get one set of parents who said it was my fault their daughter wasn't doing homework--because I was so straightforward with her. Yes, you read that correctly, because I was straightforward with the daughter ("I won't let you go to the library if you haven't done the homework") it was now MY FAULT that they're little angel wasn't doing her work. "I'm not saying you're wrong," the dad kept repeating, "but that's why she won't work. Because you were so direct. She won't do the work now."
At that point I decided to just keep nodding and smiling, because clearly, there was no more to communicate in that conference.
And I only had two more hours to go after that.
I called Emily as I was driving home. "Go home," she said. "Make someone bring you food." So I got a pizza delivered. My ankles are elevated (and LORDY are they swollen) and I'm in my pajamas.
Two more days til the weekend. 7 more weeks of pregnancy.
And it's not the parents (mostly) that turns out to be the horrible part. It's the long ass long ass long ass day, the talk talk talk for three hours straight, the having to shift gears every six minutes and know on a dime how little Tina or little Charlie are doing as soon as the parents sit down.
Worse is the parents who sit down and assume you remember which child they go with because they met you back in October. Because, yeah, I can totally do that. OR NOT.
This time, of course, I did get one set of parents who said it was my fault their daughter wasn't doing homework--because I was so straightforward with her. Yes, you read that correctly, because I was straightforward with the daughter ("I won't let you go to the library if you haven't done the homework") it was now MY FAULT that they're little angel wasn't doing her work. "I'm not saying you're wrong," the dad kept repeating, "but that's why she won't work. Because you were so direct. She won't do the work now."
At that point I decided to just keep nodding and smiling, because clearly, there was no more to communicate in that conference.
And I only had two more hours to go after that.
I called Emily as I was driving home. "Go home," she said. "Make someone bring you food." So I got a pizza delivered. My ankles are elevated (and LORDY are they swollen) and I'm in my pajamas.
Two more days til the weekend. 7 more weeks of pregnancy.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Anal glaucoma
A coworker calls it "anal glaucoma." As in, "I just don't see my ass at work tomorrow."
I called in sick. And I'm not. Sick, I mean. I'm going to sleep in tomorrow. I'm so bad!
I called in sick. And I'm not. Sick, I mean. I'm going to sleep in tomorrow. I'm so bad!
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Weekend
I'm getting more and more nervous about how long the rain will last, once it resumes because this weekend was gor-or-or-orgeous.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Whatta week
In one week, my friends have gotten the all-clear on cancer, and two days later welcomed a new family member who is, despite the scariness at the time, healthy, strong, and sweet.
That's what you call a miracle week. Henry John is home from NICU now, and clearly okay with that.
That's what you call a miracle week. Henry John is home from NICU now, and clearly okay with that.
Road signs.
I got hit on the other day. In the car. He asked for my phone number.
Like, at a stoplight?
No, on the freeway. Well, he didn't ask for my phone number so much as hold his hand up to his ear like he was pretending to talk on the phone, and waggle his eyebrows. I think of that as asking for my phone number.
...Or he was being held at gunpoint and he was asking you to call the cops.
I prefer to think I got hit on.
Sure. Rather than, "I just killed a man."
Like, at a stoplight?
No, on the freeway. Well, he didn't ask for my phone number so much as hold his hand up to his ear like he was pretending to talk on the phone, and waggle his eyebrows. I think of that as asking for my phone number.
...Or he was being held at gunpoint and he was asking you to call the cops.
I prefer to think I got hit on.
Sure. Rather than, "I just killed a man."
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Wherein I whine like a big whiny thing.
Today has been a rough day.
Warning: TMI may follow.
Don't get me wrong--every day I'm pregnant has been miraculous and shiny and angels regularly fly out of my butt to sprinkle me with starshine and licorice. Yay, pregnant. We wanted to be here so bad, we cried so often about not being here, so we are really happy dammit to be here dammit yes happy!
But in the meantime, between angel-rectal interaction, I hurt. Walking, standing up, sitting down, going up stairs, putting on underwear, rolling over in bed, did I mention walking? and whenever I move, I feel like a wee tiny knife the size of a meat cleaver is stabbing me in my clitoral region. Which is just as fun as it sounds.
It comes and it goes, and some days are better than others. I talked to my doctor about it and Dr. Cutey McSporty referred me to physical therapy. I've started doing that twice a week in the therapy pool which dear heavens why did no one tell me the beautiful majesty of getting in a pool???? For that half-hour, I am pregnant without pain. The downside is the slloooow climb out of the pool, and that one step where The Belly must emerge and reacquaint itself with that pesky gravity shit. But in the meantime, I don't feel like a beached whale that will never walk again, so it's rejeuvenating.
I've also found this real angel (not one of my butt angels) who specializes in pre-natal massage, and for that french-lavendar-scented hour, my mind can wander along white sandy beaches to the tunes of Enya. The loose-limbed feeling even lasts for a couple days.
But then, inevitably, it comes back. The other teachers at school--for some odd torturous reason--get great glee in pointing out that I waddle, and in fact, they've been pointing it out since Christmas which is beyond awesome. And yes, I do waddle. That is because most days, from my boobs downward, I am a tightly wound solid muscle of pain.
It comes and it goes, this knife-to-the-hoo-ha fun. Today, though--today's been a bad day.
Warning: TMI may follow.
Don't get me wrong--every day I'm pregnant has been miraculous and shiny and angels regularly fly out of my butt to sprinkle me with starshine and licorice. Yay, pregnant. We wanted to be here so bad, we cried so often about not being here, so we are really happy dammit to be here dammit yes happy!
But in the meantime, between angel-rectal interaction, I hurt. Walking, standing up, sitting down, going up stairs, putting on underwear, rolling over in bed, did I mention walking? and whenever I move, I feel like a wee tiny knife the size of a meat cleaver is stabbing me in my clitoral region. Which is just as fun as it sounds.
It comes and it goes, and some days are better than others. I talked to my doctor about it and Dr. Cutey McSporty referred me to physical therapy. I've started doing that twice a week in the therapy pool which dear heavens why did no one tell me the beautiful majesty of getting in a pool???? For that half-hour, I am pregnant without pain. The downside is the slloooow climb out of the pool, and that one step where The Belly must emerge and reacquaint itself with that pesky gravity shit. But in the meantime, I don't feel like a beached whale that will never walk again, so it's rejeuvenating.
I've also found this real angel (not one of my butt angels) who specializes in pre-natal massage, and for that french-lavendar-scented hour, my mind can wander along white sandy beaches to the tunes of Enya. The loose-limbed feeling even lasts for a couple days.
But then, inevitably, it comes back. The other teachers at school--for some odd torturous reason--get great glee in pointing out that I waddle, and in fact, they've been pointing it out since Christmas which is beyond awesome. And yes, I do waddle. That is because most days, from my boobs downward, I am a tightly wound solid muscle of pain.
It comes and it goes, this knife-to-the-hoo-ha fun. Today, though--today's been a bad day.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Things I don't get or: Modern Education
So, our boys team reached state. Which, of course, necessitated a whole school assembly with much cheering and hooting and light show and band shenanigans. Oh, and! You could get excused from school today to go watch the team play! At 10:30 a.m.! Because clearly, they are students first and athletes second! And how better to show these athletes that! First, by scheduling the game at 10:30 on a Wednesday morning, then by excusing half the student body!
JV team--well, yeah, gotta go. Band? Gotta go! Support them boys! Dance team? Gotta go! Cheerleaders, of course! And then--boosters! Gotta go!
Call me old-fashioned, but I really really think that if you are failing any classes at all, you should absolutely not be excused from school to go watch. I told my AP class that they are welcome to figure out their own priorities--that's what growing up is all about--but I wasn't going to slow class down any at all just because they wanted to go watch basketball and homework was still due Thursday, period, full stop, end of story. Because that's how college works, too. But I feel the same way about my sophomores too.
I don't get these parents who are all, sure, go! to Seattle! With 100 other unchaperoned teenagers! GREAT IDEA!
Yep, I'm gonna be one of those parents.
JV team--well, yeah, gotta go. Band? Gotta go! Support them boys! Dance team? Gotta go! Cheerleaders, of course! And then--boosters! Gotta go!
Call me old-fashioned, but I really really think that if you are failing any classes at all, you should absolutely not be excused from school to go watch. I told my AP class that they are welcome to figure out their own priorities--that's what growing up is all about--but I wasn't going to slow class down any at all just because they wanted to go watch basketball and homework was still due Thursday, period, full stop, end of story. Because that's how college works, too. But I feel the same way about my sophomores too.
I don't get these parents who are all, sure, go! to Seattle! With 100 other unchaperoned teenagers! GREAT IDEA!
Yep, I'm gonna be one of those parents.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Watching the Oscars
Look, it's just like that movie we watched.
What movie?
You know, the one with the girl from Poltergeist.
The girl from Poltergeist?
No, wait. The girl from the alien movie.
Sigorney Weaver?
No, the little girl.
ET? Drew Barrymore?
Yeah! Where she takes the old man to the Oscars!
Where she...? WHAT? No. We've never seen a movie like that.
Oh, oh, I'll wait. I'll wait until you remember it and then tell me I'm right.
I swear, hon, we've never seen a movie like that.
You know, you know, the one where she goes on vacation?
...you mean The Vacation?
Ah ha! You see? Now come on, say it...
What, that you're right?
Ah ha! You see?
Well, except that Drew Barrymore's not in it, and there's no Oscars, but yes, you're right, there IS a blond girl who walks with an old man... but other than that...
Drew Barrymore's not in it?
No.
Then who is?
Kate Winslet and Cameron Diaz.
Not Drew Barrymore?
No.
And they don't go to the Oscar's?
Not really, no.
Um, oh.
But other than that, hon, you were totally right.
Ah ha!
What movie?
You know, the one with the girl from Poltergeist.
The girl from Poltergeist?
No, wait. The girl from the alien movie.
Sigorney Weaver?
No, the little girl.
ET? Drew Barrymore?
Yeah! Where she takes the old man to the Oscars!
Where she...? WHAT? No. We've never seen a movie like that.
Oh, oh, I'll wait. I'll wait until you remember it and then tell me I'm right.
I swear, hon, we've never seen a movie like that.
You know, you know, the one where she goes on vacation?
...you mean The Vacation?
Ah ha! You see? Now come on, say it...
What, that you're right?
Ah ha! You see?
Well, except that Drew Barrymore's not in it, and there's no Oscars, but yes, you're right, there IS a blond girl who walks with an old man... but other than that...
Drew Barrymore's not in it?
No.
Then who is?
Kate Winslet and Cameron Diaz.
Not Drew Barrymore?
No.
And they don't go to the Oscar's?
Not really, no.
Um, oh.
But other than that, hon, you were totally right.
Ah ha!
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Flickr update
Updated pics on Flickr, yo.
A few are marked private, for friends and family only, so if you are one of those two groups and I haven't marked you as friend or family, drop me a note and I'll fix that.
In this Flickr update--I got a brand spankin' new camera for my birthday and it is sweet. So I'm just taking pictures of, y'know, stuff. And the lunar eclipse.
Be warned--there's also belly pics on there. I'm not posting them here, because for years, belly pics just made me kind of want to cry a little bit, no matter how happy I was for someone. So I guess I didn't want to, y'know, surprise anyone with that. But I also don't want this to go undocumented. And there've been requests. So. Yeah.
I'm feeling strangely vulnerable...
A few are marked private, for friends and family only, so if you are one of those two groups and I haven't marked you as friend or family, drop me a note and I'll fix that.
In this Flickr update--I got a brand spankin' new camera for my birthday and it is sweet. So I'm just taking pictures of, y'know, stuff. And the lunar eclipse.
Be warned--there's also belly pics on there. I'm not posting them here, because for years, belly pics just made me kind of want to cry a little bit, no matter how happy I was for someone. So I guess I didn't want to, y'know, surprise anyone with that. But I also don't want this to go undocumented. And there've been requests. So. Yeah.
I'm feeling strangely vulnerable...
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
And you mean...
Him: So... how'd your doc's appointment go, babe?
Me: Oh, it was good. It was good.
Set your date yet?
Next time, next appointment.
How about your blood tests?
Oh! Yeah, so you remember how tired I've been? And I started taking the iron supplements? Even with the supplements and my prenatals, I had an iron level of 34.2. Apparently, 34 is the borderline of anemic. So, you know, no wonder I was so tired!
So maybe that would explain your attitude!
And I... what?
Um... nothing?
My attitude? What...?
I'll just be down here doing the laundry!
Me: Oh, it was good. It was good.
Set your date yet?
Next time, next appointment.
How about your blood tests?
Oh! Yeah, so you remember how tired I've been? And I started taking the iron supplements? Even with the supplements and my prenatals, I had an iron level of 34.2. Apparently, 34 is the borderline of anemic. So, you know, no wonder I was so tired!
So maybe that would explain your attitude!
And I... what?
Um... nothing?
My attitude? What...?
I'll just be down here doing the laundry!
Monday, February 18, 2008
Baby Crazy
Juno: loved it, loved it, loved it.
But not, I think, why everyone else loved it. Yes, Ellen Page? Total cutie, and I would have totall wanted to be her friend in high school but would have been way to shy to think that I could be amusing enough to hang with her. And I love JK Simmons and Allison Janney.
But what grabbed me was Jennifer Garner and Justin Bateman as the would-be adoptive parents.
Shocker, I know. I hope you were sitting down on that one.
There was a review that I had read that talked about them and the words from the review that stuck with me--I can't even remember the context now, but they had called them "immature". But I never got that feeling. And I can't tell you how relieved I am about that.
The childless couple--the baby-crazy would-be mama--is really easy to parody, to have a pre-made image in your head about what they are going to be like. For instance, Tina Fey's new movie, Baby Mama. Which might make me throw up a little in my mouth. But my friends and family have done it, too. One asked me last summer, "So, are you, like, totally baby crazy, now?" And I've never thought of myself that way. And yet, I still answered yes. Not because I'm baby crazy--I wasn't buying baby clothes in preparation (and, oddly enough, I'm still not) or yplanning baby things or even trying on imaginary baby names--but just because I wanted one, constantly. Like a constant soundtrack in a movie, that desire was just always there. But I couldn't explain that at the time, in the noisy bar we were in, how that is, but it isn't, baby crazy.
The Jennifer Garner character reminded me of that. Of that really delicate balance you try to maintain, that game face that's almost always on, that doesn't deny your desire but also can't really let the full impact of it show. But how it sneaks out, at times. And how that's mistaken for blindness/baby crazy/immaturity. I was well impressed with the movie, how the sort of complexity of her desire wasn't simplified to snark or slapstick or pathos.
I've been thinking about it a lot because recently I've been sort of backhandedly(really, not so backhandedly) called "crazy" for the path we took to expand our family and I can't shake it. I can't shake how much it hurt to have months of agonizing about decisions, each new decision a new path of "Should we do this?" soul searching between me and Andrew, reduced to "crazy". I guess I'd not be surprised by that comment from a stranger who hadn't ever talked to me, but that's not the case here. I feel like a movie had more empathy for how unfriendly conception can be, and how personal the process is, than a friend.
In the end, I guess, it's a mindframe no one understand unless they are open to it. Blessed are they who try.
But not, I think, why everyone else loved it. Yes, Ellen Page? Total cutie, and I would have totall wanted to be her friend in high school but would have been way to shy to think that I could be amusing enough to hang with her. And I love JK Simmons and Allison Janney.
But what grabbed me was Jennifer Garner and Justin Bateman as the would-be adoptive parents.
Shocker, I know. I hope you were sitting down on that one.
There was a review that I had read that talked about them and the words from the review that stuck with me--I can't even remember the context now, but they had called them "immature". But I never got that feeling. And I can't tell you how relieved I am about that.
The childless couple--the baby-crazy would-be mama--is really easy to parody, to have a pre-made image in your head about what they are going to be like. For instance, Tina Fey's new movie, Baby Mama. Which might make me throw up a little in my mouth. But my friends and family have done it, too. One asked me last summer, "So, are you, like, totally baby crazy, now?" And I've never thought of myself that way. And yet, I still answered yes. Not because I'm baby crazy--I wasn't buying baby clothes in preparation (and, oddly enough, I'm still not) or yplanning baby things or even trying on imaginary baby names--but just because I wanted one, constantly. Like a constant soundtrack in a movie, that desire was just always there. But I couldn't explain that at the time, in the noisy bar we were in, how that is, but it isn't, baby crazy.
The Jennifer Garner character reminded me of that. Of that really delicate balance you try to maintain, that game face that's almost always on, that doesn't deny your desire but also can't really let the full impact of it show. But how it sneaks out, at times. And how that's mistaken for blindness/baby crazy/immaturity. I was well impressed with the movie, how the sort of complexity of her desire wasn't simplified to snark or slapstick or pathos.
I've been thinking about it a lot because recently I've been sort of backhandedly(really, not so backhandedly) called "crazy" for the path we took to expand our family and I can't shake it. I can't shake how much it hurt to have months of agonizing about decisions, each new decision a new path of "Should we do this?" soul searching between me and Andrew, reduced to "crazy". I guess I'd not be surprised by that comment from a stranger who hadn't ever talked to me, but that's not the case here. I feel like a movie had more empathy for how unfriendly conception can be, and how personal the process is, than a friend.
In the end, I guess, it's a mindframe no one understand unless they are open to it. Blessed are they who try.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
It's like a far-away jail for clothes that are bad--they just need to learn their lesson before they are bailed out
Hello, is this Kari?
Yes, this is she...
Hi, this is the dry cleaners down the street. We have some of your clothes.
You do? Thinking furiously about when the hell was the last time I tool anything in to be dry cleaned???
Yes. Pause. From August 2006.
There's the answer to that question, then... I can just come get it then?
That would be good.
My husband will be right there.
From the back of the house He most certainly will not!
Thanks. We'll have them waiting. They're already paid for, if that helps.
Thanks for calling.
Turns out, it was two things of Andrew's. But I guess I still can't blame this on pregnancy brain.
----------
Sent from my Verizon Wireless LGVX9900 device.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
How I know he loves me
What's more, how I know he knows me. Behold, a surprise valentine's day gift.
After, I might point out, we had agreed not to spend any money on Valentine's day. One day, I'll actually remember that whenever Andrew makes me promise that, he's totally lying.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Saturday, February 09, 2008
How lazy am I?
So, that cooking thing? Hasn't gone so well this week. Last weekend was full, wall to wall. Then Monday I had to work late, Tuesday I was in training until 4 and then went to class; Wednesday I had a geek squad meet (they won, natch!) that WE hosted so I didn't leave school until almost 7, so by Thursday I was almost paralyzed with pain. Walking--don't make me laugh, I might spit up. Standing made me feel like I was going to split apart in a viscerally painful way.
So, yeah, we've had to cancel the hippie box until further notice. I can buy our fresh veggies as needed.
So, yeah, we've had to cancel the hippie box until further notice. I can buy our fresh veggies as needed.
lazy post
Dude. My favorite ad. I stop to watch it whenever I'm fast-forwarding on my DVR.
And then, part two.
Love them. Love them both.
And then, part two.
Love them. Love them both.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Teachering Indignation
Thursday: Last day for students to get help before finals. Thirty two students decide they need help THAT DAY. Twenty eight of them for the first time all semester. One of them stays to ask one question about something from chapter 2 (covered in October), and when I don't sit down with her one on one for a private tutoring session, gets up and leaves. Ten minutes later I get a call from her mom.
"Haley* said she tried to get help but couldn't get help."
"There are over two dozen other students in here right now, so I couldn't sit down with her, but she was welcome to stay."
"Well then, what should she do?"
Options running through my head: (a) invent a time machine and go back to Wake The Fuck Up Day (b) suck it up and actually do the homework that had been assigned back in the day, or, even, y'know, yesterday (c) find someone else to ask.
I went with option c. "Maybe she could ask her math teacher from last year? Or she could come back."
But seriously, dude.
Because not an hour later there was an all-user email from one of the counselors. "Math teachers--are any of you doing study sessions for finals? Because I've had a lot of students crying in my office."
First of all: did that REALLY need to be sent to all the teachers and staff at school? I guess those social studies teachers really needed to know that us math teachers were SLACKING. Second of all: um, YEAH. Because you know when I read that email? AT SIX-THIRTY, when I STILL hadn't left school because I'd been helping students until after four.
(Okay, many people from not-education maybe be saying, four? POOR BABY. Except that I'd been there, helping teenagers since before seven, with only twenty minutes where I was talking to adults during lunch. I was done. BEYOND done.)
And might I add? ONE of those students with a sudden need to talk exponents? Was the counselor's own daughter.
---
*Not her real name. Not to say that it couldn't be her name, but it wasn't. No, I swear! It wasn't!
"Haley* said she tried to get help but couldn't get help."
"There are over two dozen other students in here right now, so I couldn't sit down with her, but she was welcome to stay."
"Well then, what should she do?"
Options running through my head: (a) invent a time machine and go back to Wake The Fuck Up Day (b) suck it up and actually do the homework that had been assigned back in the day, or, even, y'know, yesterday (c) find someone else to ask.
I went with option c. "Maybe she could ask her math teacher from last year? Or she could come back."
But seriously, dude.
Because not an hour later there was an all-user email from one of the counselors. "Math teachers--are any of you doing study sessions for finals? Because I've had a lot of students crying in my office."
First of all: did that REALLY need to be sent to all the teachers and staff at school? I guess those social studies teachers really needed to know that us math teachers were SLACKING. Second of all: um, YEAH. Because you know when I read that email? AT SIX-THIRTY, when I STILL hadn't left school because I'd been helping students until after four.
(Okay, many people from not-education maybe be saying, four? POOR BABY. Except that I'd been there, helping teenagers since before seven, with only twenty minutes where I was talking to adults during lunch. I was done. BEYOND done.)
And might I add? ONE of those students with a sudden need to talk exponents? Was the counselor's own daughter.
---
*Not her real name. Not to say that it couldn't be her name, but it wasn't. No, I swear! It wasn't!
Sunday, January 20, 2008
holiday madnesses
See all those stockings? Pretty impressive. Especially considering that two of them are over thirty years old, and three of them are under a year old.
There was also a surprise: inside my stocking, a wee little red-and-white baby bootie, adorned with our baby's name on it. Get it? Because he's still inside me? So his stocking is inside mine?
My mom, dad and sister had been giggling to themselves for three days about that before I was told to look in my stocking.
Also note the menorah on the mantel (which totally sounds like a cheesy holiday album: Menorah on the Mantle: Seasonal Songs for Your Mixed Family). Gail held eight-week-old Ellie up to it and said, "Look, sweetie! that's for the Jew in you!"
Click on the picture for more.
There was also a surprise: inside my stocking, a wee little red-and-white baby bootie, adorned with our baby's name on it. Get it? Because he's still inside me? So his stocking is inside mine?
My mom, dad and sister had been giggling to themselves for three days about that before I was told to look in my stocking.
Also note the menorah on the mantel (which totally sounds like a cheesy holiday album: Menorah on the Mantle: Seasonal Songs for Your Mixed Family). Gail held eight-week-old Ellie up to it and said, "Look, sweetie! that's for the Jew in you!"
Click on the picture for more.
short story
Getting ready to go out:
Him: "Hey, why don't you wear that giant shirt your mom gave you for Christmas?"
Me: "Giant?"
Him: "You know, I heard that coming out of my mouth and thought, who's editing this stuff?"
Me: "Giant?"
Him: "Very attractive and long maternity shirt."
Me: "GIANT?"
Him: "Hey, why don't you wear that giant shirt your mom gave you for Christmas?"
Me: "Giant?"
Him: "You know, I heard that coming out of my mouth and thought, who's editing this stuff?"
Me: "Giant?"
Him: "Very attractive and long maternity shirt."
Me: "GIANT?"
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Things they never tell you about teachering and pregnancy
- Teenagers, assuming they like you, will at some point get comfortable enough that they will ask you very personal questions. Not the ones you are mildly prepared to be "surprised" by, but ones that you will have no prepared answer for. "Do you have kids?" "Why not?" "Do you want them?" "When will you have them?" And countless variations that there's just no preparing for. And no amount of saying, "That's a very personal question, and none of your business" will suffice, because that's only one period's worth of teenagers. You have five periods a day, and then there's a whole new semester's worth coming in January.
- Once you get pregnant, teenagers get very upset if you don't tell them personally. If, say, you tell one class and you don't tell another. (How do you "announce" your pregnancy to a room full of 30 hormonally challenged young adults, anyway?) I'm just saying.
- Teenagers also think you will instantly be giving birth. When you tell them that you won't be gone until say, April (and late April at that!) they are shocked and surprised. Apparently they expected you to be on maternity leave in the next four weeks.
- You know how pregnant women get swollen ankles? Try teachering. Oh dear heaven.
- It's really hard to convince yourself to sit more and still be a teacher.
- Perhaps not surprising, but still not something that had occurred to me: the prospect of naming is very important to students. They will offer suggestions almost daily, usually suggestions that are very very very close to their own name. And the weirdness of the suggestion of naming your child after a student will completely escape them.
- If you start to experience SPD, teaching will suuuuck. Every, every day.
- After all of that, you will be surprised every day with how much these teenagers care. Not really surprising, maybe, given how concerned they are with other, more earthy aspects of reproduction, but at the same time, there will be moments of absolute charm. Some of these kids will delight in your progress. Some, girls especially, will privately and timidly ask if they can touch your belly. They will take paramount interest in if you are having a boy or a girl. Some, that you don't have in class at all, and haven't for two years, will hear from someone who heard from someone that you are pregnant and will come by just to say how happy they are for you.
And then they'll ask you to name the baby after them.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
With much stamping of feet, and rending of garments
I'm not ready.
I'm not reeeeaddy.
Don't send me back there!
This past week has been a week of decadence. I have watched more football than I thought possible (go blue!). Apparently, getting a big fat ol hdtv television (thank you, Oregon, for your very bizarre kicker check law...) makes you watch more sports than you ever have in the rest of your life put together. There's only a few HDTV channels on our cable but the sports! Dear heaven, the sports! It's like being able to see every single blade of grass! Sometimes, I like just watching the little ESPN ticker tape that goes along the bottom because the clarity gives me chills.
Of course, as a result, I know all about the Dolphins coach getting the axe and how surprised the Ravens coach was to get fired, I'm know the results of pretty much every single college bowl game, and I'm following the basketball schedules of several different cities across the country. I'm not proud, I'm just addicted.
I guess.
Another way to look at it: I've been battling a severe case of fatigue. For a while. I was tired in the first trimester, but rumor has it, that's normal. Everyone told me that, hey after the first trimester, it all gets much easier! And it hasn't. It just hasn't. I feel like I've been walking around in a fog for the past six months--not sleeping well, but never actually awake. Or if I am awake, it's not for long, and then I'm back to monosyllables and looking for an activity that involves a lot of couch sitting. Holding conversations becomes a heavy task.
So I had my 5month appointment last week (a couple weeks late) and talked to my doctor about it, and I've taken some tests and have some new supplements and hopefully that will help.
In the meantime, my lovely lovely lovely winter break is just a few hours from being over, and I'm getting the shakes because I'm really not ready.
You can't make me go! You can't maaaaaake me!
I'm not reeeeaddy.
Don't send me back there!
This past week has been a week of decadence. I have watched more football than I thought possible (go blue!). Apparently, getting a big fat ol hdtv television (thank you, Oregon, for your very bizarre kicker check law...) makes you watch more sports than you ever have in the rest of your life put together. There's only a few HDTV channels on our cable but the sports! Dear heaven, the sports! It's like being able to see every single blade of grass! Sometimes, I like just watching the little ESPN ticker tape that goes along the bottom because the clarity gives me chills.
Of course, as a result, I know all about the Dolphins coach getting the axe and how surprised the Ravens coach was to get fired, I'm know the results of pretty much every single college bowl game, and I'm following the basketball schedules of several different cities across the country. I'm not proud, I'm just addicted.
I guess.
Another way to look at it: I've been battling a severe case of fatigue. For a while. I was tired in the first trimester, but rumor has it, that's normal. Everyone told me that, hey after the first trimester, it all gets much easier! And it hasn't. It just hasn't. I feel like I've been walking around in a fog for the past six months--not sleeping well, but never actually awake. Or if I am awake, it's not for long, and then I'm back to monosyllables and looking for an activity that involves a lot of couch sitting. Holding conversations becomes a heavy task.
So I had my 5month appointment last week (a couple weeks late) and talked to my doctor about it, and I've taken some tests and have some new supplements and hopefully that will help.
In the meantime, my lovely lovely lovely winter break is just a few hours from being over, and I'm getting the shakes because I'm really not ready.
You can't make me go! You can't maaaaaake me!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Goodbye and Hello
Dear 2007,
I've been writing this letter in my head to you for a while now, but it gets all jumbled about halfway through, so pardon me if this gets a little confusing.
2007, it's time for us to part ways. I've been thinking about a way to salvage our relationship and you know what? It's not worth it. Yeah, you've had your moments, but let's be honest here, some last-minute good deeds from you really can't make up for the craptastic way you've treated me and mine.
Put it this way: it's not me, it's you.
In so many ways, 2007, you really deserve to be taken into a dark alley and have the crap kicked out of you.
Yeah, you've delivered some good news--happy healthy babies (Maisie, Zoe, Elspeth, Teo, Lewis, Adam, Ellie)--but note those were to other people. You promised me a whole lot right up front, 2007, and then totally reneged in the worst way possible. Don't try to say this is made up for now, because it's not and it won't be. 2008 is totally gonna get credit for this--knock wood--so don't even try it.
You, 2007, are responsible for so much crap that it's a wonder you even dare show your calendar pages. And what you've done to my friends? No. The damage is irreperable.
So don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.
Sincerely, oh, so very sincerely,
me.
Dear 2008,
The bar was set pretty low for you. Just be better than 2007, and you'll be, like, the best year ever.
Bring some cancer-free days for my friend, some anxiety-free days for my grandmother, some care-free days for my mother, and you're off to a great start. And there might be one or two special deliveries this spring that you could bring to make me your biggest fan ever.
Pretty please? Because after this past year? Totally deserve it.
Thanks,
me.
I've been writing this letter in my head to you for a while now, but it gets all jumbled about halfway through, so pardon me if this gets a little confusing.
2007, it's time for us to part ways. I've been thinking about a way to salvage our relationship and you know what? It's not worth it. Yeah, you've had your moments, but let's be honest here, some last-minute good deeds from you really can't make up for the craptastic way you've treated me and mine.
Put it this way: it's not me, it's you.
In so many ways, 2007, you really deserve to be taken into a dark alley and have the crap kicked out of you.
Yeah, you've delivered some good news--happy healthy babies (Maisie, Zoe, Elspeth, Teo, Lewis, Adam, Ellie)--but note those were to other people. You promised me a whole lot right up front, 2007, and then totally reneged in the worst way possible. Don't try to say this is made up for now, because it's not and it won't be. 2008 is totally gonna get credit for this--knock wood--so don't even try it.
You, 2007, are responsible for so much crap that it's a wonder you even dare show your calendar pages. And what you've done to my friends? No. The damage is irreperable.
So don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.
Sincerely, oh, so very sincerely,
me.
Dear 2008,
The bar was set pretty low for you. Just be better than 2007, and you'll be, like, the best year ever.
Bring some cancer-free days for my friend, some anxiety-free days for my grandmother, some care-free days for my mother, and you're off to a great start. And there might be one or two special deliveries this spring that you could bring to make me your biggest fan ever.
Pretty please? Because after this past year? Totally deserve it.
Thanks,
me.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
The verdict is in.
So... what do you think? Boy or girl?
---
When I got pregnant--and stayed pregnant--I swore this time I'd pick a good doctor. Not a doctor, who, upon hearing you were bleeding, sticks a dildo cam in you and then, making eye contact with the ultrasound screen, says, "Well, it's empty all right." For example. No, I was going to pick a good doctor.
I did research. I knew I wanted to be at a place near my home. There's a big ginormous hospital that's twenty blocks from our home, and I knew I wanted to be there. So I searched and searched for any recomendations of any office that did work there. And I got a name and a rec for an office there, where people said, "Get Dr. X, but if you can't, their whole office is great." So I called the office, just on the off chance they were accepting new patients. And not only where they, but when I asked which doctor I'd be seeing, the receptionist said, "Dr. X!" I said, "Reeeeally?" and the receptionist said, "Yeah, she actually has an opening, so I thought I'd slot you in there. And since you're a teacher--" we'd been talking for quite a while at this point, we were buds, almost... "since you're a teacher, why don't I just schedule you out as far as I can so that we can grab those afternoon slots for you? You can always cancel them later."
So this doctor, Dr. X, with her sporty self, has been my dream doctor. Her office, my dream office. Dreamy dreamy dreamy.
---
I was in for my 3rd monthly appointment, just like a regular prego. I got to see what the non-expensive way to hear the baby was like--like a wee transistor radio! with a microphone! that's CRAZY! and see the inanity of the first few months appointments. You mean... I come in, pee in a cup, get weighed (actually, annoyingly enough: it's usually the other way around), get my blood pressure taken and then as a reward hear the heartbeat... and that's IT? No blood, no prescription, no internal ultrasound or dyes or tests or... I can leave my pants ON? (except, of course, while peeing)
Weird.
Anyway. So Dr. X is going over how the appointments work... "...and then you'll come in and we'll do a first ultrasound." "Actually, it'll be like my fifth." "Well, yeah, there's that, but it'll be the first one here." "That's where we find out if it's a boy or girl?!?!" "Um, usually we use it to look at, you know, is the heart working properly and there's two ARMS and two LEGS, is there a BRAIN AT ALL... nothing very IMPORTANT." "Yeah, yeah, yeah, AND THEN WE FIND OUT THE GENDER!"
Pause.
Completely, deadpan: "So, I take it you'll want to know then."
I heart her, very very much.
---
The ultrasound tech is a hyped up whippet thin woman who is in constant motion. She wields the roll-on-deodorant-like magic thingy with the assured hand of someone who's done this twenty times a day for ten years. Swooping left and right, up and down, curving and winding in to get the best view, she whips through a tour of our baking baby. "See that? Kidneys... and here... that's the stomach, full of fluid. And that grey line... right... there that's the diaphragm..." Andrew and I look at each other and grin. "if you say so!" I say. "I keep making this stuff up and no one's caught me yet," she grins.
We wander through our baby's anatomy. Spine, ghostly ribs, faint but rhythmic heart, like a fist clenching and unclenching faster than I could imagine. And then: the money shot.
"You sure you want to know?"
"Definitely."
So are your bets in? What do you think?
...
We spent the last ten minutes of the appointment just watching our baby, at rest and then in motion. Arching spine one minute, faintly swimming the next, striking an American Idol pose the next. The foot, she said, measures one and a half inches. Are you doing what I did? Have you lifted your hand to put your thumb and finger an inch and a half apart? Are you imagining a tiny little foot, with tiny little toes, stretching between your fingers?
---
He's gonna have big feet. :)
---
When I got pregnant--and stayed pregnant--I swore this time I'd pick a good doctor. Not a doctor, who, upon hearing you were bleeding, sticks a dildo cam in you and then, making eye contact with the ultrasound screen, says, "Well, it's empty all right." For example. No, I was going to pick a good doctor.
I did research. I knew I wanted to be at a place near my home. There's a big ginormous hospital that's twenty blocks from our home, and I knew I wanted to be there. So I searched and searched for any recomendations of any office that did work there. And I got a name and a rec for an office there, where people said, "Get Dr. X, but if you can't, their whole office is great." So I called the office, just on the off chance they were accepting new patients. And not only where they, but when I asked which doctor I'd be seeing, the receptionist said, "Dr. X!" I said, "Reeeeally?" and the receptionist said, "Yeah, she actually has an opening, so I thought I'd slot you in there. And since you're a teacher--" we'd been talking for quite a while at this point, we were buds, almost... "since you're a teacher, why don't I just schedule you out as far as I can so that we can grab those afternoon slots for you? You can always cancel them later."
So this doctor, Dr. X, with her sporty self, has been my dream doctor. Her office, my dream office. Dreamy dreamy dreamy.
---
I was in for my 3rd monthly appointment, just like a regular prego. I got to see what the non-expensive way to hear the baby was like--like a wee transistor radio! with a microphone! that's CRAZY! and see the inanity of the first few months appointments. You mean... I come in, pee in a cup, get weighed (actually, annoyingly enough: it's usually the other way around), get my blood pressure taken and then as a reward hear the heartbeat... and that's IT? No blood, no prescription, no internal ultrasound or dyes or tests or... I can leave my pants ON? (except, of course, while peeing)
Weird.
Anyway. So Dr. X is going over how the appointments work... "...and then you'll come in and we'll do a first ultrasound." "Actually, it'll be like my fifth." "Well, yeah, there's that, but it'll be the first one here." "That's where we find out if it's a boy or girl?!?!" "Um, usually we use it to look at, you know, is the heart working properly and there's two ARMS and two LEGS, is there a BRAIN AT ALL... nothing very IMPORTANT." "Yeah, yeah, yeah, AND THEN WE FIND OUT THE GENDER!"
Pause.
Completely, deadpan: "So, I take it you'll want to know then."
I heart her, very very much.
---
The ultrasound tech is a hyped up whippet thin woman who is in constant motion. She wields the roll-on-deodorant-like magic thingy with the assured hand of someone who's done this twenty times a day for ten years. Swooping left and right, up and down, curving and winding in to get the best view, she whips through a tour of our baking baby. "See that? Kidneys... and here... that's the stomach, full of fluid. And that grey line... right... there that's the diaphragm..." Andrew and I look at each other and grin. "if you say so!" I say. "I keep making this stuff up and no one's caught me yet," she grins.
We wander through our baby's anatomy. Spine, ghostly ribs, faint but rhythmic heart, like a fist clenching and unclenching faster than I could imagine. And then: the money shot.
"You sure you want to know?"
"Definitely."
So are your bets in? What do you think?
...
We spent the last ten minutes of the appointment just watching our baby, at rest and then in motion. Arching spine one minute, faintly swimming the next, striking an American Idol pose the next. The foot, she said, measures one and a half inches. Are you doing what I did? Have you lifted your hand to put your thumb and finger an inch and a half apart? Are you imagining a tiny little foot, with tiny little toes, stretching between your fingers?
---
He's gonna have big feet. :)
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Thankful.
We settled down to watch a movie (a really really boring one, as it turned out), Andrew had started a fire in the fireplace, the Christmas lights were on the front porch, and the room smelled like fire smoke and cinnamon.
"We have a pretty good life," Andrew said, a little dreamily.
We pretty much do.
---
I was sitting at my computer when suddenly a sharp pain knifed through my right side. A few quick ripples, like aftershocks, then it was gone as if it had never been. Andrew's head whipped around at my gasp, at the ready to do whatever I needed--bandaids! call 911! catch me as I fainted!--but all I could do was tilt my head, my hand at my side.
I think--I think I just felt the baby!
He couldn't have come over faster than if I had actually fainted. Really? he wanted to know. Where? What did it feel like?
I put my hand up his sweatshirt, palm facing out, and then fluttered my fingertips against the fleecy inside of his shirt, three, four times. A little like that. He put his hands against my abdomen, a little below my ribcage. Is this normal? A little early, I told him. And now I may not feel anything for days. But I did. I felt it.
After a while, he went back to what he'd been working on before, I returned to my blogroll. And just then I gasped again, as that flutter punch came back.
His head whipped around again, worried, until he saw me smiling like a goof.
Stop gasping like that, it scares me!
You try being punched from the inside and see how you gasp.
He looked at me and smiled. Good point.
---
I haven't written for days because I'm not sure where I am. After so long having identy as Can't Get (or Rather, Stay) Pregnant, I haven't yet grown into Pregnant. Pregnant is still other people.
School is one long maddening hell right now. I don't know what it is this year--different kids, more tired, whatever--I'm just not enjoying it at all. We're twelve weeks into the year, 24 more weeks to go, and I feel like I will never be caught up. For type A little ol me, that's a big fat recipe for stress dreams (wherein it's been discovered that a clerical error means I don't have credit for high school geometry and must take it to retain my college degree and the teacher I'm taking it from refuses to teach me and all the kids say, "See? this is why we don't like YOU as a teacher either!") and heartburn.
And I'm in a weird stage. I can't go out and get a glass of wine (or even faux-wine) with friends or even really stay out late anymore (I'm wiped by 10:30), but also I'm not yet a mother and so still open to the "Just wait and see!" that well-meaning already-parenting friends and family like to pour. Just wait and see... how tiring the first three months are ... how hard it is to leave your child and go to work ... how much weight you gain. I know they mean well--or at least, most do.
Oddly enough, though, the "Just wait and see!" game is never about happy things.
I had one teacher come up to me, out of nowhere, and tell me, "Oh, don't worry hon, before I was done, I weighed 197 pounds!" I was refilling my water bottle in the staff workroom at the time. Note that I was NOT talking to anyone about pregnancy, weight, or pregnancy weight. Plus--"Oh, hon, I weighed more than 197 pounds before I got pregnant, so I'm pretty sure I'll be more." And then I left the room.
There's still a weird chasm between those who have kids and me, where with rare exception (*cough*Em*cough*Leah*cough*) communication feels really one-sided. And I'm worried about losing touch with the friends who don't have kids. And plus, I just feel really uninteresting right now. My world is eating, sleeping, and grading. Who enjoys that?
---
Despite my bitching--because what else is a blog for?--we are really happy. This past week, we made a tour of daycare centers in Portland. Yes, I'm not even five months pregnant, and we were touring daycare centers. Note that of the three we went to, only one could guarantee us a spot for next fall. Staying home, at this time, isn't really a great choice for our family unit and as much as I know it'll suck and I'll cry and feel like a horrible person and probably reexamine how much I really want to teach, we want to be prepared with daycare. And we've got one place for sure, and will likely get into the much better place as well. Just a few checks (the first of many, I know, but after the major bucks we've spent to get this far, really, we laugh! we laugh at these puny checks!) and we've guaranteed our spots on the waiting lists.
Andrew is over the moon about everything, and likes nothing more than to chart the daily progress of my belly, my bellybutton, my breasts. At Thanksgiving, at our annual Go Around of What Are You Thankful For (that almost everybody, mostly guys, moan and groan about, but I think everyone secretly really likes), we all got to be thankful. Andrew summed it up nicely. "I'm thankful for all my friends and family. I'm thankful for maternity pants. And larger bras."
I'm thankful too. I'm thankful for the smell of fire smoke and cinnamon, and for maternity pants and larger bras. I'm thankful for friends who get the weird netherworld I'm in at the moment and meet halfway. I'm thankful that Christmas break is three weeks away. I'm thankful for the first communication from our little mystery package. I'm beyond thankful that I get to struggle to find my place in this identity at all.
"We have a pretty good life," Andrew said, a little dreamily.
We pretty much do.
---
I was sitting at my computer when suddenly a sharp pain knifed through my right side. A few quick ripples, like aftershocks, then it was gone as if it had never been. Andrew's head whipped around at my gasp, at the ready to do whatever I needed--bandaids! call 911! catch me as I fainted!--but all I could do was tilt my head, my hand at my side.
I think--I think I just felt the baby!
He couldn't have come over faster than if I had actually fainted. Really? he wanted to know. Where? What did it feel like?
I put my hand up his sweatshirt, palm facing out, and then fluttered my fingertips against the fleecy inside of his shirt, three, four times. A little like that. He put his hands against my abdomen, a little below my ribcage. Is this normal? A little early, I told him. And now I may not feel anything for days. But I did. I felt it.
After a while, he went back to what he'd been working on before, I returned to my blogroll. And just then I gasped again, as that flutter punch came back.
His head whipped around again, worried, until he saw me smiling like a goof.
Stop gasping like that, it scares me!
You try being punched from the inside and see how you gasp.
He looked at me and smiled. Good point.
---
I haven't written for days because I'm not sure where I am. After so long having identy as Can't Get (or Rather, Stay) Pregnant, I haven't yet grown into Pregnant. Pregnant is still other people.
School is one long maddening hell right now. I don't know what it is this year--different kids, more tired, whatever--I'm just not enjoying it at all. We're twelve weeks into the year, 24 more weeks to go, and I feel like I will never be caught up. For type A little ol me, that's a big fat recipe for stress dreams (wherein it's been discovered that a clerical error means I don't have credit for high school geometry and must take it to retain my college degree and the teacher I'm taking it from refuses to teach me and all the kids say, "See? this is why we don't like YOU as a teacher either!") and heartburn.
And I'm in a weird stage. I can't go out and get a glass of wine (or even faux-wine) with friends or even really stay out late anymore (I'm wiped by 10:30), but also I'm not yet a mother and so still open to the "Just wait and see!" that well-meaning already-parenting friends and family like to pour. Just wait and see... how tiring the first three months are ... how hard it is to leave your child and go to work ... how much weight you gain. I know they mean well--or at least, most do.
Oddly enough, though, the "Just wait and see!" game is never about happy things.
I had one teacher come up to me, out of nowhere, and tell me, "Oh, don't worry hon, before I was done, I weighed 197 pounds!" I was refilling my water bottle in the staff workroom at the time. Note that I was NOT talking to anyone about pregnancy, weight, or pregnancy weight. Plus--"Oh, hon, I weighed more than 197 pounds before I got pregnant, so I'm pretty sure I'll be more." And then I left the room.
There's still a weird chasm between those who have kids and me, where with rare exception (*cough*Em*cough*Leah*cough*) communication feels really one-sided. And I'm worried about losing touch with the friends who don't have kids. And plus, I just feel really uninteresting right now. My world is eating, sleeping, and grading. Who enjoys that?
---
Despite my bitching--because what else is a blog for?--we are really happy. This past week, we made a tour of daycare centers in Portland. Yes, I'm not even five months pregnant, and we were touring daycare centers. Note that of the three we went to, only one could guarantee us a spot for next fall. Staying home, at this time, isn't really a great choice for our family unit and as much as I know it'll suck and I'll cry and feel like a horrible person and probably reexamine how much I really want to teach, we want to be prepared with daycare. And we've got one place for sure, and will likely get into the much better place as well. Just a few checks (the first of many, I know, but after the major bucks we've spent to get this far, really, we laugh! we laugh at these puny checks!) and we've guaranteed our spots on the waiting lists.
Andrew is over the moon about everything, and likes nothing more than to chart the daily progress of my belly, my bellybutton, my breasts. At Thanksgiving, at our annual Go Around of What Are You Thankful For (that almost everybody, mostly guys, moan and groan about, but I think everyone secretly really likes), we all got to be thankful. Andrew summed it up nicely. "I'm thankful for all my friends and family. I'm thankful for maternity pants. And larger bras."
I'm thankful too. I'm thankful for the smell of fire smoke and cinnamon, and for maternity pants and larger bras. I'm thankful for friends who get the weird netherworld I'm in at the moment and meet halfway. I'm thankful that Christmas break is three weeks away. I'm thankful for the first communication from our little mystery package. I'm beyond thankful that I get to struggle to find my place in this identity at all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
