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"
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