Dear Phisherman,
Birth Control?! Are you kidding me? Wouldn’t my visiting sites like Babycenter.com and Fitpregnancy.com be a slight clue? Erm, let me get this kid out before I think about birth control, okay?
Sincerely,
Monkey Brain
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
The Church of the Holy Endorphins, Northern CA Parish
When I was growing up, our Sunday ritual revolved around the morning Eucharist at St. John’s Episcopal Church, two blocks from our house. I wore my red leather Mary Janes on special occasions, and counted the big hats on Easter Sunday, but most of my time was spent sitting at my parents’ feet, drawing on the weekly program with one of the many pens that my father always carried in his suit, perhaps for this specific purpose. After church there was coffee hour in the Parish Hall, which was only memorable to me in that when I was three, I walked into a stray cigarette that was about toddler cheek height. I actually don’t remember the event, just the cigarette shaped slight crater in my cheek today that always reminds me of church.
Aaaannnyyyywhoo.
We had a core social group of a few other couples and their kids: The Cordes’, the Stewarts, and the Bradleys. We spent many holidays together over the years; in addition to the religious connection, we found a social network for our family.
I think about church a lot now that I’m a parent, as well as ritual, especially now that the holiday season is beginning. While Josh is Jewish, from what I gather he did not have similar formal traditions and rituals to what I experienced growing up. That was one thing that was so appealing about him, that holidays were not so dependent on having a specific ritual. Sometimes rituals can be tiring, and for a while, I wanted a break.
Parenting has brought out some of the ritual in me. At this time, we’ve decided to forgo formal religious institutions, but we do have a weekend tradition. Every Saturday morning (barring illness, morning sickness, or pre-relative cleaning frenzies), we load up the car and drive to a local park, where we attend Stroller Strides, our “mom & baby” (and dads) fitness class.
We don’t wear the big hats and Mary Janes of my childhood, but I do make sure to have my trusty visor to shield against the sun, and a solid pair of running shoes.
We don’t have hymns, but we do sing songs to help us through the prayer of resistance bands: “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”
We don’t have the blood or body of Christ, but we do have sweat pouring down our bodies, and G2 and granola bars to re-fuel after class.
We don’t have the coffee hour in the parish hall, but we do have abs and stretching by the playground as our kids get their own workout after spending an hour in their strollers.
We don’t have the Christmas Pageant, or Palm Sunday, or an Easter Egg Hunt, but we do have holiday themed circuit training (tomorrow is the Halloween class, so we'll be doing pumpkin squats or something like that)
Stroller Strides, much like church, has gotten me through some big fears. Fear of exercising in front of people (SS is at a park that is usually filled with our future fellow parishioners, “Temple of the Saturday morning Soccer Match,”), fear of running, pushing through the nausea to find that exercise can help.
Last Saturday, we hosted a small pumpkin carving party, and as some of my fellow Stroller Striders and I chatted while our kids raced around our yard, covered in washable marker from decorating pumpkins and piling on top of one another into the hammock, I felt so happy and realized that for now, our quirky kind of church will do just fine.
Aaaannnyyyywhoo.
We had a core social group of a few other couples and their kids: The Cordes’, the Stewarts, and the Bradleys. We spent many holidays together over the years; in addition to the religious connection, we found a social network for our family.
I think about church a lot now that I’m a parent, as well as ritual, especially now that the holiday season is beginning. While Josh is Jewish, from what I gather he did not have similar formal traditions and rituals to what I experienced growing up. That was one thing that was so appealing about him, that holidays were not so dependent on having a specific ritual. Sometimes rituals can be tiring, and for a while, I wanted a break.
Parenting has brought out some of the ritual in me. At this time, we’ve decided to forgo formal religious institutions, but we do have a weekend tradition. Every Saturday morning (barring illness, morning sickness, or pre-relative cleaning frenzies), we load up the car and drive to a local park, where we attend Stroller Strides, our “mom & baby” (and dads) fitness class.
We don’t wear the big hats and Mary Janes of my childhood, but I do make sure to have my trusty visor to shield against the sun, and a solid pair of running shoes.
We don’t have hymns, but we do sing songs to help us through the prayer of resistance bands: “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”
We don’t have the blood or body of Christ, but we do have sweat pouring down our bodies, and G2 and granola bars to re-fuel after class.
We don’t have the coffee hour in the parish hall, but we do have abs and stretching by the playground as our kids get their own workout after spending an hour in their strollers.
We don’t have the Christmas Pageant, or Palm Sunday, or an Easter Egg Hunt, but we do have holiday themed circuit training (tomorrow is the Halloween class, so we'll be doing pumpkin squats or something like that)
Stroller Strides, much like church, has gotten me through some big fears. Fear of exercising in front of people (SS is at a park that is usually filled with our future fellow parishioners, “Temple of the Saturday morning Soccer Match,”), fear of running, pushing through the nausea to find that exercise can help.
Last Saturday, we hosted a small pumpkin carving party, and as some of my fellow Stroller Striders and I chatted while our kids raced around our yard, covered in washable marker from decorating pumpkins and piling on top of one another into the hammock, I felt so happy and realized that for now, our quirky kind of church will do just fine.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Monkey Brain
So I'm watching Survivor and this woman is trash-talking Shambo the mullet lady by saying that she's drunk with power like a white trash woman who "married a rich guy and now drives a Jaguar." Only Miss Smartypants pronounced Jaguar "Jag-wire." Actually? It's Zsaaa-goo-waahhhhr.
One Shining Moment
Thursday, October 29, 2:30 pm:
I want to document this moment right now because it may not last. For the last couple of days of my pregnancy, the sun has risen in the West, because I feel soooo good, people. This morning I actually felt light on my feet. I felt a spring in my step, like my pregnant belly was an air-filled beach ball instead of a heavy mixture of baby, baby protection goo, and blood.
The main thing is that I don’t feel nauseated. AT ALL. I’ve found a way to eat enough, but if I eat a little too much, I’m okay. If I get a little hungry, I’m still okay. I can even tolerate a little reading on the BART, although I’m not pushing my luck. My head doesn’t hurt. I feel totally average right now, and that is the best feeling in the world!
I think this may be linked to the fact that I’ve taken a 30-40 min walk every day this week. My belly hurts about 20 min into it, but if I slow down, I feel okay and the pain goes away when the walk is done. I know that in the coming weeks as my belly grows, it will be harder to maneuver around, harder to do day to day things, and harder to exercise. But I want to post this so that I can remember this feeling right now.
Thursday, October 29, 6:30 pm:
After an hour long windy drive home from the BART station due to major traffic because the Bay Bridge is closed, I feel nauseated and woozy. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.
I want to document this moment right now because it may not last. For the last couple of days of my pregnancy, the sun has risen in the West, because I feel soooo good, people. This morning I actually felt light on my feet. I felt a spring in my step, like my pregnant belly was an air-filled beach ball instead of a heavy mixture of baby, baby protection goo, and blood.
The main thing is that I don’t feel nauseated. AT ALL. I’ve found a way to eat enough, but if I eat a little too much, I’m okay. If I get a little hungry, I’m still okay. I can even tolerate a little reading on the BART, although I’m not pushing my luck. My head doesn’t hurt. I feel totally average right now, and that is the best feeling in the world!
I think this may be linked to the fact that I’ve taken a 30-40 min walk every day this week. My belly hurts about 20 min into it, but if I slow down, I feel okay and the pain goes away when the walk is done. I know that in the coming weeks as my belly grows, it will be harder to maneuver around, harder to do day to day things, and harder to exercise. But I want to post this so that I can remember this feeling right now.
Thursday, October 29, 6:30 pm:
After an hour long windy drive home from the BART station due to major traffic because the Bay Bridge is closed, I feel nauseated and woozy. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Oh good gravy, and chocolate, and noodles, and did I mention the salt?
I’ve been trying to be mindful of my food groups for this pregnancy, using the USDA pyramid for moms to gauge and my nutritional needs. Overall, it’s been going pretty well, getting my DHA, veggies and whatnot. However, this last week has been all out of whack:
Thursday: The Great Salt Lick Fiasco of 2009
Friday: Veggie Madness, featuring roasted Brussels sprouts
Sunday: Sugarpalooza, sponsored by marshmallow crisp rice bars
Monday: No Carb Left Behind Tour 2009, with a salt lick chaser
Tuesday: Brought to you by the letters M. . .&M (peanut)
I read somewhere that when studied, toddlers get their overall food needs over the course of a few days, so if they miss out on a given food group in one day, they’ll make up for it later. This is what I tell myself when I have thoughts like, well, if the Dead Sea runs out, they can always drain my pregnant body, which is now carrying enough sodium to float an elephant in spring water.
Thursday: The Great Salt Lick Fiasco of 2009
Friday: Veggie Madness, featuring roasted Brussels sprouts
Sunday: Sugarpalooza, sponsored by marshmallow crisp rice bars
Monday: No Carb Left Behind Tour 2009, with a salt lick chaser
Tuesday: Brought to you by the letters M. . .&M (peanut)
I read somewhere that when studied, toddlers get their overall food needs over the course of a few days, so if they miss out on a given food group in one day, they’ll make up for it later. This is what I tell myself when I have thoughts like, well, if the Dead Sea runs out, they can always drain my pregnant body, which is now carrying enough sodium to float an elephant in spring water.
25 Weeks: Lessons In Moderation
While I am abstaining from Ritalin and coffee for the sake of Keiki the rutabaga, I do have chocolate and 2nd trimester energy. One of the side effects of this "regimen" is daily lessons in the benefits of moderation.
Last Friday, I worked from home. Working from home is one of the best ways to deal with my Monkey Brain, as I can unleash the beast of my MB to serve good. I had to send an e-mail to about 4,000 people, and include my contact information, so you can imagine the response that I got. While on the phone, I could pace my house (MB loovvvves pacing, or any activity, really) while on the phone, picking up toys, making the bed, folding laundry, physically occupying myself so that my brain could focus on the conversation at hand.
When not on the phone, I was going back and forth from my computer to other household tasks: changing the laundry, roasting veggies for lunch, preparing dinner. While to a normal person with a normal brain, this may seem somewhat chaotic, the chaos actually focuses me and I get more done than I would in the typical office environment.
Usually after a day like this, I’m a little tired, but I forgot about PREGNANCY TIRED. After I picked up Jacob, took him to the park and returned home, I was hit by a tsunami of tiredness; I actually understood the phrase “bone tired,” since my bones were saying, “What did you do to me, today?” and the rest of my organs was saying, “Don’t we have enough to do, what with all the baby growing we’re doing in here?!”
And I keep doing it. I feel energetic and burn through it all so that by the end of the day it’s all I can do not to hang my sleepy head and drool through the BART ride home. But it feels so good to move, to get stuff done, to cook, that I forget that my body is kind of doing a second job as it is. I’m learning, though. For a jumpy Monkey Brain, I can be a bit slow sometimes.
Last Friday, I worked from home. Working from home is one of the best ways to deal with my Monkey Brain, as I can unleash the beast of my MB to serve good. I had to send an e-mail to about 4,000 people, and include my contact information, so you can imagine the response that I got. While on the phone, I could pace my house (MB loovvvves pacing, or any activity, really) while on the phone, picking up toys, making the bed, folding laundry, physically occupying myself so that my brain could focus on the conversation at hand.
When not on the phone, I was going back and forth from my computer to other household tasks: changing the laundry, roasting veggies for lunch, preparing dinner. While to a normal person with a normal brain, this may seem somewhat chaotic, the chaos actually focuses me and I get more done than I would in the typical office environment.
Usually after a day like this, I’m a little tired, but I forgot about PREGNANCY TIRED. After I picked up Jacob, took him to the park and returned home, I was hit by a tsunami of tiredness; I actually understood the phrase “bone tired,” since my bones were saying, “What did you do to me, today?” and the rest of my organs was saying, “Don’t we have enough to do, what with all the baby growing we’re doing in here?!”
And I keep doing it. I feel energetic and burn through it all so that by the end of the day it’s all I can do not to hang my sleepy head and drool through the BART ride home. But it feels so good to move, to get stuff done, to cook, that I forget that my body is kind of doing a second job as it is. I’m learning, though. For a jumpy Monkey Brain, I can be a bit slow sometimes.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Don't yike it, and other feelings
Jacob gets more communicative each day, and is getting pretty good at expressing himself. He points out happy and sad when we read books, and he’s even starting to talk about his own feelings.
On Sunday, we went to a small circus that was in town for a couple of weeks. While Jacob liked the pre-show hot dog, that was about it. The crush of the crowd waiting to get into the venue prompted full on Jacob red alert: wide eyes, left thumb squarely in his mouth, right hand anxiously fiddling his right ear.
“Wanna go home,” he said as we waited to get in. We appeased him with promises of fun, horseys and doggies galore.
We got into our seats, and the thumb-sucking/ear fiddling went into overdrive.
“Don’t yike it.”
“What sweetie?”
“Don’t yike circus.”
And there you have it folks. We probably should have gone home then, but we’d paid $34 for our tickets, and pushed onward in the hope that the live animals would make up for the masses of strangers. I held him tight and he seemed to enjoy the horse, the dogs, and the trapeze artist way up high. We made it to intermission, at which point it was useless to put our kid through the torture that is a small circus.
When Jacob was a baby, it was pretty easy. Crying meant there was a need: for food, changing, comfort. And while he’s been a talker for a while, this was the first time that he really verbalized a specific feeling about something. As a WASP who has spent much time, effort and money on therapy to learn what a feeling is and how to express it, I was so proud of my boy. But there is another part that’s like, what now?
Having a baby is tiring, but fairly straightforward. Raising a child is some scary shit. The more they verbalize, the better it is because you know what they need or want, but you also have to guide them and help them and not let yourself get in the way.
Do I pull Jacob out of every scenario that scares him? Do I tell him to suck it up because we paid good money for these seats and you are going to have a good time, dammit?! Yesterday, I wanted to leave as soon as the self-soothing body language kicked in. But he did enjoy some of it, and I want him to be able to feel fear as much as he can feel joy because unfortunately, you can’t decide to only feel the good feelings. Hopefully I’m doing the right thing. At least when he starts going to therapy for his fear of clowns, I’ll have a record of where it all began.
On Sunday, we went to a small circus that was in town for a couple of weeks. While Jacob liked the pre-show hot dog, that was about it. The crush of the crowd waiting to get into the venue prompted full on Jacob red alert: wide eyes, left thumb squarely in his mouth, right hand anxiously fiddling his right ear.
“Wanna go home,” he said as we waited to get in. We appeased him with promises of fun, horseys and doggies galore.
We got into our seats, and the thumb-sucking/ear fiddling went into overdrive.
“Don’t yike it.”
“What sweetie?”
“Don’t yike circus.”
And there you have it folks. We probably should have gone home then, but we’d paid $34 for our tickets, and pushed onward in the hope that the live animals would make up for the masses of strangers. I held him tight and he seemed to enjoy the horse, the dogs, and the trapeze artist way up high. We made it to intermission, at which point it was useless to put our kid through the torture that is a small circus.
When Jacob was a baby, it was pretty easy. Crying meant there was a need: for food, changing, comfort. And while he’s been a talker for a while, this was the first time that he really verbalized a specific feeling about something. As a WASP who has spent much time, effort and money on therapy to learn what a feeling is and how to express it, I was so proud of my boy. But there is another part that’s like, what now?
Having a baby is tiring, but fairly straightforward. Raising a child is some scary shit. The more they verbalize, the better it is because you know what they need or want, but you also have to guide them and help them and not let yourself get in the way.
Do I pull Jacob out of every scenario that scares him? Do I tell him to suck it up because we paid good money for these seats and you are going to have a good time, dammit?! Yesterday, I wanted to leave as soon as the self-soothing body language kicked in. But he did enjoy some of it, and I want him to be able to feel fear as much as he can feel joy because unfortunately, you can’t decide to only feel the good feelings. Hopefully I’m doing the right thing. At least when he starts going to therapy for his fear of clowns, I’ll have a record of where it all began.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Monkey Cook: Brussels Sprouts
I was not a fan of veggies as a kid, and Brussels sprouts were the worst. Limp and bitter after their long trip from wherever to a box in our freezer and steaming or boiling, they were gross. Dis.Gus.Ting. My brothers and I devised several ways to get out of ingesting them, from slipping some to the dog (who soon wised up and refused to eat them), folding them into a napkin, or sneaking off to the powder room to flush them down the toilet.
I didn’t eat brussels sprouts once I was able to be vocal enough about my food choices and planned on never eating one for the rest of my life.
And then, I moved to California.
In 2004, my brother Ben came to visit and we went to Firefly restaurant in San Francisco. A typical SF venue, Firefly served yummy veggies off a seasonal menu, and since it was the fall, roasted BS was one of the choices. To my surprise, Ben suggested it and I was like, “Um, did you block out our childhood?”
“Trust me,” he said, “They’re actually good when fresh.” So I did, and OH MY GOD.
Crispy and caramelized, the bitterness tempered by a touch of oil and some nutty parmesan, I was experiencing a come-to-Jesus (if JC were a cruciferous vegetable) moment. Since then I’ve roasted them, sautéed them with nuts and maple syrup, even simply steamed them with some butter & parmesan.
I want to start a Church of the Roasted Vegetable and target market to well-intentioned mothers steaming the crap out of vegetables in the name of health and vitamins. And so I present to you:
Brussels sprouts, another way
Brussels sprouts
Olive oil, enough to coat the veggies
Maple syrup (1t or so)
Salt & pepper (I like By the Sea herb blend)
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Mix all ingredients in a cast iron skillet. Place in the oven and roast for about 30 min, until the sprouts are blackened and yummy.
Note: There are two keys to this recipe (and in my opinion, all veggie recipes, especially for fickle little eaters)
1. Cast iron skillet. Add some oil, salt & pepper and the pan will do everything else.
2. Roast the crap out of them. You don’t need much oil and with the heat of the pan they get all yummy & caramelized. Dee-li-cious!
I didn’t eat brussels sprouts once I was able to be vocal enough about my food choices and planned on never eating one for the rest of my life.
And then, I moved to California.
In 2004, my brother Ben came to visit and we went to Firefly restaurant in San Francisco. A typical SF venue, Firefly served yummy veggies off a seasonal menu, and since it was the fall, roasted BS was one of the choices. To my surprise, Ben suggested it and I was like, “Um, did you block out our childhood?”
“Trust me,” he said, “They’re actually good when fresh.” So I did, and OH MY GOD.
Crispy and caramelized, the bitterness tempered by a touch of oil and some nutty parmesan, I was experiencing a come-to-Jesus (if JC were a cruciferous vegetable) moment. Since then I’ve roasted them, sautéed them with nuts and maple syrup, even simply steamed them with some butter & parmesan.
I want to start a Church of the Roasted Vegetable and target market to well-intentioned mothers steaming the crap out of vegetables in the name of health and vitamins. And so I present to you:
Brussels sprouts, another way
Brussels sprouts
Olive oil, enough to coat the veggies
Maple syrup (1t or so)
Salt & pepper (I like By the Sea herb blend)
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Mix all ingredients in a cast iron skillet. Place in the oven and roast for about 30 min, until the sprouts are blackened and yummy.
Note: There are two keys to this recipe (and in my opinion, all veggie recipes, especially for fickle little eaters)
1. Cast iron skillet. Add some oil, salt & pepper and the pan will do everything else.
2. Roast the crap out of them. You don’t need much oil and with the heat of the pan they get all yummy & caramelized. Dee-li-cious!
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Spam
Dear Phisherman,
Seriously? Please tell me what it is about me Googling recipes for spaghetti squash, VBAC, and car seats screams out “Penis Enhancement”?! Oh wait, was it my research on Asparagus Pee?
Sincerely,
Monkey Brain
Seriously? Please tell me what it is about me Googling recipes for spaghetti squash, VBAC, and car seats screams out “Penis Enhancement”?! Oh wait, was it my research on Asparagus Pee?
Sincerely,
Monkey Brain
Friday, October 23, 2009
Monkey Brain
When I was a kid, my family was teased me about an alleged obsession with bathrooms. Whenever we’d go out to dinner, I’d inevitably spend some time in the ladies room, and apparently too much time, according to the fam.
No one asked me why I spent so much time in the bathroom, and I assure you that it wasn’t some obsessive-compulsiveritual of washing my hands 20 times before eating. I was the youngest of four, and a Monkey Brain to boot; sitting around a table with a bunch of older people was bo-ring. The main thing that got me through these dinners was the distraction of food, or going through my dad’s wallet. However, once I learned to read, and found some of my mom’s credit cards that were “accidently” in my Dad’s wallet, my snooping days were over and it was all about food.
So I checked out the bathrooms of every restaurant we visited. My favorite by far was the “ladies lounge” at our yacht club, which was a suite that included full doors on each stall and a separate room with big mirrors, and cute settees for ladies to re-apply their makeup or just take a break from being fascinating by sitting on one of the ornate settees. I also liked walking through the attached coat closet, feeling the softness of the furs in winter before I realized that fur is murder. By the time I returned to the table, my food would be waiting for me, and I’d be on the downhill slope of having to sit still and listening to the boring adult talk.
Yesterday, it took 10 minutes for my computer to start up, so I defragmented my very fragmented hard drive. After returning voicemail and reading through everything work related that I could, my Monkey Brain was about to explode at my computer, which said “24% complete” after an hour.
So, I took a page from my younger days and decided to head to the adult equivalent of my childhood ladies lounge trips: Walgreens. 30 minutes, 1 bottle of nail polish, the latest copy of Allure and several salty snacks later, I returned to a fully defragmented computer.
Works every time.
No one asked me why I spent so much time in the bathroom, and I assure you that it wasn’t some obsessive-compulsiveritual of washing my hands 20 times before eating. I was the youngest of four, and a Monkey Brain to boot; sitting around a table with a bunch of older people was bo-ring. The main thing that got me through these dinners was the distraction of food, or going through my dad’s wallet. However, once I learned to read, and found some of my mom’s credit cards that were “accidently” in my Dad’s wallet, my snooping days were over and it was all about food.
So I checked out the bathrooms of every restaurant we visited. My favorite by far was the “ladies lounge” at our yacht club, which was a suite that included full doors on each stall and a separate room with big mirrors, and cute settees for ladies to re-apply their makeup or just take a break from being fascinating by sitting on one of the ornate settees. I also liked walking through the attached coat closet, feeling the softness of the furs in winter before I realized that fur is murder. By the time I returned to the table, my food would be waiting for me, and I’d be on the downhill slope of having to sit still and listening to the boring adult talk.
Yesterday, it took 10 minutes for my computer to start up, so I defragmented my very fragmented hard drive. After returning voicemail and reading through everything work related that I could, my Monkey Brain was about to explode at my computer, which said “24% complete” after an hour.
So, I took a page from my younger days and decided to head to the adult equivalent of my childhood ladies lounge trips: Walgreens. 30 minutes, 1 bottle of nail polish, the latest copy of Allure and several salty snacks later, I returned to a fully defragmented computer.
Works every time.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Monkey Brain
When I was thirteen, I had a bunny rabbit named Mopsy. We installed a salt lick for her, which basically looks like a white roll of stone toilet paper, made out of compressed salt. I remember thinking, what weirdo animal needs to lick salt?
Based on the amount of sodium that I consumed today, I'd say it's time to drop all pretense of "food" and just install a salt lick in my office. Seriously folks, no amount of cucumbers will offset the last twelve hours.
Based on the amount of sodium that I consumed today, I'd say it's time to drop all pretense of "food" and just install a salt lick in my office. Seriously folks, no amount of cucumbers will offset the last twelve hours.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
24 Weeks: A Big Milestone
Keiki the corncob is kicking merrily in my belly, reminding me every day of his/her presence and increasing viability. And with pregnancy, viability is everything.
My friend Dr. L is a neonatologist, which basically means that she helps the really sick babies. The general protocol at her hospital is that until a fetus is 24 weeks, they do not go to extreme measures to keep the fetus alive outside the womb. I won't go into the details of what "extreme measures" means, because I'm not here to start an ethical debate and it's not the point of this story.
Anywhoo, when Dr. L was 23 weeks and 6 days pregnant with her second baby, a baby was brought in who was also 23-6 gestation, airlifted in from another hospital. Dr. L worked on that baby for over an hour to revive it (b/g?), reminding her team that she was also 23-6, but the baby didn't survive. So she wrapped the baby in a blanket and rocked it for a while, holding it close to her belly with her own living baby inside, who kicked away, telling her, "It's ok, Mama, I'm still here."
My first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage at 7.5 weeks, so for the next two, I paid attention to the little milestones, each of which means that I can hold my breath a little bit less, and get a little more excited. The first is hearing a heartbeat, about 8-10 weeks. Next is 13 weeks, or the end of the first trimester, after which the risk of miscarriage goes way down. Then there is 24 weeks, and finally 37 weeks, when you are full term, and it's pretty much okay for baby to come out of the hot tub.
I know it doesn't stop there, since once Keiki is out in the world, the real worry begins. But for now, I'm grateful to have reached another milestone.
My friend Dr. L is a neonatologist, which basically means that she helps the really sick babies. The general protocol at her hospital is that until a fetus is 24 weeks, they do not go to extreme measures to keep the fetus alive outside the womb. I won't go into the details of what "extreme measures" means, because I'm not here to start an ethical debate and it's not the point of this story.
Anywhoo, when Dr. L was 23 weeks and 6 days pregnant with her second baby, a baby was brought in who was also 23-6 gestation, airlifted in from another hospital. Dr. L worked on that baby for over an hour to revive it (b/g?), reminding her team that she was also 23-6, but the baby didn't survive. So she wrapped the baby in a blanket and rocked it for a while, holding it close to her belly with her own living baby inside, who kicked away, telling her, "It's ok, Mama, I'm still here."
My first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage at 7.5 weeks, so for the next two, I paid attention to the little milestones, each of which means that I can hold my breath a little bit less, and get a little more excited. The first is hearing a heartbeat, about 8-10 weeks. Next is 13 weeks, or the end of the first trimester, after which the risk of miscarriage goes way down. Then there is 24 weeks, and finally 37 weeks, when you are full term, and it's pretty much okay for baby to come out of the hot tub.
I know it doesn't stop there, since once Keiki is out in the world, the real worry begins. But for now, I'm grateful to have reached another milestone.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Monkey Cook: Roasted Asparagus
Did you know that most of us get “Asparagus Pee,” but some of us don’t have the genes to smell it? Don't just take my word for it, though. Go ahead, grab a trusted friend with the right olfactory genes and check it out. Here’s a recipe to get you started:
Best Roasted Asparagus Ever
Some asparagus (enough to fill a big cast iron skillet)
Olive Oil
Salt & Pepper
Note: I like “By the Sea Salt,” which is a salt and herb mix from Martha’s Vineyard. While one may purchase it online, I make my sister get some on her annual summer vacation on MV. (Crap, as soon as my sister reads this I’m going to have to start buying it online.) This makes it seem much more precious and the food tastes better. Seriously, if you think that you have a one of a kind product, it tastes better. Kind of like artisanal items.
Turn your oven on to 375 degrees.
Cut off the ends of the asparagus, place in skillet (or roasting pan or baking sheet, but if you don’t use cast iron I can’t guarantee that this will be the best you’ve tasted) and cover with olive oil, salt & pepper. Stick it in the oven and don’t take it out until the spears are all shriveled up and slightly black, 30-45 min. While the asparagus is roasting, drink as much water as you can stand.
15 min after enjoying the BRAE, get thee to a commode and tell me how it goes.
Best Roasted Asparagus Ever
Some asparagus (enough to fill a big cast iron skillet)
Olive Oil
Salt & Pepper
Note: I like “By the Sea Salt,” which is a salt and herb mix from Martha’s Vineyard. While one may purchase it online, I make my sister get some on her annual summer vacation on MV. (Crap, as soon as my sister reads this I’m going to have to start buying it online.) This makes it seem much more precious and the food tastes better. Seriously, if you think that you have a one of a kind product, it tastes better. Kind of like artisanal items.
Turn your oven on to 375 degrees.
Cut off the ends of the asparagus, place in skillet (or roasting pan or baking sheet, but if you don’t use cast iron I can’t guarantee that this will be the best you’ve tasted) and cover with olive oil, salt & pepper. Stick it in the oven and don’t take it out until the spears are all shriveled up and slightly black, 30-45 min. While the asparagus is roasting, drink as much water as you can stand.
15 min after enjoying the BRAE, get thee to a commode and tell me how it goes.
Hungry
O.M.G.
I am so effing hungry right now. Internet, you do NOT know hunger until you experience pregnancy hunger. Pregnancy hunger is fast and ferocious, a lion that has just spent three hours running the African savannah. And if you even think of telling me that aren’t I overstating the case when I say that I might die of hunger right now, and my colleagues will find my slumped over my cubicle chair in front of this post? Well, I will take all of my renewed 2nd trimester energy and slap you upside the head, after which I may eat one of your limbs.
The problem with my pregnancy hunger is that while it feels like a lion, it’s really a bit of a lamb. If I eat how much I think may satisfy the beast within, I will have eaten too much and will spend the next few hours feeling like I’m going to throw up every organ in my body. The thing that helps is a very high maintenance solution: steady streams of food (protein is key), not too little, and not too much. My hunger is like Goldilocks, the fickle little scamp.
So why am I writing instead of foraging? Because when this ferocious hunger attacks (and seriously, it feels like going from full to empty in 20 seconds), my Monkey Brain goes crazy and starts chanting in a Cookie Monster voice, “Foodfoodfoodfoodfoodfoodfood” and that never ends well. So I am taking a moment to try and calm down MB before fetching a few items that I can eat in stages and hopefully I won’t collapse from over/under consumption.
I am so effing hungry right now. Internet, you do NOT know hunger until you experience pregnancy hunger. Pregnancy hunger is fast and ferocious, a lion that has just spent three hours running the African savannah. And if you even think of telling me that aren’t I overstating the case when I say that I might die of hunger right now, and my colleagues will find my slumped over my cubicle chair in front of this post? Well, I will take all of my renewed 2nd trimester energy and slap you upside the head, after which I may eat one of your limbs.
The problem with my pregnancy hunger is that while it feels like a lion, it’s really a bit of a lamb. If I eat how much I think may satisfy the beast within, I will have eaten too much and will spend the next few hours feeling like I’m going to throw up every organ in my body. The thing that helps is a very high maintenance solution: steady streams of food (protein is key), not too little, and not too much. My hunger is like Goldilocks, the fickle little scamp.
So why am I writing instead of foraging? Because when this ferocious hunger attacks (and seriously, it feels like going from full to empty in 20 seconds), my Monkey Brain goes crazy and starts chanting in a Cookie Monster voice, “Foodfoodfoodfoodfoodfoodfood” and that never ends well. So I am taking a moment to try and calm down MB before fetching a few items that I can eat in stages and hopefully I won’t collapse from over/under consumption.
Spam
Dear JCPenney.Com,
It's just not right to send pregnant women in the throes of nesting offers of free shipping and 25% off. Your Pottery Barn redux style is way too tempting.
You would think with all your phishing capabilities, you would know that I just spent a LOT of money on a shiny new car, and my monkey brain should not be tempted into new purchases (except for that Britax Roundabout that was on sale- for the second car, of course). For shame!
Sincerely,
Monkey Brain
It's just not right to send pregnant women in the throes of nesting offers of free shipping and 25% off. Your Pottery Barn redux style is way too tempting.
You would think with all your phishing capabilities, you would know that I just spent a LOT of money on a shiny new car, and my monkey brain should not be tempted into new purchases (except for that Britax Roundabout that was on sale- for the second car, of course). For shame!
Sincerely,
Monkey Brain
Monday, October 19, 2009
Monkey Brain
Here is a slice of my monkey brain from this morning:
Pull into parking spot. Lock car three times (just in case!) and memorize spot number so I can pay for parking at the machine inside the BART Station.
354,354,354,354,354,354-Is that cake batter I smell? Yes, definitely cake batter. Yummy. Who has cupcakes in the BART parking garage? This is much better than the usual stink. Oooh, someone just called the el elevator; whoohoo!
Enter elevator, go into morning fog mode. Exit elevator.
Uh-oh, there’s a train. Better run and catch it! Go, go, go! Settle into BART seat. “The doors are about to close. Please stand clear.”
Oh shit! I forgot to pay my parking!!
Pull into parking spot. Lock car three times (just in case!) and memorize spot number so I can pay for parking at the machine inside the BART Station.
354,354,354,354,354,354-Is that cake batter I smell? Yes, definitely cake batter. Yummy. Who has cupcakes in the BART parking garage? This is much better than the usual stink. Oooh, someone just called the el elevator; whoohoo!
Enter elevator, go into morning fog mode. Exit elevator.
Uh-oh, there’s a train. Better run and catch it! Go, go, go! Settle into BART seat. “The doors are about to close. Please stand clear.”
Oh shit! I forgot to pay my parking!!
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Mini-me nephew
When Josh's brother Dan was a toddler, he moonlighted as a food thief, wandering their Minnesota neighborhood, testing for open doors and raiding cabinets. My favorite family story is of little Danny being caught red-handed in a box of Pop Tarts. Having been raised in a trans-fat free household, I love that image because they would have been my contra-ban of choice as well.
Today, Jacob channeled Dan circa 1979-80 (Dan is 8 1/2 years younger than Josh). As Josh sat in the backyard grading, Jacob orbited him happily, coloring, checking out the garden hose, delivering our neighbor's rotting persimmons into our compost bin, shadowing Daddy like Dan once shadowed Josh.
Meanwhile, I was being a good little recessionista by trading foodstuffs with my neighbor: I shared tomato jam (with tomatoes from their garden) as well as spaghetti squash with roasted veggies & ricotta. In return, we received homemade spaghetti sauce, 2 cupcakes and two loaves of yummy banana-walnut cake. I left the loaves of banana-walnut cake on our butcher block to cool, well above little hands.
Or so I thought.
Later in the afternoon, it was quiet. Too quiet. I looked for Jacob and found him sitting on our snuggler, perched over a loaf of banana cake, digging a trench in the middle of the loaf, licking cake off his fingers and saying, "Ooooohh, nummy, nummy, nummy! Dee-li-cious!"
His "Unca Dan" would be so proud.
Today, Jacob channeled Dan circa 1979-80 (Dan is 8 1/2 years younger than Josh). As Josh sat in the backyard grading, Jacob orbited him happily, coloring, checking out the garden hose, delivering our neighbor's rotting persimmons into our compost bin, shadowing Daddy like Dan once shadowed Josh.
Meanwhile, I was being a good little recessionista by trading foodstuffs with my neighbor: I shared tomato jam (with tomatoes from their garden) as well as spaghetti squash with roasted veggies & ricotta. In return, we received homemade spaghetti sauce, 2 cupcakes and two loaves of yummy banana-walnut cake. I left the loaves of banana-walnut cake on our butcher block to cool, well above little hands.
Or so I thought.
Later in the afternoon, it was quiet. Too quiet. I looked for Jacob and found him sitting on our snuggler, perched over a loaf of banana cake, digging a trench in the middle of the loaf, licking cake off his fingers and saying, "Ooooohh, nummy, nummy, nummy! Dee-li-cious!"
His "Unca Dan" would be so proud.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
The Boob Tube
Glee should be your new favorite show, people. Some sample dialogue:
Sue: "I can't trust a man with curly hair. I can't help picturing small birds laying sulphurous eggs in there, and I find that disgusting."
Need I say more?
Sue: "I can't trust a man with curly hair. I can't help picturing small birds laying sulphurous eggs in there, and I find that disgusting."
Need I say more?
Halloween Fun
Spooky 6-foot hanging ghost: $19.99
Josh yelling "Jesus!" every five minutes when he passes by our front window: Priceless
Josh yelling "Jesus!" every five minutes when he passes by our front window: Priceless
Friday, October 16, 2009
Let the Wild Rumpus Start!
Oh joy of joys, I cannot wait to see Where the Wild Things Are.
My friend Bird and I spent many an afternoon (when we weren't watching The Outsiders) rumpusing about our respective backyards and neighborhood parks creating imaginary worlds like Max, king of all wild things. We were siamese twins, connected at the arm with imaginary velcro, business women in the tree "office" outside my church, and castle-dwellers on the rocks of the park that overlooked Long Island Sound.
Jacob is another lover of all things Sendak, as well as anything imaginary. Lately, I wake up to his recitations from his crib:
"Milk in da batter, milk cake. . .Mickey!" (In the Night Kitchen)
"Chicken rice. . .whale. . . cocodile, chicken nile" (Chicken Soup with Rice from The Nutshell Library)
"Wumpus. . .tart!" (Where the Wild Things Are)
It is my favorite version of the human alarm clock to date.
We've been talking about this movie enough that Jacob says, "Wild Things? Moo-bie?" on a near daily basis. However, everything I read tells me that this is so not for the little ones. So do I potentially traumatize my child in favor of my own childish want? Or get a babysitter who may charge me $50 so I can see a movie on opening night? What say yee, internet?
My friend Bird and I spent many an afternoon (when we weren't watching The Outsiders) rumpusing about our respective backyards and neighborhood parks creating imaginary worlds like Max, king of all wild things. We were siamese twins, connected at the arm with imaginary velcro, business women in the tree "office" outside my church, and castle-dwellers on the rocks of the park that overlooked Long Island Sound.
Jacob is another lover of all things Sendak, as well as anything imaginary. Lately, I wake up to his recitations from his crib:
"Milk in da batter, milk cake. . .Mickey!" (In the Night Kitchen)
"Chicken rice. . .whale. . . cocodile, chicken nile" (Chicken Soup with Rice from The Nutshell Library)
"Wumpus. . .tart!" (Where the Wild Things Are)
It is my favorite version of the human alarm clock to date.
We've been talking about this movie enough that Jacob says, "Wild Things? Moo-bie?" on a near daily basis. However, everything I read tells me that this is so not for the little ones. So do I potentially traumatize my child in favor of my own childish want? Or get a babysitter who may charge me $50 so I can see a movie on opening night? What say yee, internet?
Thursday, October 15, 2009
This One's a Doozy
In case you haven't noticed, I am completely in love with my son. Head over heels in love with him. I love to cuddle and rock him, kiss his neck to make him laugh, receive sloppy kisses from him, I love it all.
I'll tell you a secret, though. For the first six weeks of his life, I was not in love. To be fair, my body was fighting a host of issues that made it hard to focus on loving my son, but that's another story.
When he first came out, I thought he looked weird. Again, to be fair, I was shaking uncontrollably from the anesthesia, my body was still open, and starting to create a post-surgical uterine infection, but still. I thought he looked slightly Asian, like he was from Mongolia, which I found confusing, since neither I nor Josh have any Asian blood that we know of. Emotionally, I felt nothing. I felt no rush of love that is shown in movies, or that I'm sure many new moms have. I felt numb, and kept feeling like I should be excited or something. I felt defective, like I missed out on the whole unconditional love thing.
I didn't fall in love with Jacob until he was about six weeks. After the uterine infection that gave me a fever so high that the on-duty nurse said it was the highest reading she'd had in 32 years of being a nurse. After the pulled groin, the bulging disc, the hemorraghing that resulted in a D&C and removal of retained placenta from my uterus. After my body started to heal and I was pretty certain that I wasn't going to die any time soon, my heart opened wide open and let Jacob in.
This is one of the things that THEY don't talk about, and I really wish that THEY would. THEY say things like, "you better get that baby on your chest as soon as it's born so you have that 1 hour of bonding," without stating that you can bond with your child in many ways, and if you are shaking and lying cut open on a table, you may not be able to put your child on your chest, and THAT IS OKAY.
Other things that I wish THEY would talk about:
1. When you get pregnant, it is more than likely that your first ultrasound will be through a vaginal probe (please see Knocked Up! STAT if this is a shock), which looks like a large, plastic penis (complete with a condom!) that may seem scary when you are expecting the cute little belly wand that they show on TV.
2. Yes, breast milk is best, but that doesn't mean that formula is harmful to your baby
3. If at first you do not bond, there are many ways to do so with your child. Jacob and I got a lot of "skin-to-skin" that first year by bathing together.
4. You will probably poop yourself when you give birth. This one is actually from my sister, who gave me a lot of enlightening information when my neice was born. Since I was 20 at the time, I pretty much blocked out all the information except for the poop.
5. Sometimes, inductions don't work.
I believe that all the advice that we received came from a place of love and wanting to help, but sometimes it feels like parenting advice (especially surrounding labor, delivery and the first year of care) is so concrete, so passionately given, that there is not much room for the other side of things. What if you want to breastfeed, but your body suppresses the hormone to create it, or you are in so much pain that you can barely hold your child on your chest? Why do I trip over the term "C-section," debating over whether or not I add a qualifier. Emergency? Unplanned? As if it's only okay to have a C-Section if you almost die?
These are some of the questions with which I still struggle. Anticipation of this next birth reminds me of the last one, and I'm realizing that I'm not over the last one yet. I know that there are plenty of women out there who don't struggle over their birth stories and I hope to join their ranks. Still, I don't think I'm alone out here. And so I'm going to share my stories and hope that my voice can be part of the THEY.
I'll tell you a secret, though. For the first six weeks of his life, I was not in love. To be fair, my body was fighting a host of issues that made it hard to focus on loving my son, but that's another story.
When he first came out, I thought he looked weird. Again, to be fair, I was shaking uncontrollably from the anesthesia, my body was still open, and starting to create a post-surgical uterine infection, but still. I thought he looked slightly Asian, like he was from Mongolia, which I found confusing, since neither I nor Josh have any Asian blood that we know of. Emotionally, I felt nothing. I felt no rush of love that is shown in movies, or that I'm sure many new moms have. I felt numb, and kept feeling like I should be excited or something. I felt defective, like I missed out on the whole unconditional love thing.
I didn't fall in love with Jacob until he was about six weeks. After the uterine infection that gave me a fever so high that the on-duty nurse said it was the highest reading she'd had in 32 years of being a nurse. After the pulled groin, the bulging disc, the hemorraghing that resulted in a D&C and removal of retained placenta from my uterus. After my body started to heal and I was pretty certain that I wasn't going to die any time soon, my heart opened wide open and let Jacob in.
This is one of the things that THEY don't talk about, and I really wish that THEY would. THEY say things like, "you better get that baby on your chest as soon as it's born so you have that 1 hour of bonding," without stating that you can bond with your child in many ways, and if you are shaking and lying cut open on a table, you may not be able to put your child on your chest, and THAT IS OKAY.
Other things that I wish THEY would talk about:
1. When you get pregnant, it is more than likely that your first ultrasound will be through a vaginal probe (please see Knocked Up! STAT if this is a shock), which looks like a large, plastic penis (complete with a condom!) that may seem scary when you are expecting the cute little belly wand that they show on TV.
2. Yes, breast milk is best, but that doesn't mean that formula is harmful to your baby
3. If at first you do not bond, there are many ways to do so with your child. Jacob and I got a lot of "skin-to-skin" that first year by bathing together.
4. You will probably poop yourself when you give birth. This one is actually from my sister, who gave me a lot of enlightening information when my neice was born. Since I was 20 at the time, I pretty much blocked out all the information except for the poop.
5. Sometimes, inductions don't work.
I believe that all the advice that we received came from a place of love and wanting to help, but sometimes it feels like parenting advice (especially surrounding labor, delivery and the first year of care) is so concrete, so passionately given, that there is not much room for the other side of things. What if you want to breastfeed, but your body suppresses the hormone to create it, or you are in so much pain that you can barely hold your child on your chest? Why do I trip over the term "C-section," debating over whether or not I add a qualifier. Emergency? Unplanned? As if it's only okay to have a C-Section if you almost die?
These are some of the questions with which I still struggle. Anticipation of this next birth reminds me of the last one, and I'm realizing that I'm not over the last one yet. I know that there are plenty of women out there who don't struggle over their birth stories and I hope to join their ranks. Still, I don't think I'm alone out here. And so I'm going to share my stories and hope that my voice can be part of the THEY.
Citizen's Arrest: Semantics Police
Hey BabyCenter.com,
I just bought a spaghetti squash, and it happened to be next to the mangoes. And my friend, those mangoes were half the size of the spaghetti squash, if that. Now I don't know what kind of hormones your mangoes are smoking, but I'm going to have to go with my friend Trader Joe on this one.
Sincerely,
Keiki's Mama
I just bought a spaghetti squash, and it happened to be next to the mangoes. And my friend, those mangoes were half the size of the spaghetti squash, if that. Now I don't know what kind of hormones your mangoes are smoking, but I'm going to have to go with my friend Trader Joe on this one.
Sincerely,
Keiki's Mama
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
23 Weeks: The Family Wagon
No bigger than a mango, Keiki is sure influencing some pre-tty big decisions in the Henig household.
Driving home on Monday, Josh uttered the words that never fail to scare me: “Can I tell you something?”
Me: “Um, sure. What?” I want a divorce. I think I may be a woman trapped in a man’s body. I’ve been schtupping this hot mom of one of my students.
It is not fair to begin conversations with that question when you are married to a pregnant Monkey Brain with a wild imagination.
“I’m so not punk rock.” He says this with some resignation, as if I married him because I thought he was a San Francisco indie rock snob hipster in skinny jeans, and how disappointed I must be. Because I’m the QUEEN of cool, right?
The reason for this conversation is that we are driving home to retrieve checkbook so that we can buy our new family car which will accommodate our growing family. It is a dark red 2010 Subaru Forester with tinted windows, power seats, big tires and a moon roof. It is awesome, but it also the nail in the coffin of any punk-rockiness that we ever might have had. Not that there was much to begin with; sorry Honey!
This is the first new car that I’ve ever owned. My first car was a 1993 Nissan Sentra that I bought in 2003 from a co-worker for less than $1,000. Nicknamed “The Mule” by its former owner, it lasted until I was about five months pregnant with Jacob and decided that my baby deserved a 4-door that didn’t get a mildew smell in the rain.
We got our 2001 Jetta from a graduating Stanford student in 2007 and it will remain as the station car, it just doesn’t serve our growing needs.
So here we are, a two car family. I drove the Forester home and felt so free. No longer do we have to coordinate our commutes, no longer do I need to stand impatiently at the train station because Josh is running late. When Marc Cohn’s “Walking in Memphis” came on, I screamed out “Tell me are you a Christian Child/Ma’am I am tonight!” as if I were Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire. I know, I know. Queen. Of. Cool.
And yet, I didn’t drive the car Tuesday because I was afraid that I’d break it. Sooo not punk rock.
Having a brand-new, shiny grown-up car is kind of like having a newborn. You anticipate the birth, can’t wait can’t wait can’t wait. Then you have the baby, and while you are excited, the Holy Shits come:
HS, I’m responsible for keeping him alive!
HS, how do I know if they’ve had enough to eat?
HS, there are a LOT of sexual predators out there!
HS, why won’t she sleep?
So you kind of hibernate at home with your baby, a bit afraid to take him out in public, until your brain explodes from exhausting all possible ways that you can kill your child, you pass out so deeply that you don’t hear your baby’s cries, he falls back to sleep and Viola! Baby has "slept through the night". At least that’s how it was for me.
So after driving the car home on Monday night, I didn’t want to drive it in the BIGGEST RAIN THAT THE BAY AREA HAS EVER SEEN on Tuesday morning. But secretly, I was happy about that typhoon making its way here from Japan because the Holy Shits had started:
HS, What if I total the car before I even have license plates?
HS, What if someone keys my car?
HS, what if it gets stolen from the BART parking lot?
Finally this morning we missed the latest train and I had to drive. And, just like being with baby, when the Holy Shits tuckered themselves out, it was awesome. Bring on the newborn!
Driving home on Monday, Josh uttered the words that never fail to scare me: “Can I tell you something?”
Me: “Um, sure. What?” I want a divorce. I think I may be a woman trapped in a man’s body. I’ve been schtupping this hot mom of one of my students.
It is not fair to begin conversations with that question when you are married to a pregnant Monkey Brain with a wild imagination.
“I’m so not punk rock.” He says this with some resignation, as if I married him because I thought he was a San Francisco indie rock snob hipster in skinny jeans, and how disappointed I must be. Because I’m the QUEEN of cool, right?
The reason for this conversation is that we are driving home to retrieve checkbook so that we can buy our new family car which will accommodate our growing family. It is a dark red 2010 Subaru Forester with tinted windows, power seats, big tires and a moon roof. It is awesome, but it also the nail in the coffin of any punk-rockiness that we ever might have had. Not that there was much to begin with; sorry Honey!
This is the first new car that I’ve ever owned. My first car was a 1993 Nissan Sentra that I bought in 2003 from a co-worker for less than $1,000. Nicknamed “The Mule” by its former owner, it lasted until I was about five months pregnant with Jacob and decided that my baby deserved a 4-door that didn’t get a mildew smell in the rain.
We got our 2001 Jetta from a graduating Stanford student in 2007 and it will remain as the station car, it just doesn’t serve our growing needs.
So here we are, a two car family. I drove the Forester home and felt so free. No longer do we have to coordinate our commutes, no longer do I need to stand impatiently at the train station because Josh is running late. When Marc Cohn’s “Walking in Memphis” came on, I screamed out “Tell me are you a Christian Child/Ma’am I am tonight!” as if I were Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire. I know, I know. Queen. Of. Cool.
And yet, I didn’t drive the car Tuesday because I was afraid that I’d break it. Sooo not punk rock.
Having a brand-new, shiny grown-up car is kind of like having a newborn. You anticipate the birth, can’t wait can’t wait can’t wait. Then you have the baby, and while you are excited, the Holy Shits come:
HS, I’m responsible for keeping him alive!
HS, how do I know if they’ve had enough to eat?
HS, there are a LOT of sexual predators out there!
HS, why won’t she sleep?
So you kind of hibernate at home with your baby, a bit afraid to take him out in public, until your brain explodes from exhausting all possible ways that you can kill your child, you pass out so deeply that you don’t hear your baby’s cries, he falls back to sleep and Viola! Baby has "slept through the night". At least that’s how it was for me.
So after driving the car home on Monday night, I didn’t want to drive it in the BIGGEST RAIN THAT THE BAY AREA HAS EVER SEEN on Tuesday morning. But secretly, I was happy about that typhoon making its way here from Japan because the Holy Shits had started:
HS, What if I total the car before I even have license plates?
HS, What if someone keys my car?
HS, what if it gets stolen from the BART parking lot?
Finally this morning we missed the latest train and I had to drive. And, just like being with baby, when the Holy Shits tuckered themselves out, it was awesome. Bring on the newborn!
T minus 2 days!!!
Good Morning Internet,
Are you as excited as I am for Spike Jonze's Where the Wild Things Are? If not, why the H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks not?!
Are you as excited as I am for Spike Jonze's Where the Wild Things Are? If not, why the H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks not?!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Monkey Brain
So I'm watching Desperate Housewives and a guest actress looks like WASPy, would-be Jackie O "Trudy Campbell" from Mad Men. I look up the actress on IMDB and one of her more recent credits is Hot Sluts. Whoa, talk about range! Trudy, you dirty birdie. . .
PS If you don't know what the heck I'm talking about, please put Mad Men at the top of your Netflix queue.
PS If you don't know what the heck I'm talking about, please put Mad Men at the top of your Netflix queue.
The Best Part of My Day
I've never been a morning person. It usually takes at least 30 minutes for me to wake up, even after I've done all the things that help people wake up (shower, brush teeth, dress, pack lunch, etc) before leaving the house. This is what a commute is for, to slowly get me ready for the day.
For the first few months of our relationship, Josh would drive me into work. Now Josh is Mr. Sunshine and Energy in the morning, full of pep and wanting to interact. I am against all interactions until I have had time to wake up (with or without chemical stimulation). So he would engage, I would snap, he'd get hurt, I'd apologize, ad infinitum. Finally, I explained to him that Morning Caitlin was supremely Monkey Brained, and I wanted silence and to stop having to apologize every day. Since then, most mornings have been just peachy.
Here's the thing: parenthood doesn't give a crap about what time is good for you. Toddlers don't understand that evening may be a better time to be with Mama. Toddlers don't understand Monkey Brain.
Working parenthood for our household means that evenings are chaotic. By the time we get home, it's time for Jacob's dinner, bath time, pajamas and stories. Lately, he's been a real two year old fusspot and is sometimes cranky and overtired, so the above routine gets sped up.
The morning, though? Ahh, the morning. If we get up closer to 5:30 then 6 (in which case there is the showering, diaper-changing, dressing, lunch-making madness to get to the 6:51 train), the morning is loverly. Sometimes we'll read Night Chicken (In the Night Kitchen) three or four times. Sometimes Jacob will come into our bed and pretend to fall asleep again or roll around and cuddle/wrestle, abusing our Obama action figure by pulling off his "hair".
The thing is that even though it's only about 15 minutes, it feels like forever, and it is a wonderful way to burn off the fog in my mind. These days, this former night owl is chirping with her chickadee. At least until she falls asleep on BART.
For the first few months of our relationship, Josh would drive me into work. Now Josh is Mr. Sunshine and Energy in the morning, full of pep and wanting to interact. I am against all interactions until I have had time to wake up (with or without chemical stimulation). So he would engage, I would snap, he'd get hurt, I'd apologize, ad infinitum. Finally, I explained to him that Morning Caitlin was supremely Monkey Brained, and I wanted silence and to stop having to apologize every day. Since then, most mornings have been just peachy.
Here's the thing: parenthood doesn't give a crap about what time is good for you. Toddlers don't understand that evening may be a better time to be with Mama. Toddlers don't understand Monkey Brain.
Working parenthood for our household means that evenings are chaotic. By the time we get home, it's time for Jacob's dinner, bath time, pajamas and stories. Lately, he's been a real two year old fusspot and is sometimes cranky and overtired, so the above routine gets sped up.
The morning, though? Ahh, the morning. If we get up closer to 5:30 then 6 (in which case there is the showering, diaper-changing, dressing, lunch-making madness to get to the 6:51 train), the morning is loverly. Sometimes we'll read Night Chicken (In the Night Kitchen) three or four times. Sometimes Jacob will come into our bed and pretend to fall asleep again or roll around and cuddle/wrestle, abusing our Obama action figure by pulling off his "hair".
The thing is that even though it's only about 15 minutes, it feels like forever, and it is a wonderful way to burn off the fog in my mind. These days, this former night owl is chirping with her chickadee. At least until she falls asleep on BART.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Monkey Brain
Things that make me feel fearless:
1. I’ve walked 60 miles in three days for breast cancer, the last three miles of which the feet of my skin were being ripped off by an athletic tape hatchet job.
2. I’ve labored for 26 hours.
3. I’ve lost more than 25% of my blood volume and lived to tell the tale with no need of transfusion.
And yet.
Here I stand at 6am, at the threshold to my bathroom, a cringing, cowering, blubbering mess of a girl, until I can squeak out “Helphelphelphelp!” until Josh comes in to kill the 1 cm spider who has caused such a ruckus.
Meanwhile, Jacob sees these creatures and says, “Oooh, spider! Cute.”
1. I’ve walked 60 miles in three days for breast cancer, the last three miles of which the feet of my skin were being ripped off by an athletic tape hatchet job.
2. I’ve labored for 26 hours.
3. I’ve lost more than 25% of my blood volume and lived to tell the tale with no need of transfusion.
And yet.
Here I stand at 6am, at the threshold to my bathroom, a cringing, cowering, blubbering mess of a girl, until I can squeak out “Helphelphelphelp!” until Josh comes in to kill the 1 cm spider who has caused such a ruckus.
Meanwhile, Jacob sees these creatures and says, “Oooh, spider! Cute.”
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Pregnancy Dream #5
I've traveled back in time and am somehow on the set of DJ AM's upcoming reality show, and I'm trying to tell him not to overdose when he goes to NYC. While I know that he's going to die, I can't tell him what I know, so I just keep giving him hints to save himself. Erm, okayyyyy. . .
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Semantics
As we were driving to Target (diapers, Q-tips, toothbrush, baby toothpaste, Halloween decorations, Dino costume) today, Jacob was clearly getting hungry and picky. I reached into my Mama bag o tricks, and all I came up with was half of a Nature Valley Granola Bar and a package of dried apricots. Here's what went down:
Mama(offering a piece of granola bar): Granola bar?
Jacob takes the granola bar, then bursts into tears and gives it back. (I told you he was hungry)
Mama: Apricot?
Jacob looks skeptical and slowly palms the apricot
Mama: It's good, it's sweet.
Jacob: Sweet?
Mama: Yes, sweet. Have some.
Jacob: Cookie?
Mama: Yes, sweet, like a cookie.
Jacob: Cookie?
Mama: Yes, it's a cookie! Eat the cookie!
Jacob, satisfied that it is indeed a cookie, chewing: Mmm, pretty good.
Handel's "Messiah" plays in the soundtrack of my mind.
Sometimes as a parent, you feel really helpless. Other times, it's really fun to trick a 2 year old.
Mama(offering a piece of granola bar): Granola bar?
Jacob takes the granola bar, then bursts into tears and gives it back. (I told you he was hungry)
Mama: Apricot?
Jacob looks skeptical and slowly palms the apricot
Mama: It's good, it's sweet.
Jacob: Sweet?
Mama: Yes, sweet. Have some.
Jacob: Cookie?
Mama: Yes, sweet, like a cookie.
Jacob: Cookie?
Mama: Yes, it's a cookie! Eat the cookie!
Jacob, satisfied that it is indeed a cookie, chewing: Mmm, pretty good.
Handel's "Messiah" plays in the soundtrack of my mind.
Sometimes as a parent, you feel really helpless. Other times, it's really fun to trick a 2 year old.
22 Weeks: Does this baby make my butt look fat?
Well, our little spaghetti squash is moving right along. I had a very good appt this week. I received the results of my glucose screening (nice and low at 117) and I don’t have to do the dreaded 3 hour test that I experienced with Jacob. Blood pressure is also still low, Keiki’s moving around like a little dolphin, and the heartbeat looks good. All good things, for which I should be very grateful.
Instead, I’m a bit obsessed with is my 20 lb weight gain. I started out the pregnancy on the plus size side of things, and already have enough issues about my body, which are not helped with the alien invasion that let’s me know that I am definitely not in charge. Last time around, I gained A LOT of weight. In the first trimester alone I gained 13 lbs, mainly due to the fact that McDonald’s was one of the few foods that quelled my nausea, and I felt too sick and tired to exercise. I was so emotionally spent by being sick 24 hours a day and thinking it would never stop that I just gave up on everything.
This time, I’ve been able to workout through the nausea, and find healthy foods like crisp apples and watermelon. I’m more prepared emotionally to tackle the harder parts of pregnancy. My doctor is not concerned about my weight, but I guess it’s the one thing that I think I can control. Some days I step on the scale and it’s gone up 2 or 3 lbs that don’t go away. Intellectually I know that I am gaining blood and fluid, along with baby, and that I’m not eating 10,000s of calories each day, but it’s still disconcerting.
This, of course, is one of the many lessons of parenthood, in that whatever your issue is, pregnancy and parenting are sure to bring it up in your face.
So you’re a neat freak? Guess, what, you are going to get a kid with exploding poop and spitting up after every meal, I can guarantee it. Are you a bit shy? Let me introduce you to your son, who will engage every check out clerk that you encounter. Trust me, whatever your “thing” is; your child will make you face it. And that is a good thing.
I can be very mindless when it comes to self-care, and pregnancy is a daily reminder to be in my body, and that what I eat has a consequence. If I eat to much or not enough, I get violently ill, and I am forced to pay attention to my body and its needs on an hourly basis. This is a challenge, as I would much rather focus on other things than myself.
I know that as a parent, if I don’t give myself the basic love and care that my body and mind needs, not only am I unable to be the best Mom I can be, I am teaching my son that self-care is not a worthy endeavor, and I do not want him to learn that lesson. So I’m trying to be kind, to myself and the little gourd within.
Instead, I’m a bit obsessed with is my 20 lb weight gain. I started out the pregnancy on the plus size side of things, and already have enough issues about my body, which are not helped with the alien invasion that let’s me know that I am definitely not in charge. Last time around, I gained A LOT of weight. In the first trimester alone I gained 13 lbs, mainly due to the fact that McDonald’s was one of the few foods that quelled my nausea, and I felt too sick and tired to exercise. I was so emotionally spent by being sick 24 hours a day and thinking it would never stop that I just gave up on everything.
This time, I’ve been able to workout through the nausea, and find healthy foods like crisp apples and watermelon. I’m more prepared emotionally to tackle the harder parts of pregnancy. My doctor is not concerned about my weight, but I guess it’s the one thing that I think I can control. Some days I step on the scale and it’s gone up 2 or 3 lbs that don’t go away. Intellectually I know that I am gaining blood and fluid, along with baby, and that I’m not eating 10,000s of calories each day, but it’s still disconcerting.
This, of course, is one of the many lessons of parenthood, in that whatever your issue is, pregnancy and parenting are sure to bring it up in your face.
So you’re a neat freak? Guess, what, you are going to get a kid with exploding poop and spitting up after every meal, I can guarantee it. Are you a bit shy? Let me introduce you to your son, who will engage every check out clerk that you encounter. Trust me, whatever your “thing” is; your child will make you face it. And that is a good thing.
I can be very mindless when it comes to self-care, and pregnancy is a daily reminder to be in my body, and that what I eat has a consequence. If I eat to much or not enough, I get violently ill, and I am forced to pay attention to my body and its needs on an hourly basis. This is a challenge, as I would much rather focus on other things than myself.
I know that as a parent, if I don’t give myself the basic love and care that my body and mind needs, not only am I unable to be the best Mom I can be, I am teaching my son that self-care is not a worthy endeavor, and I do not want him to learn that lesson. So I’m trying to be kind, to myself and the little gourd within.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Monkey Brain
Most of my husband’s ancestors perished in the Holocaust; his grandparents were each the only surviving members of their family. My family history, or what I know of it, is a Nazi’s eugenic dream: protestant, corn fed blue-eyed blonds from Sweden, Germany and the UK.
My aunt recently made a photo book of my paternal family history, rich with stories about the first president of Michigan University, and my great-grandmother, brave enough to risk God knows what to dress up like a boy to be with her husband on a field visit to Syria at the beginning of the 20th century. It makes me sad to know that Josh (and our children) does not have as much of a reach back into his past because much of it was snuffed out by a megalomaniac sociopath intent on wiping out a group of people simply because they existed.
It brings me much pleasure to think of my boy, my ginger-blond boy with deep blue eyes, ski jump nose and 50 percent Ashkenazi Jew blood as a big fuck you to Adolf Hitler. I’m so happy to be expecting another child who would make the Fuhrer roll over in his grave.
My aunt recently made a photo book of my paternal family history, rich with stories about the first president of Michigan University, and my great-grandmother, brave enough to risk God knows what to dress up like a boy to be with her husband on a field visit to Syria at the beginning of the 20th century. It makes me sad to know that Josh (and our children) does not have as much of a reach back into his past because much of it was snuffed out by a megalomaniac sociopath intent on wiping out a group of people simply because they existed.
It brings me much pleasure to think of my boy, my ginger-blond boy with deep blue eyes, ski jump nose and 50 percent Ashkenazi Jew blood as a big fuck you to Adolf Hitler. I’m so happy to be expecting another child who would make the Fuhrer roll over in his grave.
Monday, October 05, 2009
I am rubber, you are glue. . .
Josh is a Minnesota Vikings fan. And by fan, I mean a true fanatic. And by fanatic, I mean checking the local papers, The Pioneer Press and The Star Tribune, on a daily basis. By fanatic, I mean staying up the night before the NFL Draft the way that I once stayed up for Santa. Watching the ENTIRE draft; BOTH DAYS. While his obsession has faded somewhat since Jacob's birth, it smolders on and once in a while, it flares back up.
My brother Ben is a Green Bay Packers fan. Not at the same level as Josh, but enough to get me interested enough in professional sports through stories about the general fanaticism of Green Bay itself.
Josh and Ben have a friendly rivalry, the trash-talking cementing their brothers by marriage bond. Given that the Vikings record is not that great compared to the Packers, Josh has resorted to arbitrarily blurting out "Brett Faaaaaarve!" in this funny announcer voice. He yells it when I am on the phone with Ben, sometimes he takes the phone out of my hand and yells it into the phone without saying anything else. When Ben visits, Josh will say "Brett Faaaaaarve!" on infinite repeat.
While this started out as Josh mocking the sycophants praying at the altar of Brett Favre, that glue-y insult has bounced off Ben and stuck to Josh. Because now, Brett Favre is a Viking. And not only that, the Vikings are kicking butt.
So now, Josh has drunk the Favre Kool-Aid, and can't stop exclaiming, "Brett Faaaaaarve!" on game days like he's been newly diagnosed with football Tourette Syndrome.
This kind of reminds me of my friend from college, S, who made fun of her friend's wheezy laugh so much that eventually she could only laugh in the same loud, wheezing manner. Her laugh became so unique that my friend SP, exclaimed, "I've heard you in the dining hall!" after meeting her and hearing her laugh.
My brother Ben is a Green Bay Packers fan. Not at the same level as Josh, but enough to get me interested enough in professional sports through stories about the general fanaticism of Green Bay itself.
Josh and Ben have a friendly rivalry, the trash-talking cementing their brothers by marriage bond. Given that the Vikings record is not that great compared to the Packers, Josh has resorted to arbitrarily blurting out "Brett Faaaaaarve!" in this funny announcer voice. He yells it when I am on the phone with Ben, sometimes he takes the phone out of my hand and yells it into the phone without saying anything else. When Ben visits, Josh will say "Brett Faaaaaarve!" on infinite repeat.
While this started out as Josh mocking the sycophants praying at the altar of Brett Favre, that glue-y insult has bounced off Ben and stuck to Josh. Because now, Brett Favre is a Viking. And not only that, the Vikings are kicking butt.
So now, Josh has drunk the Favre Kool-Aid, and can't stop exclaiming, "Brett Faaaaaarve!" on game days like he's been newly diagnosed with football Tourette Syndrome.
This kind of reminds me of my friend from college, S, who made fun of her friend's wheezy laugh so much that eventually she could only laugh in the same loud, wheezing manner. Her laugh became so unique that my friend SP, exclaimed, "I've heard you in the dining hall!" after meeting her and hearing her laugh.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Driven to Distraction
Lately I've been thinking about lots of things, none of which have to do with the fact that I'm going to be a mother of two in about four months. This is nothing new really. Right before going into induce labor for Jacob, I became obsessed with getting our house professionally cleaned and a video camera. Two years later I can't even find the charge cord for our video camera, and yesterday I let Jacob eat a dropped piece of toast w/cheese off our dining room floor (to be fair, I had just Swiffered).
It is much easier to focus on the little things that aren't necessarily relevant, than the BIG things coming our way. And 2 little kids is a VERY BIG THING. However, I don't think that this is a really bad thing. Then again, I've let my child eat food off the floor. I think that this can be a useful tool, especially since I am more aware know that this is just a tool, and I don't really need that thing that I'm obsessed with.
What BIG THING are you avoiding? Here are some things that are helping me get through my upcoming BIG THING:
1. I need a car with room enough to fit a BOB Duallie Jogger
2. Did Ed really cheat on Jillian from The Bachelorette?
3. I need a dishwasher
4. I need a new kitchen to match the dishwasher
5. My garage is a mess
6. My front door needs painting and weatherization
7. Who did let the dogs out? Who? Who?
8. Will Jacob ever stop saying "Say Please" instead of "Please"?
It is much easier to focus on the little things that aren't necessarily relevant, than the BIG things coming our way. And 2 little kids is a VERY BIG THING. However, I don't think that this is a really bad thing. Then again, I've let my child eat food off the floor. I think that this can be a useful tool, especially since I am more aware know that this is just a tool, and I don't really need that thing that I'm obsessed with.
What BIG THING are you avoiding? Here are some things that are helping me get through my upcoming BIG THING:
1. I need a car with room enough to fit a BOB Duallie Jogger
2. Did Ed really cheat on Jillian from The Bachelorette?
3. I need a dishwasher
4. I need a new kitchen to match the dishwasher
5. My garage is a mess
6. My front door needs painting and weatherization
7. Who did let the dogs out? Who? Who?
8. Will Jacob ever stop saying "Say Please" instead of "Please"?
Saturday, October 03, 2009
Our Little Paleontologist
Every Saturday, we all head out to a local park to attend Stroller Strides, a mom & baby fitness class, although Daddys are welcome (and free on Saturdays!). We sing songs like "Row Row Row Your Boat" to entertain the kids while getting our butts kicked by lunges, squats, sprints, etc.
Anyhoo, we end class at a playground, where the kids burn off some energy while the parents finish up with abs and stretching. Every Saturday without fail, Jacob spends an obligatory five minutes at the playground before getting down to business: looking for dinosaurs.
There is a small wooded area right next to the playground, and it is prime dino hunting ground. First, Jacob enters the woods and sings, “Dinosaur. . .where ARE you?” Next, he looks for some sticks, maybe to help him corral the dinosaurs when he gets them?
Sometimes, he tires of the hunt, and decides to become Max from Where the Wild Things Are, which he indicates by ceremoniously tapping the tree and declaring, “Rumpus, Start!”
For the most part, though, it’s all about the dinosaurs. Just once, I’d love to see a brontosaurus show up, just walking along through the woods of Northern California. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?
Anyhoo, we end class at a playground, where the kids burn off some energy while the parents finish up with abs and stretching. Every Saturday without fail, Jacob spends an obligatory five minutes at the playground before getting down to business: looking for dinosaurs.
There is a small wooded area right next to the playground, and it is prime dino hunting ground. First, Jacob enters the woods and sings, “Dinosaur. . .where ARE you?” Next, he looks for some sticks, maybe to help him corral the dinosaurs when he gets them?
Sometimes, he tires of the hunt, and decides to become Max from Where the Wild Things Are, which he indicates by ceremoniously tapping the tree and declaring, “Rumpus, Start!”
For the most part, though, it’s all about the dinosaurs. Just once, I’d love to see a brontosaurus show up, just walking along through the woods of Northern California. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?
Pay Attention During Physics Class!
Was my elementary school the only one to show the filmstrip of the frozen milk bottle exploding? A co-worker put their can of soda in the communal freezer, forgot about it, and it exploded, leaving a high fructose corn syrup frost on everyone else’s food. Thanks, dude.
Friday, October 02, 2009
Pregnancy Dream #4
A few nights ago I dreamt that I gave birth to a fish. A big, pink, hairy fish with a green mustache and green patches over its body. I put the fish/baby in water, but then realized that it couldn't breath because it was, erm, "human," so I pulled it out of the bowl of water.
With Jacob, I had different versions of the same dream: I forget to feed/care for the baby for days on end and it shrivels up like a raisin. This time around, evidently my subconscious is satisfied with my caretaking skills, so all bets are off. Does this mean I'm having a girl?
With Jacob, I had different versions of the same dream: I forget to feed/care for the baby for days on end and it shrivels up like a raisin. This time around, evidently my subconscious is satisfied with my caretaking skills, so all bets are off. Does this mean I'm having a girl?
Birth Story, Part I
Every mom has her birth story. Even those moms who haven’t experienced childbirth, they have their own form of a birth story.
Here is mine.
WARNING: The following includes some personal and potentially graphic information, especially for any menfolk out there. Okay, you’ve been warned.
Today is Jacob’s birthday! I can’t believe our little nugget is a walking, talking little person. Today is also Gandhi’s birthday, which is why I think that Jacob is so mellow, and it may also be why he fought so hard to be born on October 2.
Oh how we tried to get him out of the hot tub! At 36 weeks, his head was measuring at 39 weeks and his weight was 7 lbs, 4 oz. Yikes! Everyone kept telling us we were going to get this big old baby that would never make it to 40 weeks. We tried to induce a week before Jacob’s birth, and it failed. This was somewhat horrifying because we didn’t realize that an induction may not work. We figured we’d come out with a baby no matter what, right? WRONG.
We checked in on a Tuesday night, and they gave me Cervidil, a vaginal suppository (Seriously, you have been warned) which is a cervical ripening agent, which means that it should have gotten my cervix to open up and get ready to make room for my hopefully not too big kid.
About three hours into the 12 hours of Cervidil, I woke up with the WORST PAIN OF MY LIFE. Worse than labor, and worse than what followed Jacob’s birth (That would be the future post entitled Postpartum Part I). In the days and weeks that followed, I got very familiar with the 1-10 pain scale, and I can say unequivocally that this was a perfect 10. It felt like someone was stabbing me repeatedly in the ONE place that a woman does not want to be stabbed. Thankfully they took it out and the pain subsided. The downside was that we just had Pitocin (another drug used to speed things along) to induce labor and that wasn’t enough.
Night two, we tried again, and once again, I woke up with the WPOML. Thankfully we had a fabulous nurse (I could write pages about the awesomeness of labor and delivery nurses and I probably will, but that is also another post) who asked if I had bad period cramps, and I said, “You mean like take massive drugs for three days bad? Why yes, yes I do.” Evidently that was a sign of hypersensitivity to prostaglandin, the MAIN ingredient in Cervidil.
Day 2 was a Thursday, and with a still un-ripe cervix by the end of the day, we had a choice: C-Section or go home. As much as we wanted this kid, I didn’t want a C-Section (Hear that? It’s God laughing as I tried to make a plan for this birth), so we went home. Tired and emotionally spent, I finally let my friends that I was still alive, and sobbed on the phone to my mom-friend, L.
Back at home, we decided to wait and not push things. So we waited, and my due date came and went. Monkey Brain struck the weekend after Jacob was due, and I tried to induce labor using castor oil. I ended up with bad breath and 12 hours of false labor.
I went into real labor the evening of October 1, and 25 hours and one C-Section later (that’s Birth Story Part II), Jacob came into this world at 9 lbs, 14 oz. As much as I tried to figure out a plan, it seems that he had his own.
Jacob’s birthday reminds me of what’s coming in February, and the big question is to VBAC (Vaginal Birth after Cesarean) or not to VBAC. What I have learned is that I’m not going to decide right now. I remember the last time I tried to pick my child’s birthday.
Here is mine.
WARNING: The following includes some personal and potentially graphic information, especially for any menfolk out there. Okay, you’ve been warned.
Today is Jacob’s birthday! I can’t believe our little nugget is a walking, talking little person. Today is also Gandhi’s birthday, which is why I think that Jacob is so mellow, and it may also be why he fought so hard to be born on October 2.
Oh how we tried to get him out of the hot tub! At 36 weeks, his head was measuring at 39 weeks and his weight was 7 lbs, 4 oz. Yikes! Everyone kept telling us we were going to get this big old baby that would never make it to 40 weeks. We tried to induce a week before Jacob’s birth, and it failed. This was somewhat horrifying because we didn’t realize that an induction may not work. We figured we’d come out with a baby no matter what, right? WRONG.
We checked in on a Tuesday night, and they gave me Cervidil, a vaginal suppository (Seriously, you have been warned) which is a cervical ripening agent, which means that it should have gotten my cervix to open up and get ready to make room for my hopefully not too big kid.
About three hours into the 12 hours of Cervidil, I woke up with the WORST PAIN OF MY LIFE. Worse than labor, and worse than what followed Jacob’s birth (That would be the future post entitled Postpartum Part I). In the days and weeks that followed, I got very familiar with the 1-10 pain scale, and I can say unequivocally that this was a perfect 10. It felt like someone was stabbing me repeatedly in the ONE place that a woman does not want to be stabbed. Thankfully they took it out and the pain subsided. The downside was that we just had Pitocin (another drug used to speed things along) to induce labor and that wasn’t enough.
Night two, we tried again, and once again, I woke up with the WPOML. Thankfully we had a fabulous nurse (I could write pages about the awesomeness of labor and delivery nurses and I probably will, but that is also another post) who asked if I had bad period cramps, and I said, “You mean like take massive drugs for three days bad? Why yes, yes I do.” Evidently that was a sign of hypersensitivity to prostaglandin, the MAIN ingredient in Cervidil.
Day 2 was a Thursday, and with a still un-ripe cervix by the end of the day, we had a choice: C-Section or go home. As much as we wanted this kid, I didn’t want a C-Section (Hear that? It’s God laughing as I tried to make a plan for this birth), so we went home. Tired and emotionally spent, I finally let my friends that I was still alive, and sobbed on the phone to my mom-friend, L.
Back at home, we decided to wait and not push things. So we waited, and my due date came and went. Monkey Brain struck the weekend after Jacob was due, and I tried to induce labor using castor oil. I ended up with bad breath and 12 hours of false labor.
I went into real labor the evening of October 1, and 25 hours and one C-Section later (that’s Birth Story Part II), Jacob came into this world at 9 lbs, 14 oz. As much as I tried to figure out a plan, it seems that he had his own.
Jacob’s birthday reminds me of what’s coming in February, and the big question is to VBAC (Vaginal Birth after Cesarean) or not to VBAC. What I have learned is that I’m not going to decide right now. I remember the last time I tried to pick my child’s birthday.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Monkey Brain
You know what is NOT okay to tell someone when they are hung over? “How about a warm tuna milkshake, with a dollop of mayo on top?” It’s been thirteen years and I still vomit a little in my mouth when I think about that.
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