I will be 30 weeks pregnant tomorrow.
I'm sure you've all heard of the instinct pregnant women experience called "nesting"; the urge to wash receiving blankets and put a few casseroles in the freezer so when the little one arrives everything will be ready.
But, when you move across the country at the end of your first trimester, discover that your home-to-be has been quite literally flooded with human waste, and spend the entire second trimester living in your gracious in-laws guest room...
When you catch (and your toddler does, too) a diabolical virus which gives you both radioactive-looking snot, unrelenting coughing, a need to use every single tissue in the Costco 12-pack of Kleenex boxes, and no more than two consecutive hours of sleep for six weeks as you fester in disease...
When you are unleashed on your new home with only one trimester to go before you arrive at the finish line, immobilized with sciatica, crippled by nausea, plagued by insomnia, knowing that soon two pre-verbal human beings under the age of two will feel within their rights to possess you, body and soul, and, indeed, to eat your very brains if they feel so inclined...
When you finally get dishes in cabinets and clothes in closets and figure out which switches control which lights, and take a breath, and realize that the previous tenants, your current next-door-neighbors with the ceramic flying pig collection, the stoners who, judging from the olfactory and auditory cues suggesting cannabis is being grown, smoked, and heartily enjoyed on the premises (heady smoke in the evening, the skunky green smell of a garage full of fresh plants in the morning, and always the air-circulating fans--welcome to California!) had the cleaning habits one associates with a stereotypical pothead...
The effect is like shooting meth.*
I have left the house in the last several days only to buy cleaning supplies, more and more and more of them. I have steam cleaned every surface. Washed windows and mirrors. Soaked stove knobs in bowls of vinegar overnight and greeted them at dawn with the ferocity of my toothbrush. Stood, fully clothed, in the running shower as I cleaned the grout, scoured the tub and tile, and irrigated the shower door tracks until, with a shudder, the last clod of the previous tenants' mold-and-pubic-hair mortar was sent to its watery grave. I've determined that, though q-tips have their place, most jobs are more effectively approached with a toothbrush. I've learned that vinegar, which has the advantage over bleach of not pickling the brains of my fetus or lungs of my small child, imparts a wearying aroma. That windex reminds me of my mom.
I have also benefited mightily from the tips and tricks I have gleaned from pinterest. I have heard many people say the site incites a competitive feeling in them, and leaves them feeling guilty and inadequate. I am pleased to report this is the furthest thing from my experience. I love seeing all the clever cleaning tips, and going through each to find which are most effective. Tonight my stove burners will reside in a freezer bag with the fumes of a few tablespoons of ammonia, and tomorrow morning I will wipe them clean with ease! I can't wait! It's like a million helpful aunties and grandmas now live in my phone, just waiting to tell me the best way to do everything! I cleaned a washing machine for the first time--I didn't even know that was a thing!
What I am getting at is that "nesting", the cute term for a cute phenomenon, does not describe what is happening here. The drive, the euphoria. It's a little much. As a trained though not practicing diagnostician of mental disorder, I would have to say it seems like I should meet criteria for something, but what? OCD? Not quite. Does it count as substance abuse if the amphetamine-like substance is the cocktail of neurotransmitters indigenous to your own gestating body? All's I'm saying is, I have gone off the deep end.
If you need me, I'll be at target. I need ammonia, a bleach pen, and a lemon.
*I don't know any of this drug business firsthand; I can't even eat chocolate after 2 pm or I can't sleep at night. I just have a proficiency with drug culture that I can't really explain.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Babies and their stuff
This post will be of no interest to those of you whose childlessness is actual rather than a lazy misnomer. However, I have been asked my opinion on this subject a few times, so figured I may as well compile my thoughts somewhere, and why not here, where my faithful readership (the few, the proud, the patient...) can weigh in with comments?
Baby stuff. What is necessary? What is helpful? I don't really know. Forrest was my first rodeo. We survived, so I can attest that my baby gear choices did not prove lethal. But here are a few things I had and didn't have, and my thoughts.
Clothes for tiny people:
I like zippered sleepers. Zippers are faster than snaps, and I found the gowns, while aesthetically sweet, rode up to the armpits. I am morally opposed to putting babies in clothing that isn't pajamas for a minimum of three months. They may never have the opportunity to dress so comfortably again in their entire life!
Receiving blankets complete the outfit. My mother-in-law, a daughter of the Utah pioneers, sewed me a huge pile of flannel receiving blankets which I used constantly for everything and without which I would have been Lost. If you have access to a daughter of the Utah pioneers, you may want to hit her up for some. If you are not so lucky, I also had good experiences with the pricey but useful Aiden and Anais brand of swaddling blankets. Swaddling is very calming, though I've heard it's important for hip development for the legs to be able to frog up, so don't get too wild with your papoosery and blame me when that kid gets hip dysplaysia.
Cloth prefold diapers are great because they are absorbent and there is a lot of absorbing that needs to happen. Especially if your kid spits up a lot, as mine did for probably eight months. I'd lay one under his head while he slept which greatly reduced my frequency of sheets-laundering, for better or for worse. I also had these quilted, waterproof, washable pads that were meant to go in a crib but I just used them everywhere, like drop cloths. Again, absorbent and sheets-protective. Highly recommended.
No footie pajamas once they start walking. So slippery! I've seen many a child tumble and crack their head on a slippery floor. Don't let this be you.
Feeding gear:
I had none, unless you count the $12 nursing bras I bought at Walmart; they were great and I can't think of how I'd improve them. No underwires can help prevent plugged ducts, FYI. I did not pump milk. Forrest never used a pacifier. When he started grabbing food out of my hands, I let him. Consequently, he has a penchant for Indian and Ethiopian cuisines. I didn't buy or make baby food. I nursed my brains out and lost ninety pounds, put that in your pipe and smoke it.
I like to keep a terry cloth pullover bib in my bag when we eat out in case he gets something drippy. At home, I generally just strip him down before eating. We have the plain plastic okra highchair, and it's good and easy to clean, but takes up more space than our even better (portable! Even easier to clean!) clamp on chair (Phil and teds brand). I'd recommend the latter unless your dining table is over a carpet, as ours was.
Baby transportation:
We have a britax marathon carseat and I've found it simple to install and adjust and have never wished for more. I also have no basis for comparison.
I have a simple umbrella stroller. It was a hand me down. It gets the job done and is small to store, so it lives in the trunk of the car. Perhaps others have more passionate reviews of strollers. Mine works but has never made me euphoric.
Apparati:
We borrowed a swing, used it for a couple months. Could have lived without it but it was kind of nice. Same for the wipes warmer. In general, I'd say borrowing is the way to go, if it's possible. Ask on Facebook if anyone has anything they love and wouldn't mind you test-driving.
Those were the only gadgets we had, unless you count a white-noise maker (which is a must-have). Only. I don't know if my quality of life would have been improved by more, but I doubt it. When he cried, nursing always seemed to fix it, no matter what the problem was. I liked not having a bunch of stuff in my house that I'd only use again for brief intervals.
I lied. Just remembered about nightlights! Have them! The kind you can turn on and off manually, not the light-sensing kind, which are put on earth to plague me. I didn't have these, but I think the kind you slap-on/slap-off would be good, the big round ones.
Carriers:
This one is for real. I had a couple pouch slings (needed different sizes as I lost weight precipitously, thanks breast feeding, good riddance Costco pizza, my pregnancy nemesis). I liked the simplicity of the design and found them easy to use and comfortable. A ring sling would adjust in size, so if you suspect precipitous weight loss, maybe get a maya sling instead of a pouch. When Forrest got bigger, I bought an ergo performance. I'm sure the regular ergo would be great; I was suckered by the promise of more breathable materials but in retrospect don't think it matters. It was nice to be able to carry Forrest on my back and have my hands free to do awesome, liberating things like the dishes. Childedness is even more glamorous than childlessness, in case you were wondering.
Furniture:
I had a thing from ikea (the trofast system, I think?) to store clothes, blankets, diapers, books, etc. but that's it. I didn't have room for or interest in a crib, changing table, or whatever else people put in their nurseries. I wish I hadn't nursed Forrest to sleep all the time (as in, every time) because he still doesn't really know how to go to sleep any other way, but I would have him in my bed again--just wouldn't nurse him all the way to sleep. You live, you learn.
We got a lovely La-z-boy recliner which I used a lot. I'd rather have a piece of furniture I can keep using after the baby is out of the baby stage than a bunch of baby-specific furniture. Some people say their recliners were lifesavers and, while I wouldn't go that far, it was nice. I was gifted a lovely breast feeding stool which made it much easier for me to rock the babe, but I'm only 5'3".
Postpartum:
Just buy the depends. This is no time for dignity.
Other thoughts:
I take so many more pictures than I would if I didn't have this magical iphone. You can back up pictures and videos online, send them to grandmothers effortlessly--I will always have a phone with as good a camera as I can while I have children, so help me, even if they have to sleep in laundry baskets! Set up a system to keep photos and videos backed up and organized. You will take eight trillion which can be mighty overwhelming, plus you'd be amazed how fast you look at a picture and can't quite remember when it was taken, which is no fun. I organize nine in folders by month, but whatever you do, just have a system.
If you live in Utah, go to Fotofly. They are cheap and do a lovely job. Best deal I've found by a landslide and one thing I already miss about living there.
I'll add to this if I think of more but, in the meantime, it's your turn, parents. Comment away!
Baby stuff. What is necessary? What is helpful? I don't really know. Forrest was my first rodeo. We survived, so I can attest that my baby gear choices did not prove lethal. But here are a few things I had and didn't have, and my thoughts.
Clothes for tiny people:
I like zippered sleepers. Zippers are faster than snaps, and I found the gowns, while aesthetically sweet, rode up to the armpits. I am morally opposed to putting babies in clothing that isn't pajamas for a minimum of three months. They may never have the opportunity to dress so comfortably again in their entire life!
Receiving blankets complete the outfit. My mother-in-law, a daughter of the Utah pioneers, sewed me a huge pile of flannel receiving blankets which I used constantly for everything and without which I would have been Lost. If you have access to a daughter of the Utah pioneers, you may want to hit her up for some. If you are not so lucky, I also had good experiences with the pricey but useful Aiden and Anais brand of swaddling blankets. Swaddling is very calming, though I've heard it's important for hip development for the legs to be able to frog up, so don't get too wild with your papoosery and blame me when that kid gets hip dysplaysia.
Cloth prefold diapers are great because they are absorbent and there is a lot of absorbing that needs to happen. Especially if your kid spits up a lot, as mine did for probably eight months. I'd lay one under his head while he slept which greatly reduced my frequency of sheets-laundering, for better or for worse. I also had these quilted, waterproof, washable pads that were meant to go in a crib but I just used them everywhere, like drop cloths. Again, absorbent and sheets-protective. Highly recommended.
No footie pajamas once they start walking. So slippery! I've seen many a child tumble and crack their head on a slippery floor. Don't let this be you.
Feeding gear:
I had none, unless you count the $12 nursing bras I bought at Walmart; they were great and I can't think of how I'd improve them. No underwires can help prevent plugged ducts, FYI. I did not pump milk. Forrest never used a pacifier. When he started grabbing food out of my hands, I let him. Consequently, he has a penchant for Indian and Ethiopian cuisines. I didn't buy or make baby food. I nursed my brains out and lost ninety pounds, put that in your pipe and smoke it.
I like to keep a terry cloth pullover bib in my bag when we eat out in case he gets something drippy. At home, I generally just strip him down before eating. We have the plain plastic okra highchair, and it's good and easy to clean, but takes up more space than our even better (portable! Even easier to clean!) clamp on chair (Phil and teds brand). I'd recommend the latter unless your dining table is over a carpet, as ours was.
Baby transportation:
We have a britax marathon carseat and I've found it simple to install and adjust and have never wished for more. I also have no basis for comparison.
I have a simple umbrella stroller. It was a hand me down. It gets the job done and is small to store, so it lives in the trunk of the car. Perhaps others have more passionate reviews of strollers. Mine works but has never made me euphoric.
Apparati:
We borrowed a swing, used it for a couple months. Could have lived without it but it was kind of nice. Same for the wipes warmer. In general, I'd say borrowing is the way to go, if it's possible. Ask on Facebook if anyone has anything they love and wouldn't mind you test-driving.
Those were the only gadgets we had, unless you count a white-noise maker (which is a must-have). Only. I don't know if my quality of life would have been improved by more, but I doubt it. When he cried, nursing always seemed to fix it, no matter what the problem was. I liked not having a bunch of stuff in my house that I'd only use again for brief intervals.
I lied. Just remembered about nightlights! Have them! The kind you can turn on and off manually, not the light-sensing kind, which are put on earth to plague me. I didn't have these, but I think the kind you slap-on/slap-off would be good, the big round ones.
Carriers:
This one is for real. I had a couple pouch slings (needed different sizes as I lost weight precipitously, thanks breast feeding, good riddance Costco pizza, my pregnancy nemesis). I liked the simplicity of the design and found them easy to use and comfortable. A ring sling would adjust in size, so if you suspect precipitous weight loss, maybe get a maya sling instead of a pouch. When Forrest got bigger, I bought an ergo performance. I'm sure the regular ergo would be great; I was suckered by the promise of more breathable materials but in retrospect don't think it matters. It was nice to be able to carry Forrest on my back and have my hands free to do awesome, liberating things like the dishes. Childedness is even more glamorous than childlessness, in case you were wondering.
Furniture:
I had a thing from ikea (the trofast system, I think?) to store clothes, blankets, diapers, books, etc. but that's it. I didn't have room for or interest in a crib, changing table, or whatever else people put in their nurseries. I wish I hadn't nursed Forrest to sleep all the time (as in, every time) because he still doesn't really know how to go to sleep any other way, but I would have him in my bed again--just wouldn't nurse him all the way to sleep. You live, you learn.
We got a lovely La-z-boy recliner which I used a lot. I'd rather have a piece of furniture I can keep using after the baby is out of the baby stage than a bunch of baby-specific furniture. Some people say their recliners were lifesavers and, while I wouldn't go that far, it was nice. I was gifted a lovely breast feeding stool which made it much easier for me to rock the babe, but I'm only 5'3".
Postpartum:
Just buy the depends. This is no time for dignity.
Other thoughts:
I take so many more pictures than I would if I didn't have this magical iphone. You can back up pictures and videos online, send them to grandmothers effortlessly--I will always have a phone with as good a camera as I can while I have children, so help me, even if they have to sleep in laundry baskets! Set up a system to keep photos and videos backed up and organized. You will take eight trillion which can be mighty overwhelming, plus you'd be amazed how fast you look at a picture and can't quite remember when it was taken, which is no fun. I organize nine in folders by month, but whatever you do, just have a system.
If you live in Utah, go to Fotofly. They are cheap and do a lovely job. Best deal I've found by a landslide and one thing I already miss about living there.
I'll add to this if I think of more but, in the meantime, it's your turn, parents. Comment away!
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Every party has a pooper
Before leaving Utah I was keen to set up as many pieces of our situation in California as possible, knowing I'd arrive exhausted and debilitated and violent in a way one only experiences in the wake of packing one's earthly belongings. The biggest detail, house-hunting, was taken care of; a happy little rental awaited us on August first, giving us a week or so to stay with Ryan's sister, recover, and quit fantasizing about torching everything we own.
Predictably, when we arrived, Ryan became so immediately consumed by work as to be unavailable to move our stuff from our garage, where we'd stashed it until the actual apartment was ready for move-in. I, encumbered by a toddler in a way that mothers of toddlers will likely understand viscerally, am not well-equipped to haul large objects because my hands are generally full of an increasing large and opinionated person. So we stalled a bit on the moving-in, instead enjoying the bed-and-breakfast-like conditions provided by Ryan's sister, swimming in the pool, playing with the cousins, and happily avoiding the contents of that garage. At least, that's what I did. Ryan was working. You win some you lose some.
At any rate, by August 7 we decided enough was enough and so Ryan went over to our place with his dad and brother-in-law to move in our beds and a pile of boxes so I would have something to unpack and, to my chagrin, resume contributing to society. Upon opening the front door, they saw standing water throughout the apartment. Further investigation confirmed the origin of the water which turned out not to be water so much as it was raw sewage. Human waste. A storm of a most indelicate nature.
A backed up pipe, presumably, was to blame for the mess throughout the house. The bedroom carpets were soaked, and, horrifyingly, the toilet and bathtub filled to the brim with exactly what you're imagining.
We were mighty pleased with ourselves for not having moved any of our stuff in yet. Chalk one up for procrastination!
I am hopeful that the hazmat team's efforts, insurance company's contributions, and landlord's diligence will allow us to move in eventually with confidence that no traces of a regurgitated sewer line remain. In the meantime, if you need me, I'll be at the pool.
Predictably, when we arrived, Ryan became so immediately consumed by work as to be unavailable to move our stuff from our garage, where we'd stashed it until the actual apartment was ready for move-in. I, encumbered by a toddler in a way that mothers of toddlers will likely understand viscerally, am not well-equipped to haul large objects because my hands are generally full of an increasing large and opinionated person. So we stalled a bit on the moving-in, instead enjoying the bed-and-breakfast-like conditions provided by Ryan's sister, swimming in the pool, playing with the cousins, and happily avoiding the contents of that garage. At least, that's what I did. Ryan was working. You win some you lose some.
At any rate, by August 7 we decided enough was enough and so Ryan went over to our place with his dad and brother-in-law to move in our beds and a pile of boxes so I would have something to unpack and, to my chagrin, resume contributing to society. Upon opening the front door, they saw standing water throughout the apartment. Further investigation confirmed the origin of the water which turned out not to be water so much as it was raw sewage. Human waste. A storm of a most indelicate nature.
A backed up pipe, presumably, was to blame for the mess throughout the house. The bedroom carpets were soaked, and, horrifyingly, the toilet and bathtub filled to the brim with exactly what you're imagining.
We were mighty pleased with ourselves for not having moved any of our stuff in yet. Chalk one up for procrastination!
I am hopeful that the hazmat team's efforts, insurance company's contributions, and landlord's diligence will allow us to move in eventually with confidence that no traces of a regurgitated sewer line remain. In the meantime, if you need me, I'll be at the pool.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Extra, extra! News!
We're moving!
After years (six) of living in Utah and complaining about the weather, the politics, and the neighborhood crime (including our house being burglarized, our taillights being stolen while the vehicle was parked in our driveway, and, two days ago, four cop cars with officers spilling out, guns drawn, at a man parked across the street) we have finally created an action plan. We are moving! To the Bay Area!
In five days!
Thankfully, I began packing our belongings in April, hoping to Manifest a move in July (check!) so it has been a very leisurely process and is largely completed. On Wednesday morning, Forrest and I board a plane to Oakland and lucky, lucky Ryan climbs into a U-haul and we head for Life 2.0.
This is all very exciting, but, of course, a touch bittersweet. Any out-of-state move that isn't bittersweet is most likely a sign of a life not lived to its fullest potential, I guess, but, still, the sting stings. I will miss my many wonderful friends here, not to mention my baby niece, but I have no ambivalence, which is either evidence of a good decision or my unwarranted self-confidence, but seems a good sign in either case.
We found a place to live that is one mile from Ryan's sister (and Forrest's two cousins) and the gym, two miles from the public library and the farmer's market, and three miles from Costco and Target, which is the exact prioritization I would have selected. It will rain instead of snow, which is my strong preference. And the ocean will be a short drive away, which is always heartening.
So! The next time you have a conference, or a family reunion, or a hankering to see the Jelly Belly factory, come on down and I'll make you pancakes.
Also, Ryan is currently watching me type this which hampers my creativity and is also distracting because he is eating a sandwich of canned baked beans and cheddar cheese. You couldn't think if someone were sitting four feet away from you eating that, admit it.
California, here we come!
After years (six) of living in Utah and complaining about the weather, the politics, and the neighborhood crime (including our house being burglarized, our taillights being stolen while the vehicle was parked in our driveway, and, two days ago, four cop cars with officers spilling out, guns drawn, at a man parked across the street) we have finally created an action plan. We are moving! To the Bay Area!
In five days!
Thankfully, I began packing our belongings in April, hoping to Manifest a move in July (check!) so it has been a very leisurely process and is largely completed. On Wednesday morning, Forrest and I board a plane to Oakland and lucky, lucky Ryan climbs into a U-haul and we head for Life 2.0.
This is all very exciting, but, of course, a touch bittersweet. Any out-of-state move that isn't bittersweet is most likely a sign of a life not lived to its fullest potential, I guess, but, still, the sting stings. I will miss my many wonderful friends here, not to mention my baby niece, but I have no ambivalence, which is either evidence of a good decision or my unwarranted self-confidence, but seems a good sign in either case.
We found a place to live that is one mile from Ryan's sister (and Forrest's two cousins) and the gym, two miles from the public library and the farmer's market, and three miles from Costco and Target, which is the exact prioritization I would have selected. It will rain instead of snow, which is my strong preference. And the ocean will be a short drive away, which is always heartening.
So! The next time you have a conference, or a family reunion, or a hankering to see the Jelly Belly factory, come on down and I'll make you pancakes.
Also, Ryan is currently watching me type this which hampers my creativity and is also distracting because he is eating a sandwich of canned baked beans and cheddar cheese. You couldn't think if someone were sitting four feet away from you eating that, admit it.
California, here we come!
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Dear Friends, Love, Amy.
Dear Friends,
I'm sorry I haven't heard your voice in years, or seen you in what seems like decades. I read your blog posts, and every article you link to on Facebook. I think your band is cool and your kids are adorable. I love the haircut.
I miss seeing you in person, and part of me feels like it's a little weird that all I have of you now is a couple witty one liners here and there, or an idea for dinner you'd like to make, dutifully pinned on your "recipes to try" board. Seriously, though, you live in Texas. Or Costa Rica. Or fifteen minutes south of me; any of these destinations is prohibitively far. Honestly, sometimes the kitchen is prohibitively far from the bedroom, so I stay under the covers and read "Play Ball, Amelia Bedelia" again. I love that one. Run home, Amelia Bedelia! It slays me.
My phone doesn't get reception reliably in the house, damn AT&T. So I don't call you. It's too heartbreaking to hear you say, "sorry, I think you're breaking up...". Just too disappointing. Plus, my baby stares at me the whole time, on the brink of whining, which is just one metro stop before melting down. It's really distracting. And he won't let someone else watch him so I can talk to you. I don't even go to the bathroom by myself, because he wants to come along. If I get out of bed when he's sleeping, he wakes up, devastated. I don't shower much (some things never change).
The thing is, I'm tired but I'm happy. I like making dinner and stacking blocks, and I don't mind dishes or laundry. I'm isolated, yes, but I'm too tired to do much, so I don't want to. I wouldn't have ever thought solitude would suit me, but I'm really quite content most of the time. I think it's my lifeline that keeps me sane.
I know some people hate on Facebook and, I agree, it's not as satisfying as seeing you in person. We used to sit on the floor and talk, or stay up late because we would be bored in bed without each other. But now, honestly, I'll take what I can get, and what I can get is Facebook. Email. Pinterest. On my phone. In bed, while the baby sleeps.
I feel updated on your life, and I love it, even if it's a little delusional. Delusion isn't as bad as it sounds. I have always likes feeling like I am in the loop and, except for one little person whose every sneeze I have witnessed, I can't be in anyone's real loop. So, please, keep posting. I'll keep dreaming.
I am thinking we would love living together someplace beautiful, kind of rural, but maybe that's just me. If so, I think it'd be fun to plan yearly retreats, but to accommodate each of you, I'd be going on a lot of retreats, and, frankly, I don't see that happening for awhile.
So here's what I propose. These next years, I think we will have to stick it out. I just can't see another way with you living in Texas. But, I think things will open up in a decade or two. Ryan will be a workaholic still, my kids won't want to watch me pee. I'll come visit.
We'll order takeout. Go for a walk. Take a pottery class, or stained glass, which I've always wanted to try. We'll make tea, tell stories about the yesterdays we shared and those we didn't. We'll go to the farmers market and make dinner. You'll convert me to a cause, I'll convert you, too. I'll twist my long braid, maybe it will be gray. We'll go skinny dipping.
I've missed you, but you don't feel so far away. I'm keeping you tucked away in my heart, where the belly laughter is. I can't wait to hang out again, and I thank you for all your patience. It's just that, at the moment, I have to teach this kid how to dance in the kitchen, or he may never learn.
Keep typing into the abyss. I'm reading, and I love you.
Talk soon, I hope.
xo,
Amy
I'm sorry I haven't heard your voice in years, or seen you in what seems like decades. I read your blog posts, and every article you link to on Facebook. I think your band is cool and your kids are adorable. I love the haircut.
I miss seeing you in person, and part of me feels like it's a little weird that all I have of you now is a couple witty one liners here and there, or an idea for dinner you'd like to make, dutifully pinned on your "recipes to try" board. Seriously, though, you live in Texas. Or Costa Rica. Or fifteen minutes south of me; any of these destinations is prohibitively far. Honestly, sometimes the kitchen is prohibitively far from the bedroom, so I stay under the covers and read "Play Ball, Amelia Bedelia" again. I love that one. Run home, Amelia Bedelia! It slays me.
My phone doesn't get reception reliably in the house, damn AT&T. So I don't call you. It's too heartbreaking to hear you say, "sorry, I think you're breaking up...". Just too disappointing. Plus, my baby stares at me the whole time, on the brink of whining, which is just one metro stop before melting down. It's really distracting. And he won't let someone else watch him so I can talk to you. I don't even go to the bathroom by myself, because he wants to come along. If I get out of bed when he's sleeping, he wakes up, devastated. I don't shower much (some things never change).
The thing is, I'm tired but I'm happy. I like making dinner and stacking blocks, and I don't mind dishes or laundry. I'm isolated, yes, but I'm too tired to do much, so I don't want to. I wouldn't have ever thought solitude would suit me, but I'm really quite content most of the time. I think it's my lifeline that keeps me sane.
I know some people hate on Facebook and, I agree, it's not as satisfying as seeing you in person. We used to sit on the floor and talk, or stay up late because we would be bored in bed without each other. But now, honestly, I'll take what I can get, and what I can get is Facebook. Email. Pinterest. On my phone. In bed, while the baby sleeps.
I feel updated on your life, and I love it, even if it's a little delusional. Delusion isn't as bad as it sounds. I have always likes feeling like I am in the loop and, except for one little person whose every sneeze I have witnessed, I can't be in anyone's real loop. So, please, keep posting. I'll keep dreaming.
I am thinking we would love living together someplace beautiful, kind of rural, but maybe that's just me. If so, I think it'd be fun to plan yearly retreats, but to accommodate each of you, I'd be going on a lot of retreats, and, frankly, I don't see that happening for awhile.
So here's what I propose. These next years, I think we will have to stick it out. I just can't see another way with you living in Texas. But, I think things will open up in a decade or two. Ryan will be a workaholic still, my kids won't want to watch me pee. I'll come visit.
We'll order takeout. Go for a walk. Take a pottery class, or stained glass, which I've always wanted to try. We'll make tea, tell stories about the yesterdays we shared and those we didn't. We'll go to the farmers market and make dinner. You'll convert me to a cause, I'll convert you, too. I'll twist my long braid, maybe it will be gray. We'll go skinny dipping.
I've missed you, but you don't feel so far away. I'm keeping you tucked away in my heart, where the belly laughter is. I can't wait to hang out again, and I thank you for all your patience. It's just that, at the moment, I have to teach this kid how to dance in the kitchen, or he may never learn.
Keep typing into the abyss. I'm reading, and I love you.
Talk soon, I hope.
xo,
Amy
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
30
I have set a new-decade resolution to cease and desist with all gossip. Saying something critical about someone, particularly when I would not say it to the person directly, is cowardly, tasteless, and insane.
I need a form of self-flagellation if I mess up. Something that stings, is relatively simple to execute, but not corporeal. I am open to suggestions.
In the meantime, if you hear me say something about someone that I wouldn't say to them, feel free to give me a quick slap.
Happy new decade!
I need a form of self-flagellation if I mess up. Something that stings, is relatively simple to execute, but not corporeal. I am open to suggestions.
In the meantime, if you hear me say something about someone that I wouldn't say to them, feel free to give me a quick slap.
Happy new decade!
Friday, November 25, 2011
The real deal
I turn thirty next week. I love my birthday and have always been committed to celebrating thoroughly. Last year on my birthday I was pregnant (miserable, and too large to fit into my birthday suit! Horrors!) and had to work for twelve hours. It was a real dud.
So this year I have been contemplating how to commemorate my glorious thirtieth birthday. What I came up with proves that my youth is already long gone.
1. Force Ryan to run errands with me. This includes babies r us (to buy an ergo), ikea, and JC Penney portrait studios (to pick up the holiday card envelopes they forgot to include with my order).
2. Force Ryan to help me clean the den and/or basement.
3. Maybe go out to lunch or something.
That's what I got. I'm glad I had so much unmitigated fun in my teens and twenties. These days, I'm apparently all business*. I hope I don't want to clean the bathroom when I turn forty.
At least I'll be running errands in my birthday suit. That thing makes a party out of anything.
*Upon a re-reading of this post, I realize that it's not so much business I'm into as forcing Ryan to do my bidding. I can't help it. I'm an oldest child.
So this year I have been contemplating how to commemorate my glorious thirtieth birthday. What I came up with proves that my youth is already long gone.
1. Force Ryan to run errands with me. This includes babies r us (to buy an ergo), ikea, and JC Penney portrait studios (to pick up the holiday card envelopes they forgot to include with my order).
2. Force Ryan to help me clean the den and/or basement.
3. Maybe go out to lunch or something.
That's what I got. I'm glad I had so much unmitigated fun in my teens and twenties. These days, I'm apparently all business*. I hope I don't want to clean the bathroom when I turn forty.
At least I'll be running errands in my birthday suit. That thing makes a party out of anything.
*Upon a re-reading of this post, I realize that it's not so much business I'm into as forcing Ryan to do my bidding. I can't help it. I'm an oldest child.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Milestones
It seems that some parents rejoice when their child, especially a firstborn child, passes important milestones. Not me. This child has started practically begging me to eat solids, and I just keep trying to nurse him. It's so easy, so convenient, so inexpensive, so metabolically favorable.
And now the little sucker has started crawling. Mobility is proving just as problematic as I anticipated. He just wants to eat electrical cords.
When he walks, I quit.
And now the little sucker has started crawling. Mobility is proving just as problematic as I anticipated. He just wants to eat electrical cords.
When he walks, I quit.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Grievances about my lower half
I'm posting this from my phone and have no idea where the photos will show up. Forgive me if it doesn't make sense. I'm in the process of learning to use my phone as my only link to the outside world.
I take issue with the following:
According to standard distribution charts for white, American females, I am a of approximately average height and weight. Why, then, are all pants minimally five inches too long? I recently purchased six pair or jeans at Unique Thrift, sweet purveyor of nearly-free clothing, and every one requires either a seamstress or impractical shoes. If I am average, it seems there could be at least one pair that would be in the ballpark. Perhaps I should wear only capris. Better cold ankles than tripping. This reminds me of canned pumpkin, sold in 29 oz. cans when everyone knows that all pumpkin recipes call for one cup (8oz.) or maybe two, if you're lucky, but never 3 and 5/8. But that grievance has nothing to do with my lower half, so, moving on...
to my next point. The aforementioned pants represented sizes four through ten. This is four different sizes, for any readers unfamiliar with women's sizes. The size four pants are roomier than the size eights. This is simply madness. Men's pants are sized in a sane way, according to their measurements. Even a difficult to size man, like my long-legger spouse, can hope to find pants if the numbers are right. Women have to take an entire store into the dressing room. I am renewed in my zeal for my fondest dream, that all the world wear zip-up jumpsuits, like auto mechanics. Practical. Comfortable. Easy to size. Why is nobody on board for this idea? Probably because they are too busy trying on pants and freezing leftover pumpkin.
And finally, I went to the gym today and did a routine of exercises specific to my glutes. Only. Just butt exercises. Because mine is a full six inches south from where I left it when I got pregnant. To my knowledge, the baby does not gestate in ones derrière. Why, then, does mine look as though someone let the air out of it? If anyone needs me, I'll be doing hack squats.
Those are all my complaints. In other news, the kid has a tooth. He does not care to show it off, and thus must be forced. He likes his dad. So do I.
Over and out.
I take issue with the following:
According to standard distribution charts for white, American females, I am a of approximately average height and weight. Why, then, are all pants minimally five inches too long? I recently purchased six pair or jeans at Unique Thrift, sweet purveyor of nearly-free clothing, and every one requires either a seamstress or impractical shoes. If I am average, it seems there could be at least one pair that would be in the ballpark. Perhaps I should wear only capris. Better cold ankles than tripping. This reminds me of canned pumpkin, sold in 29 oz. cans when everyone knows that all pumpkin recipes call for one cup (8oz.) or maybe two, if you're lucky, but never 3 and 5/8. But that grievance has nothing to do with my lower half, so, moving on...
to my next point. The aforementioned pants represented sizes four through ten. This is four different sizes, for any readers unfamiliar with women's sizes. The size four pants are roomier than the size eights. This is simply madness. Men's pants are sized in a sane way, according to their measurements. Even a difficult to size man, like my long-legger spouse, can hope to find pants if the numbers are right. Women have to take an entire store into the dressing room. I am renewed in my zeal for my fondest dream, that all the world wear zip-up jumpsuits, like auto mechanics. Practical. Comfortable. Easy to size. Why is nobody on board for this idea? Probably because they are too busy trying on pants and freezing leftover pumpkin.
And finally, I went to the gym today and did a routine of exercises specific to my glutes. Only. Just butt exercises. Because mine is a full six inches south from where I left it when I got pregnant. To my knowledge, the baby does not gestate in ones derrière. Why, then, does mine look as though someone let the air out of it? If anyone needs me, I'll be doing hack squats.
Those are all my complaints. In other news, the kid has a tooth. He does not care to show it off, and thus must be forced. He likes his dad. So do I.
Over and out.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Happy Halloween
Last year we celebrated Halloween with a 400 lb. pumpkin. It was a real big pumpkin.
This year we only had a twenty pounder. Just a little pumpkin.
Happy Halloween :)
This year we only had a twenty pounder. Just a little pumpkin.
Happy Halloween :)
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Emergency preparedness
I am newly, blissfully addicted to Pinterest. It gives a person the distinct sense of having accomplished something when, in fact, all she has done is lain in bed so her kid will stay asleep.
Pinterest has given me some anxiety. I fear I will fail to thrive as a mother and human being if I do not purchase a sewing machine and a laminator. I am now aware it is possible to fashion upwards of twenty different homemade wreaths for even the most mediocre holidays. And I am more keenly attuned every moment to the impending apocalypse. We need food storage. Survival training.
And all I do is watch my kid sleep.
But sometimes a person realizes she may be unduly complicating things. In fact, the ability to complicate simple things may not only describe a pastime, but a defining personality trait.
Think with me on this. Is there anything I need in a 72 hour kit besides a jar of peanut butter, a bottle of gatorade, and a small firearm.
I eagerly await your input.
Friday, September 9, 2011
My identity
This morning, I woke up in the bed where I co-sleep with my exclusively breastfed child, changed his hemp cloth diaper, and set about my primary objective for the day, which is cleaning my carpet with this non-toxic, homemade method. I ran out of salt, so I went to our locally-sourcing natural foods market, traipsed around with my kid in a sling while wearing vibram fivefingers, and took home my salt, plus some chocolate almond milk, for a treat, in my reusable canvas bags.
But I'm no hippie.
In college, I was frequently teased for being a fake hippie, because I was. I listened to phish CDs I bought at barnes and noble, rather than bootlegged myself on tour, in the Toyota previa I purchased, rather than a vintage VW bus. I ate vegetarian food I bought at target and Costco. I wore Birkenstocks purchased via amazon and had shipped to my air-conditioned house.
It has been a life of conflict and hypocrisy.
This is why I am grateful for the green mommy movement. Never before have my interests in Eco- and health-friendly lifestyle choices been so beautifully blended with my uptight and neurotic personality. Now I can keep orderly and extensive boards of recipes, DIY projects, and unschooling ideas on Pinterest. I can follow vegan cooking blogs on my google reader and read then on my iPhone while I'm nursing. It's AWESOME.
I am not alone.
Relatedly, if obliquely, I have had a few observant friends mention the obsolescence of my blog title. Touché, I am indeed no longer childless (though I have also not been a housewife for four years and nobody noticed; perhaps therein lies a commentary on female identity perception in the US). However, I am contemplating new options. The blog does need a new name. A couple that now spring to mind are:
1. Amy's breastaurant: all-you-can-eat, open 24/7
2. No Regrets: Trading a life of ease, luxury, and lunch dates for a life of domestic servitude without a moment's regret
As you can see, I'm having trouble coming up with something I find as punchy as Childless Housewife, but I'll keep working on it.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The more things change
The more they still have a fat head and a concerned look on their face.
First photo taken 6/11/11, second photo taken 8/9/11.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Baby's firsts
I think The Kid had his first successful rollover yesterday. I did not capture the event, as I was not excited about it. Mobility=hassle. I've seen parents of toddlers. They're busy trying to keep their kids from killing themselves.
There have been a couple other firsts, however, about which I was thrilled. The first was his first playdate. He is going to have to learn to love hanging out with other kids so I can hang out with their moms.
I think they enjoyed it, too. They seemed to share some perspective. Like they were looking at life from the same angle, if you will.
Both boys are robust. However my child is only two weeks older than the other boy and looked substantially bigger to me. This is not surprising. He weighs 17 lbs 5 oz. Now I know why he kept hollering for more food in utero. He had plans for those calories.
The other first is that this morning, I discovered baby's first dreadlock. It is small, but unmistakable.
This was acquired in the night. A person has to be serious about their tossing and turning to dread their barely-existing hair while they are asleep.
I am here to verify the tossing and turning.
He does sleep occasionally. Here is proof:
I still prefer him awake, though. The kid knows how to party.
That is all. Forgive the lack of funny stories or flowery prose. We're a little tired around here. Tired, but good. Actually, great. We are all just great.
The Kid is a good idea.
There have been a couple other firsts, however, about which I was thrilled. The first was his first playdate. He is going to have to learn to love hanging out with other kids so I can hang out with their moms.
I think they enjoyed it, too. They seemed to share some perspective. Like they were looking at life from the same angle, if you will.
Both boys are robust. However my child is only two weeks older than the other boy and looked substantially bigger to me. This is not surprising. He weighs 17 lbs 5 oz. Now I know why he kept hollering for more food in utero. He had plans for those calories.The other first is that this morning, I discovered baby's first dreadlock. It is small, but unmistakable.
This was acquired in the night. A person has to be serious about their tossing and turning to dread their barely-existing hair while they are asleep.I am here to verify the tossing and turning.
He does sleep occasionally. Here is proof:
I still prefer him awake, though. The kid knows how to party.
That is all. Forgive the lack of funny stories or flowery prose. We're a little tired around here. Tired, but good. Actually, great. We are all just great.The Kid is a good idea.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Should've named him Winston
Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:
I suppose all we can hope is that his command of language is sufficient to obscure the effects of his whiskey habit.
He isn't always grumpily impersonating world leaders of the twentieth century, though. Here. He smiles.
More cute photos by Kat Audette here. (If you want more crappy iPhone photos, you'll have to keep checking here.) She is a talented and delightful person; if you need photos taken in SLC, I'd recommend her!
Exhibit B:
I suppose all we can hope is that his command of language is sufficient to obscure the effects of his whiskey habit.He isn't always grumpily impersonating world leaders of the twentieth century, though. Here. He smiles.
More cute photos by Kat Audette here. (If you want more crappy iPhone photos, you'll have to keep checking here.) She is a talented and delightful person; if you need photos taken in SLC, I'd recommend her!
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Housewife
The above photograph is of Kate Winslet starring in her role as Clementine is the surrealistic film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. One fun motif in the film is Clementine's frequently-changing technicolor hair.
The above picture is of Muriel, the Disney princess more readily identified by her bright red hair than the fact that her lower body is piscene. She is a cartoon.What do these characters have in common? The same thing they share with me: surrealistic, cartoonish, unnaturally red hair.
The above photo is of me yesterday. I bought henna because, based on my consultation of the internet, I thought it would be good for my hair and might infuse it with a reddish cast. It sounded like good, clean, herbal fun.I should have known to take herbs seriously after the cohosh incident.
The instructions indicated that the henna could be left on the hair for 2-4 hours, which affirmed my belief that it must not be too potent (otherwise, they would give a more specific timeframe, I assumed).
Thankfully, the box also provided some assurance. "The hair may appear to be a very bright color at first, but will fade to a natural shade of red in 3-4 days."
I hope they're serious, but I'm trying to be cheerful. See?
In other news, in trying to avoid an allergic reaction to latex, I forewent the gloves included in the henna kit and gave myself an oompa loompa hand. My hand has faded now to an almost-normal shade, so hope springs eternal for my hair. The baby is included in the shot for contrast as well as to make this post more enjoyable for my mother.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Counting my blessings
Babies make the best faces before they have muscle control. It's awesome.
I have many blessings to be thankful for. Too many to name or even conceptualize. I am probably not aware of 99% of them.
But there is one of which I am keenly aware. I AM NO LONGER PREGNANT.
I may not have slept more than three consecutive hours in six weeks, I may have needed bonus stitches in my sitting parts three weeks postpartum, I may have a case of mystery eczema that might preclude eating dairy (mixed blessing, I know), I may not be able to wear non-maternity pants for another several months, I may be insuranceless when my Medicaid runs out in two weeks, I may be unable to return any of the phone calls from loving friends wanting to check in because any minute a squalling baby may demand milk from its original source, but I DON'T CARE. Because I, my lovelies, am not pregnant.
There is no bliss to match the bliss of not being pregnant anymore. Some women feel lovely and fecund and mysterious when they are pregnant, but for me it was just a series of new kinds of pain and discomfort, compounding one another's effects over a forty week span and ending in pain that defies description. So I'm happy it's over. Real happy!
In other news, Forrest and I had our six week postpartum visit yesterday. He weighed in at an impressive 12 lb, 4 oz, meaning his weight has increased by 50% while mine has decreased by 25%. When our midwife announced Forrest's weight, I looked surprised and she, gesturing to the visible fruits of lactation, said, "Well, he is feeding at one of the seven wonders of the world!"
My boobs rival Giza's pyramids. Literally and figuratively.
Life is good. I'm not pregnant, I have a sleepy, hungry little nursling, and spring is springing just as I am regaining hope of eventual mobility. Things are looking up around here.
Visitors welcome :) I only work 6 hours a week!
Thursday, March 31, 2011
40 weeks
As of five hours ago, I am forty weeks pregnant. I think my water may have broken at 3:00, but no contractions yet. Unfortunately, I can't seem to go back to sleep. Ryan fell back asleep as soon as I told him to. Men have it easy.
I would find it very satisfying if this child is born on his due date.
3:00 water trickle, call midwife and mom. try to sleep. fail.
Get up and play around online. Read funny blog. Have a few intermittent contractions.
7:00 puke.
Nineteen days later, I'm back to edit the post I began the day before I gave birth. Sorry. Newborn=timewarp. It's all for the best. I already have amnesia setting in, which should spare you some gore.
So, as you can see from the above post, begun but never finished, I went into labor on my due date, March 31. Kind of. It was slow, disorganized labor, with lots of several-hours-long breaks and easily managed contractions. I enjoyed this early labor stage until 1:00 pm the next day, April 1, when my midwife invited me to her office to talk about options, since my water may or may not have broken (in retrospect, I think it was a break in the forebag, for those who like details about other peoples' amniotic sacs). She did the obligatory exam and reported that I have a "favorable" cervix (3 cm dilated, 80% effaced, "nice and soft and stretchy") and that I might benefit from her "labor blend", an herbal tincture featuring the wondrous cohoshes, black and blue. She explained that the labor blend would act like a push-start to a car: if my body wasn't ready for active labor, nothing would happen, but if we were on the brink of something real, it might help things get into gear.
I threw it back like a shot of tequila with nary an afterthought and delivered a baby four hours later.
When I think of myself swilling it down now, it is as though I see myself smilingly compliant as I am strapped to the front of a train. Sure, I'll take that cohosh! I didn't want to breathe for the next four hours anyway!
I began having more intense contractions shortly after taking the dreaded labor blend and by the time I got home I was in active labor. Ryan called the midwife.
Ryan: "Uhm, I think this is getting kind of serious"
Midwife: "Well have her get in the shower. Sometimes that can space the contractions out a little bit."
Ryan: "Ok"
Me [on all fours on the bed with my face buried in the mattress]: "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
It was evident to Ryan that I wasn't going to make it to the shower. He called the midwife back a few contractions later and we headed back to have a baby.
Thankfully, my little brother drives a Crown Victoria, aka living room on wheels, aka Birth Chariot. I did not deliver the baby in the car; that is not where this is going. I did, however, ride the six miles to the birth center on my hands and knees in the back seat, wailing my pretty little head off. Little brother said he felt like he was in a movie. I did not feel like I was in a movie. I felt like I was in another place, a place where snowballs don't fare well.
We arrived at around 3:30 and I somehow pitched and roared myself inside. It was nothing graceful, I assure you. As soon as the midwife saw me, she exclaimed "Oh! Now this is a woman who is working!" and started the water in the giant tub.
Ryan began explaining the situation.
Ryan: "The contractions started getting bad when we got back home..."
Midwife: "You mean they started getting good when you got home!"
Sadist.
I got in the tub as soon as it was ready for me, planted myself on my shins and hands, a la The Little Mermaid (who, incidentally, Ryan identified the other day as Muriel, to my unending amusement and delight), and didn't move for two hours. I labored, loudly. I knew from reading a bazillion birth books that low noises are more helpful in labor than high-pitched shrieks, so I compromised by making the loudest low noises known to man. I was so loud I couldn't hear what people were saying to me. It was sort of shocking how loud I could be.
And sort of satisfying.
They say some women like labor and some women like pushing. I only liked when it was over.
I will say only this about the sensation of labor pains. If you had hit me on the hand with a hammer as hard as you could, I would have considered it a minor distraction.
Forrest Michael Lee was born at 5:30. He was very small when compared to other human beings, and very large when compared to the size of the body parts from which he recently emerged: 8 lb 10 oz.
Ryan, my friend Jami, my mother, and my midwife attended the birth. Other than the fact that it was mind-meltingly, horrifically, painful, it was perfect. There are not words to describe what it meant to have each of them there, so I won't try. It's not blog material anyway. Blogs are for writing that your husband thought the Little Mermaid's name was Muriel, at least that's what this blog is for.
After my whirlwind delivery I felt like exhasuted, broken, garbagey garbage. To say I was spent doesn't begin to capture it. I was still in pain. And I soon discovered that the price of a quick, efficient labor is that a person better learn to nurse lying on her side because she isn't going to be sitting for awhile. I'll leave it at that.
I still can't sit.
The baby was, of course, the foil for all the misery. He was a peaceful little beauty and neither Ryan nor I slept all night because we couldn't stop staring at his little face. I congratulated myself on a job well done, as I had created a close to perfect baby (he has a tongue tie, but we like him anyway, even if he is a little chompy about the nursing) out of pizza and Berry Berry Kix. Not bad.
The first ten days after the birth were idyllic, minus the not sitting and getting chomped. My mom stayed with us while Ryan and I got our sea legs and she fell for the boy, hard. We're going to have to figure out a fiscally responsible way to get her to move to Utah because if we don't I think she might not make it. We all just stayed in the house staring at the new little face. It still hasn't gotten old.
When I was in the throes of pregnant misery, working 40-50 hours a week as I gained seventy pounds (in spite of frequent vomiting, making the accomplishment all the more impressive) I told myself that when the baby was born all I would do was lay in bed for the first two months and nurse him. At the time I thought I was kidding, or at least exaggerating, but here I am, nineteen days out, and that's all I've done so far. I barely check my email. I haven't called Medicaid to tell them the baby was born. I have only left the house three times, for appointments with doctors. I have been exclusively wearing a black track suit. And I'm not fixin' to change my schedule any time soon.
So that's the story. There aren't too many details because it was pretty cut and dry. And fast. It was really fast.
With a happy ending.
I would find it very satisfying if this child is born on his due date.
3:00 water trickle, call midwife and mom. try to sleep. fail.
Get up and play around online. Read funny blog. Have a few intermittent contractions.
7:00 puke.
Nineteen days later, I'm back to edit the post I began the day before I gave birth. Sorry. Newborn=timewarp. It's all for the best. I already have amnesia setting in, which should spare you some gore.
So, as you can see from the above post, begun but never finished, I went into labor on my due date, March 31. Kind of. It was slow, disorganized labor, with lots of several-hours-long breaks and easily managed contractions. I enjoyed this early labor stage until 1:00 pm the next day, April 1, when my midwife invited me to her office to talk about options, since my water may or may not have broken (in retrospect, I think it was a break in the forebag, for those who like details about other peoples' amniotic sacs). She did the obligatory exam and reported that I have a "favorable" cervix (3 cm dilated, 80% effaced, "nice and soft and stretchy") and that I might benefit from her "labor blend", an herbal tincture featuring the wondrous cohoshes, black and blue. She explained that the labor blend would act like a push-start to a car: if my body wasn't ready for active labor, nothing would happen, but if we were on the brink of something real, it might help things get into gear.
I threw it back like a shot of tequila with nary an afterthought and delivered a baby four hours later.
When I think of myself swilling it down now, it is as though I see myself smilingly compliant as I am strapped to the front of a train. Sure, I'll take that cohosh! I didn't want to breathe for the next four hours anyway!
I began having more intense contractions shortly after taking the dreaded labor blend and by the time I got home I was in active labor. Ryan called the midwife.
Ryan: "Uhm, I think this is getting kind of serious"
Midwife: "Well have her get in the shower. Sometimes that can space the contractions out a little bit."
Ryan: "Ok"
Me [on all fours on the bed with my face buried in the mattress]: "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
It was evident to Ryan that I wasn't going to make it to the shower. He called the midwife back a few contractions later and we headed back to have a baby.
Thankfully, my little brother drives a Crown Victoria, aka living room on wheels, aka Birth Chariot. I did not deliver the baby in the car; that is not where this is going. I did, however, ride the six miles to the birth center on my hands and knees in the back seat, wailing my pretty little head off. Little brother said he felt like he was in a movie. I did not feel like I was in a movie. I felt like I was in another place, a place where snowballs don't fare well.
We arrived at around 3:30 and I somehow pitched and roared myself inside. It was nothing graceful, I assure you. As soon as the midwife saw me, she exclaimed "Oh! Now this is a woman who is working!" and started the water in the giant tub.
Ryan began explaining the situation.
Ryan: "The contractions started getting bad when we got back home..."
Midwife: "You mean they started getting good when you got home!"
Sadist.
I got in the tub as soon as it was ready for me, planted myself on my shins and hands, a la The Little Mermaid (who, incidentally, Ryan identified the other day as Muriel, to my unending amusement and delight), and didn't move for two hours. I labored, loudly. I knew from reading a bazillion birth books that low noises are more helpful in labor than high-pitched shrieks, so I compromised by making the loudest low noises known to man. I was so loud I couldn't hear what people were saying to me. It was sort of shocking how loud I could be.
And sort of satisfying.
They say some women like labor and some women like pushing. I only liked when it was over.
I will say only this about the sensation of labor pains. If you had hit me on the hand with a hammer as hard as you could, I would have considered it a minor distraction.
Forrest Michael Lee was born at 5:30. He was very small when compared to other human beings, and very large when compared to the size of the body parts from which he recently emerged: 8 lb 10 oz.
Ryan, my friend Jami, my mother, and my midwife attended the birth. Other than the fact that it was mind-meltingly, horrifically, painful, it was perfect. There are not words to describe what it meant to have each of them there, so I won't try. It's not blog material anyway. Blogs are for writing that your husband thought the Little Mermaid's name was Muriel, at least that's what this blog is for.
After my whirlwind delivery I felt like exhasuted, broken, garbagey garbage. To say I was spent doesn't begin to capture it. I was still in pain. And I soon discovered that the price of a quick, efficient labor is that a person better learn to nurse lying on her side because she isn't going to be sitting for awhile. I'll leave it at that.
I still can't sit.
The baby was, of course, the foil for all the misery. He was a peaceful little beauty and neither Ryan nor I slept all night because we couldn't stop staring at his little face. I congratulated myself on a job well done, as I had created a close to perfect baby (he has a tongue tie, but we like him anyway, even if he is a little chompy about the nursing) out of pizza and Berry Berry Kix. Not bad.
The first ten days after the birth were idyllic, minus the not sitting and getting chomped. My mom stayed with us while Ryan and I got our sea legs and she fell for the boy, hard. We're going to have to figure out a fiscally responsible way to get her to move to Utah because if we don't I think she might not make it. We all just stayed in the house staring at the new little face. It still hasn't gotten old.
When I was in the throes of pregnant misery, working 40-50 hours a week as I gained seventy pounds (in spite of frequent vomiting, making the accomplishment all the more impressive) I told myself that when the baby was born all I would do was lay in bed for the first two months and nurse him. At the time I thought I was kidding, or at least exaggerating, but here I am, nineteen days out, and that's all I've done so far. I barely check my email. I haven't called Medicaid to tell them the baby was born. I have only left the house three times, for appointments with doctors. I have been exclusively wearing a black track suit. And I'm not fixin' to change my schedule any time soon.
So that's the story. There aren't too many details because it was pretty cut and dry. And fast. It was really fast.
With a happy ending.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Limericks
I once lived a semester in London
With some co-eds; one was a most fun one.
"Just keep eating!" she'd cry,
with a gleam in her eye
When we finished I looked like a rum bun.
And now, though I weep, scream, and shout,
my fetal, tyrranical lout
Will recant the same cry
That my friend once lived by
Forcing me to eat 'til I pass out.
Who wouldn't choose cheese over heaving?
Pie and pancakes, their looks are deceiving.
Though they bode for ill-health
To me they suggest wealth
For soon salad's all I'll be receiving.
A good sign, I think, that I have moved from haiku to limerick. Indicates more sleep is happening.
Forty weeks Thursday. Two and a half weeks max until I expel the venemous placenta of destruction.
In case we are not friends on Facebook, I should mention here that Ryan and I went to Babies R' Us on Saturday and the woman standing behind us in line, a mother of two, asked if we are expecting twins. Some may take this as an insult, but I choose to frame it as an acknowledgment of a good job done resplendently. With the help of cheese and pancakes.
With some co-eds; one was a most fun one.
"Just keep eating!" she'd cry,
with a gleam in her eye
When we finished I looked like a rum bun.
And now, though I weep, scream, and shout,
my fetal, tyrranical lout
Will recant the same cry
That my friend once lived by
Forcing me to eat 'til I pass out.
Who wouldn't choose cheese over heaving?
Pie and pancakes, their looks are deceiving.
Though they bode for ill-health
To me they suggest wealth
For soon salad's all I'll be receiving.
A good sign, I think, that I have moved from haiku to limerick. Indicates more sleep is happening.
Forty weeks Thursday. Two and a half weeks max until I expel the venemous placenta of destruction.
In case we are not friends on Facebook, I should mention here that Ryan and I went to Babies R' Us on Saturday and the woman standing behind us in line, a mother of two, asked if we are expecting twins. Some may take this as an insult, but I choose to frame it as an acknowledgment of a good job done resplendently. With the help of cheese and pancakes.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The Truth About Pregnancy
Everyone I know is pregnant.
Ok, not everyone, but I have been co-gestating with over ten people. Two weeks ago, the first gave birth. The second, yesterday, and today, the third.
I would like to be next, please. I have to write about 15 more pages, and then it's baby time.
Before becoming pregnant, I marveled at the great desire of women at full-term to go into labor, the most notoriously painful of all human experiences. How bad could pregnancy be, that women would drink castor oil while riding horseback on a trampoline in hopes of instigating the most painful thing they would likely experience in their lifetimes?
It's becoming clearer with each passing day.
I have been neglectful of documenting my expansion. It's hard to photograph oneself when one feels as though most disease states would be preferable to one's current condition. However, Ryan has captured a couple of moments on his phone which I will now share with you.
If I were the sort of person with dignity, I would post only this picture, taken at 37 weeks and three days:
But, I am here to tell you the truth. The whole truth and nothing but. I am here to be honest with you, even at the expense of my very dignity. Also, I am not above a self-deprecating joke. For these reasons, I share the following, taken the same day as the photo above:
There. Now you know what pregnancy really looks like. That face. That outfit. That abdomen.
I would post a picture of my profile, the kind where you get the gut from the side-view for maximum effect, but standing is too hard.
38 weeks tomorrow, and my last day of work. Next week, come hell or high water, I will finish writing and then have a baby. Even if I have to do it on the back of a trampolining horse while swilling castor oil.
Ok, not everyone, but I have been co-gestating with over ten people. Two weeks ago, the first gave birth. The second, yesterday, and today, the third.
I would like to be next, please. I have to write about 15 more pages, and then it's baby time.
Before becoming pregnant, I marveled at the great desire of women at full-term to go into labor, the most notoriously painful of all human experiences. How bad could pregnancy be, that women would drink castor oil while riding horseback on a trampoline in hopes of instigating the most painful thing they would likely experience in their lifetimes?
It's becoming clearer with each passing day.
I have been neglectful of documenting my expansion. It's hard to photograph oneself when one feels as though most disease states would be preferable to one's current condition. However, Ryan has captured a couple of moments on his phone which I will now share with you.
If I were the sort of person with dignity, I would post only this picture, taken at 37 weeks and three days:
But, I am here to tell you the truth. The whole truth and nothing but. I am here to be honest with you, even at the expense of my very dignity. Also, I am not above a self-deprecating joke. For these reasons, I share the following, taken the same day as the photo above:
There. Now you know what pregnancy really looks like. That face. That outfit. That abdomen.I would post a picture of my profile, the kind where you get the gut from the side-view for maximum effect, but standing is too hard.
38 weeks tomorrow, and my last day of work. Next week, come hell or high water, I will finish writing and then have a baby. Even if I have to do it on the back of a trampolining horse while swilling castor oil.
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