Friday, December 31, 2010
Anyway, I figure if you need to change something about your life, you need to change it now. I mean now. Or tomorrow when you've got a plan for how to do it. But a magic analog change of the year, flippy number, brand newness... not going to do it. Change come because you work for it, becuase you're ready for it, because it needs to.
My brother makes minutia resolutions. Like that he'll randomly turn on his turn signal more often, or use words that start with q more often, or something equal inane. I love them. One year, he reset his trip-tick in the car every time someone did something utterly stupid. I don't think he ever got above 3 miles.
But I'm on the cusp of some change that needs to happen. It has to do with my picking. Not noses. I know I just posted about 7 year olds wiping boogs on the wall and that I've confessed to picking my own baby's nose but I have no intention of stopping either of those things. Well, until my baby's 7. By then, I promise to have stopped picking his nose, and if he's wiping them on the walls of his bedroom, we'll see how I feel about New Year's Resolutions, then, shall we?
No, I'm a husband picker. A critical, snotty, know-it-all who wants things done my way. A girlfriend just confessed that she started to ask her husband if he really needed that much shampoo when they were showering together and I thought, "YES! That's what I mean!"
I realized it when I was watching him play a video game and he went a different way than I would have and internally I screamed out "YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!"
Who is this lady and what has she done with me? I don't want to be a picker. I don't want to be a nasty wifey type that just groans and complains about everything my husband does.
It started small though. I was afraid of being on the other end of the spectrum. Those annoying types who say "hubby" and talk about how perfect their man is all the time. "OMG! He's, like, so incredibly sweet!" I think barbie-colored vomit will come out my nose if I look at them when they act that way. I mean the ones with husbands who are all bloated on the couch and she does everything and he does nothing and doesn't ever listen when she talks. BLECH! Women with adult bodies but children's roles. Or maids. I want no part of it.
I like strong women. Women with backbones and big mouths. Who occasionally stick their foot in their big mouth and laugh with their mouth full anyway. Laugh big full bellied laughs that fill the room with confidence and good feeling. You know?
But somehow I crept over into picking instead of staying with my toes on the right part of this balancing act of marriage. My toes over the line and I'm going to have to scratch that one and swallow hard instead of asking what setting the laundry was run on. WHO FUCKING CARES? Wait, I do. I care that I have a husband who gets up in time to have the driveway shoveled for me. I care that I have a husband who buys beer I'll like at the store now that I'm not pregnant, and bought kinds he knew I wouldn't when I was. I care that he asks what time I'll be home and sometimes has a plate ready for me (he's on his leave now.)
He's a pretty nice guy. No, he's a really nice guy. And a darned fine dad. And I should treat him like I want someone to treat my son and leave the criticism behind. You know when it needs to be left. Leave it in 2010. Its the tweens, starting tomorrow. And I'm resolved to shift myself away from the bitchiness, the scritchy, scratchy, picky criticalness. And just enjoy the best year of my life.
"Today, in order to fight child abuse, I'm eating pringles and drinking diet cherry dr. pepper in my jammies-I figure its at least as effective as changing my profile picture to a cartoon- if not more so..."
"Dear Mom, You are one of my biggest inspirations in life. You picked yourself up so many times when life threw you down. Even though you gave Harley, the dog, away and spend way too much time at church, I love you much and will see you soon. Happy Birthday! Love, your daughter, mike."
"Tonight, I learned how to remove pine tree sap from hair. After more than an hour I THINK I might be sap-free, and I smell like a peanut butter/olive oil/soap dish. New perfume? Not quite. Needless to say, no cookie baking happened and the Christmas tree and I are not speaking right now."
"There's no 'i' in 'shut the f@ck up and do your job'."
"my throat is so sore it makes me want to stop talking to myself."
"You know the Christmas spirit has consumed you when you blow your nose and glitter comes out. "
D-"I drew a picture of Calvin peeing on your facebook status."
K-"Its cool, I can talk with my mouth full."
K-"Wow, that was gross! Even for me."
K-"Did I mention I can spit really far? I wonder if there's a guiness book world record about how far you can spit liquid? I wonder when I'll get to stop thinking about piss in my mouth. THANKS, D!"
D-"K, my friend. My hands are clean of this one."
K-"I have no idea what got into me yesterday."
D-"Apparently animated pee."
K-"Wait, for the record, I've never had pee in my mouth in order to *like* it, but am pretty fuckin sure, I don't *like* pee in my mouth. Seriously, when will the animated pee leave?"
Thursday, December 30, 2010
just took things other people discarded
and wore them around his neck
fight with all your might
to carve out what's yours
a hubcap doesn't have to be what it appears
I'd use yours to make a mean grilled cheese
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Sorry for calling you bitches.
Around holidays and other some such marked events, I always think back. Sometimes I can't remember what I was doing the previous year. Or I think back and think, "meh" But last year, I found out I was pregnant on New Year's Eve. On account of the whole drink/not drink decision thing.
So I was all happy, and nervous, and scared, and nervous and happy and scared. And nervous. And happy.
Because I was just happy the first time I was pregnant, but that didn't turn out so good. And what's lame is that after you have a miscarriage, all you want in the world, I mean ALL you want in the world, is to be pregnant again.
And this year, I'm spending lots and I mean LOTS of time being really happy. Like freakin' greeting card, bullshit-no-one's-that-happy kinda happy.
I could count the tiny things that make me happy and they'd be like boogers on a 7 year old's wall. Grossly numerous.
You didn't think yours was the only kid who wiped boogs on the wall, did you?
And what's wild this year compared to last year, is how many times the thing I think of that makes me happy has to do with NOT being pregnant anymore. Every morning, as I'm walking in to work, I think "I'm so glad I'm not pregnant anymore." Because there's an OB's office and public health with their prenatal programs and the public clinic all in my building. So I see a pregnant lady, or my OB, or someone or just the office and think "I'm so glad to not be pregnant right now." Which is weird when I was so happy to BE pregnant last year. That little baby makes a HUGE difference though. Getting a baby out's worth it but I can't wait to ski in the new year this year.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
In other news, did you know you could spell tepees "tipis." I want to pronounce that tea piss. Which I think makes a good urban dictionary word for the dribble of pee men don't bother to wipe off the end of their wangs when they pee. Or a midget dingle.
Happy Hump Day, ya'll!
Monday, December 6, 2010
I love my job. Sometimes anyway. (but not as much as I love my kid. Its hard to be back at work. The silver lining is funny messages.)
Friday, December 3, 2010
"Let's alternate for a while and see how we feel. You go creepy, I'll stay drunk, and we can have a little sit down and compare notes annually and then decide. I just don't feel comfortable comitting to one or the other just yet."
Mom: "Oh hey! That's Tony Hawk on Yo Gabba Gabba"
Kid: "You mean that old man trying to skateboard?"
"I feel so dirty. Are all my teeth still there? Am I carrying a puppy mill puppy? Do my jeans have pockets? Are my roots showing? Going to WalMart is so scary! I need a shower!"
"ah, December 1st. The day I spend all day debating which feels tighter- my budget or my waistband. No one likes a chubby poor chick. No one."
"Thanksgiving. Not a good day to be my pants.""Eat that turkey bitch" - Ike Turner, Thanksgiving 1965
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Some mornings are just like that though. They come with a heaviness of immobility. A desire to just sit there. Inside the sadness. Let it engulf you and let the tears come.
But then I got up and saw a picture of a friend's baby in our papasan chair. And I thought of all the places that papasan has lived. I got it free from a boss I had when I moved into my first apartment. Something like 10 years ago. When we first got it, we had no cushion for it. So as we unpacked, it collected newspaper and tissues and other crap and that's what we sat on. Until a friend gave us a real cushion. Which years later got pretty much destroyed by a cat I had. And then it had no cushion again. Until we got one with a gift certificate when Rob and I got married.
As a minor, I used to pass out drunk and sleeping with my nearly 18 year old kitty in that chair. He's since died and 2 successive kitties have claimed it, no matter what we were using for a cushion at the time. I've taken pictures of at least 3 kiddos sleeping curled up with our grown up kitty in that chair. And I've watched the kids take the chair apart and put the basket on the floor and spin each other in it. Or make a line-up game of summer saulting onto the floor from the chair.
Its a papasan chair so it occasionally has been known to drop a person or two on the floor. Usually when they least expected it. Its like the ejection seat roundy rolly poley thing that drops you off when you were just being lulled into comfort. I've watched several grown folks fall get their yolks dropped on the floor. Funny every time. I mean peals-of-laughter-from-everyone kinda funny. Wholesome, full-belly laugh funny. Cheeks hurting, tears in the corners of your eyes funny. Funny that helps have your friends and family and friends' babies and families' babies all write themselves into the crumpled-up newspaper of a crappy chair funny.
I'm thankful for the things in my house that make me think of all the folks I've loved that have trouped through my house for meals and drinks and games and work and plans and tears and hopes and dreams and successes and failures. I'm thankful for my 12 year old, very used papasan chair. Happy Thanksgiving.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
And it hit me that I will not be as good at being a mom as I want to be. I'll try, but I'll end up screwing it up. I mean, I'll raise a competent man who can function in society. I'm not saying I'll screw up to the tune of a 45 year old living in my basement with a giant gut and no prospects who plays video games all day and means I never have company over again. I'm just saying, I have an image in my head of never yelling, always listening, reading constantly, teaching him to play the piano, and ski, and participating in his school, sending him to Swedish camp, and and and... I'll screw it up. A little.
Its like every other project I've started and failed at in my life.
Writing a book. Ok, I wrote one. I have sent exactly 3 letters to literary agents and been turned down for all 3. I stopped doing anything about it. Stopped editing, stopped writing. Fail.
Skiing. I did one competition and realized I'm not competitive with other people by nature. Except in playing cards. But I stopped pushing myself to get better after that and never did another comp.
Teaching. I never stayed anywhere long enough to refine lessons well enough to become really great. I'd get frustrated with the bullshit and leave. Except the one place I truly loved where I would have stayed, but we moved.
I never failed big at these things. I just didn't do them perfectly. And parenting's going to be like that.
I'm proud of the book I wrote. Its about a kid who lives in a treatment center for abused children and I think I did a pretty good job of capturing that experience. I think that's an interesting topic that we don't often read about. I would let just about anyone read my book and they'd probably give it a B-. But I know in my heart of hearts I have the capability of A work. I'm just too lazy.
Same with skiing and teaching. I passed but I failed, you know?
So I'm hoping for my best A work with Magnus. I'm hoping I spend quality time with him and check myself and my temper before responding to him. I'm hoping I take advice from the people around me about him, most importantly his father. But I'm sure I'll yell at him or handle a girlfriend I don't like poorly or get drunk one night and not feel like putting my all into parenting the next day. But still, I'm hoping for an A.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Then I realized what I was humming was this:
Even when life is beautifully touching, its funny too.
P.S. I love being a mommy and humming and talking gibberish and making faces and singing off key and dancing it out in the living room. Its rad. Hope you're rad today too.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
In other news, here's Magnus at Halloween. Ridiculous, how fun it is to dress up a baby for that holiday.
This is what he wore underneath the pea pod
It glowed in the dark, a fact I noticed in the middle of the night when I got up to feed him and saw that he'd gotten a glowing arm out of his swaddle.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
"What's 'pissed off' mean, Karin?"
"It means perturbed."
I was a bit precocious.
My parents rarely used the parental copout/freakout/I-don't-want-to-talk-about-this card of "I'll tell you when you're older." So I probably would have learned about sex pretty early no matter what.
But as it turned out, I learned about sex from the movie Porky's.
I was 4 or 5. In 1984, movies were a big treat. You couldn't just watch pop one in the DVD player at any time. You had to see it at the theater, or you had to wait for it to come out on network television. Most mommies reading this were probably born after 1984 so I'm giving a reference to the times. Not like before TV times, (we weren't crowded around the radio listening to fireside chats, I'm not that much older than you all,) but before VCRs and DVDs.
The one exception was hotels. Hotels had pay-per-view and you could order movies. Which was exciting and fun and how my parents got my brother and I to get along for a couple of hours so they could go to dinner without us. They left us in the room with instructions that we could order a movie. We could watch whatever we wanted, EXCEPT NOT Porky's.
So, of course, we watched Porky's.
My brother and I did not often get along as kids. So when we conspired to keep this a secret from my parents, I was all in. I was NOT telling that we'd conspired to watch an R movie. I kept it a secret for quite a while. I'm not sure how long it really was. But in 5-year-old-land, it was a long time.
But then one day where-babies-come-from came up. And I said I knew where babies came from. My mom decided it was time for a quiz. This time I was not so successful in my precociousness.
"Ok, Karin. Tell me, where do babies come from. Tell me what you know."
I cried for fear of being in trouble. I wasn't. I told. Babies come from when two people take their clothes off and rub up against each other.
My mom had "the talk" with me then and there. She used proper terminology like "penis" and "vagina" and told me the whole deal.
She forgot to tell me you don't get pregnant every time. It was years before I found that part out. Which meant I was really confused as to why all these "accidents" happened.
The process of pregnancy and miscarriage and childbirth and parenting can be like that. You think you know, but then you find out something no one ever told you about. I'm thinking of taking a break from this blog to write about all the shit no one tells you. I'll be dropping it off here. I'll collect stories from anyone who'd like to share (anonymously or guest postings welcome.) I'm thinking this could grow into a book so I'll be testing some ideas out on the new blog and will appreciate any feedback. Feel free to comment or email me at firstname.lastname@example.org
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Anyone notice that National Coming Out Day was the same day as Columbus Day. That makes me happy. Because I think it would make him turn over in his angry whiteman grave to know that homosexuality is accepted and welcomed on his day. Because Columbus was a douche. Which reminds me of that time in Chile when my homework was about Christopher Columbus but I didn't know his name was Colon in Spanish so I wrote a sentence about the colon. Ha ha, what a douche.
When you're on maternity leave, is it like vacation where if you want a beer at an odd time of day, say like 2 pm, you just have it? How about just because its Tuesday?
I didn't think so.
Friday, October 8, 2010
So when I got the baby all packed up to go to a lunch date, I notice a skeleton on the driveway. I should mention that I've been watching way too much Bones. What? Its what I've been doing while breast feeding. You can't read while breast feeding.
So when I see the carcass in the driveway, I think its a body. And then I realize what a spaz I am. And what a gross dog I have.
No kisses for ChompSki today.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Not for long. Maybe 5weeks. But still.
Because I'd had the miscarriage, I called and made an appointment right away when I found out I was pregnant. They saw me at 5 weeks. Did and ultrasound and saw two little blobbies. I asked if it could be twins and they said yes. Could be. But not necessarily.
So I came back at 7 weeks. Because they were hoping to see a heartbeat then. They did. It was Magnus's. By then there were dark spots on my ultrasound too though. They didn't like that. Doctors weren't sure what it meant. Could be another miscarriage in waiting. Could've been lots of things. So I waited another 2 weeks to go in for another ultrasound. At 9 weeks they were hoping they'd be able to tell but said it was possible they wouldn't. I counted dayshoursminutesseconds. It was loooooonnnggg.
When I went in at 9 weeks, they said the spots were the same so not to worry and Magnus would be fine. But then he was just a little bloppie. The ultrasound picture of him was bigger than him.
Fast forward 31 weeks and a live birth later. And there were those dark spots live and in placenta. And they seemed to indicate multiples. At least one other baby was there.
Which means there's another little lost one. And I feel mixed emotions. Like I should shut up about it because I got this awesome healthy baby, who, every time I put my head to his chest, has this amazing heart beat that rushes along full speed ahead.
But also, like I lost another one. Seriously? Rewind 35 weeks- I was sure there were twins. Scared about it too. Because twins come out earlier. Because almost all mountain babies are put on oxygen and trying to pull two babies around on oxygen sounded scary. Plus, TWINS! Two of everything. Two car seats, double stroller, twice the diapers, twice the breast feeding, twice the bedtimes. But rewind 35 weeks and a large part of me wanted to have those twins. I could do it, right?
But I was spared that. Or something. Part of me thought it was lucky that I wouldn't have to care for twins. And felt bad about it. But part of me feels the loss of another baby. As Lora might say, another ghost baby. Maybe my first baby needed the company. But my heart didn't. Didn't need the company or the confusion.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Thinking about smashing computers into tiny bits. Or whatever your pleasure. Or anger. Or whatever.
For me its not even an emotional thing. It seems to just exist. Like, mentally, I'm running through the grocery list, the to-do list, processing my day at work, and oh by the way I'm thinking of driving over the dam and what noise my car would make as it splashed into the lake.
Now I've added horrible thoughts of things happening to my child to that same destructive list. As in, I no longer think of driving into or over things, but what would happen if we took Magnus on a boat and he somehow fell overboard. Like, if picturing myself diving into the cold water and how fast I could swim to catch him would protect him in some way, I would be prepared. Like if I prepare all these scenarios for how to save his life, I'll be prepared to save his life in any situation.
Today it was that the stroller somehow got blown over by the wind and fell into the creek and how I would run down the embankment and get him. Its horrible.
When I was a kid, my mom used to say she was "having visions." Sometimes it was because your glass was too close to the edge of the table but it could also be something that we were talking about doing and how she was picturing some awful injury to our little bodies. I get it now. I hate that I get it now, but I get it.
Because I have visions of a moment where someone throws my child and I catch him. Or where I throw him to Rob in a bizarre moment of impulse. And Rob looks at me with a moment of hate in eyes and I know our relationship is over.
Does this happen to other people? How do you make it stop?
Thursday, September 30, 2010
And it reminds me to be kind as I try to lose the weight. Someone made this body and was proud of their work. I made Magnus (I guess Rob helped too) and I stare and think "One day he will have a scar. One day he will damage this body. This perfect body I've given him. One day he'll say 'I can't' but I'll know better because I know what I made."
wanting to know its the right speed and rhythm
wanting to hear in its future the cries that will one day come
gritty and grainy like honey
that you swallow whole for sweet fortitude
wanting to hear your mommy say she's waiting for the same
raw fear that peaks out from scar
tissues we will rise above
heal and grow and
meet you at the apex
In grosser baby news, I picked his nose this morning and holy shit! It was the biggest booger. Like, grown person sized. He must've been constructing that thing since birth. He seemed none too pleased that I removed his masterpiece either. And this is confirmation that I have become a mom. I pick noses. Other people's. And blog about it. Wow. What is this blog coming to?
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
But you don't necessarily accept that is what will happen to those around you. We all hear ourselves as the narrators of our own stories, and in our story don't we all expect to be the exception to the rules? We face our mortality, but don't we really just expect to make it through some loophole at the end?
There's a part of me that expects that and more. That my husband will fit through the same loop hole and so will my parents and my children. That we'll all escape the inevitable death at the end of the story.
I wonder if when you get to a certain age if you start to see the loop get smaller and smaller and suddenly disappear. If that is when you face and accept your mortality.
I wonder this because in conversation with my father, he brought up his expectation that he will die of Alzheimer's.
I immediately pushed his assessment through my loophole and said he was crazy to think that. There'd be signs already, wouldn't there?
He said he's seen signs. Things he can't remember that he used to be able to. Little things, names and such. He had support for his future diagnosis. His biological parents had both died of the disease as had several other biological relatives. He took it to be a biological certainty.
Sure, he does cross words to push it farther into the future. But he takes it for an inevitability.
It came as a complete and utter shock to me. My father is the organized, competent, independent type. He never needs much of anything from anyone. He'll accept help; he just doesn't need it almost ever. He's sort of on top of his game all the time. As in, if he died in an accident, I would expect to be able to walk into his house and find a file in a very logical spot that had every detail of everything I could ever need to know. There's also probably a second spot like a will that has the information too. Just in case I don't get the file.
But the only reason I ever think of this is because of a freak accident that will never happen. I fully expect my father to live well into his 90s and to be operating and full tilt the whole time. As in running AA functions and organizing other people's lives and gardening and going to the opera and hitting on men in the 30s and 40s via the internet.
When I was a baby, according to my mom, I would crawl to the door when I heard the sound of my father's car. I can't imagine that there may come a time when he not only won't enthusiastically be cheering on my every move, but where he will not even recognize a move as mine. Not know my face.
I'm a freakishly strong person emotionally. But I draw that from somewhere. At least in part it is from the rock solid foundation of my father. I've always assumed I would be the one to care for my father when he one day needed it. But could I handle that? With the carpet of bedrock pulled out from under me?
I think I'll go back to staring at that loop hole for now, and avoid dealing with problems I don't yet have. After all, there could be a cure or drugs by that time. Right?
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Something no one talks about is how hormonal you are after the kid's born. Its not baby blues either. Its just normal, cry-real-hard-over-nothing. As in, I'm not sad but am crying. Or I'm set off slightly by something and am crying real hard. And feel like I could cry all day. A cleansing cry, you know? Not a sad cry. I'm the happiest I've ever been in my life.
One day I just got too tired and started bawling. One day I have no idea what set me off. One day Rob and I were talking and it was very slightly heated. I mean, very slightly. Not even elevated to the level of actual conflict. Bawling.
But then one day, I found a diet book. A you-just-had-a-kid-and-now-you're-not-pregnant-you're-just-fat diet book.
I know I'm fat now. I'm sure it'll work out. I've never been fat in my life. I weighed about 145 before baby. That sounds like a lot, but I'm 5'8" and a lotta muscle. My body mass index before baby was 21. That's the ideal healthy BMI. I'm not a fat girl.
Except, right now. I'm a fat girl.
And I have flub. That's what I refer to the belly as. Its shrunken significantly, but its flub.
So I found the fat girl diet book. And I knew the only person who could have brought it into the house was Rob. And I just started bawling. But this time, it lasted. I cried when I saw him and asked about it. He disregarded it, saying it was no big deal. It had come into the thrift store and someone gave it to him to give to me. Fuck that person, but whatever. No big deal. He clearly thought I was overreacting. I'm sure I was. I know he loves me and isn't worried about weight gain. But it just got me. Bawling.
It felt horrible. There's only so fast you can lose 76 lbs. I'd lost 35 at 2 weeks and found the book. I'm gonna need more than 2 weeks to drop this kinda weight. And I know I will. The things I can't wait to do: ski, run, ride my bike, do yoga. I'm sure the weight will come off just fine.
Rob's not the kind of guy to care either.
Later that night I cried in bed and told him about how upset I'd been about the book. He held me close (both arms snug) and told me he loved me, that I wasn't fat (even though I am,) and that I'm beautiful and he loves me. And that's all anyone could ask for from a husband.
And now I'm crying again.
Friday, September 24, 2010
"Let’s have the mediation in your office. I’ve never seen the inside of the Death Star."
"Skullcap? It tastes like if a mushroom could get moldy and fart in your mouth."
"I walk like a 90 year old cowboy who was on her horse the WHOLE time."
Friday, September 17, 2010
Rob and Swedish Magnificence.
This is how the midwives weighed him.
I had asked folks to send candles with positive thoughts/prayers/meditations/intentions/energy for the birth. I got candles from all over. So Saturday we had birthday cake with some friends and lit all the candles in celebration of Magnus's healthy and safe arrival. I can't thank everyone enough for all the support.
It just doesn't get any sweeter than this.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Like the time toward the end when I was pushing and she tried to check my cervix to be sure that there wasn't a little lip of cervix left and while she was doing it I yelled at the top of my lungs "Get your fucking finger out of my TWAT!"
I heard the other midwife choke back a laugh.
I also never yelled at Rob. This was at least partially due to the fact that he used the strategy of listening to what the midwives said, watching for my reaction, and repeating the things I responded favorably toward. It worked. And I would never have known that's all he did either. Smart.
But I also never yelled at him because, I think that's stupid. Of course he got me into this. I told him to. I told him which days I thought he'd be most likely at being successful in knocking me up. I wanted a baby. Its not like I didn't know I'd be the one to labor and deliver. I just have never understood being mad at the man for it. He can't do shit about it. Except hold your hand and develop a strategy to try to help you out. I nearly broke Rob's hand I'm pretty sure. He didn't complain though. Smart.
The only time I yelled at Rob (ish) was at one point toward the end. The dog started licking my shoulder and I told him to get away. Rob thought I was talking to him and started to get up. "Not YOU! The dog. He's licking me." ChompSki was sent away. Rob had just changed the music and it turns out he knew he'd gotten the wrong thing and was trying to get up to remedy the situation. Next thing I knew, some shitty 80s classic rock was on. It was an awful song. And mid-collapse between contractions I said "What the fuck is this?"
That was me yelling. So it got changed to Toots and the Maytals and all was well again.
So after the birth, I had a tear and some other shit going on. Like, a HOLE in my labia. Both midwives said they'd never seen someone get a piercing out of birth, but here I am! Bullshit, I tell you.
So they start working on sewing my nanny-area, and I proceed to tell a skiing story to distract myself from what's happening to the girl downstairs.
A few years ago, we had a beautiful powder day. I got up and out on the hill for first chair. For anyone who does not ski, let me clarify that powder skiing is the best thing in the whole world. You float, you can try new tricks and jump off things you wouldn't otherwise. Because its soft. Its incredibly silly and fun and the whole vibe of the mountain is one of Christmas morning. Its people rushing to play and frolick and giggle and goof around.
So I was with some friends who I especially enjoy play time with, and we headed for some rocks they knew to jump off of.
I was game to hit the big rock, not sure how big but probably between 15-20' drop. I pointed my skis and hit it with confidence. Which usually means I land it.
I don't know if my skis weren't tightened down hard enough or if I whacked something small in the landing or what, but one ski immediately ejected. The other stayed on.
One foot went through the snow. The other stayed on. Which meant that one ski's binding made a little go for my twat. It literally tried to fuck me. Probably about two inches to the left though. It didn't feel any too hot.
I took a minute to collect myself and then got up and got my gear back on and enjoyed the rest of the day. But my little girl swelled herself a goose egg that lasted for weeks.
So I tell this story thinking that it'll make me think of things I made it through just fine and distract me with thoughts of powder skiing and by the time I'm done, I should be done with the stitches.
When I finish, I realize the midwife's been listening and has not stitched me. Damnit. So then I proceed to heckle her while she DOES stitch me.
"You're not making all frankencrotch down there are you? I mean, you're not, like, sewing googly eyeballs into my snatch or anything, right? Cuz, this is taking a minute here."
I wonder if they normally have clients like me. I'm guessing not.
Monday, September 13, 2010
So all weekend, I thought, please let this be over soon. Every cramp I felt I welcomed and thought, "whatever work my body does now, it doesn't have to do during labor." Little did I know how much work my body was really doing.
Monday was Labor Day. I convinced Rob to have sex to try to induce labor. I went for a walk with the dog to try to induce labor. I swam to try to induce labor. I drank a beer to try to induce labor. You see the pattern, right?
Well, the shit worked. Because I woke up Tuesday morning around 2 am and was in active labor. I'd heard and read enough about labor that I was sure it was going to be a slow puttering process and so was prepared to read/rest/prepare. Instead, I woke up with pains doubling me over that were about 30 seconds long and every 5 minutes. Within an hour they were 60 seconds long and every 3 minutes. It was going to be fast and furious. Which seemed good, but scary.
I was glad we didn't have to go anywhere. I was anxious for the midwife and her assistant to arrive. I knew their expertise would comfort me and that they would take over some of the logistics so that Rob could settle into helping me.
There was so much I was confident about. I knew my body would push the baby out. I was certain the baby would be healthy. I was sure that Rob would be the perfect support.
There was more I was wrong about. I thought labor would come in stages and I would adjust and get acclimated to each phase. I thought I would handle pain well. I thought I would kick labor's ass in all honesty.
Truth be told: I cried out in pain a lot and needed every step of encouragement and positioning coaching and advice that I got. My body did know what it was doing. When it was time to push I couldn't have stopped myself from pushing if I'd tried. But it was far more painful than I could have expected.
So let me back up a smidge. I woke up at 2ish and waited until I'd had 3 contractions to wake Rob. We'd been sleeping apart the last week because of my snoring and erratic schedule. So I hollered at him that I was in labor and we both got up to get ourselves organized. We timed the contractions and realized we already needed to contact the midwife, there would be no waiting until morning to call her.
She said to try to rest in between and to call back if the contractions got closer together or more intense. Both happened within the hour and I have to say that I was already growing concerned about my ability to cope with the pain. I was breathing and resting and relaxing wherever I could. If I was already relaxed and lying down when a contraction started, I did ok breathing through it. But the reality of what I'd committed to was staring me down as I realized how strong the contractions could get and feared that I might not make it.
But as that fear stared at me, the logistical issue arose that the contractions were so close together, there was likely no transferring anywhere or doing anything but just getting through it. I was scared and overwhelmed.
Its hard to describe but your state of consciousness alters at this point. You go somewhere. Its not like you don't feel the pain. You do. Intensely. But you can't process everything going on. So you feel the contraction, you rest in between, you survive, you tune out. I heard the music playing that my husband picked (quite well I might add.) We started with Erykah Badu, then went on to some Toots and the Maytals, and finished things off with Chopin nocturnes that I love. I heard the sound of the midwife telling me to breathe, counting, telling me I could do it, telling me I was ok. I heard Rob telling me I can do anything, telling me I was doing great, he sounded so calm and even. (Faker) But still, he can hold his shit together in the moment like none other. And I really can't appreciate that enough about him. He did confess that his strategy was to listen to what the midwife said and if I didn't yell at her, he repeated it. It worked wonders and he was right next to me the whole time. I'm sure I bruised his hands squeezing through contractions. He was perfect.
I saw the clock tick by but didn't really feel time. 7:30, 8:30, 9:00. Nearing 10 I had to push. As the contraction struck, there was nothing but instinct. I was terrified I just had to poop. But it was the baby. Well... in all fairness there was probably some pooping too.
I was pushing in the birth tub, but that didn't seem to be working to everyone's satisfaction, so they had me get out. Which was hard. I gained a lot of weight and I really believe some of the difficulty for me was holding up my own weight. Its a lot to have an extra 70 or so lbs. That's a LOT, no matter what kind of shape you start out in.
So I pushed and made it through contraction after contraction. Listening to Rob's voice, listening to Chopin, going somewhere far but keeping my feet in now cuz you just don't have any other choice. You feel it all.
After I got out of the tub, they had me sit on the toilet, but then there was concern about my baby dropping in and I didn't like that idea either. So I came out and squatted at the end of the bed. I started getting tired doing that. So we changed again and I lay on the bed on my side with my foot pushing against one of the midwives. The small one. The one who weighs about as much as I've gained. I didn't say anything but I was so worried I was going to push my strong ass legs against her tiny frame and kick her straight into the birthing tub. Never happened though.
I stopped having a concept of time. But I did have a sense that the midwives wanted to see the baby come out. That it was maybe taking longer than they really liked. The problem was the contraction part where I could push and really use the contraction to push, wasn't lasting long enough to push the baby out. So then I was pushing past the end of the contraction.
I got up and they had me hang from a sheet in the doorway and push and then they had Rob attempt to hold my fatass up to push (which keep in mind he weighs my prepregnancy weight of about 140.) Neither of those was sustainable but they did see the top of the baby's head. "you can reach down and feel your baby's head." gross. I passed. "You're going to meet your baby soon." I have to say that did nothing for me either. I just thought, "Whatever. I just want this to be over."
We got back in the bed. Rob and the tiny midwife were back on pushing against my legs while I pushed right back. I became determined to push the dang thing out, contraction help or no. I pushed and felt myself ripping and burning. It stung and felt wrong. They assured me I just had to push through it. So I pushed more.
I pushed from the good point in the contraction, past it, after it, until finally, I felt so much tearing and this giant slimy thing come out.
They put the baby on my chest, slimy and wet. Rob caught a glimpse. A boy. And that boy immediately peed on his mommy.
I looked down at his face and could not believe how perfect, how beautiful, how golden, and how amazing he was. I don't think most babies are cute when they're born. And I was certain that if my own child was not cute, I would know. I would know and when people told me he was cute I would think "Liar." But he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. All 8 lbs, 2 oz of him. All 20 and 3/4" of him. His hair and his long nails. His pooling dark eyes, and his short even breaths as he drifts to sleep.
Monday, September 6, 2010
I did. I never had any desire to taste grass or to drink mountain dew milk with chocolate sauce and ketchup. I couldn't be persuaded to swallow a worm whole no matter whose allowance was on the line.
So I find it funny that as an adult, all it takes is these 2 tiny, sweet little midwives to tell me to drink a tincture of skullcap and I do it. What if they're not really midwives? Maybe they're secretly just the sisters of all those boys, all grown up and seeking revenge on those of us who said "no." Cuz if you've ever smelled skullcap, you'll understand that the mountain dew milk would've been cake comparatively.
Man, if I find out they're just fucking with me, I'm going to hope this kid is a boy, cuz girls are better at getting you to do gross stuff as it turns out.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
"If I have to pull up my big girl panties and deal with it one more time the elastic is going to break and I really will have to show my ass!"
"Its groggy with a 70% chance of sleepies this afternoon... I think I just ate the sticker on my fruit"
"So realized all my maternity clothes are black. Clearly being pregnant has made me a ninja."
"now that's something i'd like to see, Look Out!! it's the Pregnant Panther!! she'll strangle you with the umbilical cord!!!"
"A long time ago in a galaxy Favre, Favre away."
"The last combat unit left Iraq today. I am officially no longer fighting a war. I'm not sure what I'm fighting, but I'm definitely fighting something."
"Its a re-branding dispute. Our culture's dumb sometimes. Or maybe its a cold. You could definitely be fighting a cold."
"It's Operation New Dawn. I think we're fighting vampires"
"My cat does unholy things to captured crickets."
Monday, August 16, 2010
Anyway, there was this lunatic woman in the class who kept talking the whole time. I hate myself when I'm that person. It usually means the pace of the class is WAY too slow for me and I'm tangentially entertaining myself at everyone elses' expense. So if you've ever sat in a training with me where I talked too much, I'm sorry. Although no one's ever actually complained to me because I'm pretty sure I toss in enough smartass/clever/random that people don't get all that annoyed. I read faces ok and I don't see that tense jaw, shut-the-fuck-up-lady look. I usually see intrigue, fascination, concern, confusion, amusement... that sort of thing.
This woman was obsessed with commenting about every single step of the training. And it wasn't that kind of training. It was a here's-the-information training. As in, statistically this is what you should do to drive safer and avoid accidents. But we had to hear her every opinion and stories of her also bitchy daughter throwing someone's cell phone during a fender bender. And she had that nasty attitude of know-it-all meets uber-negative middle aged self-righteous. Awful.
She got us all side tracked talking about how pets need to be restrained in cars and they should have laws requiring pets have seat belts.
I have to say, I get nervous when I see people riding down the highway with a dog in the back of a pickup. I'm not a fan. I've owned a pickup (it was one of the tiny ones you see all over Mexico that barely counts, but technically has a bed.) And I never, EVER put my dogs in it. Unless we were just parked and hanging out. Because they're stupid. And they'll jump out. Even if you have them tied in. Then they'll jump out and hang themselves on their own leashes. Scary.
But having them in seat belts in the car?
She pointed to people whose dogs hang their heads out the window and I just thought, I look into those dogs' eyes and see lightning true happiness. Bliss. Pure pleasure.
But she doesn't. She sees bad parenting. Poor supervision. Danger.
I used to think it was really funny when I was learning to drive to tear around corners because of how my dogs went all ragdoll in the car and fell over themselves if I caught them off guard. I was kind of a jerk then. But whatever, they loved the car. And back then I did too.
BTW, the one useful bit of info that I gleaned from this training was that they no longer recommend judging the distance between you and the next car in car lengths. (that's what I was taught when I was learning to drive and Rob was taught the same so I figure you mighta been too.) Now they say count seconds. Its more reliable than most of us are with sight estimation. So count when the car in front of you passes a post or overpass or whatever and it should be 2-3 seconds before you pass the same thing. That should give you enough stopping distance. If you're into that sort of thing.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Oh and most of the time I'm having a combination of shooting pains and tingling in my hands from my newly found carpal tunnel syndrome. So if my posts are even sparser than usual its because my hands hurt now.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
1. while driving, I'm a bee-atch. Grouchy as can be.
2. Once I don't like someone, I have a tough kind coming back. I just can't stand anything about them. There's a woman I work with from time to time that I have this problem with. Every time I hear her saying anything I think to myself "know-it-all bitch." It doesn't even matter what she's talking about or if I know the topic. She's finger nails on my whiteboard. Or whatever.
Being an introvert doesn't mean you don't like people. The best description I've heard for it is that if you're an extrovert you get energy from being around people and if you're in an introvert it takes energy. I like it, but it takes energy. Running in the woods by myself gives me energy. I'm having a tough time these days not imagining the lovely things I'll do with my body when I'm "done." I know I'm not likely to do a lot of them because I'll be all covered in baby goo but still, its good to think about taking the baby in the sling and going for a hike. There are plenty of rocks to stop off on and breastfeed. Or take a nap in the sun if we're both tired. I picture an October day where Rob gets home from work and I hand him the baby and take the dog and go for one of those runs in the woods by myself.
I like escape. I like reading and movies and some of that's for the escape. When I get stressed, I plan my get away. I look into plane tickets to Burkina Foso or Madagascar and make sure I know where my passport is and consider what it would take to convince Rob to come. So with pregnancy its picturing the afterwards. It feels like a healthier escape. More just forward looking optimism instead of the I-quit-my-lifes.
But with it raining and having newly gotten carpal tunnel from pregnancy and just being all around ready to be done, the nap calling me feels like a pillowy escape I could just about chuck a cubicle at.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
I went for a morning swim today. For my birthday, I allowed myself to be late to work and staff meeting so that I could be weightless and wonderful for a half an hour. It was worth it.
I thought about all the birthdays I've swam on. Which is most of them. (My birthday's at the end of freakin July. Its hot. And I love swimming.) The year I swam hard and fast laps in St. Louis before I ended up getting drunk enough to ask my husband out. Before he was my husband I mean. Before he was anything but my friend. And being my friend was huge. But friend crushes are scary. I remember I heard a song in the gym pool that morning that made me think of him. I had planned to out myself and my crush and the morning swim helped me fortify myself in my plan. Or the years when I was a kid and would go to the town pool. I remembered the year I went with girlfriends to a water park.
Its been a lot of good birthdays. I have spectacular birthdays really. There are some that really stick out in my memory. I remember my 5th birthday when my parents gave me the tags for my cat Morris. He was the best cat ever. Used to walk me to school and leap into my arms if I called him and let me hoola hoop with him in the garage. He slept with me every night for almost 17 years. That year we saw the Muppets at the movie theater and I got to invite more friends than my parents meant to allow and it was just perfect.
I remember turning 16 and the diamond earrings my dad got me that are still hanging out in my ears today 15 years later. Next year I'll have been wearing them 1/2 my life. 16 and taking a float trip and camping with a girlfriend. There might have been some doing drugs on a high school cops lawn back in those days, but I wouldn't swear on it.
21 and my brother flying to StLouis to be there for it. And going to the same bars he'd been sneaking me into for years but getting in all proper. That was 10 years ago. Is that really possible?
Then there was last year: dirty 30. When I got to score the winning goal in a soccer championship PK shootout. And went camping and got wiinebriated and went to Six Flags and went out for sushi.
This is 31. 31 flavors of wonderful. 31 years of memories. 31 years of preparing me for what my body is doing right now. Sometimes I feel like I look at my life through a prism. Like each time I see a new refraction, a new angle, a slightly different colored view. Like this year I think of my previous birthdays much more than the current one. And I think ahead to the birth of my own child. I think of my mom being pregnant this late in July and how badly she must have wanted to be done and how I have this history of all awesome birthdays and parents to thank for that. I think how happy I'll be to celebrate my own child's birthdays. I think how my baby feels in my belly this far along and how beautifully big and round my belly looks.
Lately, I've been enjoying being naked more than ever in my life. How's that for odd. I like looking at the changes and how magical that belly is in a mirror. How it can be held up by abs or let loose like a water baloon.
It doesn't really feel like me this year. Because its not entirely just me. I guess I'm sharing my birthday quietly this year. Introspectively.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
I generally follow driving rules because I think they're based on safety and I'm scared of dying in the car. It seems like a really likely place for death. It certainly factored in to my decision to have a homebirth. I didn't want to put my 10-minute old child whose bones haven't calcified into a deathtrap and drive home. Just seems like dangerous to me. But then other people feel like its dangerous to have a baby at home. As in NOT in a hospital. Its such an assumption. Everyone just assumes they'll have a baby there. And that you'll have your baby at a hospital and that I'll have my baby at a hospital. But I'm not really planning on going to the hospital. I'm planning on pacing my house and listening to music and cutting up vegetables and playing my piano and stretching and relaxing and bathing and having my husband rub my back through labor.
That's an assumption more than a rule, I guess.
Another assumption is that of "supporting the troops." What does that mean exactly? I'm willing to bet no one with yellow ribbon magnets on their cars has really been spending their time designing equipment to keep troops safer. Or in all likelihood, has even sent a deployed military member a letter. I feel really funny about this assumption because when I hear "support troops," it feels like I might mean backing sending teens and twenty year olds to die. And I know that there are plenty of peace keeping missions and things that our military does that I can get behind, but my association immediately is of supporting a violent institution. And I just don't feel good about that. Again, I know there are times when our military is distributing bottled water after a disaster, but the main purpose of a military is fighting. And I'm a pacifist. So, don't say it too loud, but I guess I maybe don't support our troops. I feel more like supporting our schools or our elderly or our planet, you know?
I don't like the rules of wearing seat belts on airplanes. Seems like there can't be research to support that I'm somehow safer attached to the plane than not. They can't have done collision or impact studies all the effectively on that. If the plane plummets from the sky, I'm going to die, seatbelt or no.
I work for the government which you mostly knew. Child Protection, adult protection. That sort of thing. We have lots of rules. Mostly I think the rules are right on. I think they protect people. But the black and white of procedure and the fact that you can call 3 different people and get three distinct, different, self-assured answers makes it hard to put stock in the rules.
Lately the local government's been suffering financially. We're mostly funded by sales tax and property tax. The problem with that being that not as many people have bought as much so sales tax is down. And properties values have gone down a smidge so that revenue's down too. But roads still have to be plowed and children still get abused and buses still have to run and all that other governmenty, rule-abiding stuff. Throw all the tea parties you want, it doesn't fix drug problems or repair bridges. Both of which are going to cost your community money one way or another.
So since the money's not aflowin, the thought was to bring in a consultant to tell us who to fire. That's not how they say it but its definitely in the equation. Where is the inefficiency? What can be cut out? Let's clean out the old clothes and cobwebs and find some spare change in the sofa somewhere.
I'm sure its there somewhere too.
I'm sure its in the afternoons when the computers go down and we can't get anything done. Or the dead of winter when we lose power for 3 hours and the schools have close early. Or when their testing the fire alarms for a 1/2 an hour. Or when the phones don't work for three days. Or when your emails bounce back that had vital case information in them. Those would be some inefficiencies I could see saving us all some money.
But please don't tell the government that. Or we'll end up with another rule, another form, another law suit, and another bit of minutia for meetings we already don't pay attention during.
Rules that I like are those that say that adults can make bad decisions. It doesn't make it an adult protective issue. If you want to live in a pile of your own crap or eat only once a week and only things you managed to grow yourself- none of my business. If that's what you want. And you're not senile to the point where you think the food you're eating is daily and well balanced and just don't know your making a bad decision. If you want to drink until you die, off you go. Adult protection workers don't want to tell you how to live your life. Lots of people who work WITH adult protection workers are another story. I just want to make sure that IF you're at risk and IF someone's taking advantage of you, we stop it. So if you're loser son is still living at home and beating you to convince you not to throw him out, I'll likely try to help out there. Or if you're 3/4 of the way in the grave and want to have more help in your home, that someone safe comes to help you out. That's rules I can get behind.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
When I was a kid I would get really excited to get things in the mail. Even if it was junk mail. Just seeing my name in print on an envelop was exciting. I'd read whatever it was. Now I'm more selective. I don't get exciting mail a lot. Usually just bills and statements and netflix. The netflix is a little exciting. It doesn't hurt that it comes in a RED envelop. I love red.
The really exciting personal mail, like a letter, almost never happens. So when it happened twice in one week I felt like a princess.
I got a couple of things in the mail from my good friends who moved away in December. I was really close with their kids. Their daughter just finished Kindergarten. I got a handwritten note from her that said: "Hi. Karin. are you doing good? Is your baby doing good? I just wantid to know becus I havint seen you for a while"
I got a couple of candles from Gina along with baby stuff we needed but didn't expect. And the best part was the note. There are certain people who write notes in their normal handwriting. They don't dress it up or make it pretty. They write the way they write. And I love it. Gina has messy handwriting. So does my dad, and my friend Aarti. I like when I see it because its the real them. Handwritten is best then.
I try to write nice but it doesn't really work. Its legible which is the idea, but it doesn't look like a font. I have another friend whose handwriting looks like a print font, its that neat and pretty.
I like people who eat messy too. That are just so excited to eat that they eat however they eat no matter who is sitting at the table. Not that they're slobs or gross with manners, just excited and wipe their mouth with the back of their hand. Maybe a little hunched over their food to cut down on hand to mouth time. Or my cousin who eats her bowl of ice cream and then licks the bowl no matter whose looking.
Its been special like that lately. With people saying and doing nice stuff. Rob's been especially helpful and trying to do everything in his power to set up our lives before the baby comes. And then over the weekend, my brother ditched plans with his family to come along to run errands with us. Errands. It turned out to be really helpful because he drove which took a huge stress off of both me and Rob who are the worst errand-avoiders ever and both hate to drive. Plus, I knew he really wanted to hang out with me if he was willing to ditch out on a free lunch with his in-laws to drive around in the 95 degree heat to go to freakin babiesrus.
I love when he focuses in on what Rob has to say. Rob doesn't do a lot of talking, he's more of a listener/observer type. So when Rob speaks up, (my brother also LOVES Rob,) he gets my brother's full, undivided attention. Generally if Rob pipes up, he's worth listening to. So I appreciate that my brother notices this.
That's what's in my brain bucket today. I'll pour out more another day. Maybe after a good swim. Is there anything so wonderful in all the world (especially while pregnant) as a good long swim?
Friday, July 16, 2010
"For once, somebody may call me "Sir" without adding, "... you're making a scene.""
"Felt like there was more flopping than usual in this mornings ESPN World Cup coverage... then I realized I was watching Bassmasters."
"A day off with a migraine is like the first day at fat camp."
"Do you have me on speaker phone or are you in the bathroom... you're calling me while you're taking a shit right now aren't you?"
Bad Librarian Pickup Line
"Do you have any overdue books, because you have fine written all over you."
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
I was at the police station today watching an interrogation and it was kinda like that. Only with more nausea involved. On account of the angle of the cameras and the weird way the digital images didn't flow but jerked. And the echo. En espanol. It was a little surreal. And nauseating. But I mentioned that.
The deal is the guy was accused of touching a four year old. Which is why I was watching the interrogation. He denied it of course. Its no fair being four. Or three or two. You can't tell a story with a beginning, middle, and end. Its like your stories have their eyes on sideways and can't get out the whole in your throat. And none of us can be sure of your story when its all Alice-in-wonderlandy. The story's true, its just hard to see how the parts fit together.
Cops want me to have the answer. They want there to be a black and a white and a good guy and a bad guy. They go after the bad guy. But its not so simple. Their view is all slidy and confusing too. Because sometimes people are on the right side or the wrong side and they switch hit for the other team, or just trade sides or hang out in the middle like Sweden all selling arms to one country but refusing to get involved in the war. That's more like most people.
Cops want me to be able to tell if he did it or not. They use their tricks and intimidation and training in lying to try to make a picture of whether he did or didn't do it. And we sit and talk and talk about it, trying to get it into some crisp photo focus that shows the answer equals 9 or 10 or 13 or yes or no or black or white. But I don't know.
My eyes are still on sideways from being all tired and unmotivated and spending too much time reading and watching movies. I've been all skewed viewed and mopey. Sometimes I get too focused and can't remember to have fun. Its been the worst summer ever for that. I'm so busy trying to make sure the kitchen's repainted and the baby room is set up and the energy audit and the new insulation and getting the carpets cleaned and my caseload cleaned up and prepared that I've been forgetting to be me. The fun, goofy me. The one who can drop things easily in order to make a snide comment or whimsical remark. Ok, they're a lot snarky sometimes, but normally they slide effortlessly off my braintongue.
Its summer. Lay around. Swim. Spend a long evening talking as the sunsets on a deck with friends. Go for a long walk without knowing when you'll be home or where you're headed. These are instructions for me. I'm allowing myself 2 more days to be hyper focused. Then, its summer. And I'm going to make myself remember who I am, reintroduce whimsy, let the focus out and shift and meander toward an easy ride to the end of wherever.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
My aunt didn't exactly have a lot of love for the medical profession. And her first baby had been a horrible experience. She'd had him wrenched from her at least as much as she "gave him up" for adoption by nursing staff who leered at her and called her unpleasant names. And she loved him when he was born. And she found him when he turned 18 and loved him till the day she died.
When she had kids for keeps, she did it differently. She read books and assigned duties and had them at home. She was brave and surely faced many people who disagreed with her decision. But she stuck by her convictions and her desire for a natural birth and won 2 beautiful girls.
My mom was there when Anna was born. So was her sister, Kristina. They both still get this sparkle in their eyes whenever they talk about it. My mom says it was one of the most beautiful things she's ever seen. Kristina says it was probably the best day of her life. She was 7; that says a lot. Rarely does a family gathering go by without mention of their births. It was that memorable and beautiful and peaceful.
So when I found out I was pregnant, I wanted to have a homebirth too. I know there are family members and friends who love this idea and who are scared about it too. But we did our homework. It is not scary, or dangerous. At least not statistically. Especially not compared to our nearly 1/3 of births in hospitals being C-sections. I'm not high risk in any way. The neurologist officially cleared me of the one risk factor we were worried about saying that I no longer have seizures and that he would grant me the same risk of a seizure during birth as a person who has never had one.
My husband took more time coming to the decision than I did. Some girls picture their wedding day long before the groom arrives into their lives. I dreamt of having babies long before that was a possibility. And I want to have my baby at home. With the smells of my baby's home and the sights and the calm and the lighting and the obnoxious dog and the kitchen and bathroom and all the things that are ours. I don't want hospital shoes and whites and germs down the hall or epidurals or antibiotic infused products. I just want my husband, my midwife, me and the baby. Not necessarily in that order.
I don't believe in god. I don't not believe in god either. Its just not my thing. I like the adage "God?: I don't know and you don't either." But I think thoughts and prayers and meditations (I almost wrote "medications", funny,) have power. They certainly never hurt anyone. I think when a group of people puts positive energy toward something, it has impact.
So in that spirit, I'm asking people to send white candles with a prayer, or intention, or meditation, or thought with it for a healthy, safe, home birth. I like it for the energy it'll surround us with and the reminder of the support. Plus, it'll be pretty to give birth in a candle lit room, I think. I'll let you know how it goes.
Monday, June 21, 2010
And she's right. I'm freakin huge.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Mine moves. My dad felt it today. Happy Father's Day!
Friday, June 18, 2010
We arrived to Tikal in the afternoon on a Wednesday and ate at the hotel. The dining area was open and airy and you could see out to the well manicured gardens in the surrounding area. As we were eating, I freaked out when I saw this wandering around.
I freaked and went and got my camera and stalked him until my food was cold, trying desperately to get a picture with his face in it. Apparently, coatimundis usually go about in family groups but this old guy was a strange loner and he was really only interested in termites. So most of the time he was either trying to get away from the giant pregnant lady (who was trying to squat and take a picture) or burying his nozzle in a mound of insects.
We made our arrangements for a tour the next morning and went to swim in the pool. Did I mention it was fucking hot?
When we first arrived in Belize, there was a restaurant advertising "Gibnut Stew." Now, I'd never heard of gibnut before. And when you talk about 'jibbing" in skier slang, you're talking about jumping on rails or other things in the terrain park. So I immediately thought "gibnut" was really funny because to me, it sounded like when someone falls with their legs on either side of a rail and gets "gibnutted."
It turns out to be this
Its like a 40 lbs mouse with no tail. Weird.
Then as the sun starts setting the Howler monkeys get going. There was a tree you could watch from the pool where they were frolicking and yelling at each other. Which was cool.
Later that night, Rob and I were eating dinner at the same restaurant and there was a bit of a ruckus with some locals. They were plowed. I mean, wasted.
This one guy starts stumbling out of his seat and as he staggers through the restaurant I say to Rob, "You know, I think there's an age where if you're that drunk on a Wednesday and no one died, you probably have a problem."
4am Thursday, who should be our guide for a sunrise tour, but Drunky McStumbleton.
There was an Italian couple we think was maybe going to come on the tour too, but we're pretty sure they thought our guide was a hoax. He wasn't though. Still drunk, he could have come from sleeping on a sidewalk. He carried no materials but a jenky flash light.
Then he starts explaining to us, (as he's leading us on a path through the jungle that is clearly not the regular entrance,) that the park has recently discontinued official sunrise tours. Now the only sunrise tours are ones where you take paths through the jungle and sneak in. Because at 6 months pregnant, I'm so sneaky.
In between phlegmy spitting and coughing, he occasionally stumbles and tells us to watch out for roots and to watch our step. He stops and explains that the money we've paid for our entrance and "tour" is really to bribe potential guards.
Because I want to bribe people in Guatemala. Especially people with semi automatic weapons slung across their shoulders.
But we continued on with the tour. And ended up seeing all this
In case you're a starwars person (and I'm not,) yes this is that where they shot that one ewok scene.
And yes, I did climb up to the top of this 212 foot temple at dawn led by a drunk Guatemalan. I could almost go faster than him.
We sat at the top watching the sun come up and listening to the Howler monkeys and birds. It was delightful.
Then we hiked around and saw other temple sites, watched spider monkeys and at one point I spotted an anteater. Which is quite rare to see I hear. I kept seeing signs about turkeys and thought, who the fuck cares about seeing a turkey. Until we saw this guy:
We saw toucans and parrots and didn't get hassled by any guards. We got back to the hotel around 9, hot and tired and happy.
"maybe she was sweating because of the sexual tension between you & she"
"If you’re wearing clean socks and you don’t have hooks for hands then I’ve succeeded as a mother."
"How much did you pay for your sticky boobs?"
"If Mr. Peanut can pull off a monacle, so can I."
"Homeless guy on train asked me for a dime. I was feeling generous and gave him a dollar. He then grabbed my crotch. So...who wins?"
Special Flag Day Quotes
"It's the actor who played Tootsie."
"You mean the retard from Rain Man?"
"You mean Tom Cruise."
"If Rowdy Roddy Piper doesn't body slam somebody in this movie I'm gonna be really upset."
"I thought you were dead."
"I thought you were a man."
"It's like Leatherface and Scarface at the same time."
"What the hell!?! Don't you know it's fuckin' Flag Day!!! We're waiting for Rowdy Roddy Piper to pull out his sword, and I don't mean penis!"
"I'd say them tits da bomb!"
"Seriously, every cat I do this to..."
"You do a lot of cats?"
"Is that Robert Englund?"
"No, it's Jenna Jameson."
"You know when I was in London it was just like this."
"All the strippers were zombies?"
"Someone give her a pity dollar."
"Ewwww. You can't light pornstars from below."
"Wait a minute, I didn't sign on for a donkey show."
"Sluts on parade."
"That's my favorite Rage Against the Machine song."
"We drink to flags on Flag Day. Especially if they're on panties."
"Hey, they're not all gems."
"I can't believe he drank a whole bottle of peach vodka."
"Well, he drank half and his vagina drank the other half."
"to be continued... in space."
Friday, June 11, 2010
I was all, "Did you just call me a whore?"
And he was like "A snuggle whore."
"So, you're seriously calling your 6 month pregnant wife a whore?"
Then he looked even more pleased with himself and has now decided to call me a "pregnant, snuggle whore."
Speaking of whores, when I was a kid they were everywhere. Gypsy whores specifically. I don't know where my mother and grandmother's obsession with gypsy whores came from, but it was the reason to tone down your fashion a lot.
As in, you can't wear dangly earrings (my favorite to this day) because those are for Gypsy whores. As in, little girls shouldn't have red nailish polish because they'll look like Gypsy whores. As in, red and pink or red and purple don't match and if you wear that outfit you'll look like a gypsy whore. As in, Gypsy whore bath, which is where you take a bird bath in the sink. This was later called a PTA bath by my grandmother whose shocking statements became great fun in her later years. PTA stood for pitts, tits, and ass. Cuz those are the important parts you wash when you use a washcloth to clean up instead of taking a proper shower.
Thought you should know.
In other news, I have not forgotten about posting about Belize. I'm just crappy at getting pictures from the camera to the computer. I might have just brought it in to load from work, but I put some pregnant, gypsy, cuddle whore pictures on the camera that are for Rob and not so work appropriate, so it'll have to wait.
Happy Flag Day! If you've missed the joy of Flag Day for all or most of your life, the deal is this: You watch bad movies, drink beer, and eat burritos. The bad movies are key. This year, I'll be foregoing the beer and the group festivities. Which is a bummer, but I will be watching Thankskilling streaming on Netflix. Feel free to join me, gypsy whores.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Did you know hemorrhoids are actual vericose veins in your ass? That's your gross and generally unimportant information for the day. Thank you pregnancy websites for teaching me all I simply must know to have a baby.
Ever poop green? Of course you do. I always want to tell someone when it happens. Why is that? I never do though. Which is weird because I tend to say everything I think. Or as it turns out, almost everything.
I don't want to talk about the baby thing lately. Someone very close to me had a miscarriage. Almost exact same story as mine. Same no symptoms/concerns. Almost the same date. 12 weeks instead of 11. I can't stop thinking about her. I'm terrified for her to go through everything I did. I hate thinking that she might be sobbing uncontrollably and unexpectedly at a time when she should get to be happy. I hate thinking how I spent every ounce of energy focusing on the good things in spring last year and worrying how hard she must be trying. She sounds better than I did. But I probably sounded better than I was. So where does that leave it? I want to call her all the time and talk to her about it or just jabber on so she can be distracted. Sometimes someone else talking and just giving me minutia to think about really helped. But I'm pregnant. I feel stained and like I should keep it to myself now. I don't want it to hurt. I know how pregnancy can hurt when you're looking at what you would have had.
My next door neighbor had a baby something like four days before my due date. The one we share a duplex with. I've never been so aloof toward a neighbor as them. And that was all pretty much why. It may have turned out to be a good thing though. They have raucous fights and their daughter screams every night around 7:30 for about an hour in a way that makes me think there are some lacking parenting skills there. Their fights involve banging against the walls that make the pictures shake. Did I mention they called animal control on us while we were out of town? While they knew we were out of town. Apparently ChompSki sneaks over and poops on their lawn from time to time. But they never said anything. How would we know? Why would they think we wouldn't try to remedy a thing like that? So yeah, maybe we dodged a bullet avoiding that friendship. And now, I have to say, I won't feel bad in the least calling the police during an uproarious fight. Nice move, prick.
But I do want to talk about the baby thing. Because it kind of dominates my every minute so I'm not sure what else to say. Except, I pooped green. Oh and I threw a plastic bag away yesterday, drove home, and then realized that I had a sports bra and tanktop in there. I also ran over the recycling on my way out of the driveway. I do lots of smart stuff lately.
I'm seeing further into my innie than I ever wanted to. It could become an outie. So strange. Also strange is how preggos get the oppositve of plumbers crack- buddha belly. Its where your pants creep down (without a waist to creep toward) and your shirt starts sneaking up and next thing you know= Buddha Belly. Makes me feel like gross smelly trash.
But I dressed up and that made me feel all romantical. I never realized how if you have a really dope wedding, then later when you go to other people's weddings, it makes you feel all smooshy mooshy and nostalgic and romantical with your husband. I refuse to say hubby. I'm married to a man, not a muppet.
Maybe I'll go ahead and hit publish now and puke the rest of my thoughts into another post in the future. Happy Thursday. Sorry I missed hump day.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
When I was a little girl, I loved my nails getting painted. My aunt Carole used to paint them from time to time when I was teeny tiny. I called it nailish polish and I loved it. I thought it meant I didn't have to cut my nails or clean under then because if you chose a dark enough color, you couldn't see the dirt. I was right too, for the record. I generally keep them neat and short and clean these days but that's mainly because I can't paint my nails. If I'm painting, the whole finger's coming with it. The best I can generally hope for is painting my fingers and toes, getting the nails completely covered, and then waiting a few days for the polish to wash off my skin, sticking to the nails. And that's assuming I don't pick all the polish off before that happens.
I painted my nails this weekend though. Pretty passably too. Its because I can't figure out what to wear to this wedding Rob's making me go to. He's really excited about it. And excited is not usually a word that hangs out close to Rob's name. So I couldn't bail on coming. It turns out to be a good thing though because my closest friend from home will be there and some other folks I like. Plus Rob promised me I can swim in the lake today. I love swimming. I mean LOVE.
Rob and I watched an episode of The Dog Whisperer the other night. In it was this really traumatized lab and Cesar kept taking him in the water in pools and stuff as part of his treatment to get him calm. Rob started calling me the dog's name on our vacation because you put me in water and I immediately relax and just lay back and can swim and swim all day long.
He's still sleeping though. We both got sick coming back from Belize this week and he gets to take Nyquil (the jerk.) So he's out. In the mean time, I'm still recovering from my dreams. I keep having really obnoxious dreams about people in my life lately. I've dreamed that pretty much every member of my family has been awful to me. Last night I dreamed that my mom was walking into the houses of my neighbors and stealing the middle sections of their bread. My mom makes bread. She wouldn't stop either. No matter how I told her that I had to live with these people, they were my neighbors, she just wouldn't listen. I woke up and went back to sleep and dreamed that I was in a bathtub with a friend of mine (male.) We were clearly going to get intimate (thank god, I was NOT pregnant in this dream,) But then I looked up and saw that he had my hot pink bikini top on under a t-shirt. You could see the little ties sticking out of the top. I pecked him on the lips and headed to take the recycling in. What the hell kind of sex dream only involves kissing? Not that I want to dream about sex with friends, but ???
So I'm thinking I might post some about Belize. Pictures and stories and whatnot. But I don't want to become a boring 1960s wife with my slideshow of photos no one wants to see. So I'll try and edit and be brief. But the trip pretty much kicked ass so I feel I should share.