Movies and TV

Sometimes your greatest sources of support can be your greatest sources of insecurity, you know? Many people feel that way about their parents. I may be that for Linus one day, who knows? But in this case, I'm talking about me and an online parent's support group I belong to. Well, it's online now, but it was in actual person when we lived in Lawrence (as well as being online). What? Ok, there's a group of parents in Lawrence who maintain a loose affiliation with the Attachment Parenting International Authority On How-Not-To-Parent-Like-Your-Parents, or whatever. There's a listserv, and regular playgroups, and coffees, and stuff like that. Mostly, it's a group of parents talking each other down from the freak-outs. Very Important to have that, especially for a first-time parent. You don't know what's normal, or common, or freak-worthy unless you have someone to ask. This group was my someone.

We saw a couple of the families when we were back visiting - we really miss them! I still check on the listserv regularly, just to keep in touch, especially since we haven't found a similar group here yet. There was a recent discussion on the listserv that has me questioning some of the choices we've made with regards to Linus and watching TV and movies. Now, I didn't realize I had a parenting philosophy before I had Linus, but it turns out I do. It's all mixed together with my personal philosophy of life, such as it is. I don't have a manifesto or anything, just a series of things I tell myself, when I need a reminder. Stuff like:

Don't be an asshole.

As regards parenting, this generally means that when I'm tired, or hungry, or generally pissed off at something having nothing to do with home, don't take it out on my kid. This one can be a little bit of a challenge for me because when I am tired, or hungry, or stressed, I tend to get angry easily, so the codicil to this axiom is:

Cool your jets.

Hey! I never said my philosophy wouldn't be a series of cliches, or worn-out catch-phrases! The one that's germane to this post is:

Moderation in all things (including moderation).

So, we let Linus watch TV and movies. Orion and I both like TV. And movies. Especially movies. I'm choosy about what he watches I don't just plunk him down in front of anything and walk away. Especially no commercials! He likes Blue's Clues ("Buh buh boo!") and Thomas the Tank Engine ("Tsoo-tsoo!"), and we have a bunch of movies on DVD. He loves all the one's you'd expect - Nemo, Monster's Inc., Shrek, etc. I also bought The Incredibles, but once I saw it, I realized I didn't want him watching it. Too much shooting. I'm not completely laissez faire about it. I want to do what's best for him, but I also don't want to be a freak about it, you know? Apparently I've already ruined him by letting him see any electronic media before the age of 2. There's a family in the Lawrence group who stuck to that recommendation and didn't let their little boy even see Sesame Street before he turned 2. Hell, we took Linus to his first movie when he was 18 months old. Wallace and Gromit! Awesome! And he loved it. Sat on my lap and didn't take his eyes off the screen until about the last 10 minutes when things get really crazy. Then he was ready to walk to the back of the theatre, though he didn't want to actually leave until the movie was over.

When Over The Hedge came out a couple of weeks ago, we thought, "Great! Another movie we can take him to." (Even though he's still not 2 yet! *gasp*!) I made plans, but then a discussion about it cropped up on the listserv. Some of the parents were against taking their kids because there's some cartoon-ish violence and "mean-ness". Until I read that it didn't even occur to me to not take him on account of that kind of thing. We took him anyway, even after the discussion. It was no Wallace and Gromit mind you, but he liked it ok. I don't know, maybe that makes me a bad mom. Not like criminally bad, but not stellar. The parents that had an issue with it have kids who are a little older, like 5. Maybe if Linus was that age, I'd think harder about it. I just don't think it's a big deal at this point. And, while I don't want him to turn into a violent little bully, I also don't want him to be...I don't know...somehow stunted or something because I wouldn't let him experience stuff. Especially stuff I loved as a child, and still love now. Rationalizing? Maybe. I'm not gonna lie - part of why I want to take him to movies is because I want to go to movies.

Gah. Being a parent is confusing!

a long month

It's been a month of no entries and if you're one of the 3 people who seem to check this site with any regularity, I'm sorry. A week turns into a month before you know it. This gap in posting is partially due to a sudden influx of travel, illness, and long hours, but also because I've psyched myself out with regards to what I should post. I'd started to feel like I needed a funny story or some kind of complete allegory to write about. It was weighing me down, which is stupid, but I was thinking of just deleting the blog entirely. Instead, I've decided to try easing up on the self-imposed rules a little bit, and just write more as a journal. I know the blogs I enjoy reading the most are more like that - regular chats about what's going on. Eh, we'll see how it goes. Could be boring as hell. I can always delete it later if need be.

So, we just came back from a week in Kansas. We went back for my doctoral hooding. Even though I actually finished last summer, KU only does one doctoral hooding a year in May. I really just saw it as an excuse to go back and see all of the friends we left behind, which was great, but I'm actually glad I went through the hooding. It was nice to have a little pomp and circumstance at the end. All this crazy medieval symbolism everywhere - get my clerical robes, walk across the stage past the University Mace, shake hands with the Chancellor wearing the Chains of Learning, or some shit like that. Seriously nutty. But also a little awesome.

My advisor and I passed the time waiting through all the other hoodings seeing who could find the most Byzantine dissertation title in the program. Unfortunately, I don't have the program with me, but I'll post the winner later. The best part was when my advisor leaned over to me while we were watching someone get hooded for a Doctor of Education and whispered, "Just remember, their degree isn't as high as yours." Hahahaha! Like they'd have to give up the better parking spot whenever we might meet. Like people will whisper when they pass, "Yeah, but he only has a Doctor of Education, not a Doctor of Philosophy in Education." I don't know, maybe it does make a difference in some circles. In fact it probably does. Who am I kidding? It totally does. I still think it was a hilariously random thing to say.

It was great being back in Lawrence and seeing friends. In some ways it was actually harder saying goodbye to people this time, because I knew that I probably won't be seeing many of them again. Some of our very close friends may actually come out to visit us at some point, but I'm not holding my breath. Others, especially the families, won't. It's just not practical. So, we'll keep in touch for awhile and then eventually slip out of contact. I hope not, but that just seems to be the way. Okay, this is making me feel maudlin, so next topic...

While in Lawrence I bought myself some art. Three painting, actually. A present for myself for the hooding. One by Paul Hotvedt and two by Paul Flinders. I knew before we went out that I wanted to see if Hotvedt had anything that I liked. My friend Brad has two little paintings by him that I've always coveted. He does these beautiful little landscapes of the region around Lawrence, and I wanted something to remind me of it. Here's the piece we got ("September 4, 2004"):


He had these great tryptichs, and if I could have afforded it, I would have bought one. But I'm not complaining - I love this piece!

I'd told myself that if I saw something I liked while we were there, I'd buy it. Lawrence has better art around than where we live now. There's some good stuff around town here, but I think we live too close to Portland and everyone just goes there. But I think Lawrence is pretty much it if you're an artist in Kansas. Every restaurant and coffee house in town has some local artist's work on display. I don't know if it's so great for the artists - I gather that supply is greater than demand, but that means, frankly, that we could afford it. We saw a bunch of Paul Flinders' work up at one of the coffee houses in Lawrence and I loved about four pieces instantly. Here's one of the ones we bought ("The Big Promotion"):


I don't have a picture of the other one - it's this awesome little oil of some spindly-legged birds. Both Pauls were very nice people as well, as far as I could tell.

An all-around lovely trip. Got hooded, hung out with friends, came home with some art.

The long weekend

Well, we're back from a loooooooong weekend in Seattle, which is strange because we were only there for about a day and a half. It sure felt longer. We took the train up Friday morning, arriving in the late afternoon, and trained it back Sunday afternoon. The primary purpose of our visit was to see Tina and Dave's new baby, Finn. We high-tailed it over to the hospital as soon as we arrived. He is of course beautiful, wonderful, and small. Tiny. Not by newborn standards - he weighed in at just under 8 lbs. - but by Linus standards. I find it really hard to believe that less than 2 years ago Linus was about that size. But he was, I have pictures. It seems impossible that the 30 lb. juggernaut careening around the living room was ever that compact and demure.

After breakfast with my father on Saturday morning, we went back to the hospital for another Finn fix. We hung around Tina's room for a bit chatting and passing the baby around, then Orion left with Linus to change him and get him to nap. Then this thing happened that I feel very bad about. Finn started making the "I'm ready to eat" signs, so Tina got ready to try and nurse him. They hadn't had many opportunities to nurse yet, so they were still very new at it. As many of you know, figuring out the nursing thing can be hard at first. Considering that we've survived as a species, you wouldn't think it would be that hard, but it sure as hell can be. Especially given that most of us have never actually seen a woman nurse a baby, other than maybe a passing glance at a receiving-blanket-draped Mystery Activity by some woman trying to be unnoticed in an airport or some place similar. So, Tina and Finn were having a little trouble getting a latch going. I'm still nursing Linus now. I remember the challenges of the new nursing relationship, and I could see about 8 things going on that may have been contributing to the difficulty, but I didn't want Tina to think I was criticizing her, or come across as a know-it-all, so I didn't say anything.

For about one minute.

They continued to have trouble and Finn was starting to get frustrated and cry a little.

Now, in my defense, the sound of a newborn baby crying makes me crazy. Or maybe "crazed" is a better word. Since becoming a mom, I can't sit still in the presence of a crying newborn. I can't. Once, last year, I had to leave the dressing room at a department store because there was a baby in one of the stalls, fussing it up. The mom kept trying on clothes and saying things like, "You're ok. It's ok." while the baby continued to cry. I couldn't take it, I had to leave. I'm not saying that she was a bad mother or anything, or that I was angry and stalked out, I just couldn't stay. And it's not like I'm a "sensitive" person who feels things especially deeply or whatever. It's just - you know how they've done studies of brainwave patterns in different people in response to various stimuli, and new mothers show radical changes in their brainwaves when they hear a baby cry? I've got that, in spades.

So, Finn's starting to cry a little, and really at this point, I had 3 choices. I could have left - it was really time for me to go anyway. I could have just kept my mouth shut and let them struggle through it. Maybe they would've figured it out, or maybe not and would just have to try another time. Or, I could have taken the bull by the horns, so to speak, and gently but decisively told her what I thought the problems were and offer to show her alternatives.

Instead, I approached her bed and in a really half-assed way, kinda, sorta tried to "help". I did this by lamely pointing out a couple of things and maybe, sort of, suggested a few things. I think I was going for "gentle", but it was really just half-assed. Now mind you, Tina never asked for my help. And really, I pretty much just made things worse. Finn got more and more frustrated, and Tina and I got more and more tense in response, and Tina got more and more frustrated, and soon we were on the bad-nursing-experience spiral. I don't know what Dave and his mom were doing behind me - probably developing a deep dislike for me. Finally, Dave called in the hospital lactation consultant, and I skulked out.

So, to recap - things weren't going well, I stepped in and made them worse, then I left.

My only solace is that maybe after I left, they could blame me for the trouble and then settle down and get things working right. Maybe all the half-assed left the room with me. In case Tina reads this post before I have a chance to talk to her:

Lady, I'm sorry!

I left the hospital feeling so bad for Tina, and also so tense from the brainwave alterations. I tried to get Linus to nurse a little once I got back to my in-laws so that I could get a dose of those brainwave restoring nursing hormones, but for the first time in the History of Linus he wasn't interested. Of course.

So, there was that, but that's not why the weekend felt so long. There's just too much family to try to jam into a day and a half anymore. Of course, it's all about the baby and not about us. Now we're obliged to give everyone an adequate viewing of Poopenstein. My mother thinks that the bulk of our time should go to her and Orion's mother thinks the bulk of our time should go to them, and we still have to fit in my father and sister and round and round. We end up driving across town at least 6 times while we're there, and that's a serious deal in the gridlock of Seattle.

AND, to top it all off, I was reminded on more than one occasion that my family is a BUNCH OF CRAZY FUCKERS.

I'm not kidding. Orion's family is a little odd in mostly charming ways, and all families have that nutty uncle or the cousin that no one talks about. But every member of my family is a life-long resident of Crazyfuckerland. My first reminder came on the way to breakfast with my father. I have only one sister, and she is a single mom and has one son. My nephew decided to ride with Orion, Linus and I over to the restaurant, while my father and sister followed on. Once we were all in the car and on the way I said, "So, how's it going?" He says gravely, "You were mean to my mother as a kid and I will NEVER forgive you for it!" My nephew is 6.

It is true that I was mean to my sister when we were kids, and she has never gotten over it, BUT WE WERE KIDS. I was mean to her, she was mean to me, and the circle of sibling life was complete. I'm four years older, so I always had a bit of a height/weight/wits advantage (still do, in fact), but that's one of the perks of being the elder sibling. Yeah, I would push her around and generally act like an asshole, but then, she STABBED ME IN THE KNEE once. That is the nature of contentious sibling relationships. I have apologized many times for any and all things I may or may not have done to her when we were growing up, and I would again if I thought she'd shut up about it, but she won't. By the way, I'm 37 and my sister is 33. We haven't even lived in the same house for almost 20 years.

Honestly, when my nephew said that, I wasn't exactly happy about it, but it didn't really phase me either. It pretty much seemed par for the course, but it really upset Orion. Anyone who knows Orion knows that it's unusual for him to get upset. He's pretty much the poster boy for Mellow, but he kept saying that he just couldn't believe that she was setting my nephew up against me. He fumed about it for the rest of the day. I briefly considered bringing it up to my sister, but you don't need to go looking for drama in my family. Pretty much any conversation with her can end up in... what word am I looking for? Histrionics? Yep, I just looked it up and "deliberate display of emotion for effect" is exactly right.

So, that is one tiny example of crazy fuckerness. Here's another - at lunch with my Mom later that same day, she drops the news that my father had sexually harassed an employee at one of their businesses and they just settled the suit for $75,000, putting their company in danger of failing. Oh, and this all happened 2 years ago. What the fuck!? I'm just finding out about it?! And it's not like it was being kept a big secret or anything - my aunt, uncle, and sister (and probably all my cousins as well, knowing my aunt) knew all about it from the beginning. Also, this is apparently the reason my mother finally decided to divorce my father. Their divorce was final last fall, but I'd just assumed that my mother had finally gotten sick of what a huge asshole my father is. He really is. Big, big asshole. She should've left him 30 years ago, frankly. I've always thought so.

And here's a rich detail - just at breakfast that morning my father asked me if I'd been surprised that he and my mom, "had split the sheets" (wtf?!). I choked on my pancakes and tried not to let coffee come out my nose while I thought about whether I wanted to answer, "Are you fucking kidding me?!" That wasn't the first time he'd asked me that question either, but I'd just chalked it up to his impending Alzheimers. In retrospect, I think he was fishing to see if anyone had told me about the lawsuit. He should've rested easy in the knowledge that of course no one had. My mom probably would've never told me if I hadn't mentioned that my father said he thought it was, "better this way", like it was some kind of mutual decision.

Crazy, crazy fuckers.

Aaah, to be the favorite

So those memories about thinking Linus didn't like me when he was new have been on my mind lately because I am currently the Favored Parent. It's a pretty sweet gig, I tell you. Any parent out there will know all about how sometimes you're the cat's pajamas, and other times you're completely repugnant to your toddler. I think moms generally have a bit of a leg up, especially nursing moms, but we all end up doing time on the Losers List. There doesn't seem to be any sort of pattern in when or why positions shift, they just do.

I mentioned before that Linus sleeps with us. He also goes to bed whenever we do. I think we ended up with this arrangement because, as I've mentioned before, I'm lazy and this is easy. We all get ready for bed, climb in, lights out, everybody falls asleep. Some parents like to put their kids to bed early, but that usually means that the kids wake up at some ungodly hour and that would annoy the hell out of me. I'd much rather have a couple of quiet, kid-free hours in the morning than in the evening. Linus usually sleeps until 9:30 or 10. Weekdays I get up around 6:30 and head off to work before even Orion is up. I work a 4, 10-hour day schedule, so I get my extra hours in before Linus is even aware that I'm not there, and since he stays up late with us in the evening I get lots of time with him. On the weekends, I'm usually up by 7:30-8 and that gives me plenty of time for a jam-hands-free cup of coffee and a newspaper, or whatever. I'm not so perky in the morning. It takes me awhile to become fully interactive.

Linus is a funny little guy. Sometimes he'll wake up in the morning and just walk out into the living room, but usually he wakes up, sits up in bed and yells, "Ma?!" I'll get up and go into the bedroom to get him, but usually not before a couple more "Ma?!"s. I'll open the door to the bedroom and he'll be sitting on the bed with a worried look on his face. I'll smile and say, "Good morning!", and he'll stretch his arms up to me. I'll pick him up and he'll relax against my shoulder. I'll carry him out to the living room and he'll stay in that position until he wakes up enough to ask for the booby, or, "B" as he calls it. He'll nurse for awhile and then climb down off my lap and head off to look for a ball, or a rock, or the cat. I really like this weekend morning ritual. I can completely relate to the desire to be carried around in a sleepy haze until breakfast sounds good.

Apparently, during my work week when I'm not around when he wakes up, Linus will still call out, "Ma?!" Orion will go into the bedroom to get him, and when Linus sees who it is, he'll throw himself prostrate onto the bed crying, "No! No! No! No!" Orion will pick him up and he'll cry, "No, Da-ee!" He'll settle down pretty quickly, but still... Fortunately Orion thinks it's pretty funny, instead of upsetting, which is how I'd feel.

I usually get the better deal, which is totally how it should be, but not always. Sometimes I'll load Linus into the car and get in, ready to drive off, when he'll ask, "Da-ee?" The baby-sign for Daddy that we tried to teach him is hand open, palm out, with your thumb against your forehead (it should be thumb against your jaw for Mommy), but Linus translated this to pointing with his index finger into his ear (he pats his chest for me). So he'll point in his ear and ask, "Da-ee?" and when I say, "Daddy's not coming to the store with us, honey." boo-hooery ensues, with wails of, "My Da-ee!" over and over.

Really, I think he'd like to have both of us within arms reach at all times. Orion and I were sitting next to each other on the couch the other night, which is unusual as Or usually sits in the easy chair. Linus was beside himself with joy. He squished in between us, cupping our cheeks with one little hand each, and recited, "Ma. Da-ee. Ma. Da-ee." in a dreamy voice. You'd think he'd never seen us in the same room before. Kook.

Smiley Joe

When Linus was a couple of weeks old, I started to worry that he didn't like me. Before they start smiling it's all business with babies. They're either sleeping, or rooting around for food, crying if they don't find it. They'll spend some time looking at you, but it's a look like, "What the...? Who..? Who are you?" I knew that babies don't start smiling until about 6 weeks. I knew it in my brain, but in my heart I was becoming sure that Linus was developing a deep dislike for me. He'd stare at me like he was very disappointed to discover that I'm his mother. Then, when 6 weeks came and he still wasn't smiling, I was convinced. He just didn't like me. Oh, I'd make light of it and laughingly joke with everyone about it, but it chilled me to the bone. I'd kitchy-coo and baby-talk until I developed a blister, but he'd just stare at me deadpan, "Just give me the booby, lady." I'd think to myself, "Well, ok. Sometimes you just don't like someone. Nobody's fault. Doesn't mean you can't work with 'em. I've had plenty of coworkers I didn't like. No big deal, right? Sure. It'll be fine."

And, it's not like it was unrequited love at this point. I wasn't too sure about him either. Oh, I was down with the care-giving, his every whim was my command, no question about that, but I wasn't all google-boogle yet. It wasn't so much of a torch as a match that I was carrying for him at this point. But I did want him to like me, like really bad. I was afraid that if he didn't like me I'd pull a Reverse Grinch and my heart would shrink and harden, and I'd shrink and harden, until I looked like Nancy Reagan. Even if we didn't like each other, I didn't want Nancy Reagan raising my son. I didn't want the grape of new motherhood to become the raisin of indifferent parenting.

But then at 7 weeks he started smiling. Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows, people! That is really when I started to fall in love, you know? Who wouldn't?! Every time he caught sight of me, his face would light up. In truth, every time he caught sight of anybody his face would light up. It's like once he worked out this smiling business, he wasn't looking back. People would often comment that he was the smiling-est baby they'd ever met, and I believe it because he smiled all the time. And it's not like this lack of specificity in any way dampened the warm feelings that his smile engendered in me. It's baby magic. Think about it - when a baby looks at you and smiles hugely, don't you feel extra special? Like you and that baby have an unspoken connection? Like that baby's seen through your gruff exterior and into your gooey center? Yeah. Doesn't matter if you've never seen that baby before in your life, you are now BFF.

It's such a good strategy to get us to take care of their floppy selves.

His Dad's looks, but my incredulity

Rocks and sticks

Raising a boy is weird. I imagine raising a girl is weird too, but what do I know? I do know that raising a boy is weirder than I expected. I'm not sure what I expected exactly, but I know I didn't expect to spend so much time admiring rocks and sticks.

Linus loves him some rocks and sticks. You'd think they're much rarer than they are, given his response. We have a little patch of gravel outside our front door. Whenever we go out he'll stop and pick up a rock. He'll then exclaim excitedly something like, "Look at this AWESOME rock I just found!" Except, not in adult english, or any intelligible language. Then he'll hold it up for me to see. He'll insist on taking it into the stroller, or car, or whatever conveyance we happen to be using. He'll repeatedly examine it, then hold it up and exclaim it's virtues for all to agree. Over and over. Sure, he'll either eventually drop it and forget about it, or chuck it at something. Sometimes when he's getting out of the car, he'll find the rock he dropped at some point during the ride and it's all, "Wow! Look at this awesome rock I just found! Right here in the car of all places! Isn't it great?!"

And if it's not rocks, it's sticks. The bigger the better, of course. There are lots of parks with nature trails all around the edges of town here, and I'm trying to get more exercise and other such crap, so we spend a lot of time walking the trails. Linus will immediately find a stick, carry it for a few feet, then abandon it for another, better stick. He'll eventually settle on the stick, then he starts whacking the shit out of the trail. I'm not kidding. If he's not beating the ground into submission, he's clutching the stick in both hands, pointing it at you while making emphatic, "p-shoo, p-shoo!" sounds. I try and play it off with, "Oh, is that your magic wand? Are you putting magic in my leg?"

Totally bullshit, but what's a parent to do? We don't have guns, or play that way with him. We don't watch violent stuff on TV, though I'm sure he's seen some of that - even watching the evening news you'll see gunplay. It's like the gun gene turned on at 20 months. Wtf?! And it's not like he's old enough for us to have a discussion about the implications. Mostly, I try to play it off. I'm hoping that if I keep acting like he's pretending he has a magic wand he'll eventually be like, "hmmm, maybe this is a magic wand. Awesome!"

But this is what I mean about the weirdness. He's not mean, in fact he's a really sweet, caring kid. But he runs around all day alternating between reciting toddler poetry about the sublime beauty of the common rock, and chucking them at anything that moves. When he's not pretending to shoot you with a stick or a pen, that is.

C'mon!

I mean, seriously.

Belly button privacy

Linus doesn't have any of the usual transition objects. No blankies, binkies, stuffed animals, nothing. He doesn't suck his thumb, or twist his hair, or pull his ear.

What he does have is his belly button. It's his comfort touchstone. He will rub it if he's in need of comfort or reassurance. If he comes into a room full of people and noise and commotion, he'll stop a little ways in, rub his belly button, and watch what's going on before he decides whether to join in or not. If he finds a situation upsetting, his hand finds his belly button immediately. We were watching "Robots" the other day, and during the sad scene at the train station where Rodney says goodbye to his parents - finger on the belly button. He'll also rub his belly button when he's nursing - the complete Comfort Package.

I find it to be completely endearing.

His abdominal focus doesn't end there. He likes to press his belly against things, especially another person's belly. Often while he's nursing he'll decide that it's time for belly contact. He'll lift his shirt and arch his back, trying to press his belly against mine. If I lift my shirt and press bellies for a second, he'll smile and continue nursing happily.

It gets nuttier. He'll walk up to things and press his belly against them. I'll be fixing some food in the kitchen and he'll come in, lift his shirt, press his belly against the fridge, or one of the cabinets, turn around and walk out again. I freaked once when I saw him going bare-belly-first towards the oven. I let out a little shriek, which took him by surprise, causing him to stop, drop his shirt and rub his belly button while looking at me with concern. I needn't have worried - of course we have a modern oven with adequate insulation, so the door was cool to the touch. I just had visions in my head of 2nd degree belly-burns. How awful would that be?! I even saw him try to belly-press the cat. Didn't go over real well, but I can see the appeal of the warm, fuzzy cat belly.

I think this is an example of the kind of thing that's really cute when a baby does it, but it would be totally creepy in an adult. Imagine one of your co-workers pressing his naked belly up against the water fountain or the copier machine. Nuh uh. Not charming.

All of this means that onesies aren't too popular in our house any more - no belly button access. It's really quite sad when his pair of onesie pjs makes it up in the rotation. He'll be rubbing around for a couple of minutes searching for access. I usually take pity and unzip them down to the waist. You can just see him relax when he finally finds that navel. Aaaah.

And he's almost as interested in your belly button. If you lift your shirt, he'll poke a finger in it. This really cracks him up! However, this is where I've drawn the line.

I have declared my belly button OFF LIMITS.

I will participate in the belly press, no problem, but I will NOT have fingers in my belly button. I don't like it. I tried to be game for awhile, but I just decided, "nope."

I don't have a whole lot of physical boundaries these days. I will nurse him. I will take a bath with him. Closed doors are upsetting, so he can come into the bathroom when I'm showering or using the toilet. In fact, he really likes to hug me while I'm sitting on the toilet (I think I'm just at the right height). Fine. He sleeps with us and sometimes I'll wake up in the middle of the night and he'll be plastered right up against me. So? Sometimes when he's nursing, he'll feel every bit of my face, or he'll want to investigate my teeth. No problem. He likes to pull off my socks when I'm sitting on the couch and consider, and have a discussion with, each of my toes. You bet. The cat likes to sit on my lap while I'm watching TV, while the dog likes to sit on my feet. Ok. I will have intimate relations with Orion. Great!

But my belly button is PRIVATE.

I hope we can still be friends.

My little nutjob

It goes without saying that Linus is totally effing cute. Like, melt-your-face-off cute.



See? Of course, he's not as cute as your kid, that goes without saying, but only yours. Everyone else's kid pales in comparison.

So, he's cute, but also... total nutjob. That is, in fact, one of his nicknames, "Nutjob" (it's overtaking "Peeps" as Most Commonly Used, as he doesn't peep anymore).

What's that? You doubt me?

Allow me to elaborate. He is, of late, completely enamored with two things; pretending to blow his nose, and throwing away tissue. Well, there are others, but these are the ones we're talking about today. He often combines his two loves. He's watched very carefully whenever he's seen someone blow their nose. Apparently, he thinks what we're actually doing is sniffing the tissue before we throw it away. I don't know if he's come up with reasons as to why we're doing this, all that's evident is he wants to do it too. If we leave a box of tissues within his reach, he will take one out, sniff it, and throw it away, over and over again, until the entire box is gone. Same with a roll of toilet paper. Sometimes with the toilet paper, he'll forego the sniffing and go right to the throwing away part. And he's not constrained to throwing things away into the garbage. He'll often "throw things away" into a drawer, or a box, or my shoulder bag.

Over, and over, and over, and over.

I have evidence. Video evidence! If you click on the link below, it will take you to a page with 2 short video clips. You have to click on the images to get the clips to download before you can play them. Be patient. Depending on how much server traffic there is it can take awhile to download. In the top one you will see the Sniff, Throw Away, and in the bottom one you'll see the Throw Away Not In The Garbage.

See the videos here.

I love how in the second one, if you look closely, you can see that the drawer is already full of wadded up tp. He'd been at it awhile.

Now tell me that isn't nutty!

Labor amnesia

I realized after posting yesterday that I really don't remember all that much about my labor. I guess I have that labor amnesia that women get so that they'll be willing to go through it again. Evolution rocks! I mean, obviously I remember quite a bit about it, but not as much as I'd expect given that it was pretty much the biggest single event that's ever happened to me. I have no idea what filled those 54 hours. I remember being in the tub, breathing through contractions, blah, blah, blah, but I was in labor (and awake, mostly) for that first night, a whole day, another whole night, ANOTHER whole day, and well into another night. That is a LOT of time, but I have specific memories of about 6 total hours of it.

And I remember things at a distance. Like, I remember thinking near the end,

"I'm never doing this again."

"Nope."

"Not a chance."

But I don't really remember why. Or, I remember why - I was tired and it was painful and I was tired of being in pain - but I certainly don't feel that way now. Now I'm like, "Eh, wasn't that bad."

Some of the amnesia happened immediately, it's not just the passage of time that's muted the memories. I had no idea that 2 days had past, even while it was happening. I think it's a pretty common experience - you go into this primal, non-linear mode. You're so focused internally that external stuff doesn't register the same.

That limited world view stuck with me for quite awhile after Linus was born, but my bubble expanded to include him. I was all Gweneth Paltrow, "I don't care if I never make another movie again." But, eventually I read the screenplay for "Infamous" and decided I was interested in the outside world again.

Aaaaah, I miss the babymoon.

Birthed

Well, I'd apologize for not posting for so long, but it seems no one reads these posts, so it's not even like my apology would fall on deaf ears (blind eyes?). Ah well, saves me from feeling guilty about it.

So, to finish the labor story. I labored for a long, long time. This baby was taking his time. I was progressing, just really, really slowly. Once the contractions started in earnest, or really, once the baby moved down to a certain point, I couldn't keep anything down. Every time I'd try to lay down, he'd apparently hit my vasovagal nerve and I'd suddenly throw up. You know this nerve - remember when Bush swallowed a big piece of pretzel and passed out? Same nerve at work. Sometimes even when I would turn a certain way it would happen. It was totally sudden and disconcerting. I think I've said before that I rarely throw up. And, it's not like I was continuously feeling nauseous at all. Just, get in the wrong position - Boom! Gross.

This led to an even more irritating phenomenon - heartburn. I have a low-grade, chronic acid reflux problem for which I take a certain purple pill every morning. On the purple pill, fine. Forget to take the purple pill and by about noon I have the worst heartburn. I was in labor for a total of 54 hours, during which time I neglected to take any purple pills. I wasn't planning on being in labor that long people! So after a day or two of throwing up at regular intervals and no purple pill, my esophogus was burnt. Should I ever be in labor again, I will have a designated Purple Pill Person. It will be their job to make sure I take the purple pill, and to have on hand a supply of low-acidity beverages. Fran had told me to have a couple quarts of juice on hand. I did. I was ready. I had about 5 quarts of juice on hand, weeks in advance. Are you kidding? Give me a list and I will have every item crossed off by the deadline. I was juice-ready. I was well-supplied with orange/pineapple, grapefruit, and cranberry juice. Yeah, that's right. All my favorite juices, to be sure, but not so good with the heartburn. Look, I had no idea, that I was

a) going to be throwing up all the time.

and

b) going to be in labor for 54 hours.

Why didn't somebody go out and buy different juice? you might ask. Yeah, I don't know. I think when I decided that I could keep something down it was very late at night. I'm not sure, honestly.

Anyway, all that aside, I labored, and labored and labored. I spent quite a bit of the first two days in the tub. We had a lovely old claw-foot, cast iron tub in that house. The side where you sit back was angled at the perfect angle. It was quite deep as it was, but Orion also caulked around the fixtures so that you could fill it to the rim if you wanted to. I spent hours in there. I even fell asleep a couple of time between contractions on the second day.

*sigh*

I miss that tub.

Throughout this long labor, the baby was fine. We'd listen with the doppler and his heart rate was perfect. Turns out, he was facing sideways. Once he got down far enough that Fran could feel his head, she announced that he was facing to my left. This is probably why the labor was progressing so slowly. In retrospect, I was having typical labor for a baby in this position. I would have one strong contraction followed by one or two weaker ones. I had lower back pain, whether I was having a contraction or not. Classic signs, apparently.

After about 40 hours, we had a discussion about whether I should go to the hospital. Heartburn aside, I was feeling pretty good, and the baby wasn't in distress, so we decided to stay at home. Fran gave me some herbs to slow the labor down temporarily so that I could try to get some sleep. I guess I did sleep for a couple of hours before the contractions woke me up again. I really hated that feeling, being woken up by a contraction. I wish I'd had someone with me monitor when I was about to have a contraction and then wake me up before it did. It was one of the few times I felt overwhelmed by labor, waking up in the middle. It made me resist falling asleep.

After another 12 hours or so of labor, Fran said we should talk about going to the hospital again. She was concerned that I was becoming exhausted, after 2+ days of very little sleep and nothing except a little bit of honey to eat. She said that if the doc at the hospital could turn the baby's head with forceps, he'd probably pop right out. I didn't really want to leave home, but we'd always said that if things pointed in that direction, we'd go to the hospital. I still felt like I could work through it, though I was pretty tired. By this time I could feel the top of the baby's head with my fingers, which was exhilarating, but I also really, really wanted to be done. Like, a lot. Seriously.

Maggie'd told me months before that if for some reason I needed forceps help, to not let anyone except Dr. Bruner near me. She called him "The Wizard With Forceps". Apparently, they don't really teach the proper use of forceps in OB/GYN schooling anymore. Nowadays, anything goes slightly out of the ordinary and *bang* you get a C-section. Dr. Bruner was older, had been well-trained, and knew what he was doing, by all reports. It was about 10pm by this time, so I had someone call the hospital to see who was on-call for deliveries. If it was anyone else, we were staying home and would just work through it, but as luck would have it, Dr. Bruner was the doc on call, so we decided to go ahead and go in.

That was a seriously uncomfortably car ride, though thankfully a brief one. I was still having regular contractions, and I'd progressed enough that these were the pushing kind. It was a slow walk into the hospital with regular stops for breathing through contractions. I told the nurses on duty how far along I was, but they totally didn't believe me, probably because I'd just walked in. They were a bit patronizing, like, suuuure you are, pat my hand. They led me into a small exam room to check me out, felt the top of the baby's head, and kinda freaked out. It was pretty funny. I felt a contraction coming on and got up so I could deal with it standing (my preferred position at this point) and one nurse was all, "You can't stand up! We don't want the baby to fall out onto the floor!" Hah. I just looked at her and got up. I reminded her that I'd been pushing for hours and if the baby was going to come out that easily, we wouldn't have been there. She came to her senses and was like, "Right, ok."

We all moved into a big labor and delivery room. Dr. Bruner arrived about 10 minutes later, checked out the scene and said I was lucky it was him, for all the reasons I've already enumerated. There was a brief discussion about whether or not I wanted an epidural. I asked him if the forceps were going to hurt. He said, "Not any more than regular contractions." Total. fucking. lie. I don't know what I was thinking, trusting someone who'd never been in labor, let alone had a forceps delivery. Orion stepped forward and said that I didn't want an epidural. This was one of his jobs. We'd talked a lot about it before and I made it clear that I did NOT want anyone sticking anything into my spine. I'd had a lumbar puncture in the past, and until The Procedure, it was the worst physical experience of my life. I'd asked Orion to advocate for me because I might not be able to do it myself. I'm glad I did, because I was seriously considering it. I was tired, and tired of being in pain, but I didn't really want an epidural. He was a champ.

Now, having said all that - If I had known how much the forceps were going to hurt, I would have demanded pain meds. I'm not kidding. I felt every bit of those forceps the whole way. I'm glad, in the end, that I didn't have an epidural, but I would never go through that again without some pain relief. Fortunately, it was quick. Forceps in place. Turn in one contraction. About 3 more contractions and the baby was out. From begining to end, my labor in the hospital was about half and hour long. Of course, Linus was all red and gooey and squishy and half-baked-looking. We toweled him off, I popped a boobie in his mouth, and he nursed away for quite awhile.

So, I ended up giving birth in exactly the position I didn't want to be in - that is, feet up in stirrups - but I don't really care. I'm glad I labored at home. I could do what I wanted, and I was surrounded by the most loving and supportive crew. If I'd been in a hospital the whole time, there is no way they would've let me labor that long. I would have ended up having a C-section. No doubt. As it is, I had a drug-free birth and the baby came out healthy and alert - pretty much just as I'd hoped.

If I ever get pregnant again, I plan on trying home birth again. The only thing I would do different is spend more time walking in my ninth month, and a lot of time on my hands and knees in the last weeks of pregnancy, to lessen the chances of the baby being in the wrong position again.

Oh yeah, and have different juices on hand. Maybe, apple?

Finally in labor

I am so sorry about the gap in posting! I've been all caught up in work-related stuff and haven't been paying enough attention to my 3 loyal readers.

I was due on July 14th. I knew he (we found out we were having a "he" at our last ultrasound, in case I forgot to tell you) wasn't coming early, as much as I really, really wished he would. I mean, part of me wanted to postpone his arrival for as long as possible because I was freaked out like just about all new parents about what was about to happen, but I was so sick of being pregnant towards the end. All you moms out there know what I'm talking about.

Huge, huge, HUGE! Can't breathe when I'm sitting, can't stand for more than a few minutes. Can't fit more than two bites at a time into my stomach, have to pee every hour.

You know.

And my ears! I forgot to tell you all this before, but the most consistently annoying side effect of pregnancy for me, throughout from week 1 to week 40, was that my ears were stuffed up and muffled. Aarrgh! So annoying!! Because your hormones cause your mucus membranes to get all spongy when you're pregnant (nice), a lot of women have stuffy noses the whole time. Not me. Stuffy ears. I couldn't hear anything anyone was saying. It was like I was wearing a giant marshmallow hat with earflaps. I could tip my head to the side and my hearing would clear up, but then when I tilted my head back upright, within a minute I wouldn't be able to hear again. Seriously annoying.

So, though I was scared, I was also sick of it and I really wanted to be done. But I knew he wasn't coming early. I know first-time moms tend to deliver later rather than sooner, but it could happen. Right? "Dream on, hoser," said my instincts, and they were right. At about 4 pm on my due date, I decided to take a nap. I rolled over from one side to the other at one point and felt a *pop* down there.

"Wait, what was that?"

I got up and went to the bathroom. My water broke!

"Woo hoo!"

"On the way!"

"Wait, what's that? Is that a contraction?"

"Is it?...wha?...um...no."

"Ok, I know this can take some time" (12 hours on average for a first-time mom) "but according to my calculations, I will have a new son by tomorrow morning."

"Yay!" Clap, clap, clap!

Um, not so much.

I called Fran to let her know that my water had broken, to give her a head's up. She told me to call her again when I wanted her to come over. You bet! We'd laid in all our birthing supplies weeks (sometimes months, who am I foolin') ago. Sealed bags of clean towels, lots of absorbent pads, like the kind you can use for disposable changing pads, as well as about 6 yards of that padded vinyl used for outdoor tablecloths, a whole bunch of raspberry leaf tea, and a couple of other herbal concoctions. Fran had given us a list early on. I made the bed up with clean sheets and put another clean fitted sheet over the top of everything so we could just take it off when everything was through. I puttered around the house, pausing for the occasional moderate contraction, and eventually fixed dinner. I made salmon. I remember because I eventually threw it back up. Not right away, mind you, but...yeah.

I took a shower after dinner, and settled in for the big event. My contractions eventually came on stronger and more frequently, so at about 9 pm I called Fran back and told her that I thought it was time for her to come over. I thought, "It won't be long now!"

Wrong.

Pregnant again

What is my deal, taking so long?! Blame it on the Super Bowl.

Oh, Seahawks. I was actually a little hopeful...Bah! Back to the story...

I got pregnant again on October 21, 2003. I know the date because I said, "Hon, if we're going to try to get pregnant this month, we should have sex tonight, or possible tomorrow." Yeah, that's how clock-like I was, not to mention romantic. All signs pointed to Go, and Go it was. Now that I knew what being pregnant felt like, I was pretty sure within a couple of days that I was. And lo, a couple of weeks later I peed on a stick and saw the pink stripe.

From the very beginning, I knew everything was fine with this pregnancy. Just knew it. I didn't have that feeling of dread that clung to me the first time. I wasn't full of ambivalence about being pregnant. I didn't want to be all secretive. I wasn't worried about neural tube defects. Sure, I wasn't going to fully relax until we had our first sonogram, but I knew it would be fine.

Everything about our experience this time was different. I saw Maggie once early on. No blood tests, no hormone supplements, nothing. She had us come in for an early sonogram at 9 weeks because she knew we were anxious. I think Orion was more anxious than I was. He didn't have my pregnant lady knowin'. The sonogram tech was very nice. Maggie'd told her about our history, so she knew what to do. She said, "First, see that little butterfly-shaped thing? That's the developing brain. It all looks perfect." Then she went around, declaring all the various parts "perfect". We saw the little bean's heart beat, and left with our grainy little pictures in hand, elated.

We agreed with Maggie to only see her every couple of months, mostly at milestone points, unless something was wrong, because we were seeing Fran for our regular pre-natal care. I'm telling you right now, if you can find a midwife you like, use her. We can't recommend it enough. We loved Maggie, but even a great doctor only spends maybe 15 or 20 minutes with you. They just can't spend much more than that, unless there's something requiring their attention that justifies the time. Fran would always spend over an hour with us. We saw her once a month early on, then twice a month towards the middle, then every week towards the end. She was also very available between visits, if we had any questions. A typical appointment with Fran went like this: We'd arrive, and I'd go to the bathroom and pee in a cup. She'd test it for all the usual, protein levels and the like. She'd take my blood pressure, then I'd lay down on the big bed and she'd measure my belly. Then she'd get out the Doppler and we'd listen to the heart beat. Sometimes she'd prod my belly a bit to listen for the change in heart rate. Then, she'd ask how I was doing (or sometimes she'd do that first, whatever). We'd talk about how I was feeling, sleeping, eating. Early on, she had me write down everything I ate for a week, then she went over it. We'd talk about whatever was on our minds. She had a pretty large library of pregnancy, labor and delivery, and parenting books, and we'd regularly take a couple home with us, so we always had plenty of questions. We'd talk about what was going to happen during labor, or what sort of stuff we should have on hand for the baby once he arrived. We'd even talk about how we were feeling about impending parenthood. Pretty much the definition of holistic care. We never felt like patients. She had an apprentice, Lilly, who was a professional doula. Lilly was training with Fran to become a midwife, so Fran asked if we'd mind if Lilly sat in on all our sessions. She asked when it was closer if Lilly could also attended the birth. We were happy to have her, and so we got another birth attendant at no charge. Lilly was also great. We're still in touch.

I had an uneventful pregnancy, mercifully. Most of my complaints were the usual, minor stuff - aches and pains, trouble getting comfortable in bed at night, trouble staying awake during the day, can't stand how anything smells, totally starving yet completely full-feeling at the same time. You know.

This time around, we'd planned a home birth from the beginning. A couple of the 6 of you who read this page regularly might be thinking, "What kind of crazy, granola-eating, mother-goddess-worshiping kook is she?!" Nope. Not me. I don't like granola. I've told you before that I'm all for modern medicine. I think it's great that we don't all die toothless at the age of 40. However, I also think that pregnancy and childbirth are natural processes, and unless you have some complication that warrants it, I don't think it should be managed like a disease, which is what happens to many women. Now, this is just me. You do whatever you want. I feel strongly that a woman should feel fully supported, no matter what sort of birth she has. A woman who wants to have her baby in the hospital and have an epidural should do it and feel good about it. A woman who wants to have her baby naturally in a birthing center should do it and feel good about it. Same with someone who wants to do a home birth. I'm going to say this only once, and if you want the supporting literature, I'm happy to point you to it: a planned home birth with a trained midwife in attendance is just as safe, if not safer, than a hospital birth. I'm not anti-hospital, though I don't really want to spend any time in one if I can help it (not a big fan of resistant staph). It was always our plan that if there was some reason for us to be in the hospital, then we wouldn't hesitate to go.

I could really go on at length about this stuff, but I won't. You came for the birth story, and I have yet to deliver (heh). Next post I'll actually get to the delivery, I swear!

Another short interlude

Do you know what's balm for the soul? Lou Rawls voice, that's what. I'm serious. If you don't have a copy of Lou Rawls singing "Your Good Thing", get it.

You can thank me later.

On with the story...

I originally started out to tell you all about Linus' birth, but I got sidetracked by this story of my first pregnancy. In case it wasn't clear, that was the worst time of my life. I sincerely hope it never gets topped. There's a little bit more in-between detail I should let you in on, before I get to the actual birthing-Linus part.

I'd made an appointment with the doctor that Fran, the midwife, had recommended before I found out that everything had gone wrong. I'd intended on ditching the awful OB, so the sonogram was supposed to be the last time I saw her. The appointment with the new doc happened to be scheduled for a week after The Procedure. Even though I wasn't pregnant anymore, I decided to keep the appointment. I needed a new doctor anyway. I arrived at my appointment with Dr. Carpenter, Maggie, and checked in at the desk. Her nurse was standing there and said cheerily, "Oh, you're here for a home birth appointment, right? How far along are you?" She looked at me with an expectant smile. I shot a look around at all the receptionists, and people in the waiting room, then back at her, and said quietly, "I'm not. Pregnant, I mean. Anymore." She looked so stricken that I immediately liked her. She'd obviously realized her mistake, asking me a question like that in front of everyone. It's just the kind of dumbass thing I'd do, stepping right in it. She took me back to the exam room and apologized. She asked what had happened and I gave her the bare outline. She wrote everything down and left me to wait for Maggie. I was trying as hard as I could to not to cry, but I knew I wasn't going to last long. Maggie came in, looked at me with much concern and said, "What happened?" I said, "I'm not going to make it through this story without crying," and burst into tears. She handed me a tissue, put her hand on my arm, and told me to take my time. See, as bad as the other doctors were, Maggie was good. Not just compassionate, but smart. She listened to my story, becoming outraged at all the right parts. At the end, I asked her if I could see her for my follow-up appointment in a couple of weeks. I told her that I just couldn't go back to Dr. Jerk. She said, "Of course, I don't blame you!"

I went back for my follow-up and she said that everything looked fine. She said that I could go ahead and try to get pregnant again anytime, we didn't have to wait. I told her that I didn't know if we were going to try again. I just couldn't face the possibility of going through anything like what I'd been through again. She pointed out that we needn't worry, the chances of something like that happening again were extremely small. I knew that. I knew the odds. But, anyone who's been through anything like our experience knows that that's small comfort. See, the chances of something like that happening in the first place were very small, but it did happen, so the fact that the chances of it happening again are small means nothing. Besides, maybe there's something about me, or Orion, something not found on standard tests, that makes it more likely that things would go wrong again. Maybe things would go wrong like that every time. Anyone who's been through anything traumatic can tell you that it changes the way you view the world. How you perceive your vulnerabilities, your chances of coming out unscathed. Long odds seem much shorter when you know how painful it can be.

Anyway. I got over it eventually. I saw a counselor who specializes in trauma a couple of times, but mostly it was just time. I mean, I'll never be totally over it. It's still in the not-so-far-back of my mind as we consider getting pregnant again. But, it doesn't loom quite as large as it used to. It took me about 4 months, then I was able to say, "I think I'd like to try again."

Totally played

I'll get back to the story in a bit, but I just wanted to describe this conversation Orion and I had the other day while watching one of the dozen episodes of This Old House that's on at any given time.

Me (watching Norm and a couple of other guys walk around the remodel site): Look at that. Every single one of those guys is wearing Dockers. Khaki Dockers. What's up with that?

Orion (completely seriously): Yeah, I don't know. That look is so played!

Hahahahaha!

Comment away!

I just realized that I had my settings such that if you aren't a "registered user" you couldn't post a comment here. It was not my intention to be all exclusive or anything. My pants aren't that fancy. I've changed it now, so if you haven't been commenting because you aren't registered, feel free to have at it.

The Grieving

The grief is the big fish and I'm the little fish.
(photo by Jim Lavrakas)

Now that the anxiety about The Procedure was out of the way, all I had left was the sadness and grief. I spent so much time crying, at least hourly the first week or so. Not just crying - sobbing. Body-wracking, full-voiced, I'm-3-and-I've-skinned-my-knee sobs. I quickly became tired of all the crying, but there was no way to avoid it. It was inevitable. But, it was so exhausting and it didn't really make me feel any better. It seemed like such an inadequate response, in the face of the intensity of the grief. It seemed like my head should explode, or I should burst into flames. That would have been more like it. Anything besides this constant, impotent crying. I couldn't even tell you why, exactly, I was crying. It wasn't triggered by specific thoughts or images. I mean, yeah, there was the loss of the actual, as well as the loss of the potential. There was the physical and emotional trauma I'd been experiencing. There was also the hormone flux that intensified everything and threw it all into further disarray. But all that, all those words I just typed, weren't really it. That's what I've come up with in retrospect. At the time it was just this primal thing, raw and visceral. Like a great, gray monster that demanded hourly sacrifices. I guess the crying kept it from swallowing me.

Then there were all of the last painful details. My milk came in. I bound my breasts with an ace bandage, but they still became completely engorged. I had to lie on the couch with bags of frozen peas on my chest, but that didn't provide much relief. It just seemed like some sort of cruel joke, one last poke from the Fates. I also had to tell people. Some of this I started once we knew it had all gone to hell, but remember, I had gone on a little telling spree just before our first sonogram, so there were lots of people who had to be told. I tried to delegate as much as possible. Orion and my mom took care of family. I asked my friend Nancy to spread the word at work as much as possible. All that was a big help, but still, weeks or months later I would run into somebody whom I hadn't talked to in awhile and I'd have to go over it all again. Not in great detail or anything, but enough so that they got the drift. And of course, it was awkward and painful. People really didn't know what to say to us other than, "I'm sorry." That was enough, actually. What else was there to say? Many people offered support, though I think many others avoided us because they didn't know what else to do. I may have done the same thing in their position. My friend Christy, however, did the exact right thing. She called me every day. We wouldn't talk long, there wasn't much to say. Often I'd cry a bit, and sometimes she'd cry with me, but just as often we'd talk about office gossip, or the weather. She was just checking in, but that was exactly what I needed. Orion was also there, of course, but he had his own grief to deal with. Fortunately for us, this whole experience pulled us together, rather than pushing us apart. I'm grateful for that.

It was amazing to me how many people came to us in support with similar stories of their own. We got a card in the mail from our pharmacist expressing sympathy and telling us about his wife's difficulty conceiving. Apparently Orion had told him a little when he went to fill my prescription for the sleeping pill when he was concerned that I not take it while pregnant. I found his note touching. I had no idea how many people I knew had gone through single or multiple miscarriages, or IVF, or had children born with some kind of serious condition. People keep that kind of information pretty close, I guess, though once they heard what we'd gone through they would share openly. Not that I'd wish anything like this on anyone, but it was good to know that we weren't the only ones.

Eventually, I was only crying every couple of hours, and then only a couple of times a day. It was months, however, before I went an entire day without crying at least once. The sadness would come over me without warning and I'd have to stop what I was doing for a few minutes and succumb. Fortunately, my desk at work was in a secluded corner, so I could weep quietly for awhile, and no one was the wiser, I think. I'd still occasionally run into people I hadn't seen in awhile, but I could let them know what happened without actually breaking down. I got an email from a colleague I hadn't seen in a couple of months and he said, "You must be tired of people putting their hands on your big belly by now!" I had to write back and let him know the score and he was so mortified, it made me laugh. Poor guy!

Well, that's the story. It took a lot longer to tell than I thought. It was also a lot more difficult. I guess the monster still lurks. I'll get back to the originally intended story next - Linus' birth. That's one that you know has a happy ending. Should be balm for the soul after this, at least for me.

Thanks for sticking around.

The Procedure, Part 2

I forgot to include a couple of things in yesterday's post that happened before we went to Dr. Jerk. We went back in to the perinatologist to get the preliminary results of the amnio. Nothing. Everything looked clean. No chromosomal anomalies. The genetic counselor went over the results with us. She said they were surprised, but had no reason to doubt the results. She said that, in this case, "It was just one of those things." Something went wrong somewhere, but we'd probably never know exactly what. She said that these things just happen sometimes. Nothing we could do about it. She said that some couples found this result a little comforting, because they see it as exonerating their DNA. I don't get that. I didn't find it comforting in the slightest. I would have liked to know what was wrong, have some kind of conclusion. Not knowing just left it to my mind to come with all sorts of ways it was my fault: poor nutrition, too much cold medicine, too much coffee, ambivalent feelings about being pregnant. In the deepest, darkest parts of my mind, accessible only while lying awake in the middle of the night, I was sure the last one was it.

The counselor told us that we could ask for an autopsy. She didn't think it would tell us much of anything that we didn't already know, but maybe they would find something. She said that we could tell Dr. Jerk that we wanted an autopsy and he could take care of the arrangements. We'd have to pay for it ourselves, but if we really wanted to leave no stone unturned, she would recommend it. We left with that to chew on, and her assurance that she would send us a complete report of the amnio results.

So, back to Dr. Jerk. Unfortunately, this relationship was going to be just as bad, if not worse, than the one with the OB. Why didn't I see that coming?

We went into Dr. J's office, like a real office with a desk and books, and sat down to go over our records. Blah, blah, blah, what you already know. Turns out, the OB wasn't kidding about his bad bedside manner. He was brusque, and a bit of an asshole, really. But, whatever, we weren't there to date him. He asked if I was having trouble sleeping. Yes, I was. He asked if I'd like something to help me sleep. I said yes, actually, that would be great. I was tired of lying awake every night, weeping and going over everything again, and again, and again. He added a box to a pile of pill vials he had on his desk that he was going to send home with us. Here's a fun fact - When you're at 20 weeks, The Procedure is a two day process. They start opening your cervix on the first day, both mechanically and chemically, then you go back the second day for the rest of it. He outlined for us what was going to happen, went over all the pills and what time I had to take them, then asked if we had any questions. We'd decided to at least talk to him about having an autopsy, so I brought it up. He got all pissy and extra brusque and told us that wasn't possible. I told him that the perinatologist told us to ask for it (so it was clear we weren't just talking out of our hats). This whole discussion just seemed to piss him off. We went back and forth for a while until he finally snapped, "There won't be anything left intact enough to perform an autopsy on!"

Yeah.

I think he was trying to shock us into submission or something. Just like the OB, he clearly wasn't used to patients questioning his authority. He thought he'd cow us with the harsh reality. In truth, we didn't really care all that much about having an autopsy. We knew it would be futile. I continued to argue a bit more, just on principle, but eventually we agreed to just forget it. We then went in for yet another sonogram. He was quick about it, but said, after looking around a bit, "Yep, just an empty skull." I just looked away. Seriously, at this point if I had tried to respond, I would have ended up punching him. I just wanted the whole creepy experience over. We went into the exam room, I got up in the stirrups, and he inserted a set of little seaweed sticks into my cervix. These would slowly expand overnight, opening my cervix. No anesthesia, no drugs, just, "Ready? Here we go." It was over soon, but I was gasping with how much it hurt. He said it wouldn't hurt for long and sent us home with strict instructions to call the emergency number if I started bleeding.

Worst. night. ever. I was in pain (he was such a liar), I was grieving, I didn't want to ever go back there again, but I knew I was going back. Oh, and the sleeping pills he gave me? Turns out the son-of-a-bitch gave me a sample of Lexipro. Lexipro is an antidepressant, not a sleeping aid. In fact, even if I was depressed, it takes two weeks for Lexipro to work, and he gave me a two week sample. Wtf?! I was so angry and exhausted and sick and sad.

We went back the next morning, again first into his office. I confronted him about the Lexipro. "Why did you ask if I wanted a sleep aid and then give me an antidepressant?! Do you think that I'm depressed, or that I might become depressed?!" "Well, yes, that would be the point," he said. He said that with the hormone changes following The Procedure, many women become depressed, especially given the circumstances of our situation. Then why didn't he ask me if I wanted an antidepressant?! Aaarrgghh!!

We went back into the exam room, back into the stirrups. They put in an IV so they could administer Versed. Versed is a sedative/hypnotic. It doesn't knock you out, but the idea is you aren't really aware of what is going on, and you don't remember what happened when it's over. They also put some sort of topical anesthetic on my cervix (or maybe they injected some into my cervix, I don't really remember exactly), and began. It was a horrible, horrible experience. The Versed didn't work on me the way it was advertised. I was aware of everything that was being done to me. I don't remember the exact order of events, but I remember what happened. It was all extremely painful. Something painful would happen and I would gasp and groan, then that part would be over and I would kind of drift off, then I'd be shocked by the onset of another painful act and would gasp in surprise and cry, "It hurts! It hurts!" Then that would be over and I would drift off again, and so on, on and on, for about half an hour or so (maybe longer, that's not really clear for me). Essentially, the Versed had the effect of not letting me brace myself for the painful parts, so I felt like I was being assaulted over and over again, completely out of the blue. Awful. Poor Orion was there with me, sitting by my head, holding my hand. He said later that it was all he could do not to haul off and deck Dr. Jerk every time I gasped in pain. When it was all over, the doctor asked how I was doing and I told him that it was extremely painful. He told me that he thought that the Versed had lowered my inhibitions a bit and that's why I was making so much noise during The Procedure. Fucker. If I had to do it all over again, I would have asked to be knocked out, really knocked out, completely. I know some clinics will put you under. Either that or have no sedative at all. I don't know why they would perform such a painful procedure on someone and not knock them out. They don't perform other kinds of procedures that painful without anesthetic. I can't help but think it's punitive. I'm not all women-are-great-and-men-suck, but I guarantee you that if they were performing some procedure on penises that was half as painful, they'd offer a spinal block and morphine.

After a while, the nurse came back and gave me a RhoGam shot (since Orion is O+ and I'm a negative blood type) and the biggest maxi-pad I'd ever seen to put in my pants. I got dressed and we went for one last meeting with Dr. J in his office. I was all sweaty and disheveled and felt like I was sitting on a log, with that giant pad. He gave us aftercare instructions and emphasized that I should try to remain active today, not go home and lie down. Great. I asked if he could please give me a prescription for an actual sleep aid, which he did. He at least had the sense to look contrite about it. We made an appointment for a follow-up some weeks later and left. I never went back there again.

We drove back to Lawrence and I tried not to doze in the passenger seat. It was midday by this time, and I hadn't eaten anything yet, so we decided to stop at a cafe downtown and maybe stay to eat, or more likely pick up something to go. We walked in and started looking at the menu, when I started to feel a bit queasy. I told Orion I wanted to go, so we bought some scones and left. As soon as we walked out the door, a wave of nausea came over me and I threw up into one of the big concrete tree planters that line the street. Awesome. I never throw up, so I was completely taken by surprise and mortified. Later, I was telling my mom and she said, "Oh yeah, that's one of the side effects of Versed, or any drug like that really, it will almost always make you throw up as it wears off. Didn't they warn you about that?" Hah! Right.

We went home and knocked around a bit, and then decided to go see a movie. I didn't know if that was still in the spirit of staying "active", but it would keep me from crashing on the couch, and the idea of sitting in the dark and being distracted was very appealing to me. We went to the theater and found seats. I have no memory of what movie it was. I think we picked something loud and stupid and in no way sad. I probably don't remember because I didn't actually get to see any of it. As Orion came back from the snack bar and sat down, he dumped the entire 32 oz. cup of Sprite onto my lap. Oh, don't worry, I didn't feel too wet because it was all absorbed by the giant maxi-pad in my pants. I looked up at him and the look on his face was so pathetic that I burst out laughing. He joined in and we both laughed for a good long time. We left the theater and went home, and after changing my pants, I fell asleep on the couch.