Saturday, December 08, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Magic in the Air
Perhaps all parents already know this, but there's always one object, one beloved item or action which, if all else fails in a parent's myriad comforting bag of tricks, is the one emergency item you bring out because you have discovered that it works. Every time, like clockwork. That item is magic.
The first item we discovered was magic was an Infantino Sling Rider, basically just a bag with a strong padded strap, capable of carrying up to 20 pounds of baby weight. When placed in the sling, Sydney would be all scrunched up and terribly uncomfortable-looking, and would, 30 seconds later, fall fast asleep. Wearing the baby around our neck all day quickly became the norm, especially earlier in her career when "awake" generally meant "crying" and "asleep" generally "didn't happen." We began to call the sling the Magic Bag. We even gave it its own song, as we are wont to do, the lyrics of which went like this (to the tune of Magic Bus):
The need for the Magic Bag has tapered off in recent months, although it is still resorted to in a pinch. Mostly things don't get that tragic anymore, and Sydney has learned to entertain herself to a certain degree. Also she is getting a lot more mobile and the memory of the womb is fading, so being squished up in a bag she can't see out of is less comforting than it used to be.
However, yesterday we went to the hospital (an ongoing saga of checkups and appointments for a borderline case of hip displasia, which was detected when she was first born by an emergency room nurse but never since) for an ultrasound and a doctor's appointment, and, because we are weaning Sydney from Mom, meant to bring the all important food and bottle combination. It was all put together properly and stored neatly away in the breastmilk cooler bag and put on the floor with all the other accoutrements we needed to bring, and it was still sitting on the floor when we got to the hospital.
We were going to be at the hospital pretty much all day, and we had no food for the baby. What kind of parents were we? We begged a few bottles of formula off of one of the nurses and bought a sippy cup (the closest thing they had to a bottle) in the gift shop, and made do with these items and some snacks from Mom's rapidly unproductive breasts. Still she didn't eat much. So much stuff was going on at the hospital that she was pretty cool with it, until we finally bundled her back into the car to go home. Then she let loose.
On the ride up earlier that day, before we knew of the food shortage, there had been a slight disturbance in the backseat, in response to which I turned on the car's CD player which had in it: Baby Beluga by none other than Raffi. My husband was less than enthused about this musical choice and teased that I just wanted to hear the CD again. I assuredly did not; this CD has been played way too many times in my presence. It was the only CD I had, though, and our reception in these parts is spotty. Rather than hunt the dial for music worthy of a six month old, I turn on the CD. The disturbance in the back quieted down and we eventually turned off the CD and thought no more of it.
There's not much you can do for a desperately unhappy infant screaming her head off while traveling down the interstate at a higher rate of speed than the posted speed limit, even if there are two of you in the car, so out of desperation I turned on the radio and cycled through the dial trying to find music and not commercials, gave up after a few seconds and turned on the CD again as an interim.
And the sudden silence from the backseat was golden.
After a few songs and a long period of contentment in the back we thought we could, perhaps, turn off Raffi and turn on NPR, but as soon as the CD went off a horrifying wail began again, and continued until I managed to get the CD turned on again. Sydney quieted down only to have the CD switch back over to Track 1, which takes longer than usual, and in the intervening silence she began to whimper again. Track 1 started. Silence again.
"Is there some subliminal message, do you think? Do drugs! Do drugs?" I asked.
"Or maybe, shut up kid or the monster will get you!" Raffi's charm was still lost on my husband. But we both agreed that we had hit upon the Magic CD, and that this CD should be carefully stored and cared for in order that we might, in a pinch, be able to make the world right again, at least for a while.
This morning we were both wide awake at 2am. Finally from the darkness my husband whispered, "I have Raffi in my head."
"Me, too," I said, "Which one?"
"Over in the meadow on a rock by the shore..."
And we both fell back to sleep.
The first item we discovered was magic was an Infantino Sling Rider, basically just a bag with a strong padded strap, capable of carrying up to 20 pounds of baby weight. When placed in the sling, Sydney would be all scrunched up and terribly uncomfortable-looking, and would, 30 seconds later, fall fast asleep. Wearing the baby around our neck all day quickly became the norm, especially earlier in her career when "awake" generally meant "crying" and "asleep" generally "didn't happen." We began to call the sling the Magic Bag. We even gave it its own song, as we are wont to do, the lyrics of which went like this (to the tune of Magic Bus):
Sydney's in the Magic Bag!
Cuz she is a baby.
Sydney's in the Magic Bag!
And I don't mean maybe.
Magic Bag! Magic Bag!
Sydney's in the Magic Bag!
And I don't mean maybe.
Magic Bag! Magic Bag!
The need for the Magic Bag has tapered off in recent months, although it is still resorted to in a pinch. Mostly things don't get that tragic anymore, and Sydney has learned to entertain herself to a certain degree. Also she is getting a lot more mobile and the memory of the womb is fading, so being squished up in a bag she can't see out of is less comforting than it used to be.
However, yesterday we went to the hospital (an ongoing saga of checkups and appointments for a borderline case of hip displasia, which was detected when she was first born by an emergency room nurse but never since) for an ultrasound and a doctor's appointment, and, because we are weaning Sydney from Mom, meant to bring the all important food and bottle combination. It was all put together properly and stored neatly away in the breastmilk cooler bag and put on the floor with all the other accoutrements we needed to bring, and it was still sitting on the floor when we got to the hospital.
We were going to be at the hospital pretty much all day, and we had no food for the baby. What kind of parents were we? We begged a few bottles of formula off of one of the nurses and bought a sippy cup (the closest thing they had to a bottle) in the gift shop, and made do with these items and some snacks from Mom's rapidly unproductive breasts. Still she didn't eat much. So much stuff was going on at the hospital that she was pretty cool with it, until we finally bundled her back into the car to go home. Then she let loose.
On the ride up earlier that day, before we knew of the food shortage, there had been a slight disturbance in the backseat, in response to which I turned on the car's CD player which had in it: Baby Beluga by none other than Raffi. My husband was less than enthused about this musical choice and teased that I just wanted to hear the CD again. I assuredly did not; this CD has been played way too many times in my presence. It was the only CD I had, though, and our reception in these parts is spotty. Rather than hunt the dial for music worthy of a six month old, I turn on the CD. The disturbance in the back quieted down and we eventually turned off the CD and thought no more of it.
There's not much you can do for a desperately unhappy infant screaming her head off while traveling down the interstate at a higher rate of speed than the posted speed limit, even if there are two of you in the car, so out of desperation I turned on the radio and cycled through the dial trying to find music and not commercials, gave up after a few seconds and turned on the CD again as an interim.
And the sudden silence from the backseat was golden.
After a few songs and a long period of contentment in the back we thought we could, perhaps, turn off Raffi and turn on NPR, but as soon as the CD went off a horrifying wail began again, and continued until I managed to get the CD turned on again. Sydney quieted down only to have the CD switch back over to Track 1, which takes longer than usual, and in the intervening silence she began to whimper again. Track 1 started. Silence again.
"Is there some subliminal message, do you think? Do drugs! Do drugs?" I asked.
"Or maybe, shut up kid or the monster will get you!" Raffi's charm was still lost on my husband. But we both agreed that we had hit upon the Magic CD, and that this CD should be carefully stored and cared for in order that we might, in a pinch, be able to make the world right again, at least for a while.
This morning we were both wide awake at 2am. Finally from the darkness my husband whispered, "I have Raffi in my head."
"Me, too," I said, "Which one?"
"Over in the meadow on a rock by the shore..."
And we both fell back to sleep.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Baby Tag
A friend of ours just tagged us with an impossible stunt; turn to page 161 of the book you are currently reading, and then quote the 5th sentence.
While we're flattered that he thinks Sydney is reading books of such grandeur, we're not sure how we'd pull this one off. So we'll take the book that we read most frequently: Caring for Your Baby and Young Child: Birth to Age 5, turn to page 161 and read:
He appears hungry, searching for something to suck shortly after feedings.
How random is that?
While we're flattered that he thinks Sydney is reading books of such grandeur, we're not sure how we'd pull this one off. So we'll take the book that we read most frequently: Caring for Your Baby and Young Child: Birth to Age 5, turn to page 161 and read:
He appears hungry, searching for something to suck shortly after feedings.
How random is that?
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Breastfeeding's Final Thoughts: A %$#@*&#!! Pain in the Ass
Well folks, we've made it six months as the sole gravy train and it's time to get off.
On October 17th, Sydney's six month birthday, we celebrated by feeding her "solid food" for the first time. By the time we got around to doing it, she'd fallen soundly asleep. My husband suggested that perhaps we wait for another day, but I was adamant. "Today's the day! We're starting her on real food today!"
"Real" is subjective, and "solid" is kind of a misnomer, as the resulting mush made by the rice and milk was hardly less liquid than what she usually gets. We woke her up, fully expecting a false start, but she gobbled it up, as if she too were eager to get on with this new concept. That night she slept hard and fast, a phenomenon that has disappeared recently with the arrival of teeth.
And with the introduction of food, solid or not, a huge weight has suddenly been lifted from my shoulders. For one thing, I no longer have to rush home from a full day at work to feed a hungry baby. For another, it means that this whole breastfeeding thing will soon be over.
Me and Sydney have been feeding this way for all of her life and sometimes, in the evenings when I put her to sleep this way, I get nostalgic and realize that, five or ten or fifteen years from now I'll try to remember these moments and won't be able to fully recall them. But during the day when I am frantically answering phone calls, racing to meetings and oh by the way, stepping out for twenty minutes three times a day to pump myself dry, I find myself counting the days.
Especially on those days when I forget a vital piece of the pump and have to either jerry-rig the thing or go out to buy new pieces, in between those phone calls, meetings, etc. Or in the mornings when I have to wash and sterilize the various portions before I can leave. Or those days when we are out on the road and invariably Sydney becomes hungry and we have to pull over and feed her, adding twenty minutes to our commute. Or those days when she wakes up every twenty minutes and is ravenously hungry all night.
You know, most days.
My final thoughts on the matter? The bottom line is that feeding a baby is inconvenient, period. But when you decide to breastfeed, it's all on you. Dad can't help unless you pump, and pumping is time consuming, annoying and and in general a pain in the butt. Breast feeding activists are lying when they say that breastfeeding is more convenient than formula feeding. It may be true for a select few, but for those of us who are rushing around trying to live our lives and have jobs and families too it simply isn't true. It may be better for baby and mother, but better doesn't mean formula is bad. Take it from a breastfeeding mother, you are not a bad person if you decide not to put up with what I have for six months. It can be done (I did it) but it doesn't have to be, and don't let anyone make you think otherwise.
That being said, am I glad I did it? Yes-- I like a good challenge. And experience is always a good thing. Life is short and can't be replayed. On the other hand we're about to move on to a new and exciting challenge--keeping up with a crawling baby. One challenge at a time is enough for me.
On October 17th, Sydney's six month birthday, we celebrated by feeding her "solid food" for the first time. By the time we got around to doing it, she'd fallen soundly asleep. My husband suggested that perhaps we wait for another day, but I was adamant. "Today's the day! We're starting her on real food today!"
"Real" is subjective, and "solid" is kind of a misnomer, as the resulting mush made by the rice and milk was hardly less liquid than what she usually gets. We woke her up, fully expecting a false start, but she gobbled it up, as if she too were eager to get on with this new concept. That night she slept hard and fast, a phenomenon that has disappeared recently with the arrival of teeth.
And with the introduction of food, solid or not, a huge weight has suddenly been lifted from my shoulders. For one thing, I no longer have to rush home from a full day at work to feed a hungry baby. For another, it means that this whole breastfeeding thing will soon be over.
Me and Sydney have been feeding this way for all of her life and sometimes, in the evenings when I put her to sleep this way, I get nostalgic and realize that, five or ten or fifteen years from now I'll try to remember these moments and won't be able to fully recall them. But during the day when I am frantically answering phone calls, racing to meetings and oh by the way, stepping out for twenty minutes three times a day to pump myself dry, I find myself counting the days.
Especially on those days when I forget a vital piece of the pump and have to either jerry-rig the thing or go out to buy new pieces, in between those phone calls, meetings, etc. Or in the mornings when I have to wash and sterilize the various portions before I can leave. Or those days when we are out on the road and invariably Sydney becomes hungry and we have to pull over and feed her, adding twenty minutes to our commute. Or those days when she wakes up every twenty minutes and is ravenously hungry all night.
You know, most days.
My final thoughts on the matter? The bottom line is that feeding a baby is inconvenient, period. But when you decide to breastfeed, it's all on you. Dad can't help unless you pump, and pumping is time consuming, annoying and and in general a pain in the butt. Breast feeding activists are lying when they say that breastfeeding is more convenient than formula feeding. It may be true for a select few, but for those of us who are rushing around trying to live our lives and have jobs and families too it simply isn't true. It may be better for baby and mother, but better doesn't mean formula is bad. Take it from a breastfeeding mother, you are not a bad person if you decide not to put up with what I have for six months. It can be done (I did it) but it doesn't have to be, and don't let anyone make you think otherwise.
That being said, am I glad I did it? Yes-- I like a good challenge. And experience is always a good thing. Life is short and can't be replayed. On the other hand we're about to move on to a new and exciting challenge--keeping up with a crawling baby. One challenge at a time is enough for me.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The Subject of Tonight's Word
Toothiness.
Nation, one of the most insidious pastimes of babies isn't rattling or spitting up or even crying. No, they do all that to make you think you've got them pegged. What are they really doing under those pouty lips?
Growing teeth.
That's right, fans, Sydney has grown her first tooth. Right now it's a cute little (sharp little) hard nodule on her once smooth gums, but that's just the beginning. She's also learning how to chew. Just tonight she wrapped her arms around my neck and planted a big one on my cheek. I had just done the same thing to her, but she went one step further. She opened up her mouth and bit down.
Maybe she's trying to see if the rest of me is edible, too. Hopefully she decided, not.
Nation, one of the most insidious pastimes of babies isn't rattling or spitting up or even crying. No, they do all that to make you think you've got them pegged. What are they really doing under those pouty lips?
Growing teeth.
That's right, fans, Sydney has grown her first tooth. Right now it's a cute little (sharp little) hard nodule on her once smooth gums, but that's just the beginning. She's also learning how to chew. Just tonight she wrapped her arms around my neck and planted a big one on my cheek. I had just done the same thing to her, but she went one step further. She opened up her mouth and bit down.
Maybe she's trying to see if the rest of me is edible, too. Hopefully she decided, not.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Readily A Parent
It was only a few days after the birth that we went to see the doctor and so we all bundled up, drove in, and stood in the check-in line to be registered for our appointments. I got to the head of the line and was about to announce my name when I realized, for the first time, that I wasn't checking myself in. I was checking the baby in. Whoa. How weird is that?
Stumped, I just stared at the receptionist, trying to get my head around this new state of affairs. Finally I stumbled over some kind of sentence such as, "I am here to check my daughter in." The words "my daughter" did not fly prettily off of my tongue, but at least I'd gotten the words out. I smiled sheepily at the receptionist.
But she wasn't done. "What's her name?"
Uh oh. What was her name? To be fair, I just met the kid a few days ago. How come I was expected to remember what I named her? But I went through my list of possible names and finally settled on the one that seemed the most right.
"Stanley," I said definitively. Now it was the receptionist's turn to stare blankly at me.
"Your daughter's name is Stanley? Are you sure?" the woman said politely.
Clearly I wasn't sure of anything. Not the least of which was this ephemeral idea of being a "parent" of a "child", whatever the heck her name was.
Now, almost five months later, the words "my daughter" do not stick on the way out of my mouth, while the fetus formerly known as Stanley has solidified into her suddenly human brand name of Sydney with relative ease. But I still don't much feel like a "parent." After the initial shock, our daily routines have pretty much re-set themselves, albeit with a central hub which was not there before around which we navigate carefully. Still, there are signs of change, subtle though they are:
1) I can speak Baby.
While I by no means am fluent in the language of baby I do know some limited words and phrases which allow Sydney and I to communicate pretty well. For instance, WAAA means I'm Hungry, while WAAA means my diaper is wet. In contrast, WAAA means that Sydney is cold and needs a blanket while WAAA means that she is bored and wants to be picked up. And finally, WAAA means I'm really tired but I don't want to go to sleep. See how simple it all is? Now you can speak Baby too. Though heaven forbid you get WAAA and WAAA mixed up. Then you'll hear all about it when she says WAAA in a very angry voice informing you of how hard it is to get good help around here. Oui, mademoiselle, whatever you say, mademoiselle.
2) I have become wise to the dangers of the world.
Every news report which involves missing, abused, kidnapped or killed children immediately becomes wrapped around my mind like it was my child that was in the headlines, not the nameless faceless one with the outdated grainy photo. Then I call home on some pretense just to make sure everything is alright. "Honey, you've called ten times about the bank. I promise not to forget!!"
3) Children's toys have become endlessly fascinating.
Who woulda thunkit but those fish shaped rattles and those blocky stacking toys are major fun when seen through the eyes of a five month old. Actually, when you're five months old, everything is a toy, including the doctor's stethoscope which, by the way, is also edible. Even more interesting is that Mom and Dad also find these toys suddenly fascinating and sometime will bring them to their mouths to see if they taste good. Hey! The red one tastes like cherry!
4) There are a lot more kids in the world than I thought.
Even though of course my daughter is cuter and smarter than all of them combined, I find myself looking at two, three, four-year olds to determine what my future holds in store for me. I notice behaviors I don't want to see in my daughter and try to plan for squelching them gently before they blossom, and behaviors I might at the same time want to encourage, and outfits I definitely will not subject her to. Like most well-thought out plans, this one will most likely get trampled over on the way to whatever Sydney needs to get to, but it occupies my time. Which I have an endless supply of these days. Ha. Ha.
and finally
5) Sleeping in means not waking up until, oh, 5:30am.
The phrase "sleep through the night" is relative. I never before thought anything before 6am was a valid time, and something in the 8am or 9am time frame was a much more preferable wake up time, and a 10am wake up call was downright luxurious. Now, 5:30am is the standard by which we set our alarm clocks. If Sydney sleeps until 5:30am, we're all well rested and yet we can still get to work on time. If Sydney wakes up before that, well, at least she doesn't wake up every two hours like she used to, unless of course it was like last night and actually that is what she does. Sleep, schmeep.
Stumped, I just stared at the receptionist, trying to get my head around this new state of affairs. Finally I stumbled over some kind of sentence such as, "I am here to check my daughter in." The words "my daughter" did not fly prettily off of my tongue, but at least I'd gotten the words out. I smiled sheepily at the receptionist.
But she wasn't done. "What's her name?"
Uh oh. What was her name? To be fair, I just met the kid a few days ago. How come I was expected to remember what I named her? But I went through my list of possible names and finally settled on the one that seemed the most right.
"Stanley," I said definitively. Now it was the receptionist's turn to stare blankly at me.
"Your daughter's name is Stanley? Are you sure?" the woman said politely.
Clearly I wasn't sure of anything. Not the least of which was this ephemeral idea of being a "parent" of a "child", whatever the heck her name was.
Now, almost five months later, the words "my daughter" do not stick on the way out of my mouth, while the fetus formerly known as Stanley has solidified into her suddenly human brand name of Sydney with relative ease. But I still don't much feel like a "parent." After the initial shock, our daily routines have pretty much re-set themselves, albeit with a central hub which was not there before around which we navigate carefully. Still, there are signs of change, subtle though they are:
1) I can speak Baby.
While I by no means am fluent in the language of baby I do know some limited words and phrases which allow Sydney and I to communicate pretty well. For instance, WAAA means I'm Hungry, while WAAA means my diaper is wet. In contrast, WAAA means that Sydney is cold and needs a blanket while WAAA means that she is bored and wants to be picked up. And finally, WAAA means I'm really tired but I don't want to go to sleep. See how simple it all is? Now you can speak Baby too. Though heaven forbid you get WAAA and WAAA mixed up. Then you'll hear all about it when she says WAAA in a very angry voice informing you of how hard it is to get good help around here. Oui, mademoiselle, whatever you say, mademoiselle.
2) I have become wise to the dangers of the world.
Every news report which involves missing, abused, kidnapped or killed children immediately becomes wrapped around my mind like it was my child that was in the headlines, not the nameless faceless one with the outdated grainy photo. Then I call home on some pretense just to make sure everything is alright. "Honey, you've called ten times about the bank. I promise not to forget!!"
3) Children's toys have become endlessly fascinating.
Who woulda thunkit but those fish shaped rattles and those blocky stacking toys are major fun when seen through the eyes of a five month old. Actually, when you're five months old, everything is a toy, including the doctor's stethoscope which, by the way, is also edible. Even more interesting is that Mom and Dad also find these toys suddenly fascinating and sometime will bring them to their mouths to see if they taste good. Hey! The red one tastes like cherry!
4) There are a lot more kids in the world than I thought.
Even though of course my daughter is cuter and smarter than all of them combined, I find myself looking at two, three, four-year olds to determine what my future holds in store for me. I notice behaviors I don't want to see in my daughter and try to plan for squelching them gently before they blossom, and behaviors I might at the same time want to encourage, and outfits I definitely will not subject her to. Like most well-thought out plans, this one will most likely get trampled over on the way to whatever Sydney needs to get to, but it occupies my time. Which I have an endless supply of these days. Ha. Ha.
and finally
5) Sleeping in means not waking up until, oh, 5:30am.
The phrase "sleep through the night" is relative. I never before thought anything before 6am was a valid time, and something in the 8am or 9am time frame was a much more preferable wake up time, and a 10am wake up call was downright luxurious. Now, 5:30am is the standard by which we set our alarm clocks. If Sydney sleeps until 5:30am, we're all well rested and yet we can still get to work on time. If Sydney wakes up before that, well, at least she doesn't wake up every two hours like she used to, unless of course it was like last night and actually that is what she does. Sleep, schmeep.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
The Sound of Music (Please Make it Stop!)
Some people claim that children learn better when their life's lessons are sung to them, and that Mozart makes a baby smarter. This theory has permeated through the toy industry with great gusto, of course, with the predictable result that everything you might buy for your infant takes three double A's, or two triple A's, or six D batteries to truly make for a baby-riffic experience.
We had sworn, before Sydney was born, that we would not fall for anything which required batteries. After all, parents have been mollifying their children for centuries without artificial help. But we quickly found out that that was because one parent was with said infant all the time, and that while this may be the ideal experience for our newborn we were not accustomed to having a living, breathing third brain super-glued to our bodies at all times. We've slowly let go of the no batteries mantra, and as a result, Sydney's musical repertoire has been gradually building.
Too bad you can't change the tune.
Or the instrument. Or the order of the &#$@^&^ songs.
A mechanical swing belts out snippets of artificial notes resembling a carnival ride. Frere Jacques and Oh Suzianna and Row Row Row Your Boat for as long as you can stand it. A musical mobile floats birds and bees and butterflies in the air and croons Papa's Gonna Buy You and also Night Sounds for that outdoor experience. A blue, fuzzy, beloved octopus plays Mozart and some other classical tunes, thankfully short. A lion, when his tail is pulled, plays a lovely little ditty. And a bouncy chair will vibrate (good, good, good, good vibrations..) and will run through a series of sedate tunes which will put Sydney into a nice, quiet, contemplative mood every time. While the music would soothe Sydney to sleep it would make us think of wood paneling and tons of flowers and black umbrellas for some unknown reason until just today we realized that it sounded exactly like funeral parlor music.
Our own musical tastes run somewhat less than clean, to the extent that we actually have video of Sydney "dancing" to the lyrics of Devil's Haircut by Beck. It's still music and fair game but it's definitely a far cry from Mozart's Requiem or Beethoven's 5th or whatever else is supposed to expand the mind of the young.
As for us, we too sing for Sydney, mostly the same thing over and over, and mostly having to do with a) not crying anymore, b) how fun the next activity is going to be c) no, we said the next activity was fun, and d) how did things get so bad?
We're not musically inclined, really. So maybe it's just as well that all her toys seem to be. Although the great maestros would hardly consider the noise that comes out of these toys music, I daresay. More like... reckless noise. Which plays over and over. And over. And over.
We had sworn, before Sydney was born, that we would not fall for anything which required batteries. After all, parents have been mollifying their children for centuries without artificial help. But we quickly found out that that was because one parent was with said infant all the time, and that while this may be the ideal experience for our newborn we were not accustomed to having a living, breathing third brain super-glued to our bodies at all times. We've slowly let go of the no batteries mantra, and as a result, Sydney's musical repertoire has been gradually building.
Too bad you can't change the tune.
Or the instrument. Or the order of the &#$@^&^ songs.
A mechanical swing belts out snippets of artificial notes resembling a carnival ride. Frere Jacques and Oh Suzianna and Row Row Row Your Boat for as long as you can stand it. A musical mobile floats birds and bees and butterflies in the air and croons Papa's Gonna Buy You and also Night Sounds for that outdoor experience. A blue, fuzzy, beloved octopus plays Mozart and some other classical tunes, thankfully short. A lion, when his tail is pulled, plays a lovely little ditty. And a bouncy chair will vibrate (good, good, good, good vibrations..) and will run through a series of sedate tunes which will put Sydney into a nice, quiet, contemplative mood every time. While the music would soothe Sydney to sleep it would make us think of wood paneling and tons of flowers and black umbrellas for some unknown reason until just today we realized that it sounded exactly like funeral parlor music.
Our own musical tastes run somewhat less than clean, to the extent that we actually have video of Sydney "dancing" to the lyrics of Devil's Haircut by Beck. It's still music and fair game but it's definitely a far cry from Mozart's Requiem or Beethoven's 5th or whatever else is supposed to expand the mind of the young.
As for us, we too sing for Sydney, mostly the same thing over and over, and mostly having to do with a) not crying anymore, b) how fun the next activity is going to be c) no, we said the next activity was fun, and d) how did things get so bad?
We're not musically inclined, really. So maybe it's just as well that all her toys seem to be. Although the great maestros would hardly consider the noise that comes out of these toys music, I daresay. More like... reckless noise. Which plays over and over. And over. And over.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Pump it Up
Consider this scenario: you are the Vice President of a small financial company, and are a Very Important Person, at least when you walk the corporate halls. People defer to you constantly. Oh! You want the projector? Sure, take it. My presentation is unimportant. Oh! You want to schedule a meeting at 7:30 in the morning before anyone even gets here? Sure! I'll just come in early.
One day you are in need of a particular person's assistance. She's quite a capable employee even though she recently had a child and was out for eight weeks on disability leave. You really need her assistance right now, and you're sure, like everyone else in the company, that she'll jump to your beck and call. So you go to her office to enlist her help and find a closed door with a sign on it: Please Do Not Disturb.
Do you:
a) Decide not to disturb the person?
b) Knock on the door?
or
c) Knock on the door and then open it quickly before she has a chance to respond?
.....or to cover her exposed upper body which she has been trying to find the time to empty of breastmilk for over two hours because everyone needs her right now?
As of now I may be the only person in the company who now has a Vice President tiptoeing around me.
I have, in the meantime, discovered why many women choose to nurse their infants for well over two years. It's not really because they believe it is good for their children or because they can't bear to part with the closeness. It's because when you're nursing, you can eat whatever the hell you want.
My pre-nursing diet usually consisted of:
Breakfast: a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee
Lunch: salad or sandwich
Dinner: half of my entree and half of my salad.
My current diet goes like this:
Breakfast: two bowls of cereal, some yogurt, and two pieces of fruit
Lunch: 4 hard boiled eggs and half a sandwich plus some carrots or anything I can get my hands on
Dinner: All of whatever is on my plate and in my salad bowl and maybe seconds and what's for dessert?
Meanwhile, and here's the really freaky part, I continue to lose weight.
Now there's a weight loss program for you. And since it's typically women who worry about their weight so much at the same time wishing they could eat like their husbands do, I think it's time for a new fad: Lactation Dieting.
All you need is some hormones to get those juices flowing, a breast pump, and a nursing bra. Then you really can have your cake and eat it too.
One day you are in need of a particular person's assistance. She's quite a capable employee even though she recently had a child and was out for eight weeks on disability leave. You really need her assistance right now, and you're sure, like everyone else in the company, that she'll jump to your beck and call. So you go to her office to enlist her help and find a closed door with a sign on it: Please Do Not Disturb.
Do you:
a) Decide not to disturb the person?
b) Knock on the door?
or
c) Knock on the door and then open it quickly before she has a chance to respond?
.....or to cover her exposed upper body which she has been trying to find the time to empty of breastmilk for over two hours because everyone needs her right now?
As of now I may be the only person in the company who now has a Vice President tiptoeing around me.
I have, in the meantime, discovered why many women choose to nurse their infants for well over two years. It's not really because they believe it is good for their children or because they can't bear to part with the closeness. It's because when you're nursing, you can eat whatever the hell you want.
My pre-nursing diet usually consisted of:
Breakfast: a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee
Lunch: salad or sandwich
Dinner: half of my entree and half of my salad.
My current diet goes like this:
Breakfast: two bowls of cereal, some yogurt, and two pieces of fruit
Lunch: 4 hard boiled eggs and half a sandwich plus some carrots or anything I can get my hands on
Dinner: All of whatever is on my plate and in my salad bowl and maybe seconds and what's for dessert?
Meanwhile, and here's the really freaky part, I continue to lose weight.
Now there's a weight loss program for you. And since it's typically women who worry about their weight so much at the same time wishing they could eat like their husbands do, I think it's time for a new fad: Lactation Dieting.
All you need is some hormones to get those juices flowing, a breast pump, and a nursing bra. Then you really can have your cake and eat it too.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Dangerous Knowledge
As new parents we excitedly await every new milestone there is. For instance Sydney learned a few months ago that a smile will get her everywhere. And it does, because it is heartbreakingly cute. We're hoping she doesn't really know that this smile will manipulate us, but we have our suspicions.
Recently she has learned to roll over onto her belly, which causes all sorts of problems. For one thing she hasn't figured out how to roll back over onto her back, so when she's done with being on her belly (usually about five seconds after getting there) she lets us know about it loudly. Immediately upon being rolled over she will try her new trick again. For another, all the new and improved parenting books tell you to put your baby to sleep on her back. Which we do. But apparently she likes sleeping on her belly and will roll over to a more comfortable position as soon as we're out of sight. The parenting books don't say anything about this. Do we roll her over? Or do we decide since she put herself that way it's okay?
We've also discovered that she will bring whatever is in her hands to her mouth. This evolutionary trait must be needed in order to learn what is good to eat and what is not, or possibly just to drive parents insane. Mostly there's nothing in arm's reach to swallow, except mom's hair, which has been falling out in droves (another neat pregnancy trick). Do babies get hairballs?
Possibly the most dangerous trait she has learned is her fascination with sparkly, twirly things. We recently went to a craftsman's fair, and besides our discovery that fairs are Baby Central (more babies than adults, I swear) we noticed that Sydney was absolutely riveted on certain items that we passed. Naturally it followed that she had to have the item. Pretty soon we were lugging around shiny, sparkly, twirly things that we never would have picked up on our own. They say children are expensive. Now I know why.
Recently she has learned to roll over onto her belly, which causes all sorts of problems. For one thing she hasn't figured out how to roll back over onto her back, so when she's done with being on her belly (usually about five seconds after getting there) she lets us know about it loudly. Immediately upon being rolled over she will try her new trick again. For another, all the new and improved parenting books tell you to put your baby to sleep on her back. Which we do. But apparently she likes sleeping on her belly and will roll over to a more comfortable position as soon as we're out of sight. The parenting books don't say anything about this. Do we roll her over? Or do we decide since she put herself that way it's okay?
We've also discovered that she will bring whatever is in her hands to her mouth. This evolutionary trait must be needed in order to learn what is good to eat and what is not, or possibly just to drive parents insane. Mostly there's nothing in arm's reach to swallow, except mom's hair, which has been falling out in droves (another neat pregnancy trick). Do babies get hairballs?
Possibly the most dangerous trait she has learned is her fascination with sparkly, twirly things. We recently went to a craftsman's fair, and besides our discovery that fairs are Baby Central (more babies than adults, I swear) we noticed that Sydney was absolutely riveted on certain items that we passed. Naturally it followed that she had to have the item. Pretty soon we were lugging around shiny, sparkly, twirly things that we never would have picked up on our own. They say children are expensive. Now I know why.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
The Inconvenience of Breastfeeding Part II: Milking the Salmon
Dr. Sears frequently makes it clear that he thinks leaving your child for any length of time to go on a much needed vacation is akin to child abuse, or at the very least demonstrates a lack of good judgment. Dr. Sears may have something there, but he obviously does not understand the insidious addiction one might have to Salmo salar.
So I packed up my fly fishing gear and some clothes and some sunscreen. I packed up my clothes and a few odd books, and then with a resigned shrug of my shoulders, I packed the breast pump.
Then I left Sydney and her father and headed out to Newfoundland with five other men. And that was the problem, really. Though I warned the trip leader that I was going to have to pump every three to four hours and he nodded sagely, none of my compatriots really knew what that meant, or for that matter, what the big bag was for.
It takes about 18 hours to get to North Sydney, Nova Scotia by car from my house. Then it takes another 6 hours by boat to get to Port aux Basque, Newfoundland, then 45 minutes to get to Rose Blanche, where the road ends and you have to take a smaller boat for three hours to get to the mouth of the river, where you finally disembark and start walking up river until you get to the fishing camp, three miles inland. Somewhere in between all these hours of traveling I had to find a deserted corner and twenty minutes in which to empty myself out and then dump the resulting product.
You may be able to breastfeed your child discreetly while in public, but milking yourself is not a discreet activity. Even the bathroom of the highway rest stop is not a good place to set up your breast pump. For one thing the thing is so loud it penetrates out into the hallway. For another, women are not as polite as they might seem when faced with a closed bathroom stall which has been occupied for more than five minutes. One woman actually began climbing under the bathroom stall, presumably to join me or possibly berate me for spending too much time in the bathroom when the line snaked out into eternity.
After enduring endless hours of being entirely too full and endless commentary from my male companions when I finally emerged from my hiding spots, we finally did reach the camp, where recent renovations had provided a private sleeping area for me in a small outbuilding a few feet from the main camp. Normally I would have protested this special treatment, but the trip up convinced me that a little feminine privacy might be a good thing. And it was-- except for the fact that control over the generator which powers all the buildings rested in the hands of the my friends, with the result that I would be in the middle of a pumping session and be the victim of a sudden loss of power. Good thing the pump also runs on batteries.
To solve the issue of being way down the river into some good fishing when the time came to pump, I stuffed the hand pump into the back of my fishing vest. In between runs, while resting a pool, I disappeared into the bushes, removed my shirt, and, while being attacked by hoardes of black flies, proceeded to pump a few ounces from each side, just enough to tide me over until I could get back to camp.
Despite this extra challenge imposed on me by nature, I had a good time and landed quite a few fish and lost a bunch more and generally enjoyed myself thoroughly, away from house, home, and baby. When I came back, late on a Sunday night, I put the child to my breast as an experiment, and she latched on immediately, seemingly unaware that I had been missing for more than a week. Feeling good that I had survived the week, caught fish, and not lost my milk supply in the process, I asked my husband how the feeding went. I had left him almost five days worth of breast milk and then bought powdered formula to supplement. He managed to stretch the breast milk until I got back but he went on and on about the powdered formula.
"This stuff is so easy," he said. "You just put it in the bottle, add water, shake it and you're good to go. It's totally convenient!"
Convenient, shmenient.
So I packed up my fly fishing gear and some clothes and some sunscreen. I packed up my clothes and a few odd books, and then with a resigned shrug of my shoulders, I packed the breast pump.
Then I left Sydney and her father and headed out to Newfoundland with five other men. And that was the problem, really. Though I warned the trip leader that I was going to have to pump every three to four hours and he nodded sagely, none of my compatriots really knew what that meant, or for that matter, what the big bag was for.
It takes about 18 hours to get to North Sydney, Nova Scotia by car from my house. Then it takes another 6 hours by boat to get to Port aux Basque, Newfoundland, then 45 minutes to get to Rose Blanche, where the road ends and you have to take a smaller boat for three hours to get to the mouth of the river, where you finally disembark and start walking up river until you get to the fishing camp, three miles inland. Somewhere in between all these hours of traveling I had to find a deserted corner and twenty minutes in which to empty myself out and then dump the resulting product.
You may be able to breastfeed your child discreetly while in public, but milking yourself is not a discreet activity. Even the bathroom of the highway rest stop is not a good place to set up your breast pump. For one thing the thing is so loud it penetrates out into the hallway. For another, women are not as polite as they might seem when faced with a closed bathroom stall which has been occupied for more than five minutes. One woman actually began climbing under the bathroom stall, presumably to join me or possibly berate me for spending too much time in the bathroom when the line snaked out into eternity.
After enduring endless hours of being entirely too full and endless commentary from my male companions when I finally emerged from my hiding spots, we finally did reach the camp, where recent renovations had provided a private sleeping area for me in a small outbuilding a few feet from the main camp. Normally I would have protested this special treatment, but the trip up convinced me that a little feminine privacy might be a good thing. And it was-- except for the fact that control over the generator which powers all the buildings rested in the hands of the my friends, with the result that I would be in the middle of a pumping session and be the victim of a sudden loss of power. Good thing the pump also runs on batteries.
To solve the issue of being way down the river into some good fishing when the time came to pump, I stuffed the hand pump into the back of my fishing vest. In between runs, while resting a pool, I disappeared into the bushes, removed my shirt, and, while being attacked by hoardes of black flies, proceeded to pump a few ounces from each side, just enough to tide me over until I could get back to camp.
Despite this extra challenge imposed on me by nature, I had a good time and landed quite a few fish and lost a bunch more and generally enjoyed myself thoroughly, away from house, home, and baby. When I came back, late on a Sunday night, I put the child to my breast as an experiment, and she latched on immediately, seemingly unaware that I had been missing for more than a week. Feeling good that I had survived the week, caught fish, and not lost my milk supply in the process, I asked my husband how the feeding went. I had left him almost five days worth of breast milk and then bought powdered formula to supplement. He managed to stretch the breast milk until I got back but he went on and on about the powdered formula.
"This stuff is so easy," he said. "You just put it in the bottle, add water, shake it and you're good to go. It's totally convenient!"
Convenient, shmenient.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
HeSheIt
"What a cute baby!" We're all in the bookstore, Dad, Mom, and Sydney, where we stopped after Mom's softball game."He's so cute!" the store clerk continues, smiling giddily at our child.
"She is cute," I say, which of course I'll say since she's my baby. She has on her little baseball uniform complete with hat. There's pants with the outfit too but they're too big.
"Oh! It's a girl? She's wearing a boy's outfit."
"It's not a boy's outfit. It's a softball uniform. We were at a softball game." Also, I am wearing the same attire, only larger, and no one has ever yet called me sir when I wear it.
"Gender," my husband added, "is irrelevant."
"I'm so sorry!" the clerk said, flustered, and then, trying to recover, added, "It's still a cute baby."
"Yes, she is," my husband said, and then we booked it out of the store before we burst out laughing.
I can't wait until she's big enough to fit into her little Carhartt overalls.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Breastfeeding: The Inconvenient Truth
con·ven·ient 
(kən-vēn'yənt) Pronunciation Key
adj.
Don't get me wrong: there's definitely advantages to breastfeeding, good, scientific reasons to do so. For one thing, this is the way nature intended us to be fed for the first few months of our lives. For another, it's free. But those who want to get young first-time mothers to believe that breastfeeding is more convenient than bottle feeding obviously either never breastfed or never went anywhere. Case in point; it takes two or three pages of instructions on breastfeeding away from home for Dr. Sears to make his point on the convenience of breastfeeding away from home. Anything that takes that much work cannot possibly be "convenient," or this is a completely different definition of "convenience" that I have not previously heard of.
There will now be a chorus of mothers who have breastfed their children until they went off to college who will now berate me. They will tell me perhaps that I need to relax, go with the flow, slow down, enjoy the time I spend with my bundle of joy, et cetera, et cetera. They themselves have breastfed everywhere; while shopping, while dining, while walking down a busy street. I suspect though, that none of them ever tried to breastfeed their infant while playing catcher in a softball game. Clearly you can't just duck in for a quick snack between innings, so you have two choices; let your infant scream her head off during the entire game, or, have someone else give her a bottle while you play.
Enter the breast pump.
The breast pump must be purchased or rented and therefore makes your breastfeeding experience somewhat less than free. Plus there is the indignity of being milked like a cow. Pumping takes some practice. The standard instructions: "relax, and think about your baby" do not work for someone who's corniness detector is still intact, so you have to come up with something else to get the juices flowing (for me: waterfalls full of jumping salmon.) Then there is the timing: exactly when do you try to milk yourself during the five minutes of down time you might get between feedings (every two hours?) But you do it because you know that there will come a time when your infant will not be with you and will be hungry. Or your infant will be with you and, since actually feeding at the breast is not all that convenient while in public, you'll feel the need to give her a bottle instead.
Except now you've missed a feeding, and you can tell. Not because you're feeling guilty about depriving your infant or missing the closeness of the experience, but because now you are bursting at the seams. You have gone from breastfeeding mother to porn star in two hours. And you're leaking. It's all you can do not to rip off your shirt, grab your now well-fed, sleeping infant and force feed her then and there to relieve the pressure. This is a sight I hope none of you ever have to see. It's not pretty.
Despite my annoyance at this inconvenient feeding method, we're still gamely breastfeeding. It doesn't help that Sydney has a definite preference for one breast over the other (the left), that she talks while she eats (mmmyummmrrrrrmmmmyum) and that, when we do try to feed in a public place, she is somewhat less than cooperative, repeatedly popping off and yowling at me for some unknown reason. But I'm hoping to last a while yet. Solely because it's good for her and for me and no other reason, we're doing it the old fashioned way.
For now.
(kən-vēn'yənt) Pronunciation Key adj.
- Suited or favorable to one's comfort, purpose, or needs: a convenient time to receive guests; a convenient excuse for not going.
- Easy to reach; accessible: a bank with branches at six convenient locations.
- Close at hand; near: an apartment that is convenient to shopping and transportation.
- Obsolete Fitting and proper; suitable.
Don't get me wrong: there's definitely advantages to breastfeeding, good, scientific reasons to do so. For one thing, this is the way nature intended us to be fed for the first few months of our lives. For another, it's free. But those who want to get young first-time mothers to believe that breastfeeding is more convenient than bottle feeding obviously either never breastfed or never went anywhere. Case in point; it takes two or three pages of instructions on breastfeeding away from home for Dr. Sears to make his point on the convenience of breastfeeding away from home. Anything that takes that much work cannot possibly be "convenient," or this is a completely different definition of "convenience" that I have not previously heard of.
There will now be a chorus of mothers who have breastfed their children until they went off to college who will now berate me. They will tell me perhaps that I need to relax, go with the flow, slow down, enjoy the time I spend with my bundle of joy, et cetera, et cetera. They themselves have breastfed everywhere; while shopping, while dining, while walking down a busy street. I suspect though, that none of them ever tried to breastfeed their infant while playing catcher in a softball game. Clearly you can't just duck in for a quick snack between innings, so you have two choices; let your infant scream her head off during the entire game, or, have someone else give her a bottle while you play.
Enter the breast pump.
The breast pump must be purchased or rented and therefore makes your breastfeeding experience somewhat less than free. Plus there is the indignity of being milked like a cow. Pumping takes some practice. The standard instructions: "relax, and think about your baby" do not work for someone who's corniness detector is still intact, so you have to come up with something else to get the juices flowing (for me: waterfalls full of jumping salmon.) Then there is the timing: exactly when do you try to milk yourself during the five minutes of down time you might get between feedings (every two hours?) But you do it because you know that there will come a time when your infant will not be with you and will be hungry. Or your infant will be with you and, since actually feeding at the breast is not all that convenient while in public, you'll feel the need to give her a bottle instead.
Except now you've missed a feeding, and you can tell. Not because you're feeling guilty about depriving your infant or missing the closeness of the experience, but because now you are bursting at the seams. You have gone from breastfeeding mother to porn star in two hours. And you're leaking. It's all you can do not to rip off your shirt, grab your now well-fed, sleeping infant and force feed her then and there to relieve the pressure. This is a sight I hope none of you ever have to see. It's not pretty.
Despite my annoyance at this inconvenient feeding method, we're still gamely breastfeeding. It doesn't help that Sydney has a definite preference for one breast over the other (the left), that she talks while she eats (mmmyummmrrrrrmmmmyum) and that, when we do try to feed in a public place, she is somewhat less than cooperative, repeatedly popping off and yowling at me for some unknown reason. But I'm hoping to last a while yet. Solely because it's good for her and for me and no other reason, we're doing it the old fashioned way.
For now.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Staying At Home
Throughout the long nine months and even now, the other nosy question on everyone's mind was: so, will you be returning to work?
People would ask the same question of my husband too. They would ask: So, is your wife returning to work?
The answer in both cases was yes.
No one asked my husband if he was going to return to work.
In his words: "You carried her for nine months. The least I can do is carry her for the next nine months."
People would ask the same question of my husband too. They would ask: So, is your wife returning to work?
The answer in both cases was yes.
No one asked my husband if he was going to return to work.
In his words: "You carried her for nine months. The least I can do is carry her for the next nine months."
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Small Pleasures
Having had to wear pseudo-fashionable, completely unwearable pieces of cloth which passed for maternity wear for the past 7 or so months, and being warned by various jaded sources (such as one extremely negative nurse who informed me, out of the the blue, that she personally was in her maternity wear for 7 months after she was pregnant and that the majority of women never return to their pre-pregnant weight and implying that one shouldn't even try) that I'd be wearing the damn things for a little while longer yet, I am pleased to report that yesterday, being fed up with the maternity jeans which never fit properly to begin with and now were threatening to fall completely off my body, I pulled out a pair of my old jeans, slipped them on, and zipped them up.
Ahhhh. That's better.
Other small pleasures:
Being able not only to see one's toes, but to be able to bend over and touch them.
Being able to tie one's own shoes.
Being able to take a very hot, almost scalding, bath. No more lukewarm body temperature bath waters for me.
Having a glass of wine.
Going for a walk and not feeling like you are on Jupiter. In fact, you feel so light you might even be on the moon.
and last but not least:
No one asks you: When are you due?
Though sometimes they might say, Sorry to intrude but it appears you're leaking.
Oh well. Can't have everything.
Ahhhh. That's better.
Other small pleasures:
Being able not only to see one's toes, but to be able to bend over and touch them.
Being able to tie one's own shoes.
Being able to take a very hot, almost scalding, bath. No more lukewarm body temperature bath waters for me.
Having a glass of wine.
Going for a walk and not feeling like you are on Jupiter. In fact, you feel so light you might even be on the moon.
and last but not least:
No one asks you: When are you due?
Though sometimes they might say, Sorry to intrude but it appears you're leaking.
Oh well. Can't have everything.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Aftermath
Then we brought her home.
"They" tell you this will be the hard part, that you won't sleep, that everything will take longer, et cetera, et cetera, but they can't really tell you how it is. This is one of the great mysteries of life which you just don't know about until you're in it, laying siege. There's a great number of mysteries here to contemplate, perhaps at 3 am in the morning when all good babies should be asleep but clearly aren't, not the least of which are:
1) Why aren't you asleep?
Are you part werewolf, perhaps? What is so bad right at this moment that wasn't so bad while the sun was shining? And why are you so angelic when we have company? Should we start having people over all the time just so we can get some rest? Maybe you are trying to get your hermit parents to live a little. That's generous of you.
2) Why do we find the word poopy suddenly so endearing?
You'd think that changing a diaper would be a horrid nasty task but, given that in order to know that our child is not being starved to death we have to record at least 3 dirty diapers in a 24 hour period, each diaper inspection is like opening a tiny smelly present. When the desired result is encountered a joyous cry arises from the nursery: "All right! Poopy!" And all is well in the household.
3) Why can't I remember any nursery songs except Rock-a-Bye Baby?
Which is just a really negative song to sing to a baby, threatening to put them in a tree for one thing, and insinuating that tree will not hold them for very long. Plus I can never remember when the bough is supposed to break. Before the baby is in the tree? After baby falls? Anyway, we've made do instead with songs like "The Sydney is Sleepy Song" (not always a hit) or the "Chewin' on the Sydney Hands" (aka Sydney is Hungry) song, which are sung off key and sometimes with different tunes altogether, depending on the time of day.
4) Why is our phone number suddenly the most popular thing to dial?
I was never much of a phone person, but now I loathe the thing. Fortunately we have caller id, so if it is someone we don't really need to talk to, we can just let the answering machine get it. Unfortunately, these particular people often get miffed that we didn't call them back right away, even though they are distant acquaintances who are lucky to get a birth announcement, let alone a phone call. One guy has called so many times that my husband jokingly asked me if I was sure the baby was his.
Aside from these mysteries, much of the day has become predictable; feed, sleep, diaper, cry, cry cry, sleep, feed cry. Sometimes we manage to get out of the house for a whole twenty minutes to enjoy the spring air. We hear it's not always like this, so we're waiting, as patiently as we can, for the phase to pass into something more spaced out, calm, and manageable. Eventually we'll have to face the real world again, and it would be nice if the real world didn't seem so surreal in the meantime.
"They" tell you this will be the hard part, that you won't sleep, that everything will take longer, et cetera, et cetera, but they can't really tell you how it is. This is one of the great mysteries of life which you just don't know about until you're in it, laying siege. There's a great number of mysteries here to contemplate, perhaps at 3 am in the morning when all good babies should be asleep but clearly aren't, not the least of which are:
1) Why aren't you asleep?
Are you part werewolf, perhaps? What is so bad right at this moment that wasn't so bad while the sun was shining? And why are you so angelic when we have company? Should we start having people over all the time just so we can get some rest? Maybe you are trying to get your hermit parents to live a little. That's generous of you.
2) Why do we find the word poopy suddenly so endearing?
You'd think that changing a diaper would be a horrid nasty task but, given that in order to know that our child is not being starved to death we have to record at least 3 dirty diapers in a 24 hour period, each diaper inspection is like opening a tiny smelly present. When the desired result is encountered a joyous cry arises from the nursery: "All right! Poopy!" And all is well in the household.
3) Why can't I remember any nursery songs except Rock-a-Bye Baby?
Which is just a really negative song to sing to a baby, threatening to put them in a tree for one thing, and insinuating that tree will not hold them for very long. Plus I can never remember when the bough is supposed to break. Before the baby is in the tree? After baby falls? Anyway, we've made do instead with songs like "The Sydney is Sleepy Song" (not always a hit) or the "Chewin' on the Sydney Hands" (aka Sydney is Hungry) song, which are sung off key and sometimes with different tunes altogether, depending on the time of day.
4) Why is our phone number suddenly the most popular thing to dial?
I was never much of a phone person, but now I loathe the thing. Fortunately we have caller id, so if it is someone we don't really need to talk to, we can just let the answering machine get it. Unfortunately, these particular people often get miffed that we didn't call them back right away, even though they are distant acquaintances who are lucky to get a birth announcement, let alone a phone call. One guy has called so many times that my husband jokingly asked me if I was sure the baby was his.
Aside from these mysteries, much of the day has become predictable; feed, sleep, diaper, cry, cry cry, sleep, feed cry. Sometimes we manage to get out of the house for a whole twenty minutes to enjoy the spring air. We hear it's not always like this, so we're waiting, as patiently as we can, for the phase to pass into something more spaced out, calm, and manageable. Eventually we'll have to face the real world again, and it would be nice if the real world didn't seem so surreal in the meantime.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Recap
It was a dark and stormy night.
The last of New England's late coming winter was spitting out snow all during the day and I finally concluded I'd have to plow. "Just in case," I told my husband, who, perhaps himself feeling some kind of pending anxiety, was busy clearing up the nursery. So I went out to plow our driveway, nine months pregnant, on our John Deere tractor. Talk about a bumpy ride.
It wasn't until 10pm, when the snow had turned to a sleeting rain, that things started happening.
"Is this it? Do you think?"
"Let's time them."
"On what?" Neither of us wear a watch. This is one of those things you're supposed to keep handy at just this precise moment but they haven't quite caught up with the digital age yet; who the hell has watches with second hands any more? After some scrambling I remembered that the iPod had a stopwatch feature. I doubt Apple had this particular use in mind when designing the extra features of their mp3 player.
Sure enough, the contractions were coming at regular intervals, about 8 minutes apart. We called the hospital.
"Take a bath, wait until they're 4 minutes apart, and call us back." The nurses at the hospital didn't think it was true labor, and I didn't either. After all, I'm supposed to just know, right?
Two hours later, after a long bath and increasingly regular contractions, we headed out in the storm. The normally 40 minute trip took us an hour and half. We were admitted through the emergency entrance, ushered to maternity, where the nurse proclaimed me truly in labor at 3 centimeters dilated.
See? From nothing to 3 in 4 hours? This'll be easy!
Or, maybe not.
We paced the halls of the hospital all night, as walking was more comfortable then sitting still. The morning came and went and someone fed my husband. Then midday came and went and another meal was served. Things were progressing but I was fading; I wasn't hungry but I hadn't eaten anything since the day before. Mostly I was just tired. The midwife suggested a morphine mix drug to dull the contractions and let me sleep.
"Okay," I said, at that point willing to try any new approach. For one thing, the halls were getting very familiar and for another I was beginning to alarm people when they heard me moaning. So I spent the next few hours in a beautiful drug induced sleep, unmoved by the contractions which, supposedly, were still occurring and still progressing me along. Which they did, nicely, now I was at 7 centimeters. But I forgot something: morphine kicks my ass.
Dinner arrived and my husband convinced me to eat something. I did, munching gamely on tuna and sipping on beef barley soup, but soon after it all came up again. A few minutes later I innocently sipped apple juice and couldn't keep that down either. I broke down and asked to have the intrathecal, thinking that the really hard part of labor was going to start any moment now and I had nothing in reserve. I just needed a few more props to help me through.
Maybe I should have halted this process when the first attempt at an IV failed. Or maybe I should have halted it when the second attempt also failed. But I didn't, and for another four hours was pain free. But also, alarmingly, sometimes, contraction free.
"Uh oh." We started pacing the halls again in an effort to get things going. Finally everything came back, stronger than before. It was midnight on Tuesday, and I was still at 7 centimeters.
The obstetrician suggested pitocin (for inducing) mixed with a drug called Newbane which supposedly would take the edge off. I nodded, forgetting again: morphine kicks my ass.
Now I was falling asleep between contractions. There's probably a secret CIA manual on just this kind of special torture; let your victim fall completely, deeply asleep for about two minutes, and then give him severe stomach cramps. I'm pretty sure the victim would tell you anything, because about an hour later I finally called uncle and asked to have what was likely inevitable anyway; a c-section.
Things moved quickly after that, although not fast enough to my taste, as now I was enduring what were, pretty much, completely useless contractions, I was falling asleep where I stood, and my husband, who had been pretty stoic through the whole thing, was suddenly panicking about major abdominal surgery. At one point he decided he wasn't going in to the delivery room with me. The doctor and nurses persuaded him back from the edge, and after assurances from the doctor that I would not die on the operating table, agreed to put on the scrubs offered to him.
I didn't care; I just wanted the damn spinal.
The rest of it? Kind of a blur. I was apparently grinning widely after the spinal was administered, happy that at last something was happening, even if it wasn't the way nature intended. I remember hearing my daughter's first cry. I remember my husband leaving briefly to cut the cord and returning. I remember, paradoxically, the nurse, giving my daughter her first bath and talking to me through it, as though I would remember these instructions through a haze of anesthetic, morphine and pure exhaustion. Maybe she was just trying to keep me awake.
Finally, my daughter was placed on my chest, where she was supposed to be, and everything was well again. And the sun was about to come out for the first time in two days. Things were definitely progressing now.
The last of New England's late coming winter was spitting out snow all during the day and I finally concluded I'd have to plow. "Just in case," I told my husband, who, perhaps himself feeling some kind of pending anxiety, was busy clearing up the nursery. So I went out to plow our driveway, nine months pregnant, on our John Deere tractor. Talk about a bumpy ride.
It wasn't until 10pm, when the snow had turned to a sleeting rain, that things started happening.
"Is this it? Do you think?"
"Let's time them."
"On what?" Neither of us wear a watch. This is one of those things you're supposed to keep handy at just this precise moment but they haven't quite caught up with the digital age yet; who the hell has watches with second hands any more? After some scrambling I remembered that the iPod had a stopwatch feature. I doubt Apple had this particular use in mind when designing the extra features of their mp3 player.
Sure enough, the contractions were coming at regular intervals, about 8 minutes apart. We called the hospital.
"Take a bath, wait until they're 4 minutes apart, and call us back." The nurses at the hospital didn't think it was true labor, and I didn't either. After all, I'm supposed to just know, right?
Two hours later, after a long bath and increasingly regular contractions, we headed out in the storm. The normally 40 minute trip took us an hour and half. We were admitted through the emergency entrance, ushered to maternity, where the nurse proclaimed me truly in labor at 3 centimeters dilated.
See? From nothing to 3 in 4 hours? This'll be easy!
Or, maybe not.
We paced the halls of the hospital all night, as walking was more comfortable then sitting still. The morning came and went and someone fed my husband. Then midday came and went and another meal was served. Things were progressing but I was fading; I wasn't hungry but I hadn't eaten anything since the day before. Mostly I was just tired. The midwife suggested a morphine mix drug to dull the contractions and let me sleep.
"Okay," I said, at that point willing to try any new approach. For one thing, the halls were getting very familiar and for another I was beginning to alarm people when they heard me moaning. So I spent the next few hours in a beautiful drug induced sleep, unmoved by the contractions which, supposedly, were still occurring and still progressing me along. Which they did, nicely, now I was at 7 centimeters. But I forgot something: morphine kicks my ass.
Dinner arrived and my husband convinced me to eat something. I did, munching gamely on tuna and sipping on beef barley soup, but soon after it all came up again. A few minutes later I innocently sipped apple juice and couldn't keep that down either. I broke down and asked to have the intrathecal, thinking that the really hard part of labor was going to start any moment now and I had nothing in reserve. I just needed a few more props to help me through.
Maybe I should have halted this process when the first attempt at an IV failed. Or maybe I should have halted it when the second attempt also failed. But I didn't, and for another four hours was pain free. But also, alarmingly, sometimes, contraction free.
"Uh oh." We started pacing the halls again in an effort to get things going. Finally everything came back, stronger than before. It was midnight on Tuesday, and I was still at 7 centimeters.
The obstetrician suggested pitocin (for inducing) mixed with a drug called Newbane which supposedly would take the edge off. I nodded, forgetting again: morphine kicks my ass.
Now I was falling asleep between contractions. There's probably a secret CIA manual on just this kind of special torture; let your victim fall completely, deeply asleep for about two minutes, and then give him severe stomach cramps. I'm pretty sure the victim would tell you anything, because about an hour later I finally called uncle and asked to have what was likely inevitable anyway; a c-section.
Things moved quickly after that, although not fast enough to my taste, as now I was enduring what were, pretty much, completely useless contractions, I was falling asleep where I stood, and my husband, who had been pretty stoic through the whole thing, was suddenly panicking about major abdominal surgery. At one point he decided he wasn't going in to the delivery room with me. The doctor and nurses persuaded him back from the edge, and after assurances from the doctor that I would not die on the operating table, agreed to put on the scrubs offered to him.
I didn't care; I just wanted the damn spinal.
The rest of it? Kind of a blur. I was apparently grinning widely after the spinal was administered, happy that at last something was happening, even if it wasn't the way nature intended. I remember hearing my daughter's first cry. I remember my husband leaving briefly to cut the cord and returning. I remember, paradoxically, the nurse, giving my daughter her first bath and talking to me through it, as though I would remember these instructions through a haze of anesthetic, morphine and pure exhaustion. Maybe she was just trying to keep me awake.
Finally, my daughter was placed on my chest, where she was supposed to be, and everything was well again. And the sun was about to come out for the first time in two days. Things were definitely progressing now.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Please Welcome....
Stanley Hilarius, nee Sydney, a girl weighing 8 pounds 2 ounces, and measuring 20.5 inches long. She was born April 17, 2007 at 2:07 am.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Ready...Set....no?
Okay! Today's the day! Out you go!
Oh well... I guess not. Although technically as I write this there are still six and a half hours left to today, so it's still possible if not particularly probable.
Luckily there have been millions of years of pregnancies and remedies for this very problem, so we can begin to work on those natural ways to induce labor. Which, if they don't actually do anything, will at least keep all those hormonal overdue pregnant women busy and off the streets. Here's a sampling:
Go for a bumpy ride: Great! I live in New England and it's spring time, otherwise known as Frost Heave Season. My entire commute is bumpy! All I have to do is get in the car to go anywhere and I'll be in labor in no time!
Go for a walk: Why walking will suddenly induce labor now that I'm overdue and didn't before baffles me. How do they think I transported myself for nine months? By Segway?
Eat Spicy Foods: Perhaps this one comes about in the mistaken belief that heartburn and gas are connected in any way to the reproductive system. In any case I'd have to down entire case of Tabasco sauce to notice the effect, as spicy and I have an ongoing competition to see who'll beat who. So far I've been winning this competition, and Stanley's been in on part of the ride. Me and Stanley can best any spicy food.
Have Sex: Neat! What got us into this predicament can also get us out! Of course, having sex is maybe the last thing on our minds right now. But at least it will pass the time.
Perhaps if none of these work, pure ornery Fate will have a hand in the outcome, as apparently they've started a pool at work on when I'll go. Hopefully Fate will pick a random date within this pool that is sooner rather than later, and hopefully my co-workers will have mercy on me and not pick dates too far out into the future. Because as much as this whole pregnant thing has been an adventure, it's time to disembark now.
Oh well... I guess not. Although technically as I write this there are still six and a half hours left to today, so it's still possible if not particularly probable.
Luckily there have been millions of years of pregnancies and remedies for this very problem, so we can begin to work on those natural ways to induce labor. Which, if they don't actually do anything, will at least keep all those hormonal overdue pregnant women busy and off the streets. Here's a sampling:
Go for a bumpy ride: Great! I live in New England and it's spring time, otherwise known as Frost Heave Season. My entire commute is bumpy! All I have to do is get in the car to go anywhere and I'll be in labor in no time!
Go for a walk: Why walking will suddenly induce labor now that I'm overdue and didn't before baffles me. How do they think I transported myself for nine months? By Segway?
Eat Spicy Foods: Perhaps this one comes about in the mistaken belief that heartburn and gas are connected in any way to the reproductive system. In any case I'd have to down entire case of Tabasco sauce to notice the effect, as spicy and I have an ongoing competition to see who'll beat who. So far I've been winning this competition, and Stanley's been in on part of the ride. Me and Stanley can best any spicy food.
Have Sex: Neat! What got us into this predicament can also get us out! Of course, having sex is maybe the last thing on our minds right now. But at least it will pass the time.
Perhaps if none of these work, pure ornery Fate will have a hand in the outcome, as apparently they've started a pool at work on when I'll go. Hopefully Fate will pick a random date within this pool that is sooner rather than later, and hopefully my co-workers will have mercy on me and not pick dates too far out into the future. Because as much as this whole pregnant thing has been an adventure, it's time to disembark now.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Asking for it
Here are the warning signs of impending labor:
You'd think the questions couldn't get any dumber, nosier or riskier but here's the new one, heard only in the last few days: So, have there been any warnings?
What they mean is, do you think you'll be going into labor any time soon?
"Well, let me see," I can imagine telling random co-workers at lunch, "Yesterday I woke up with a whopping case of diarrhea, and then all day I was having these irregular contractions, and then the mucus plug came out and I had a bloody show, and all day I felt like cleaning the entire house and rearranging the furniture, plus for a week I've been having all this vaginal discharge and major Braxton-Hicks contractions, but other than that, no, I haven't had any warning signs. Hey, you don't seem to be eating your lunch, can I have it? I'm eating for two, you know."
Or, maybe I should just keep all that in my head and answer the question as I have been, which is, "Warnings for what?" Someday they may just figure out it's none of their business, though by then it will be too late. For me, anyway.
1)Engagement: AKA the baby dropped.
2)Pelvic Pressure
3)Vaginal Discharge
4)Nesting Instinct: AKA impending mother suddenly gets the urge to clean everything in sight.
5)Braxton Hicks Contractions: AKA false labor
6)Shivering or Trembling
7)Diarrhea
8)Mucus Plug or Bloody Show
9)Rupture of Membranes: AKA the water broke
and finally...
10)Regular Contractions
You'd think the questions couldn't get any dumber, nosier or riskier but here's the new one, heard only in the last few days: So, have there been any warnings?
What they mean is, do you think you'll be going into labor any time soon?
"Well, let me see," I can imagine telling random co-workers at lunch, "Yesterday I woke up with a whopping case of diarrhea, and then all day I was having these irregular contractions, and then the mucus plug came out and I had a bloody show, and all day I felt like cleaning the entire house and rearranging the furniture, plus for a week I've been having all this vaginal discharge and major Braxton-Hicks contractions, but other than that, no, I haven't had any warning signs. Hey, you don't seem to be eating your lunch, can I have it? I'm eating for two, you know."
Or, maybe I should just keep all that in my head and answer the question as I have been, which is, "Warnings for what?" Someday they may just figure out it's none of their business, though by then it will be too late. For me, anyway.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Countdown
I walked into a Mexican restaurant to pick up lunch and the woman behind the counter said, "Wow, still working, huh?"
I guess the entire city is waiting for the Big Day.
Which is imminent, or so I hear. The 38th week is considered term, 40 is ideal, and no one starts worrying about inducing or cesareans until week 42. It turns out that, as with almost everything else about pregnancy, calculating the "due date" isn't as scientific as you might think. It's a guess based on fairly arbitrary questions and our current 365 day in a year convention, with some ultrasounds and some tape measures liberally thrown in.
I am "due" on April 10th. I plan to work through the 13th, a fact which inevitably creates bemusement on faces. "But," they splutter, "April 13th is after April 10th!" (Maybe they feel that since all my brain cells are impaired I am unable to do simple arithmetic.) I nod at this sage observation, and quietly explain that, since I can't possibly predict the actual date, I picked an end date that was reasonable for the majority of the statistics; most first babies are late, not early, and in my family in particular there's a history of lateness. If I go early, chaos will ensue anyway. If, on the other hand, I am late, I will go stir crazy if I have nothing to do but sit at home. This seems entirely reasonable to me, but then, these are people who offer me chairs and demand I sit down (I've been sitting down all day!) or apologize when they've made me "walk all the way over here."
I've been berated for not packing my hospital bag, as well. Every expectant mother knows that you have to pack your hospital bag way in advance because, well, you just never know when you'll have to go there. Every expectant mother also knows not to rush off to the hospital at the very first sign of labor, so the question is: why can't you use all that waiting time to pack the bag for the hospital? And furthermore, this isn't a vacation.... how much stuff could I possibly need to bring with me? Yet, there are countless lists out there for the packing impaired to choose from.
So, we're waiting, we're enduring, and yes, we're still breathing, walking, talking and working. Stanley Hilarius is inevitably dropping and things are slowly coming to their hopefully happy conclusion. We'll let you know how it goes.
I guess the entire city is waiting for the Big Day.
Which is imminent, or so I hear. The 38th week is considered term, 40 is ideal, and no one starts worrying about inducing or cesareans until week 42. It turns out that, as with almost everything else about pregnancy, calculating the "due date" isn't as scientific as you might think. It's a guess based on fairly arbitrary questions and our current 365 day in a year convention, with some ultrasounds and some tape measures liberally thrown in.
I am "due" on April 10th. I plan to work through the 13th, a fact which inevitably creates bemusement on faces. "But," they splutter, "April 13th is after April 10th!" (Maybe they feel that since all my brain cells are impaired I am unable to do simple arithmetic.) I nod at this sage observation, and quietly explain that, since I can't possibly predict the actual date, I picked an end date that was reasonable for the majority of the statistics; most first babies are late, not early, and in my family in particular there's a history of lateness. If I go early, chaos will ensue anyway. If, on the other hand, I am late, I will go stir crazy if I have nothing to do but sit at home. This seems entirely reasonable to me, but then, these are people who offer me chairs and demand I sit down (I've been sitting down all day!) or apologize when they've made me "walk all the way over here."
I've been berated for not packing my hospital bag, as well. Every expectant mother knows that you have to pack your hospital bag way in advance because, well, you just never know when you'll have to go there. Every expectant mother also knows not to rush off to the hospital at the very first sign of labor, so the question is: why can't you use all that waiting time to pack the bag for the hospital? And furthermore, this isn't a vacation.... how much stuff could I possibly need to bring with me? Yet, there are countless lists out there for the packing impaired to choose from.
So, we're waiting, we're enduring, and yes, we're still breathing, walking, talking and working. Stanley Hilarius is inevitably dropping and things are slowly coming to their hopefully happy conclusion. We'll let you know how it goes.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
And the hits just keep on coming...
I'm not tired of being pregnant, per se. I'm tired of other people.
"When are you due?" is the new "Nice weather we're having." Only more nosey and less relevant. Especially when it's been asked by someone who has already asked you this question. Here's a hint, people, it hasn't changed from the last time you asked me.
Here's a good one: Put your finger directly on a pregnant woman's belly. She won't mind. After all, it's not like you're touching her... oh wait, you are. But she won't mind. Then ask this amazingly dumb question: "What's this?" And remember, she won't ever say something sarcastic like "that appears to be my stomach." And if she's rude and says something like "please don't touch me," don't take it personally. Those raging hormones make her say things like that.
If you are extremely obese, try making a pregnant woman feel good about her self-image. Say something like: gee, it looks like you're trying to imitate me! She'll find that amusing. See, she's grimacing right now.
And if you're a midwife or an obstetrician, here's a neat trick. Each time your patient comes for her now weekly visit, grab hold of the baby's nether regions through the mother's sensitive belly and give them a good shake. Everyone will enjoy that because then baby will wake up and move around indignantly. Well, mom will get a few kicks in the ribs. But she's used to that so it's okay. And that'll make her look forward to next week's visit even more!
What could be worse than nine months of stupid people? Oh, probably 18 years of stupid parenting advice. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
"When are you due?" is the new "Nice weather we're having." Only more nosey and less relevant. Especially when it's been asked by someone who has already asked you this question. Here's a hint, people, it hasn't changed from the last time you asked me.
Here's a good one: Put your finger directly on a pregnant woman's belly. She won't mind. After all, it's not like you're touching her... oh wait, you are. But she won't mind. Then ask this amazingly dumb question: "What's this?" And remember, she won't ever say something sarcastic like "that appears to be my stomach." And if she's rude and says something like "please don't touch me," don't take it personally. Those raging hormones make her say things like that.
If you are extremely obese, try making a pregnant woman feel good about her self-image. Say something like: gee, it looks like you're trying to imitate me! She'll find that amusing. See, she's grimacing right now.
And if you're a midwife or an obstetrician, here's a neat trick. Each time your patient comes for her now weekly visit, grab hold of the baby's nether regions through the mother's sensitive belly and give them a good shake. Everyone will enjoy that because then baby will wake up and move around indignantly. Well, mom will get a few kicks in the ribs. But she's used to that so it's okay. And that'll make her look forward to next week's visit even more!
What could be worse than nine months of stupid people? Oh, probably 18 years of stupid parenting advice. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Non-Alcoholic
The whole thou-shalt-not-drink-while-pregnant line has been blown way out of proportion here in Puritan, Prohibitionist America. Case in point: while the AMA's official line on the subject is no amount of alcohol consumed while pregnant has been proven to be safe (their official line on just about everything to do with pregnancy, as they don't test drugs, recreational or otherwise, on pregnant women), the myriad pregnancy experts have taken up the call and twisted it to: even the smallest amount of alcohol could harm your baby!
Making it sound like if you accidentally swallow your mouthwash anytime during those tedious nine months, you might as well go to jail for child abuse right now. All hope is lost. Now everyone knows that pregnant women can't drink at all lest their offspring have more than one head, and so the option isn't even there. But they have no compunction about drinking around a pregnant woman. The thought in the back of everyone's head is that, as long as she's not an alcoholic, she couldn't possibly mind, right?
My husband and I love wine. The taste of it with dinner, and the romantic idea of it: a warm glass of red by the fire in winter, a chilled glass of white of a hot summer's evening. We love the idea of wine so much we make wine, lovingly squeezing fruits of their essential juices, adding yeast, and letting nature do what it does best. Our traditional New Year's celebrations include an expensive bottle of champagne, which we consume the whole of (the only time we down an entire bottle of alcohol) all the while describing its properties in admittedly layman's terms to keep for prosperity. Sometimes we even talk about our goals for the New Year.
This year, of course, all that has been curtailed. For both of us.
We were recently at a friend's house for dinner. Bypassing me, the host asked my husband if he wanted a drink of some kind. My husband shook his head. "Alas," he said, "I'm pregnant."
The host looked from me to him incredulously and blurted, "You're both not drinking together??"
Heaven forfend we agree to do something together. Like, say, get pregnant.
To me there is no other way to go about it. You're either both on board or not. There were a number such conditions I laid out before I agreed to go down this road, not the least of which was that if I couldn't drink, my husband couldn't drink. Or put another way: if you drink, I drink, and you wouldn't want to harm your unborn child like that, would you?
But I don't have to threaten my husband to make this journey into as much of a partnership as we possibly can. There is, in reality, very few things that he is able to do or sacrifice during the nine months of gestation, so those conscious efforts to stay on the road with me are essential. Instead of making this a non-choice that only I have to make, he's made it into a positive choice for both of us. We're both not drinking. Not because one of us is pregnant, but because we've decided not to imbibe in alcoholic beverages for a period of 9 months.
Everyone deals with pregnancy in their own way. Some women don't feel the need to involve their partners. Some women either don't have partners to involve or have partners who are just getting dragged along for the ride. I personally think that's a sad and lonely way to go about this journey, but that's just my opinion.
Our long abstinence is almost over and we're glad. There are still some Nazis who claim that alcohol and breastfeeding don't mix, and I'm sure they don't if you plan to get plastered every night. But we plan to enjoy our New Year's eve champagne soon after Stanley's born, maybe right there in the hospital. And we plan to sample the fruit wines that have been aging in the basement, and we plan to savor our first glasses of red and white wines as the sun sets on our early spring evenings.
Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder. I think everyone should try it. You don't even have to get knocked up to do it.
Making it sound like if you accidentally swallow your mouthwash anytime during those tedious nine months, you might as well go to jail for child abuse right now. All hope is lost. Now everyone knows that pregnant women can't drink at all lest their offspring have more than one head, and so the option isn't even there. But they have no compunction about drinking around a pregnant woman. The thought in the back of everyone's head is that, as long as she's not an alcoholic, she couldn't possibly mind, right?
My husband and I love wine. The taste of it with dinner, and the romantic idea of it: a warm glass of red by the fire in winter, a chilled glass of white of a hot summer's evening. We love the idea of wine so much we make wine, lovingly squeezing fruits of their essential juices, adding yeast, and letting nature do what it does best. Our traditional New Year's celebrations include an expensive bottle of champagne, which we consume the whole of (the only time we down an entire bottle of alcohol) all the while describing its properties in admittedly layman's terms to keep for prosperity. Sometimes we even talk about our goals for the New Year.
This year, of course, all that has been curtailed. For both of us.
We were recently at a friend's house for dinner. Bypassing me, the host asked my husband if he wanted a drink of some kind. My husband shook his head. "Alas," he said, "I'm pregnant."
The host looked from me to him incredulously and blurted, "You're both not drinking together??"
Heaven forfend we agree to do something together. Like, say, get pregnant.
To me there is no other way to go about it. You're either both on board or not. There were a number such conditions I laid out before I agreed to go down this road, not the least of which was that if I couldn't drink, my husband couldn't drink. Or put another way: if you drink, I drink, and you wouldn't want to harm your unborn child like that, would you?
But I don't have to threaten my husband to make this journey into as much of a partnership as we possibly can. There is, in reality, very few things that he is able to do or sacrifice during the nine months of gestation, so those conscious efforts to stay on the road with me are essential. Instead of making this a non-choice that only I have to make, he's made it into a positive choice for both of us. We're both not drinking. Not because one of us is pregnant, but because we've decided not to imbibe in alcoholic beverages for a period of 9 months.
Everyone deals with pregnancy in their own way. Some women don't feel the need to involve their partners. Some women either don't have partners to involve or have partners who are just getting dragged along for the ride. I personally think that's a sad and lonely way to go about this journey, but that's just my opinion.
Our long abstinence is almost over and we're glad. There are still some Nazis who claim that alcohol and breastfeeding don't mix, and I'm sure they don't if you plan to get plastered every night. But we plan to enjoy our New Year's eve champagne soon after Stanley's born, maybe right there in the hospital. And we plan to sample the fruit wines that have been aging in the basement, and we plan to savor our first glasses of red and white wines as the sun sets on our early spring evenings.
Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder. I think everyone should try it. You don't even have to get knocked up to do it.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Small Miracles
As we sat on extremely uncomfortable chairs being forced to watch our 13th or 14th waterbirth on the childbirth educator's favorite DVD (..and who knew there were so many birthing exhibitionists out there?) I sat trying not to fidget and ended up contemplating my navel.
Which, miracle of miracles, is still there.
It might not be much longer. It's gotten much flatter and drawn out in the past few weeks, and Stanley really doesn't have too much more room to grow without taking up that small amount of space which used to be my fairly deep, round, innie belly button. On what used to be my fairly flat, hard stomach. Oh yes, those were the days. They were good times, those days.
I monitor my belly button's progress because I can't really gauge the progress of anything else. The days simply plod on and though we are marching inexorably closer to the fateful day, the bodily changes aren't fantastic enough from one minute to the next to really pinpoint any succession.
Still, we're ending our 34th week here and we've still got our navel. We still don't waddle, we've only had one incident of swelling ankles, and the need to urinate, contrary to popular myth, is really quite manageable. There's been no heartburn to speak of. Sleep is uncomfortable at times but not completely impossible.
Hey, I strung sap tubing a few days ago while slogging through a foot of snow. You can't say the old girl's had it yet. Suffice to say we're hanging in there. The heck with the miracle of life; I'm counting the small miracles now.
Which, miracle of miracles, is still there.
It might not be much longer. It's gotten much flatter and drawn out in the past few weeks, and Stanley really doesn't have too much more room to grow without taking up that small amount of space which used to be my fairly deep, round, innie belly button. On what used to be my fairly flat, hard stomach. Oh yes, those were the days. They were good times, those days.
I monitor my belly button's progress because I can't really gauge the progress of anything else. The days simply plod on and though we are marching inexorably closer to the fateful day, the bodily changes aren't fantastic enough from one minute to the next to really pinpoint any succession.
Still, we're ending our 34th week here and we've still got our navel. We still don't waddle, we've only had one incident of swelling ankles, and the need to urinate, contrary to popular myth, is really quite manageable. There's been no heartburn to speak of. Sleep is uncomfortable at times but not completely impossible.
Hey, I strung sap tubing a few days ago while slogging through a foot of snow. You can't say the old girl's had it yet. Suffice to say we're hanging in there. The heck with the miracle of life; I'm counting the small miracles now.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
All Classed Up
Following the advice of the prenatal coordinator, we signed up for the seven week childbirth education course. Naively, we thought perhaps it would teach us some techniques that would be useful for those few fateful hours during childbirth, as well as perhaps some exercises which might be useful in preparation.
So far, it's been a fairly obvious and at times either gruesome or pornographic anatomy lesson with faded handouts giving us tiresome advice about what we should/could feel like in the first, second, and third trimester, mixed in with some fairly stereotypical or even downright sexist remarks, spread liberally about the gender spectrum (From the firmly debunked "pregnancy brain" comment to my personal favorite: "All guys think alike." Yes, every woman in the class is accompanied by a male partner.)
In short I haven't learned anything I haven't already learned by reading a book, and the rest of the time I've either been grossed out or annoyed. Each class is two hours long, is held on Wednesday's at 6:30, and invariably goes over the time limit, with the result that I leave my house at seven in the morning and don't return until quarter to ten. Aren't pregnant women supposed to get lots of sleep and lots of exercise? Exactly when am I supposed to practice the hastily taught exercises squeezed in at the end of the class? What good was this class supposed to be again?
They say that in the third trimester you begin to get bored with being pregnant, can't wait to get it over with, and that the last month or so before the happy date can seem eternally long. I was already bored with being pregnant 7 months ago, and have been biding my time ever since, but this class is definitely making me want to get the rest of this over with. I'm not sure I can bear another 5 weeks of dreamy-eyed, un-informed nonsense.
I keep going because I keep hoping they'll tell us something useful. You never know, something might slip out.
So far, it's been a fairly obvious and at times either gruesome or pornographic anatomy lesson with faded handouts giving us tiresome advice about what we should/could feel like in the first, second, and third trimester, mixed in with some fairly stereotypical or even downright sexist remarks, spread liberally about the gender spectrum (From the firmly debunked "pregnancy brain" comment to my personal favorite: "All guys think alike." Yes, every woman in the class is accompanied by a male partner.)
In short I haven't learned anything I haven't already learned by reading a book, and the rest of the time I've either been grossed out or annoyed. Each class is two hours long, is held on Wednesday's at 6:30, and invariably goes over the time limit, with the result that I leave my house at seven in the morning and don't return until quarter to ten. Aren't pregnant women supposed to get lots of sleep and lots of exercise? Exactly when am I supposed to practice the hastily taught exercises squeezed in at the end of the class? What good was this class supposed to be again?
They say that in the third trimester you begin to get bored with being pregnant, can't wait to get it over with, and that the last month or so before the happy date can seem eternally long. I was already bored with being pregnant 7 months ago, and have been biding my time ever since, but this class is definitely making me want to get the rest of this over with. I'm not sure I can bear another 5 weeks of dreamy-eyed, un-informed nonsense.
I keep going because I keep hoping they'll tell us something useful. You never know, something might slip out.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Buying for Baby
Today I was paid a backhanded compliment by a co-worker who told me that I didn't walk like a pregnant woman.
Thanks, I didn't say, and may I just say that you don't walk like a chicken?
Unlike alot of first time parents we have not yet really gotten into buying things for our newborn. We know, for instance, that Stanley will need some type of surface to sleep on, but we were unprepared for the overwhelming choices of furniture presented to us by this simple need. There's cradles, bassinets and cribs, not to mention pack and plays and play pens. When it comes to cribs you can get a convertible crib which will break down into a daybed later, or if you get really fancy you can eventually convert it into a full double bed (from birth to marriage, is perhaps the point?) For entertainment there are bouncers, swingers and walkers, the practical difference being completely lost on us other than the obvious, that bouncers bounce and swingers swing. Perhaps the most perplexing part for me is the startling variety of outfits with which to clothe your little miracle, for the 48 hours it takes them to grow out of said outfit, anyway. Is this stuff really for the baby, or for the parents?
My ultimate favorite though, is this product. How cruel we've all been lo these millions of years, to use unheated diaper wipes on our children. Imagine the psychological damage wrought on all of us. No wonder society is at such a perilous crossroads. Thank god someone has finally put a stop to the insanity.
Thanks, I didn't say, and may I just say that you don't walk like a chicken?
Unlike alot of first time parents we have not yet really gotten into buying things for our newborn. We know, for instance, that Stanley will need some type of surface to sleep on, but we were unprepared for the overwhelming choices of furniture presented to us by this simple need. There's cradles, bassinets and cribs, not to mention pack and plays and play pens. When it comes to cribs you can get a convertible crib which will break down into a daybed later, or if you get really fancy you can eventually convert it into a full double bed (from birth to marriage, is perhaps the point?) For entertainment there are bouncers, swingers and walkers, the practical difference being completely lost on us other than the obvious, that bouncers bounce and swingers swing. Perhaps the most perplexing part for me is the startling variety of outfits with which to clothe your little miracle, for the 48 hours it takes them to grow out of said outfit, anyway. Is this stuff really for the baby, or for the parents?
My ultimate favorite though, is this product. How cruel we've all been lo these millions of years, to use unheated diaper wipes on our children. Imagine the psychological damage wrought on all of us. No wonder society is at such a perilous crossroads. Thank god someone has finally put a stop to the insanity.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Kicking the habit (or the mom)
Here we are in the third trimester, the final stage of the pregnancy journey before the Big Moment, when Stanley and I get to meet face to face. So that's what you look like, I'll get to think. Hey! Where'd my world go?? And what's this thing holding me?? Stanley will wonder.
Stanley's definitely getting used to his/her world in there. Stanley's movements have gotten a lot more coordinated, and I'm pretty sure the little devil is using this newfound talent to rock his/her world. Literally. A good sharp kick in the ribs is sure to shock anybody, and when it comes from the inside at unexpected moments, the resulting earthquake must be quite a ride.
I have a small mischevious streak, and my mother claims that I jumped up and down on her bladder on purpose. Mischeviousness may well be genetic, which may account for these sudden, purposeful jabs.
In any case the rumblings and rollings and sudden right-left jabs are getting much more noticeable in an Alien kind of way, so much so that I have to be careful not to lay a full glass on what's left of the flat of my stomach or it may get spilled with one powerful acrobatic twist on Stanley's part. And we're only at the beginning of this final, fun trimester.
Can I claim being battered from the inside as some sort of insidious domestic abuse? Or is this what my mother meant when she said, a gleam in her eye: just you wait? Does all this activity indicate a wild child? Or is Stanley just getting it all out of the way now so s/he'll be a model of angelic sweetness the rest of his/her life?
Only time will tell; we're only ten weeks away. Only ten weeks, a veritable eternity of constant Stanley activity. Oh well. At least we know Stanley's still in there.
Stanley's definitely getting used to his/her world in there. Stanley's movements have gotten a lot more coordinated, and I'm pretty sure the little devil is using this newfound talent to rock his/her world. Literally. A good sharp kick in the ribs is sure to shock anybody, and when it comes from the inside at unexpected moments, the resulting earthquake must be quite a ride.
I have a small mischevious streak, and my mother claims that I jumped up and down on her bladder on purpose. Mischeviousness may well be genetic, which may account for these sudden, purposeful jabs.
In any case the rumblings and rollings and sudden right-left jabs are getting much more noticeable in an Alien kind of way, so much so that I have to be careful not to lay a full glass on what's left of the flat of my stomach or it may get spilled with one powerful acrobatic twist on Stanley's part. And we're only at the beginning of this final, fun trimester.
Can I claim being battered from the inside as some sort of insidious domestic abuse? Or is this what my mother meant when she said, a gleam in her eye: just you wait? Does all this activity indicate a wild child? Or is Stanley just getting it all out of the way now so s/he'll be a model of angelic sweetness the rest of his/her life?
Only time will tell; we're only ten weeks away. Only ten weeks, a veritable eternity of constant Stanley activity. Oh well. At least we know Stanley's still in there.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Myth versus Reality
For the past two weeks I have been covering for a co-worker, the Network Administrator, while he goes off for a much needed vacation in St. Martins. I've covered for him before, but never for so long a period of time, and never at quite such a critical time; the first two weeks of the New Year. Naturally, I've been quite busy, since I am effectively doing the job of two people.
One (but not all) of the duties of my job is to collect and funnel Help Desk requests to the appropriate people. As the self-imposed first line of defense, I'm supposed to handle the "simple stuff" (are you sure your computer is on?), but often I'm able to funnel some of them off to the Network Administrator, with the excuse that I have other things to do. Being the Help Desk means that I am constantly being interrupted, and that's when we're fully staffed. Being the Help Desk and the Network Administrator pretty much ensures that my entire day is spent putting out fires. Especially when two switches and a tape deck die in rapid succession, the main file server seems to be asleep, people are screaming because a printer isn't printing or their email is on the fritz, not to mention all those calls where people are asking how to save a file in Word.
Clearly, some things will begin to fall through the cracks at this point.
So on Wednesday we had a three hour kick off meeting on a new product venture, which blew everyone's schedules out of whack. At the end of the meeting, no less than five people converged on me, wanting to talk about wildly different subjects and all of which needed to be dealt with asap. Doing my own mental task list, which put these items in a relative order of importance, I accomplished each one in turn, finally getting back to my desk half an hour later to accomplish the last, when my phone rang. It was the woman who had asked for Task #5.
"Sorry," I said, not feeling sorry at all, "I will get to it now."
"Pregnancy will do that to you," she said, a non-sequitor of monumental proportions.
"What?"
"Pregnancy. Makes you forgetful."
"Uh... doing two people's jobs will do that too." I didn't bother to point out that I had just gotten back to my desk and technically that didn't count as "having forgotten."
I made the mistake the next day of actually telling someone I had "forgotten" about their request, whereupon they seized upon the myth again, telling me with glee that when they were pregnant, they forgot everything. The woman in question was asking me to install a printer on her computer, a tediously simple task that she couldn't remember how to do from the last time I showed her, but I kept her chronic apparent memory loss out of the conversation.
Maybe some people do suffer from forgetfulness due to "Pregnancy Brain." Like doing the job of two people, you can only focus your attention on so many tasks at a time. If you are the type to concentrate more on your pregnancy than on the reality going on around you, then yes, you may find that you've forgotten the name of your husband or perhaps the name of the street you live on. But if you're like me, you may find reality much more appealing.
Some people like to quote this study as proof that pregnancy kills off brain cells. The study itself merely shows a corrolation between the last month of pregnancy and six months after and an increase in brain size before the brain returns to normal. Since no study was done to measure brain size throughout the whole pregnancy, it must have taken some doing for people to hypothesize that the increase in brain size during this period must be due to a decrease in brain size the rest of the time, sort of bending the science to fit the legend. Still, that's the popular myth: allowing pregnant women (and apparently the people around them) to blame yet another normal human condition--occasional forgetfulness--on their impending motherhood. These myths are so pervasive that even when faced with the obvious: person doing five tasks at once, forgets one task, the perception is all: pregnant woman forgot one task.
Taking respsonsibilty for one's actions, whether it be emotional outburst due to some inner turmoil or the act of forgetting where you put your keys, is something that we all have a hard time doing in practice. It becomes even harder when popular science encourages you to place the blame for these things on factors you "can't" control, such as "raging hormones". I've never put much stock in the raging hormone theory. I believe in mind over matter. Even if the hormone theories are true, I have no doubt that with a little mental discipline we can all overcome them. I am an intelligent, logical, stable human being, and no popular pregnancy myth is going to make me forget it.
One (but not all) of the duties of my job is to collect and funnel Help Desk requests to the appropriate people. As the self-imposed first line of defense, I'm supposed to handle the "simple stuff" (are you sure your computer is on?), but often I'm able to funnel some of them off to the Network Administrator, with the excuse that I have other things to do. Being the Help Desk means that I am constantly being interrupted, and that's when we're fully staffed. Being the Help Desk and the Network Administrator pretty much ensures that my entire day is spent putting out fires. Especially when two switches and a tape deck die in rapid succession, the main file server seems to be asleep, people are screaming because a printer isn't printing or their email is on the fritz, not to mention all those calls where people are asking how to save a file in Word.
Clearly, some things will begin to fall through the cracks at this point.
So on Wednesday we had a three hour kick off meeting on a new product venture, which blew everyone's schedules out of whack. At the end of the meeting, no less than five people converged on me, wanting to talk about wildly different subjects and all of which needed to be dealt with asap. Doing my own mental task list, which put these items in a relative order of importance, I accomplished each one in turn, finally getting back to my desk half an hour later to accomplish the last, when my phone rang. It was the woman who had asked for Task #5.
"Sorry," I said, not feeling sorry at all, "I will get to it now."
"Pregnancy will do that to you," she said, a non-sequitor of monumental proportions.
"What?"
"Pregnancy. Makes you forgetful."
"Uh... doing two people's jobs will do that too." I didn't bother to point out that I had just gotten back to my desk and technically that didn't count as "having forgotten."
I made the mistake the next day of actually telling someone I had "forgotten" about their request, whereupon they seized upon the myth again, telling me with glee that when they were pregnant, they forgot everything. The woman in question was asking me to install a printer on her computer, a tediously simple task that she couldn't remember how to do from the last time I showed her, but I kept her chronic apparent memory loss out of the conversation.
Maybe some people do suffer from forgetfulness due to "Pregnancy Brain." Like doing the job of two people, you can only focus your attention on so many tasks at a time. If you are the type to concentrate more on your pregnancy than on the reality going on around you, then yes, you may find that you've forgotten the name of your husband or perhaps the name of the street you live on. But if you're like me, you may find reality much more appealing.
Some people like to quote this study as proof that pregnancy kills off brain cells. The study itself merely shows a corrolation between the last month of pregnancy and six months after and an increase in brain size before the brain returns to normal. Since no study was done to measure brain size throughout the whole pregnancy, it must have taken some doing for people to hypothesize that the increase in brain size during this period must be due to a decrease in brain size the rest of the time, sort of bending the science to fit the legend. Still, that's the popular myth: allowing pregnant women (and apparently the people around them) to blame yet another normal human condition--occasional forgetfulness--on their impending motherhood. These myths are so pervasive that even when faced with the obvious: person doing five tasks at once, forgets one task, the perception is all: pregnant woman forgot one task.
Taking respsonsibilty for one's actions, whether it be emotional outburst due to some inner turmoil or the act of forgetting where you put your keys, is something that we all have a hard time doing in practice. It becomes even harder when popular science encourages you to place the blame for these things on factors you "can't" control, such as "raging hormones". I've never put much stock in the raging hormone theory. I believe in mind over matter. Even if the hormone theories are true, I have no doubt that with a little mental discipline we can all overcome them. I am an intelligent, logical, stable human being, and no popular pregnancy myth is going to make me forget it.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Milestones
I reached another milestone in every pregnant woman's life: the Total Stranger Recognition Moment.
I shouldn't say total stranger; I see this woman two or three times a week when I come by to pick up my lunch. But still she's outside of the realm of corporate informants, and therefore I feel I can count this as the first such encounter, especially since she started it out with, "Congratulations, I didn't realize you were pregnant!"
I took this as a compliment, not because I particularly want strangers to notice the pregnant woman, but because I've apparently been hiding it well, until now, anyway.
I also reached another very important milestone today, the Pregnant Women Should Not Carry Items Perceived To Be Heavy Milestone, items such as, say, computers. In my myriad roles at work I sometimes have need to remove or replace equipment, and, unless I am doing more than one at a time I usually prefer to carry the single item down the stairs. It's mild exercise, to be sure, but it beats sitting at a desk all day. So today I had in my arms a small CPU topped with mouse and keyboard, barely 10 pounds at most, but was stopped by a co-worker who threatened to take it from me. "No, I'm fine," I said, and continued by him, at which point he said, "Well, you're pregnant, you know..."
I stopped and stared at him. "I am???" I said. And then continued on my way.
I shouldn't say total stranger; I see this woman two or three times a week when I come by to pick up my lunch. But still she's outside of the realm of corporate informants, and therefore I feel I can count this as the first such encounter, especially since she started it out with, "Congratulations, I didn't realize you were pregnant!"
I took this as a compliment, not because I particularly want strangers to notice the pregnant woman, but because I've apparently been hiding it well, until now, anyway.
I also reached another very important milestone today, the Pregnant Women Should Not Carry Items Perceived To Be Heavy Milestone, items such as, say, computers. In my myriad roles at work I sometimes have need to remove or replace equipment, and, unless I am doing more than one at a time I usually prefer to carry the single item down the stairs. It's mild exercise, to be sure, but it beats sitting at a desk all day. So today I had in my arms a small CPU topped with mouse and keyboard, barely 10 pounds at most, but was stopped by a co-worker who threatened to take it from me. "No, I'm fine," I said, and continued by him, at which point he said, "Well, you're pregnant, you know..."
I stopped and stared at him. "I am???" I said. And then continued on my way.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Sincerity meets the Sarcastic
The highlight of our last appointment--aside from the fact that, when asked to give a urine sample, I nodded distractedly, did my business and flushed the toilet, then belatedly remembered I was supposed to pee in a cup, thereby cheating my benefactors of the 9th or 10th urine sample they believe they need, not to mention the intensly gross, high-sugared drink they forced on me as a way of seeing whether I had gestational diabetes--was the aforementioned prenatal coordinator visit.
The staff is sincere enough, and the woman patiently explained all the classes we might take; "I highly recommend this 7 week course. It's designed for people who are having their first child, or people who've had children without the benefit of childbirth classes."
"Can you imagine," I said to my husband sarcastically, later when we were finally left alone, "People actually manage to give birth without taking a class?"
We were also sent home with tons of promotional material, which the prenatal coordinator carefully pulled out of the packet she had prepared and showed to us, ending the demonstration with a flyer on the kinds of birth control there were available.
"Birth control?" I said, "Now you tell me."
The material itself is well-intentioned, but clearly not intended for people such as myself. A pamphlet labeled "Questions Dads have about breastfeeding" labeled one of the benefits of breastfed babies as "mom will take fewer days off from work due to baby's illness."
"Mom will, eh? What about dad?" I grumbled.
The pinnacle of all the information was a pamphlet on Post-Partum Depression, which helpfully told me to seek the help of a psychotherapist and then, so I could be understood when I called to seek the help of the psychotherapist, told me how to pronounce the profession (sahy-koh-ther-uh-pee).
But clearly I can't take my hard-won sarcastic self out on the gentle souls of the baby profession, so even though I need to fill out a form outlining my pre/during/and post birth choices, I will refrain from answering these specific questions in this way:
Q: (Circle your preferences) Here are some common choices for labor: Wear own gown, tee-shirt Wear hospital gown Lights bright Lights dimmed Birthing ball Other: (write in)
A: I would like to wear my leather maternity bondage ensemble and would like to have the room plunged completely in darkness so I can perform my nightly satanic ritual in peace.
Q: Do you have any preferences for birthing positions?
A: I think that our belief in gravity is over-rated and therefore I would like to be strung feet first from the ceiling. I feel that our obsession with birthing children "down there" is a patriarchal misogynistic anachronism and think women should be able to give birth through any opening they'd like, including their mouths. Mine will be the very first esophagal birth.
Q: How do you plan to feed your baby?
A: Intravenously.
Q: Do you have any special concerns or requests regarding your baby's care while in the hospital?
A: Please don't paint the baby blue.
Q: What are your feelings about circumcision?
A: I think circumcision is great. In fact, why stop there? Eunuchs have made great contributions to history, and it's time to bring them back.
Q: How long do you plan to stay in the hospital after the birth?
A: Oh, three months to a year, maybe more. Please forward my mail.
Q: We offer home visits. How do you feel about this?
A: I have a gun. How do you feel about that?
The staff is sincere enough, and the woman patiently explained all the classes we might take; "I highly recommend this 7 week course. It's designed for people who are having their first child, or people who've had children without the benefit of childbirth classes."
"Can you imagine," I said to my husband sarcastically, later when we were finally left alone, "People actually manage to give birth without taking a class?"
We were also sent home with tons of promotional material, which the prenatal coordinator carefully pulled out of the packet she had prepared and showed to us, ending the demonstration with a flyer on the kinds of birth control there were available.
"Birth control?" I said, "Now you tell me."
The material itself is well-intentioned, but clearly not intended for people such as myself. A pamphlet labeled "Questions Dads have about breastfeeding" labeled one of the benefits of breastfed babies as "mom will take fewer days off from work due to baby's illness."
"Mom will, eh? What about dad?" I grumbled.
The pinnacle of all the information was a pamphlet on Post-Partum Depression, which helpfully told me to seek the help of a psychotherapist and then, so I could be understood when I called to seek the help of the psychotherapist, told me how to pronounce the profession (sahy-koh-ther-uh-pee).
But clearly I can't take my hard-won sarcastic self out on the gentle souls of the baby profession, so even though I need to fill out a form outlining my pre/during/and post birth choices, I will refrain from answering these specific questions in this way:
Q: (Circle your preferences) Here are some common choices for labor: Wear own gown, tee-shirt Wear hospital gown Lights bright Lights dimmed Birthing ball Other: (write in)
A: I would like to wear my leather maternity bondage ensemble and would like to have the room plunged completely in darkness so I can perform my nightly satanic ritual in peace.
Q: Do you have any preferences for birthing positions?
A: I think that our belief in gravity is over-rated and therefore I would like to be strung feet first from the ceiling. I feel that our obsession with birthing children "down there" is a patriarchal misogynistic anachronism and think women should be able to give birth through any opening they'd like, including their mouths. Mine will be the very first esophagal birth.
Q: How do you plan to feed your baby?
A: Intravenously.
Q: Do you have any special concerns or requests regarding your baby's care while in the hospital?
A: Please don't paint the baby blue.
Q: What are your feelings about circumcision?
A: I think circumcision is great. In fact, why stop there? Eunuchs have made great contributions to history, and it's time to bring them back.
Q: How long do you plan to stay in the hospital after the birth?
A: Oh, three months to a year, maybe more. Please forward my mail.
Q: We offer home visits. How do you feel about this?
A: I have a gun. How do you feel about that?
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