Got Music?

Yesterday I read an article in Mothering magazine by the mother of a 13 year old boy. She shared the story of how she and her son were connected by music; as a baby they listened to all the cheesey little kid music (how I fear the day Ethan wants to go to a Wiggles concert) and once he grew into that "ugh, my mom is so freaking lame" teenager, she delved into the world of his musical tastes, at the same time sharing with him her favorite songs from her own childhood and adolescence. This, she claims, is how they maintained a close bond during those years when children typically pull away from their parents with all the force of opposing magnets ends.

It made me think about the impact of music on my life, especially in those years I spent pretty much stuck up in my room, being a sullen and moody only child and avoiding contact with my own parents. Now, the mid to late 80's didn't really offer a plethora of quality musical choices, by my recollection. We went from Madonna & Duran Duran to Bon Jovi & Guns N Roses. But somehow I found a way to make music a cornerstone of my sense of self & identity.

I kept a notebook of song lyrics that I felt adequately captured my angst and listened avidly to the words to the songs I loved to be sure that I knew them all by heart. It always floors me when Husband says he likes a song, but doesn't know more than two words of it. Just liking the beat or the music means nothing to me--I need to know what the song is about and whether it speaks to my life and my experience; if not, I can't really ever love the song. I can listen and enjoy it, but the songs that stay with me forever are songs that I find something in, something that reminds me of my own life, either through lyrics or the circumstances of where/when/why I first heard it, etc.

So I've been thinking--what are the songs/who are the artists that I will want to share with my son when he is old enough? So, in very "High Fidelity" style, here are "My Top Ten Songs/Artists to Share with Ethan"...

1. U2--"Pride in the Name of Love" & "One" in particular--from the time I was in high school until today Bono's voice and lyrics are simply ever present. Edge's guitar riffs have dictated an entire generation of musical influence and I am willing to bet that Ethan will be listening to u2's music during his own teen years, even without my intervention. I want Ethan to know that music can be more than a good beat and bubble gum lyrics; that it can have a conscience and motivate people to try to change the world. I think U2's music is a fairly pure example of this (well, maybe with the exception of "Discotheque", but whatever...)

2. David Bowie/Freddie Mercury--"Under Pressure" Although I never knew the song even existed until Vanilla Ice ripped off the beat for "Ice Ice Baby" (such a sad, sad confession), there is something about Mercury's voice as he croons, "Can't we give ourselves one more chance? Why can't we give love just one more chance?" that makes my eyes water and my heart soar. His voice is amazing and paired with Bowie's it is simply musical poetry. I want Ethan to be moved by the sound of voices mingling and creating a whole new sound.

3. Cold Play--"Fix You" & "Clocks" I wrote a post a few months ago about how "Fix You" was sort of the soundtrack of my pregnancy--about wanting to protect and shield a loved one from all that could hurt in this life. The opening piano of "Clocks" is the music that Husband and I entered our wedding reception to, down a gorgeous marble staircase; we agonized over what little snippet of music would represent us as a couple, making our grand entrance for the first time as husband and wife. Hopefully Ethan will realize that music stays with you; hearing a particular song brings you back to a specific moment in time--I hope he has those extraordinary moments and the pathway back to them that music can be.

4. Indigo Girls--"Galileo", "Closer to Fine" & "Virginia Wolff" He may not dig these three; admittedly, you don't see a ton of dudes rocking it at an Indigo Girls concert. But in the interest of focusing on songs that have meant a lot to me, I suppose I can't leave them out. The idea that "each life has it's place" and that we are all connected to each other in some way through history or inspiration has always moved me and made me feel both teeny tiny in this world and at the same time, a significant part of its very fabric. I want Ethan to feel that.

5. Duran Duran "Planet Earth" Simply one of the first songs and the first band I remember ever really liking. I was one of those Duran Duran freaks in the 80's to the Nth degree. I could have started a college fund for Ethan with all the money I spent on magazines and British import tapes and LPs. He should know Duran Duran so he understands why he has to apply for scholarships and work study to pay for his tuition.

6. Peter Gabriel "Salisbury Hill" & "Biko" The first one, while I always loved it, makes it onto my list because it was on the radio the afternoon I left the hospital, leaving Ethan behind in the NICU. The line, "'Son,' he said, 'Grab your things, I've come to take you home'" reduced me to a little puddle of tears at the thought that I was driving away from my baby. To this day, I am grateful that I was so preoccupied with the pain of the c-section and the frustration of pumping my seemingly non-existant breastmilk that I never truly grasped how gut-wrenching it was to be separated from Ethan during those seven days.

"Biko" makes the list for the same reason that U2 is on it--a song about Stephen Biko, and anti-Apartheid activist, Gabriel's song helped to highlight such a hideous practice to an audience that may not have ever learned of it otherwise. Let's face it, there was no chapter on Apartheid in our social studies books in high school--without the music I listened to, I would never have known. I remember playing this song for my "Modern World Literature" class of Honors Juniors several years ago. We listened to it as we read "Cry, the Beloved Country" early in the year. At the year-end course evaluations most students cited this song's lyrics as some of the most powerful and memorable literature of the year. Several students in the class joined Amnesty International after I played this song for them. Enough said.

7. 10,000 Maniacs "These are Days" The quintessential nostalgia song, "Never before and never since, I promise, has the whole world been as warm as this". It is a song about pure joy and elation. I hear it in my mind when I think of any number of happy memories in my life. Husband used it as part of our rehearsal dinner slide show. Just the opening beat makes my heart race with joy.

8. Israel Kamakawiwo'ole "Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" You might know it as the music from the Dr. Mark Green's death scene on ER. It is the soundtrack of my wedding and honeymoon--two classic and beautiful songs melded together with a island feeling. What's not to love?

9. Bee Gees and/or Credence Clearwater Revival--Pretty much anything by either. This is a shout-out to the musical tastes of my parents in the 70's. We are all influenced, as small children, by the music our parents listen to. How they managed to cram both the disco of the BeeGees and the southern-fried rock of CCR into my consciousness is beyond me, but I know the lyrics of almost every song either group ever produced and would be hard-pressed to say which I'd rather listen to.

10. Sting--all of it. I hope that Sting's music will transcend time and be as cool when Ethan's a teenager as it has been in my generation. How can I not choose Sting? I'm an English teacher and Sting's lyrics are poetry, plain and simple. Sometimes I don't even hear the music when listening to his songs.

So there they are--my top 10. Hopefully someday, when Ethan hits that wall of adolescence and wants to get as far away from me as possible, I will be able to find a pathway to him through these songs/artists and whatever is passing for music thirteen years from now.

July 5--Two Months

Dear Ethan,

Today you are two months old. Where to even begin? Usually I just banter on about some little observation I've made about our lives, but on these posts I want to capture you. I want to make sure I remember every little thing that has gone on in your world in these past thirty days so that someday you can look back and understand how you became who you are and know how intensely you have been loved from the moment you came into the world.

This month has held all kinds of changes for you. For one, you "woke up", which means that the previous schedule of eat, sleep, poop, eat, sleep, poop is a thing of the past. Now there are entire hours at a time when you demand attention and stimulation. And so I stimulate. with books. with tummy time. with your busy little swing. with walks to the park. with larry the lion and the musical inch worm. with your aquarium kick and crawl. with my endless rambling and off-key singing. You usually end up paying more attention to whatever is happening just above you to the left rather than anything I present to you, but every once in awhile you reward me withe some bonafide undeniable interaction and eye contact. You are also developing some serious strength in your neck, back and shoulders--pushing yourself up during tummy time and scooting along with your legs. It won't be long until you are rolling over and if you don't watch out, you're going to end up crawling wayyyy before you're supposed to!



taking a break during the tummy time



First, a little shmooze with Larry the Lion. Next, the Sunday Crossword...

You did quite a bit of getting out and about this month. You went to visit Grandma Judy and Grandpa Harry a couple of times. You made your first foray into the land of yuppidom by hanging out with mommy & daddy at Starbucks. You also got in touch with your inner fashionista when mommy took you to Georgetown when Tress came to visit. You were quite the hit at Sephora, as you insisted on being held rather than making do in your stroller.


Baby's first latte! Relax, people, it is an empty cup; there is no steaming hot beverage wedged into my son's stroller!



"To H&M, Jeeves!" Tress chauffered you around Georgetown this month.

That's another big "thing" this month---HOLD ME, MAMA!!! Yes, I know you can't speak, but you are a remarkably proficient screamer and you have a fairly distinctive "if you don't hold me, there'll be hell to pay" tone. You won't find me complaining; I know there'll be a day when you won't want to be in the same room with your lame-o mom, so right now while I am the center of your universe, I will soak it up with every fiber of my being, even if I do kvetch about it after 6 hours of sitting on the couch.

To avoid the constant couch potato-ing, I have attempted to "wear" you in a variety of different slings and gizmos so that you are smooshed against me and therefore content, yet I can still accomplish something other than widening my butt all day long. I think we may have struck gold just in the past week. We tried the NoJo sling, the hot sling and the moby wrap. No-go on the NoJo, and you were not at all warming up to the hotsling--apparently you don't feel like hanging out in a pouch anymore. The Moby wrap was nice, but it is about 50 feet of stretchy fabric that I am pretty sure I would end up accidently hanging myself with in an attempt to wrap it around myself correctly. I did love how snug you were in it, and perhaps we will revisit it when I am a bit more coordinated in the ways of the baby-wrap, but for now, you are a Bjorn baby. You finally hit the weight requirement, so I plopped you in that contraption as soon as I could figure out how to put it together. Voila!!! I cleaned an entire room of the house with you babbling at my chest, playing with your fingers and watching the world go by. You were on me, you were secure, you were happy and I was not vegetating on the couch!! Ahhhhhhhh...


You made your first friend this month, too, when little Chloe Marie came into the world. Imagine, two months old and already chatting up the ladies. We are going to be in so much trouble with you...


Little E and Little C live it up in the pack and play

Speaking of trouble, this month your digestive system decided it needed to liven things up a bit by creating more acid than your little belly needs. This is loads of fun for all of us, as you tend to scream like you're feet are on fire just moments after eating. And there's the spitting up. I may have mentioned it in previous posts, no?

Well, Monday I could take it no more and we went to see the doctor. She gave you a prescription for Zantac and now, even though the stuff apparently tastes horrifying, you seem to be a happier little man already. We have to mix some of mama's milkshake in to the dropper to even get you to consider ingesting it (such discriminating tastes for a two-month old!), but you are getting it down, and fingers-crossed, we have heard the last of the reflux wails.

You are moving tonight from your pack and play next to the bed to a "snuggle nest" that we are going to fit in the bed between Daddy and me. I have wanted to have you in bed with us all along, but you've been so tiny, I was afraid of smooching you. Hopefully the snuggle nest will get you that much closer and we will have an easier time getting together for those midnight snacks you seem to like so much.

Eating has become such an easy routine for us, thank goodness. You've definitely struggled to make peace with the boob on its own--no bottle (okay, one bottle at night from daddy), no shield, no nothing but you and the boob. But you're there now and you could give any other little kid lessons on how to eat like a champ. How the human race survived considering all the difficulties some women encounter with breastfeeding is beyond me, but it is definitely a worthwhile endeavor and I'm so glad I didn't stop. At the doctors this week, she mentioned adding rice cereal into a bottle of the milk to help with the reflux and I almost keeled over--unless I can eat the rice cereal and have it come out a few hours later in the milkshake, we'll pass on that, thanks...obviously mama's milk is good enough for you considering you have almost doubled your birth weight in these past two months.

At 8 pounds, 4 ounces, you have grown completely out of your preemie clothes and fit perfectly into most of your 0-3s, although I don't know what it is about 0-3 pants--they all still look like parachute pants on you (ah, the 80's). In your little jeans you look like you should be rocking it old school with MC Hammer. This is not a look I want for my son. So we take off the jeans and wait for you to grow. But I have to admit, I love seeing how your once skinny little frame is filling out into rolls and chewable little chubby parts. Daddy says you're starting to look like the Michelin Man--you'll never know in a million years what that means, but it makes me laugh.



"Can't touch this..." Ethan rocks it old school with the parachute jeans a la MC Hammer

You're finding your voice beyond the screaming, too. You have this funny little "terydactle" noise you make (your friend Chloe makes it, too and sometimes you make the noise at the same time--quite a chorus) and that is now spanning out into coo's and surprised sounding "ahh!"'s. Alas, the sneezescream is gone, but there are so many other little sounds coming from you these days, I hardly miss it.

There are smiles on your face these days, too, although they seem to still be random and directed at something going on in your mind (dare I dream?!) rather than at Daddy or me. My favorite face you make is the little "o" your mouth turns into when you see something interesting or new...there is almost mischief in your face, even now at two months. It is almost too much to bear. I do a lot of melting these days.






The look of discovery...

We go through growth-spurts, you and me. Together and as individuals. I love watching you change each day and I love knowing that every day you change me, too. I am becoming a mother; something I've always wanted to be, even though I never really, truly knew what it meant. I am so grateful I have you as my teacher, my sweet little man.


GO, SOX!!!

The Crying Game...

This just proves that yes, my cherubic little bundle-o-love has his moments. We call him the "Mayor of CrankyTown", "Cranky Pants", "Sir Cranks a Lot" and then there's always, "Sweet Jesus, what the hell is your freaking problem?!" (okay, that's not so much a nickname as a verbal precursor to my own mental breakdown, which generally immediately follows).

Apparently an incompetent cervix wasn't enough. Fifteen weeks of bedrest wasn't enough. An emergency c-section wasn't enough. A week in the NICU wasn't enough. Struggles with breastfeeding, nope. Not enough. The universe decided that Husband and I really needed to add "colicky baby" to our list of trials and tribulations.

Now, I don't know it he's really colicky. Colic is, by definition, an enigma. No one knows where it comes from, what causes it or who will get it. I do know that about 2 weeks ago, he started crying. ALL. THE. TIME. That is only a slight exaggeration. There are exceptions for sleeping (which happens a lot less than it used to) and those rare moments when we have managed to distract him with our goofiness or our back-breaking side to side swishing.

It is disheartening to have a baby who starts crying the second he wakes up (and sometimes while he's still asleep) and continues to cry almost to the moment he falls back to sleep. If you weren't already feeling inadequate as a mother and a human being in general by the "normal" experiences of dealing with a newborn, try not being able to comfort that newborn when he is screaming his face red and punching at you with aimless fists. That, my friends, is good times.

We give him something called "Gripe Water"---sounds like something pumped out of a swamp, but it is actually a mixture of ginger and fennel seeds that seems to calm him for a little while (about a millisecond in colicky baby land). It's damn expensive at Whole Foods, but it makes him feel better. A drop of it on his tongue and he gets this "ooooh, yum. I can stop crying for this..." look. I love that look. I wait all day for that look. But alas, I know it is fleeting and that as soon as the Gripe Water wears off, the griping will start again.

There is also a LOT of spit up in our lives these days. Painful, scream-inducing spit up. Hello, reflux, anyone?! Earlier in his culinary life, I gave up the various foods prone to give breastfeeding babies gas--had to make sure the milkshakes were Ethan-friendly before I served 'em up. No difference. Ah, the mysteries of the infant digestive system.

On Thursday we go for Ethan's 2-month check up. We will be grilling the cute young doctor about colic and reflux and demanding that he earn his damn pay by doing something to make Ethan's little belly feel better. Mommy is getting close to replacing her daily intake of water with gin and tonics and I don't think a "G&T milkshake" is really on Ethan's "acceptable foods" menu.

It's Hard to Believe...

...that anyone who could create something as gorgeous as this little man could be so badly in need of a make over that the makeup consultants were tripping over themselves and clawing at each other to get to me first when I walked through the doors of Sephora the other day. But that is what happened...

Ethan & I were strolling the mall and I decided "what the heck". Sure I'd been in the Sephora at Georgetown just two days before and bought frivolous Stila lip glosses (because all stay at home moms like plump shiny lips when they are loading the dishwasher and folding burp clothes).

The consultant for the "Benefit" line managed to scratch her way to me first, so she had the honor of transforming me from haggard hausfrau to yummy mummy. Ha. Ha. Really what she did was focus on my eyes and how to make them look less tired, frazzled and all around "old". It's amazing what a make up consultant can get away with saying to you in the name of making you look better. She must have insulted the "bags" and the "shadows" and the "tired appearance" of my peepers about a hundred times. And of course, each time I was determined to take her makeover and walk out without spending a freaking dime on her fancy shmancy product.

But damn it all if my eyes didn't look lighter, brighter and more alert after she spent about 20 minutes dabbing, patting and brushing. I hated to admit it, but she was right--I had looked like the living dead (my words, not hers. I mean, she has to have some tact, right?!) So I walked out of there $40 poorer after buying two of the four products she slathered on my face.

Of course, just like that fabulous hair cut that looks so amazing at the salon, it is impossible to recreate the look at home. This morning, in between Ethan's crying jags (I can't even bring myself to write about these--they are just too much), I made a mad dash into the bathroom and attempted to transform myself into that vibrant looking young thing that sashayed her way out of Sephora yesterday afternoon...um. When I walked out of the bathroom a few minutes later, I still looked like me, but with lots of really light makeup around my eyes. Hmmmmmm....

Good thing I had that lip gloss to really complete the look. I'm sure the cats appreciated my fancy new look as they watched me scoop out their litter box. Because if that isn't a good excuse to get prettied-up, I don't know what is

The One Where I Kvetch About the Size of My Ass...

So today I had to go to Old Navy and purchase a pair of jeans that could replace the spinnaker on a sailboat. It is depressing. I mean, really--he was 4lbs, 13oz people! That accounts for about 5lbs of the forty--yes, forty, that I managed to pack on. Where is my size 8 body??!! Yes, yes I know--"9 months up, 9 months down" and yes, I know that my body just performed an incredible feat and under difficult circumstances. Fine. Let's all join hands and sing a verse of Kumbya in honor of my body's tremendous accomplishment. And then let's call Dr. 90210 for a consultation on some serious lipo...

I lost 20 lbs within the first two weeks, and that leaves me with approximately 20 extra pounds. Perhaps that would not bother me so much if I hadn't spent my entire 20's battling the exact same 20 lbs. I am one of those girls who went to college, discovered fruity, frozen drinks and proceeded to pack on the freshmen, sophomore and junior 30. By senior year, I was waddling to class. It took me almost a decade to really get in gear and shed it. I cannot adequately express the fear that strikes me when I think it might take me another decade to get rid of this baby fat. Buying those jeans in a size I haven't worn during my 30's almost drove me to fill my prescription for Zoloft.

I would love to work out. Really I would. I would go to the gym this very instant, or even get down on the floor of my livingroom and knock out 100 crunches right now. But, see, I have this baby and he has a thing for being held. All. The. Time. Unless he is sleeping, he insists on being in my arms. I must have signed some contract or something because he is really adamant about it. Of course, he's not in my arms at this exact moment (ahhhhh, sleeping babies are the bestest babies in the world!!), but that means I have a choice to make: crunch or blog. Something tells me that "blog" will win out in that race every time...my fingers will be in magnificent shape.

if only I could teach my ass to type...

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back...

So we were out of the house yesterday for 8 full hours. Yes, folks, 60-minutes, 8 times in a row. That's the longest I have been out of this house for the past 6 months (not counting, of course, all the time I spent in Hotel High Risk and delivering the little man). And to top that off, we spent those 8 hours without the security of a bottle. Oh no. I was feeling bold and I just packed up my boobs and took them along instead. Living on the edge. And I'm thrilled to report that
a.) my child did not starve to death, and
b.) no one got a free boob show

Of course, before you go nominating me for "public breasfeeder of the year", I must confess that my audience was comprised of in-laws and close friends in the privacy of their homes. It's not as though I whipped them out on the subway or in the Cheesecake Factory. But that is the dream, my friends. That is the dream.

Now for the "one step back" segment of the post. I grocery shopped at 6am this morning. After some lovely bonding (which consisted of more rocket-launched poops--his, not mine), I tucked the little man into bed with the big man and skulked out of the house for a little "me" time at Harris Teeter. I recall a day when "me" time consisted of pedicures, a leisurely perusal of the paper in Starbucks, maybe taking in a movie in the middle of the afternoon with the pleasure of my own company. Now it is roaming the aisles of a grocery store at an ungodly hour hair in a messy ponytail and wearing my husband's t-shirt. The deli people weren't even working yet. There was one check-out lane open, and with a chatty-Cathy cashier--annoying.

The last time I was at a grocery store at that type of obscene hour I was a drunken college student, jonesing for a box of "chicken in a biscuit" crackers. I bumped into my 1800's American Literature professor in the same aisle. As she was reaching for a box of animal crackers, I can only assumes she was as wasted as me. Um, awkward.

The only people I encountered on my trip through the aisles today were young, sleep deprived parents much like myself. Some had their spawn with them, and some of them were just recognizeable as new parents by the look on their faces---the dark circles under the eyes and the vague expression of an escaped mental patient; clearly lost and aimless, but hoping they don't get captured and sent back to the ward.

One thing I've never realized about grocery stores is how freaking loudly they play their muzak. Without the countless bodies of roaming shoppers to absorb the sound waves, the plinky plunky versions of Les Miserable and Celine Dion songs are enough to make me want to jam forks in my ears until I achieve the blissful peace of silence. Truly if muzak had existed in his time, Dante would have devoted an entire circle of hell to it in his Inferno--perhaps as "musical" accompaniment to his river of excrement chapter. Good times.

Not the quality "me" time I had been craving, but I did kill two birds with one stone; the few minutes in the car alone were fabulous and now we have cereal, soy milk and wine to get us through the week.

File this Under: Shut Up, Bitch!

I can't believe this slipped my mind the other day when I wrote about my craptacular trip to school. I had the most inappropriate interaction with a lady who needs to have her jaw wired shut to keep her from ever speaking to anyone ever again.

It has been my experience that as soon as a woman announces she is pregnant to friends and family, or through her appearance becomes obviously pregnant to strangers, the population at large suddenly assumes the generally accepted rules of socially acceptable comments and topics of discussion are null and void. Anything goes. Please tell me about your 3rd degree vaginal tear. By all means, comment on how fat my fingers are and how relieved you are that I am pregnant, because you were afraid I was just "letting myself go". I want to hear nothing more than about how a co-worker's friend's sister-in-law lost her baby at 26 weeks. All opinions on, and condemnations of, parenting styles are welcome (especially if you've not asked my opinion about it before you rail against one technique and swear by the other).

But this, my friends, takes the cake...

As I was leaving the bbq, getting ready to pick up a few last things from my office, I was stopped in the hallway by one of the special education teachers I have worked with for the past 4 years. She's a nice enough lady, but apparently she has no internal filters with which to make socially appropriate decisions regarding her conversation with others.

She approaches me in all seriousness and waits for me to finish a bizarre conversation with another coworker who thinks that somehow I have the power to get another person fired (I was partially administration this year before leaving) and is trying to get me to exercise said power (which I don't really have to begin with, but especially not after 5 months off and my boss signing my year-leave-of-absence form). As psycho #1 leaves, psycho #2 enters and says to me....wait for it....wait for it...

"You know, Sarah, that he (points to Ethan like she's selecting a lobster from the tank at the fish counter) runs a high likelihood of being LD later in life." (for anyone not in education, LD means Learning Disabled).

Oh. My. God. Are you fucking kidding me? Did you really just say that??? Really???

Now, Husband tells me I have no poker face, but if anyone ever tried to hide her rage and absolute horror at the inappropriateness of something said to her, I did. My face hurt almost immediately from the fake smile I plastered on. Apparently she, as well as everyone else in the school, knows that he was 5 weeks early and as a special education teacher, she decided it was her duty (yes, this is how she described it) to let me know what we might "have to deal with down the line."

She seemed to realize a split second later just how horribly rude her little friendly "fyi" was and tried to back peddle by saying she hoped it didn't upset me to hear that and he might not have any issues, but that it was better to know early on so we can intervene before he hits school age, yadda, yadda, yadda...

Now, she may very well be right. Having a preemie does come with some baggage. Husband and I are prepared to have to deal with residual consequences of having Ethan at 34w5d. But is this really something you bring up casually, in the hallway, a total, "by the way..." sort of comment before saying, "Have a nice summer!"? My head was spinning. Since then I have spent an inordinate amount of energy fighting the urge to type "prematurity" and "learning disabilities" into a google search. My son is 7 weeks old; I don't want to worry about these things yet. I want to enjoy the cute little noises he makes and the faces that make Husband and I giggle without wondering if everything is the sign of some developmental delay.

These are the times when I wish I could come up with a witty sarcastic comment on the spot; I mean, this situation was begging for a pithy little retort, but I was tongue-tied. I am one of those people who is completely unable to come up with those sorts of comebacks when the situation calls for it, but on the way home I am a regular stand up comedian--with an audience of one...me. This time, though, the only thing I could come up with on the way home was, "shut up, bitch!!"

My Son, the Rocket Launcher...

Yes, that's him. Look how innocent. Yeah, right.

Today was the day of explosive bodily functions. Good times.

This morning I was audience to and target of a lovely butt blast of poo. Right in the middle of a diaper change. The first diaper change of my day. You know, that groggy, not on my game yet, reflexes still a bit slow diaper change. Yeah, that one. Ethan, or at least his butt, is always on, however, so we were not at all equal opponents in this battle.

I had just removed the dirty diaper and was lovingly coo'ing to my seemingly sleepy little one, the picture of innocence and peace (surprising for a diaper change; they are usually greeted with a sense of righteous indignation that involves some serious wailing and flailing). As I reached for a fresh-scented wipe, I heard the "thpppbbbbttttt" of air. This is common; one would think my son reguarly indulged in chilli or other bean-based treats considering the frequency and ferocity of his gas. He does not.

Well, this time the gas was accompanied by whatever was left from my darling's last feeding. I will spare you the details, but let me say this--thank goodness we used washable paint on his nursery walls. It was a bit modern-arty and perhaps would be worth some money someday if it hadn't been made of poo...

One would think this was enough explosiveness for the day, but no. With the butt explosion conquered, Ethan clearly felt he had to give equal time to the realm of burping/spitting up. By mid-day we had had a fairly peaceful day. There was play time, nap time, tummy time, and several little noshes to fill the little man's tummy.

After one of the above mentioned noshes, Ethan was inspired to "bedazzle" mama's shirt with a fabulous spray of milk. Let me say this, once it's out of my body via the boob, I really don't expect to ever see it or interact with it again. I'm done with it. But my son seems to think that I want it back, like it's only on loan to him, and that I want to wear it. He looks at me like a cat bringing home a dead bird and dropping it at my feet, "Here, Mama, I thought you might like this. Love you." Yeah, thanks, kid. Who needs a necklace or pair of earrings for accessories when you have a kicky little breast milk stain all over your collar and shoulder?! And you can toss out the perfume, too, as it's got quite a distinctive aroma. So cost effective...

like I said, good times...

Life Before 45 Degrees...

Six months ago, I walked out of my school building on a Friday afternoon, after promising my class of 8th graders that on Tuesday (Monday was MLK, Jr day) I would bring them homemade cookies to reward their excellent behavior during our library research project. Yes, I bribed them. I"m not above it--you try dealing with 24 fourteen year olds who have no interest whatsoever in anything but who said what about whom in the cafeteria or who's wearing what, and then you judge me. Until then, back off. Cookies work. Candy works. As a matter of fact, I spent a good deal of my salary on chocolate bribes in my years as a teacher and my test scores were consistenly impressive and "no child left behind"-ish. So there.

So anyway, I made that promise, and walked out of the building. Three days later, I had an ultrasound that showed a lazy, weak, incompetent cervix. It was not susceptible to my chocolate bribes. I never went back to work.

Until yesterday. The last day of school. It is tradition for the faculty to have a little bbq picnic after the last bus full of sweaty, screaming, swearing teenagers pulls out of the lot for the summer. It is definitely a sight worth celebrating. See ya, kiddos!! As a teacher, I can honestly say that we are happier than the kids when the last day of school comes around--it is an indescribable joy to say goodbye to them, even if they weren't hellions.

So I packed up Ethan and his gigantic diaper bag ( you know the phrase, "everything but the kitchen sink"? Believe me, if i could find any reason why he might need it, 'i could fit the damn thing in this bag). We drove the GW Parkway to work, listened to the old morning radio team I used to listen to on my commute and sadly, this nostaglic drive was pretty much the highlight of my trip down memory lane. And even then, it was greatly enhanced by the fact that I could look in my rearview mirror and see little E staring at the world going by him.

I got to the school building just in time to see the busses pull away as I parked my car. I was careful not to bring Ethan during regular school hours, because my god, the germs! I don't know exactly when covering your mouth when you sneeze or cough or using a tissue instead of your sleeve to wipe your nose becomes an automatic sort of reflex, but I'll tell you, I rarely see a middle schooler do either. They generally seem to feel it's their duty to spread as many germs as quickly as possible. Perhaps there is a prize that I am unaware of. But anyway, taking him to school while the students were still roaming the halls would be akin to letting Britney Spears babysit, so I waited until the halls were clear of all but tissue-using, mouth-covering grown ups.

There were many "ooohs" & "ahhhhs" each time I encountered someone I hadn't seen in months. I reiterated over and over that he is 6.5 weeks, but should really be 1.5 weeks (this in response to the "he's so TINY!!" crap that everyone spewed at me). Granted, they also gushed about how gorgeous and precious and handsome he is (duh), but the "tiny" comment really irked me after awhile. Did anyone say to me, "wow, Sarah, you're so fat now!"? or do people say to men under 5'10''. "wow, dude, you're short!"? No. Then why would you focus on a baby's size like that? They all know he was born early--of course he's small. No need to harp on it, people. Talk about all that hair instead.

Of course, there's nothing really wrong with pointing out that he's small, but really...the mom of a preemie has this residual guilt that can be sparked by the most innocuous comments (at least this mom of a preemie does). And after about the 15th time I heard it, I was knee deep in guilt-stew. Yes, people, I know! He was early! I did a bad job of gestating--I get it! grrrrrr.....

Aside from the overly-sensitive reaction to mindless comments from these people, the vast majority of whom made no attempt to contact me at all during the previous months, the morning was relatively pleasant. I caught up with people I had been missing, said goodbye to people I knew I'd never see again and ate a really yummy cupcake. But it was a detached pleasant; kind of like running into an old friend from high school that you really sort of forgot until they were standing there in front of you. You catch up, talk about old times & promise to keep in touch when you know damn well you'll never call or email and most likely never cross paths again.

My office looked exactly as I left it on January 13th. The paperwork on my desk was in the exact same spot; the voice mail light was flashing on my phone (I never checked my work voice mail, ever); the big bag of chocolate bribes was still in the third drawer down. It was eerie. The only sign of any time having passed was the fact that the humidity of the room (it was like a swamp in there) had turned all the paper damp and curling up at the ends. I threw a lot of stuff away without really looking at it & gathered up some personal stuff.

After the picnic, I drove home with my baby and the wedding pictures I retrieved from my office, feeling....nothing. I expected to feel a sense of sadness. I was closing a door. Officially I am "taking a year's leave of absence", but I have a strong suspicion that that year will stretch into either several years or a new career. I am usually a sentimental sap, tearing up at anything that remotely looks like a goodbye. But leaving the school felt like nothing but relief and freedom. I don't even feel like the same person who used to work there.

I realized as far as change goes, I may as well have been wrapped up in a cocoon during the 4 months I spent in bed because who I was and who I am today are as different as catepillar and butterfly.

A Picture and Some Thoughts...

baby camoflage...

When he's not lounging in his aquarium kick & crawl and poking hesitantly at the giant squeaking, crinkling inchworm, Ethan is enjoying his new found skill as a breastfeeder. Yes, we've almost entirely cut out the middle-man and it's down to just him and me. Thank GOD! Finally feelings of inadequacy are starting to fade away and maybe, just maybe, I'll let myself believe that I'm a relatively competent mother. I mean, when you hold me up to someone like, say, Britney Spears, who is probably supplementing with Bud Light, I am in the running for Mother-of-the-Freaking-Year award simply for being sure Ethan is strapped into his car seat and not hanging out in the glove compartment or something.

File this under: "she thinks too much"--I am realizing that every day that passes with Ethan is a day he will never be this little again. While a couple weeks ago I felt like I was wishing away this "up all night, no idea what he wants when he cries" and really wanting him to skip straight to 6 months, now I am sad each night when I go to sleep that the day is over and he's going to be a day older when we wake up in the morning. He changes so much every day; how will I ever remember it all?

In other news, Ethan is 6 weeks old, over 7lbs and is starting to show interest in things other than the back of his eyelids and my boobs. As seen in the picture above, he is beginning to "interact" with some of his toys. And by interact I mean he lies there, inadvertently kicks things when he flails and spits up when he gets too excited. Good times...

Speaking of good times, I made my first attempt to reclaim my pre-baby "party girl" ways on Saturday. Husband took Ethan up to his mother's for a visit and I tried to find something in my closet that didn't make me look like I was still pregnant (unsuccessful) and went out for drinks with the girls. Having made the plans almost a week in advance, I was on the edge of my seat in anticipation---me, my girlfriends, gorgeous summer weather and a pitcher of margaritas! I could barely contain myself!!

I was home, asleep on the couch and hour and half after leaving the house. I had two drinks. Two relatively weak, very girly frozen margaritas. I was not drunk, or buzzed or even tipsy. I was exhausted. All I could think about was, "It's quiet at my house. It's empty. I could sleep for a couple of hours. Really sleep." That, combined with the sedative effect of the tequila and I was powerless to fight it--I practically nodded off at the bar. And I used to be life of the party....sigh.

The nap was fabulous. Waking up when Husband and Ethan returned and snuggling with my little man was pure bliss.

Two Speeds....

"Sleeping" & "Crying"...

oh good god, how long does this last? These are literally the two faces of my spawn. A.) The angelic repose of peaceful slumber, a face so precious you have to remind yourself it truly isn't made of spun sugar and begging to be eaten. and B.) The wailing, gape-mouthed, turning purple, howling ear piercer that you fully expect to morph into some kind of underworld demon and devour you whole as his eyes turn glaring, smoking red.

Yes, these are the two faces of the little man over the past couple of days. Perhaps I exaggerate a smidge. Perhaps. But I do guarantee that after twelve hours of just me and the kiddo, it certainly feels that way. Of course, at this very moment he is quietly babbling to the octopus over his head on his aquarium "kick & crawl" mat. A momentary middle of the road. I can only assume this lull in the action means he is gearing up for a scream-fest of epic proportions. Good times...

I am happy to announce though, that when he chooses to grace us with the presence of option #1, we are now able to nourish ourselves during the momentary quiet, as I was finally able to successfully grocery shop. Amy, thanks for the advice on the car seat--unfortunately the store we go to apparently hates children, because the seat simply doesn't go in the cart. I will try your trick at another, more kid friendly establishment. However, Husband and I made it a team effort and I pushed the cart while he pushed the kid in the stroller. I bought actual produce and actual ingredients with which to cook real meals. Now I just have to make sure I use said produce and ingredients rather than allowing them to unwittingly turn into science experiments in my in-house lab, otherwise known as a refrigerator.

And, in the span of one paragraph, the scream-fest has begun. So I bid you adieu. Wish me luck.

We're all going to starve...

So I've become quite the adventurer--thanks to the "rear view mirror" my father installed in my back seat so I can see my son while I'm driving, I no longer fear that he is turning all shades of blue in his car seat while I warble along with the radio, oblivious (although I should be worrying about the distraction factor--looking at Ethan while I'm driving is the equivalent of talking on about a dozen cell phones all at once), and I am feeling like getting out of the house might be the one thing that saves my sanity.

That is, of course, unless I am driving to the OB's office, in which case, I question my sanity even more, considering that at yesterday's appointment I said, "I cry a lot" and 30 seconds later I held a prescription for Zoloft in my hands. Wow, they just hand the pills out like candy--can I get a Pez dispenser with that?

But that is not the point of my post--I'm talking about my adventures, not my flirtation with supposed post partum depression.

Yesterday I attempted to get into the swing of things BIG TIME. In two weeks time, my full time, all-but-live-in maid (aka Mom) will be heading for higher, baby-free, ground and I will be left to my own devices to keep my family afloat. That means there will be laundry to do, dishes to wash, meals to plan and cook, piles of clutter to move around from one place to another and groceries to buy.

Last week I slowly tackled the in-house chores like laundry and dishes, building up to the bigger stuff. Amazingly, this week we have clean utensils and underwear due to my efforts. Yesterday I decided to bite the bullet and take the kid to the grocery store with me. I thumbed through my Rachael Ray's "30 Minute Meals" (her show is so much more fun than her books...booo!) and picked out a few innocuous, how-hard-could-it-be, recipes and made a shopping list.

As mentioned, the ride to the grocery store was super stress free because every time I looked up, there he was in the rearview mirror thingy, not at all any tinge of blue--just looking around at the world wizzing by him (have I mentioned that he's awake a lot now?) Fabulous...this was going to be a life-affirming trip! I can leave the house with an infant! I can do all the things I used to do (short, of course, to wheeling his stroller into Friday afternoon happy hours and downing 4 cosmos before 6pm).

Buuuuuuut, then I got to the store. I figured I would simply transfer his car seat to the front seat of the cart, and voila--let the shopping commence!!! I have seen this for years. I figured it's what you do when you take a baby shopping. No brainer.

Um. That's not how it works. The car seat, complete with my now fussy baby, was too wide for the cart's seat. When I tried to set it in there, it was balanced precariously in such a way that only Britney Spears would find it an acceptable mode of transport for a baby. I may not win a mother of the year award, but I don't want to be in her baby-dropping, front-seat-driving company...

There I stood, in the parking lot of Harris Teeter, shopping cart in front of me, car seat in my hands, fussy baby complaining about---whatever. Mkay...this is not what I was expecting. The refrigerator at home is full of rotting produce and sour milk. Aisles and aisles of fresh, new food was just feed away from me. We NEED food...and yet, I can't get through the grocery store door. I contemplated putting him in his stroller and pushing both the shopping cart and the stroller through the aisles, but then I realized I might be asked to leave and never return if I attempted that.

So, sighing heavily, I accepted that I would be returning home empty-handed. My refrigerator would remain a haven for questionable left-overs, flat soda and year-old marinades. Dinner would have to be yet another experience with take-out.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly...

I love having a baby. I love my son in a way I never realized I could love another living thing on this earth. I love him so much it hurts and there are times at night when I wake up just to look at him, to make sure he's still there--that I haven't dreamt it all up and little Ethan is just a figment of my imagination. When he smiles, even though rationally I know they are gas smiles, my heart melts and I am just soaring. This is the meaning of my life.

I feel the need to say that, to make that abundantly clear, before I embark upon this post. Because this post is about how f*cking hard it is to be a parent and I don't want anyone to post a comment questioning my love for my son or my willingness to throw myself in front of a bus for him if the situation even remotely called for it.

I am torn. Between wanting to hold Ethan close to me 24/7 & wanting to run screaming from the house the moment Husband appears from his office at the end of the day. Between wanting to breastfeed like a champ, luxuriating in the bonding and the empowerment of providing my child with his sole source of nutrition, and wanting to go to Costco to stock up on the biggest canisters of Enfomil they have, letting my aching boobs dry up, never to be heard from again.

Clearly I opt to stay and hold my son and whip out the boob at the slightest indication that he might be remotely peckish for a nosh. Of course I do. And I love him with a fierceness that staggers me. But sometimes I catch myself on just this side of a panic attack. Because none of this is easy. The only part that comes easily is the love. The aching, unconditional, "I'd die for you" love. The rest of it is like the hardest geometry test I've ever taken (and if you've been reading for awhile, you know how math and I don't get along).

The difference is that this is a test I have to pass. In math, I could always just fail--what's the worst that could happen? It was a class and as important as it seemed at the time, it's significance in my life, in the grand scheme of things, was miniscule. It meant, I guess, that I'd never be an astronomer. But passing the test of motherhood--well, its hard to venture into hyperbole when consiering the importance of that. And there are times when I feel like I am teetering dangerously on the edge of a disappointing grade.

Everyone says that breastfeeding gets easier; they swear up and down that soon I will love it; that it will become second nature and I will be a pro--the encouragement is nice and there are times when I believe them. But there are also times when I feel like I would enjoy this whole motherhood thing so much more if I could give Ethan a bottle and a schedule and actually get a shower in more than once every two or three days.

I know that, due to the brilliant incompetence of my reproductive system in general, Ethan is the only child I will ever give birth to; therefore I feel incredible pressure (yes, from myself alone) to get. it. right. To be sure that everything I do with him and for him is right and perfect from the first step. If I quit breastfeeding because it is too difficult for me, I know I will look back later in life and feel like I let myself and him down. It's not about me--I don't come first anymore--so the discomfort, the frustration, the anxiety--they all have to take a backseat to doing what's best for Ethan. 95% of me accepts that gladly and willingly--5% of me resents it bigtime.

Because I haven't left the house in days. Because I haven't slept for more than 2 uninterrupted hours in a month. Because sneaking out to the grocery store for 10 minutes at the end of the day is a luxury. Because I haven't seen any of my friends in weeks. Because sometimes I miss Friday afternoon, drop down drunk happy hours with my "work friends". Because now that I'm breastfeeding, it is all on me. And it is overwhelming. And I feel guilty when I get overwhelmed. I want so desperately to be good at this. And sometimes I feel like I am being sucked down a drain.

Everyone tells you that you "forget the pain" of childbirth. A few women are honest and say that's a bunch of bullshit--the memory of that pain stays with you forever. What noone ever told me was hard it was after the pain of childbirth subsides.

Would love to blog...

but i have a little man snoozing on my lap & he's just too freaking cute to move...

so I'll just give you a picture for today.

Like his mommy, Ethan finds it impossible to express himself without using his hands...

Aimless rambling....

My preemie is quickly approaching his due date and therefore the sleepy little bundle is suddenly awake a LOT and apparently exercising whatever muscles one uses for screaming bloody murder. Also, we have developed a new pasttime--spitting up. Not just a little dribble here and there. Oh, no. I'm talking "did you even EAT that much??!!" spitting up, after every meal. So add the reguritation of mama's milk to her pre-existing "is he getting enough; where are my see-through boobs?!" anxiety and mama is basically a big old basket case, obsessed with the idea that her little boy is starving to death--regardless of the wet, poopy diapers he continues to present to us with tremendous pride (symbolized by his insistance that he spray what can only be described as a triumphant stream of pee all over the place the moment we remove his diaper--if this were an olympic sport, no judge could give him less than a perfect 10 for this.)

Ah, the joy of it all.

I won't dwell on my growing neuroses about my child's eating habits. We are going to the cute, younger than me pediatrician tomorrow and I'm sure he'll assuage all my crazy-mama fears.

In other news, I sit here today, officially wearing my interim "fat chick" clothes. Yes, I gained 40 lbs during the saga of the bedrest. Okay, so 10 lbs of it was in the first trimester when I was not restricted to bed. Carbohydrates were the only things that even qualified as food for me, and considering the hit-by-a-truck fatigue I felt during those first couple of months, I could literally feel the potatoes and bagels adhering to my ass. So sad. I did lose 20 lbs in the first two weeks after delivery, after all 40lbs seemed to settle temporarily in my ankles and feet. But I had to go to Target the other day to purchase a cart load of inexpensive chubby duds to wear until the breastfeeding diet starts doing it magic...

Speaking of, (yes, there's much more aimless rambling now that I am a sleep-deprived lunatic), I think when a breastfeeding mother steps on the scale, she needs to take into account the fact that her breasts are now the size of a small country and as dense as the poplulation of NYC. Yeah, I have 20 lbs to lose, but I really think 10-12 of those pounds are just sitting in my boobs. A quick glance at myself in the mirror this morning left me wondering when, where and how I had breast implants without my knowledge...

In an attempt to begin losing some of this weight, Ethan and I ventured out yesterday for our first "mommy & me" walk to the park. We didn't make it all the way to the park (I was in bed for four months, people--some slack, please!), but we did find a gorgeous little bike path that leads to the park, through many back yards and I realized that we live on the outskirts of a really nice neighborhood. Not that we're ghetto, but I may have mentioned in previous posts that we are a neighborhood "in transition"---well, the bike path people have transitioned into rich, BMW-SUV driving, flower pots on every porch, new addition on the back of the house yuppies. Ah, that is the dream...

Some of these people have landscaped their asses off for the viewing pleasure of those on the bike path. And it amazes me that I am 3 minutes from Georgetown and the hustle & bustle of DC, yet this path is complete peace and quiet, not to mention laced with tons of pretty flowers and chattering squirrels (they all probably live next door to me in the abadoned house). Soon I am going to have to get my flabby ass to Home Depot and buy some flowers to plant in our yard. Ethan enjoyed the view of the inside of his eye lids, as usual, so the walk was really for me. I think we'll go again today. If I can get off the couch...

One Month

Dear Ethan,

It is hard to believe a month worth of days and nights (oh, how they all meld together after awhile) have passed since you made your grand entrance. Your daddy and I can scarcely recall what life was like before you joined us and made us a family (although I have a vague recollection of showering daily and sleeping for more than 2 hours at a time). There are no words to adequately express the joy you have brought to our lives. (Note to self: re-read this post at approx 2am tomorrow morning during nightly scream-fest to remind yourself about all the joy.)

When you first came into the world, I only got to see you for a few seconds before they took you away to make sure you were healthy and strong (you were a little bit early). It was so strange to know that you were in another room, away from me. For the past several months, you had been my constant companion, always making your presence known with a kick to the rib or your constant hiccups (you still have those). I hadn't been without you since the moment of your conception and the next several hours were so difficult for me. I just wanted to have you next to me, but you needed to be in the NICU and I was recovering from surgery.

This is you, right out of the oven; what a stylish little hat you have on.

Daddy and I visited you in the NICU every day for 8 days, sometimes several times in one day. We learned how to feed you, bathe you, change you and basically not be afraid of your tiny little self! Your favorite thing during this time was to "kangaroo" with me--I'd lay your tummy on my chest and we would listen to each other breathe & feel each other's heartbeats--no matter how fussy you were about a noise or a light in that busy place, when we kangaroo'd, you would just melt onto me; it was almost like having you in my belly all over again. That was the era of the "Joe Cool" sunglasses and the magically appearing lactation consultants. I swear, my breasts must make some sort of high pitched squealing noise that only LCs can hear when I unhook my bra; they arrived within seconds of each attempt to get you on the boob.

You've been home with us now for three weeks and every day has been an adventure. You have mastered the art of sleep grunting and babbling, and you know how to hold the pacifier in your mouth with the back of your hand. You created the "sneezescream", though I fear you've outgrown it (and alas, we never captured it on tape). You already share your daddy's mannerisms when it comes to sleep--one hand up and tucked underneath your chin.

You are even developing some basic language skills (I can dream, right?) You have a very specific cry, particularly when we are changing your diaper, that sounds exactly like you're saying, "Okay", as in, "Okay, you got me. Good joke. Okay, you can stop with the wipes and the ointment now! Okay! Okay! Seriously! Okay!"

We do spend most of our time on the essentials: eating, sleeping and pooping. In those rare moments when you are awake, you spend most of your time in the sling (this is how we "attach), the bouncy seat (this is how mommy is able to blog or luxury of luxuries, paint her toenails) or enjoying some good old fashioned tummy time (this is how you learn to hold your head up and release gas--two very important skills that will impress people later in life).

sling time with daddy; we digs the naps in this house right now.

swimming in the bouncy seat, apparently just after taking something really hot out of the oven

Rocking tummy time with the boppy

Sometimes it is overwhelming to have a little person to take care of 24/7; before you, we only had ourselves to worry about. It was easy. Now it's not. Now every new day is a challenge that we've never faced before. But I cannot begin to tell you, little Mr. E, just how much your mommy & daddy adore you and how much we look forward to the challenge and the joy of each new day.

Love, Mommy

Where can I find see-through boobs?

Because I'm in the market for a pair.

The lactation consultant came over yesterday and worked her magic. Ethan is now a breastfed baby (albeit awkward and frustrating). I think there's been one mini-bottle in the mix since 2pm yesterday afternoon--the rest has been all boob, baby.

The problem is I am spoiled by the bottle. I knew that at every feeding, Ethan was getting 2oz of milk from start to finish. And I knew when "finish" was because there was nothing left--just that satisfying "I'm sucking on air now, mommy" sound of an empty bottle. I could rest assured knowing that he was getting enough and Husband and I could say, "Let's see if he'll take 65mls this time" and assess how ready he was to up his intake, based on whether or not he spit up after he ate. It was a wonderful feeling of being able to monitor his growth and gave me an incredible feeling of security that I was doing a good thing for my son--like taking care of him and making sure he was growing.

Well, boobs don't make a "I'm sucking on air now, mommy" sound when they are empty and that whole lying down on the job positioning in breastfeeding makes it really easy for the little man to snooze rather than eat. I need to be some sort of Hindu goddess with 15 arms to do all the tickling, poking and prodding required to keep him conscious long enough to actually swallow anything mommy's got to offer. It makes for a long feeding and a weepy, insecure mommy. What fun. It's as if, almost a month into the adventure, I am back at day one and relearning it all...

And so I scrutinize the poopy, wet diapers even more obsessively and hyperventilate at every cry--does he need to eat again? Did he get enough last time? Do I have anything to give him? How do I know when he is done?

So what I need is a set of transparent boobs, clearly marked for milliliters and ounces. Then, perhaps, this neurotic mommy will be able to peel herself off the ceiling, take a few deep breaths and actually get through a feeding without melting down..I think I'll start looking on Ebay...

At least they haven't eaten the baby...

Yes, I am referring to my cats. My poor, long-suffering, attention-starved, elderly kitties.

This is them usurping the glider and ottoman that my parents thought they purchased for Ethan's feedings and midnight cuddle-fests. They didn't realize (nor did I) that what they were really doing was furnishing my cats with a retirement home. Poor Penny (the ottoman kitty)--she just looks so pathetic lying there. "Fine, kick me out of your room. Forget all about me. Forsake me for that tiny crying, flailing, pooping thing. Sighhhhhhhhhh" (Yes, in my head, she is a Yenta with an accent to boot)

A little background: the cats have been with me for over a decade. I got Abby from an over-all and flannel-shirt wearing farm lady during my senior year of college in Lee, NH and I rescued Penny from the animal shelter in Manchester two years later. I actually fought off an entire family of whiney children to get her after seeing her on the humane society's public access tv show (Oprah was in commercials).

Until I gave birth to an actual human baby, I truly believed that I loved these cats as much as a mother loves her child. I called them "my babies" and I spoiled them rotten. Husband likes to tell people that if it ever came down to him giving me a "It's me or the cats" ultimatum, the cats would be curled up on his side of the bed while it still had his indentation on it. And while that is totally untrue, I can't blame him for thinking that--I do love the cats to distraction.

And I still do. But I can't afford the time, the space or the energy right now. Abby used to spend her day curled up at my side (in the days of the bedrest); but now Ethan is curled up in that same location. Abby is currently pretending she is happy at the foot of the bed, poor thing; and she is NOT a foot of the bed type of cat--she is far too diva for that business.

With the warm weather, Penny has high-tailed it to the basement which is her favorite summer hang out. Thank goodness she loves lurking down there while it is sweltering out, or I would feel such guilt--imagine, a cat banished to the basement and me to blame...I don't think I could live with it. But if she's happy down there, I'm happy for her to be there.

There is much tentative walking around and sniffing of the baby, but thus far they have agreed to leave him pretty much alone. He is smaller than them and therefore poses little real threat. Plus, they never know when he will cry, SneezeScream or otherwise freak them out with his sudden noises and movements. Cats don't really like surprises, I've found, despite the whole curiosity adage. For a few nights I slept with one eye open and my ears on high alert to be sure they didn't try to jump into the pack n' play and take a nap on my son's head or lick him to death with their germy little cat-food smelling tongues (I love them, but I am a realist--they have some nasty cat breath). They have attempted neither and I am beginning to believe they will not show any ill-will towards him until he is able to grab hold of their tails and give them a good yank. Then he's on his own...

Now, that's not to say there's been no feline-related drama with the arrival of Mr.Ethan. While I was in the hospital for the several days following my c-section, the cats apparently decided that rather than take the time to develop the gift of speech and express their displeasure verbally, they would simply pee everywhere and leave the occassional poop lying around in pooping-restricted zone (that would be anywhere but the litter box, obviously). Fortunately for me, I was laid up in a hospital bed, counting the seconds until my next dose of pain relief, so someone else got to clean up those joyful expressions of feline frustration (thanks, Husband and Mom).

I feared the rebellion would continue when we returned home, but it seems that as long as I am here, regardless of the "baggage" I am towing (and I use the term baggage from their perspective, not mine), they are content.

The Talented Mr. E...

He loves bath day (notice daddy holding a diaper in the firing range; Ethan is a pro at the suprise pee attack)...
He sleeps like an angel (for about 45 minutes at a time)...
He ponders the meaning of life (until he gets a bit gassy; then he just fusses)...


What I really want to share with you, but I can't, due to technical limitations and a serious lack of timing, is our favorite thing that Ethan does. We need a video camera and an entire day to roll film, just in case opportunity presents itself in order to bring this to you--it is the SneezeScream and it makes me laugh so hard I think my incision will bust...

We know it's coming when Ethan starts to get a little squinty-eyed and scrunches up his face--we know it's either the SneezeScream or a big old fuss-fest coming on. We pray for the SneezeScream.

After the initial expression, the cartoon-like inhalations start as he gears up for the sneeze. There are usually two or three good "ah-ah-ah"'s before the "CHOOOOO!!!"

And then it happens. A look of complete confusion and the scream. I don't know whether it's fear, indignance or what, but he lets out this seamless, squealing scream right after the sneeze. He doesn't cry; he doesn't fuss. He just lets out one solitary scream as if to say, "HEY!!! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT??? KNOCK THAT CRAP OFF!" And then he's done. Peace is restored until the next sneeze sneaks up on him and rocks his world. Husband and I fall all over ourselves laughing when he does it--it is the funniest thing I have ever seen and heard.

It is the final straw in our decision to buy a video camera. I have to capture that SneezeScream before he figures out that a sneeze is just a sneeze and ceases to punctuate it with the indignant wail of "what the???!!!" I can't bare to think that I might forget this if I don't have it saved forever.

The other "skill" that my son has exhibited is the ability to hiccup, practically on demand, and for seemingly hours on end. And not little dainty, baby hiccups, either. No--I'm talking loud, juicy, hear-them-downstairs-without-the-monitor hiccups. They come out of nowhere and possess his entire little body until I think he is going to just explode. They don't seem to bother him at all, but they make me writhe in agony--I hate having hiccups. But as far as hiccups go, this little man could win awards--and probably not just in the newborn category, either!

Tomorrow we hope to add a new skill to our bag-o-tricks--breastfeeding. The lactation consultant is coming over to tortu--uh, I mean teach us how to get it right. I am so hoping that it works; life will be easier when I can just whip out lunch for the little man without a moment's notice. Right now, with the pumping and storing and re-heating and bottle, it is like preparing a 4 course meal as opposed to pulling up to the drive-thru window...i love a good drive-thru. Wish us luck...

Three weeks & a day...

The funny thing about preemies (or maybe all babies--I only have experience with the preemie kind) is that they are born with all this hair. Not necessarily the hair on their head, although Little Mr. E was born with such a full head of hair at 34w that had he gone to term, he would have been a long-haired hippie freak when he came out.

No, I am talking about the hair that covers my little boy's shoulders and back. Not light wispy hair, like earlobe fuzz or anything like that. Long, full, dark hair. Like he should be on a beach in the South of France, sporting a Speedo and wearing a gold chain & medallion. This image frightens me to no end. When will this newborn Guido hair fall out? I hear my son's first words, "Foggetaboutit" and I cringe. I want to hear "mama", not, "How you doin?"

But Little Mr. E continues to amaze and astound. Aside from being impossibly gorgeous (biased? perhaps), he has the sweetest nature we could hope for. No, he doesn't sleep through the night or giggle while we change his diaper, but he only complains when something in his little world warrants complaining about. He lets mommy & daddy sleep at least a couple of hours at at time and seems to really like anything that vibrates, so the Pack N' Play and Aquarium Bouncy Seat are big hits in our house. At first I worried we were scrambling his little preemie brain, but the pediatrician laughed at me, and I guess he'd know. So buy stock in Duracell; we'll be single-handedly keeping them in business until this little man reaches 20lbs.

As for me, I have been slowly reacquainting myself with the world outside. I've been out to dinner with my best friend, taken money out of the ATM, and gone grocery shopping in the past week. Ah, the romance of all those things I left behind. They'd be a lot more fun if I wasn't in a constant state of achiness from my breasts and my gut. I got about as far as the cereal aisle this afternoon before I really REALLY wanted to just sit down and pay some shmoe to do the rest of my shopping for me. Seriously, I had a well detailed list; anyone could have followed it and met me at the checkout in a matter of minutes. But considering there aren't random volunteer shoppers roaming the aisles of Harris Teeter scoping out those too tired or sore to fill their own carts, I was pretty much on my own. I made it through, but was thrown by the remodelling of the frozen food section--I almost didn't go into that area of the store at all, but I needed frozen mixed veggies. You wouldn't think they'd go remodelling an entire section of the grocery store while I was sitting on my ass for the past five months, but they did. Just to mess with me, I imagine.

When I was first "grounded" by Dr. Dark Cloud, I read an article that said some women on bedrest for long stretches of their pregnancy have a tough time readjusting to life in the "real" world; the article specifically cited every day activities like grocery shopping as becoming overwhelming experiences for some women recovering from bedrest. I thought that was very silly--imagine being afraid of grocery shopping. But this afternoon, when I turned the corner and the frozen food section was different, I definitely had a moment. My cart stopped. I looked around to make sure I was in the right place. The person behind me kept going and bumped into me, making for that fabulously embarrassing "oops, sorry. My bad," moment. I had to actually make the decision to go into the "new and improved" chilly sector of the store. And I was so thrown by the experience I forgot several items on my list that came after the frozen food section. Good lord. I can't imagine what my first trip to the mall will be like.

Of course, part of the distraction is that Ethan is at home. Not with me. Until he gets his 2 month shots, we've been told not to take him to malls, grocery stores, etc. So while I am waiting for the lady in the paper hat to slice my deli meat for me (and this could take HOURS...) I am obsessing about what Ethan is doing. Is he sleeping? Is he gassy? Is it time for him to eat? When did I pump last? How much tummy time did we get in today?

Of course, this is not to say that I didn't thoroughly enjoy grocery shopping--I love driving my car again, I loved being around people and walking around (in spite of the aching) and actually DOING something for my family instead of depending on everyone else to do for me. And after the millionth dirty diaper (okay, I know we're nowhere near that yet--I like to exaggerate), it IS nice to have a moment or two in the day just for me (ugh--I feel guilty even typing that).

And now, it is time for a nap...normally one wouldn't nap at 7:15pm, what with it being so close to "bed time", but in this world I live in now, there is no such thing as bed time, just 2-3 hour increments of time when one isn't feeding or changing a baby. You sleep when you can get it...

Energy burst...

So, it's 10am and so far today I have managed to shower, do a load of dishes, put away two loads of laundry (all right; my mom actually DID the laundry, but if I hadn't put it away, it would still be sitting on the chair downstairs...), made the bed (pulling up the duvet counts, right?), fed the cats, fed the baby and pumped breakfast #3 for little Mr. E. AND I have company coming at 10:30 am.

I fully intend to crash by noon. I was going to go to a breastfeeding support group this afternoon, but considering I am not actually breastfeeding, I'm at a loss as to what kind of support I would get. Next week we are going to introduce Mr. E to the breast and hope that pure chaos and desperation does not ensue. Then I will need a support group (or my own round-the-clock therapist), but today I think napping is probably more important.

stolen moment...

that's pretty much all I have right now while little Mr. E snoozes briefly.

Many things to report. I am happy to announce that I still know how to drive. Clearly not the most important development in the past few weeks, but it is reassuring to know that as incompetence abounds in other areas of my body, my brain is still relatively sharp (if remembering how to drive after 5 months as a passenger qualifies as an IQ test).

Little Mr. E is apparently not looking forward to being called a "4lb, 13oz weakling" on the beach this summer (chicks don't dig the chicken legs, you know), so he has shot up to 5lbs, 3 oz in just one week's time. The pediatrician (hello, cute Jewish doctor who is definitely younger than me--ugh!) was very impressed not only be Ethan's cuteness (I choose to believe his reaction was unique to my baby, not just his regular routine), but also with his growth. He is, according to the dr. "perfect"---we like this doctor. He knows his stuff...

What is NOT perfect is the fabulous gas that Mr. E endures about an hour after every meal. So now, not only did I have to restrict everything I put in my mouth during my pregnancy due to the GD, now I have to cut out anything that might upset the little senor's belly because I will tell you---there is nothing worse than the "I"m in pain" cry, especially when you know it's your milk that did it. I'm telling you, the mommy guilt never ends!

Oh and sleep? Hmmmmm, I have a vague recollection of sound, undisturbed sleep. It is a lovely memory and I hope that sometime within the next few years I will be able to revisit such bliss. Yesterday, I actually rejoiced in a 25 minute nap between 3:15-3:40. Ethan enjoys the sound of his voice, even in sleep. This makes for many "what was that?"and "Is he okay?" moments for mommy and daddy throughout the night. Sometimes I just end up awake and staring at the little man while he sleeps. How can I bare to sleep through his babyhood? I fear I will wake up and he'll be going to college.

And my son, aside from being a good eater, is freakishly strong--at 3 weeks (and 5 weeks early, so really minus 2 weeks!), he is already lifting his head up and looking around during tummy time and exerting his will by wriggling indignantly out of every swaddle we can fashion. It is truly astounding that his father can wrap him so tightly I wonder if the little burrito will be able to even breathe and then---poof! 30 seconds later he is waving his hands and taunting us once again. Unbelievable. We have our work cut out for us...

My work for right now is to try to grab a nap, whether it's for the next 10 minutes or an hour. One never knows what the little man has up his sleeve...

technical difficulties...Ethan's birth story is two entried down...

Sorry--pregnancy brain has turned into new-mommy brain; I seem to be getting dumber as the days go on and posted incorrectly...

oh how I miss the blog...

I have a snippet of time while the little man sleeps on one side of me and the big daddy sleeps on the other...I miss the opportunity to write, but these days I am far more focused on trying to master the art of the swaddle (you need a freaking degree, people!! A degree!!), examining poopy diapers for just the right color/consistency combination and hooking myself up to a fabulously torturous device to literally yank the milk out of me until Ethan has figured out that the Avent bottle isn't actually where his food comes from. One of the joys of preemies is the limited ability to latch on and eat at the boob; hence I spend a good portion of my day with my pal the pump.

But all in all, life is wonderful and blissfully sleep-deprived. Don't forget about me--keep checking in; I will be back!!

And so the adventure really begins...

8:45am, Friday, May 5th. You know that feeling right before you get your period where you're achey and crampy for a few minutes and then---woooooosh?! Well, that's how I woke up, but I was pretty sure, considering I was 34w5d pregnant that I wasn't being visited by Aunt Flo...

Indeed, I was not. I was being initiated into the fabulous world of labor and delivery. And I hadn't even packed the all-important hospital bag yet. As a small ocean poured out of me, my entire focus became that bag--where was my bag? Where was my collection of travel-sized toiletries?? I need my toiletries!!!

That is what was going through my head. Where was my mini bottle of pantene??!! Interesting how your brain shields you from the overwhelming. Like the fact that my cervix was trying to dilate with a big old piece of fishing wire wrapped around it. Oh yeah...there was that.

Which I think is why the contractions started right away. My poor cervix , it was so confused. And, as for the stupid Lamaze DVD lady Husband & I were watching for a couple of weeks before this--she told me I would have hours of "hey, this isn't so bad" type contractions before I started feeling any serious "discomfort". Lying bitch. I hate her and her New York accent.

One of my favorite memories of the day was walking into the entrance of the women's center of the hospital with a giant bath towel wrapped around my waist (how much water is IN there??!!) I must have looked like such a dweeb, especially as the contractions hit while I was registering at the front desk. Yes, people were staring. And nope, I didn't care.

I also loved the fact that Husband double-parked in the entrance and was just as jittery as one would expect to see in a sit-com. He wasn't quite Hugh Grant in "9 Months" (we didn't hit any pedestrians or give anyone a heart attack) but he was still pretty tightly wound.

Let me say one thing about the epidural--i love it. I listened to people for months tell me that I did or didn't need one, that I could deal with the pain, or that I couldn't, that it only got so bad and then plateaued, I could deal, yadda yadda yadda...and yes, had I not had a cerclage holding my cervix closed, I might have made a valiant effort to forge ahead for as long as possible without the assistance of pain meds. But the doctor assessed me and decided that I was not a good candidate for unmedicated cerclage removal...let's just say that when in pain, I am not good at holding still. And a writhing patient is really not the patient you want on your table when you are trying to snip a stitch from a cervix with a pair of scissors. So epidural it was....thank god. And immediately following the removal of the cerclage, I dilated to about 4cms.

I had about 2 hours of pain and then the epidural kicked in. From 11am until 4pm or so, I dilated from 4cm to 9cm without so much as a cramp. Around 9cms, I started to feel pressure. And then it all stopped. No more dilating for me. My cervix, in its infinite incompetence, after trying to dilate for almost 4 months, came to a complete stand-still at 9cms and refused to budge. Not only did it refuse to budge, but the little man, who had been so mischeviously pushing on my cervix for months, now refused to make friends with the cervix and kept floating back on up...are you kidding me, kid???!!!!

To make matters even more fun, Ethan's heart rate decided to yo-yo into dangerous territory and the doctor started in with the "c-section" talk. I don't remember a lot of it--was I freaking out and shutting down or just super mellow? Not sure. But at that point, I just wanted Ethan out, whether it was me pushing or them cutting. I didn't feel frantic, I just wanted to meet him, already!!! Enough with the drama!

And so, c-section it was. Husband, who carried the burden of the panic on his own shoulders, signed the consent form and away we went. My parents had been in the delivery room with me up until that point, apparently taking turns at kicking each others' asses at Texas Hold 'Em over by the window while I napped on and off. I remember saying, "bye" to them and then it was all bright lights and blue paper sheets.

Husband and I had our final, "what are we naming this kid?" conversation to distract me from the surgery. Here's where the boundlessness of my body's incompetence becomes almost comical--turns out the c-section was far more necessary than any of us realized when the decision was first made. My uterus is nearly as incompetent as my cervix. I recall hearing the description, "as thin as wet tissue paper." Ah, the poetry of it all...yes, my uterus was barely doing its job and apparently, had I been allowed to push, it could have been super ugly (haven't really discussed it in detail with the doctor yet, but in my daze I heard the words "could have ruptured" in there somewhere...)

Discussion of the recovery doesn't really merit any space here--recovering from major abdominal surgery sucks and I dont' want to remember it as I look back on the blog in the future.

If I were ever to do this again (don't get me started), I would actually like to pursue the whole idea of the "quiet birth" that was made infamous by Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes and the birth of their daughter, whose name, by the way, does NOT mean "Princess" in Hebrew (um, that would be Sarah, dumb-asses). I say this not because I am considering a conversion to Scientology, but because some of those L&D nurses are LOUD!!!! I had one woman who walked in every 15-20 minutes and yelled in an Asian accent, "YOU FEEL PRESSURE LIKE YOU HAVE TO POOP??!!" Um...in front of my dad. No, lady, I don't feel pressure like I have to poop, but thank you for asking again. And again. I think the idea of just shutting up and letting the woman "be" is a pretty nice idea. I found the experience to be very relaxing (pre-c-section)when I wasn't being yelled at by some crazy nurse about the state of my bowels.

The other thing I noticed about the nurses is that all of them seem to have taken, and passed with flying colors, a "How to Distract the Patient from the Current Situation" course in their education. Every single nurse from triage to the OR and recovery said to me, "Wow, what a lovely manicure you have!" EVERY SINGLE ONE. And honestly, it wasn't that great of a manicure, for god's sake; I did it myself!! By the time I got up to my room on the baby floor, I could almost see the nurses scanning me for something innocuous to pleasantly comment on (I haven't had a haircut since December, so it wasn't going to be that!). Very bizarre.

So now, here he is. Little Mr. Ethan, after 9 hours of pretty mellow labor and one rocking c-section, made his way into the world, kicking and screaming, all 8& 9s on his apgars. We spent 8 days in the NICU, being the big old bruiser on the block. Compared to some of the little peanuts in there, Ethan looked like a linebacker at 4lbs, 13oz, which was reassuring to us, but it also made going to the NICU difficult and made me sad for other parents. I cannot begin to express my gratitude to the universe that I got to 34w.

Little Senor update...

Little Senor and Big Daddy's hand. Pay no mind to the little white velcro pads on the side of his head; they are to hold his "Joe Cool" sun glasses while he hangs out under the phototherapy lights getting un-yellowified.




The aforementioned "Joe Cool" glasses--I really need to bring those fashion statements home with us for the old scrapbook. He actually loves them--he claims they help him get a good night's sleep, the diva....


While I am really looking forward to writing the mother of all birth stories, I am dividing my time between sleeping through the "discomfort", pumping milk and driving back and forth to the NICU to visit the little senor (he was born on Cinco de Mayo, after all....)

So instead of the great American novel of childbirth (stay tuned--there is more fabulous irony from the woman of unflinching incompetence...), I will simply let you know that the baby is doing great! He is still in the NICU, but has moved from the "not so healthy" baby room to the "much healthier" baby room. He was eating and breathing on his own from the get-go, only needed help regulating his body temp for a day or two and has a touch of jaundice. His numbers are going down every day, though, so they are talking about sending him home sometime within the next few days. He just has to get through a day outside the isolette without the phototherapy lights and then pass the carseat test--piece of cake!! :-)

To tide you over, here are some pictures of the little guy--fear not the wires and all that hullabaloo; they aren't in him, just on him, monitoring his breathing and whatnot. Of course, I wanted the pictures down here instead of at the top, but I still don't know how to do that and have no time to learn now...back to sleep for me.

Friday was interesting...

Considering I had a baby. :-)

My water broke at 8:45am. Hmmm...nothing like waking up from a dead sleep to dash to the bathroom with warm water rushing out of your body. Scared the hell out of the cats, I can assure.

The story is long and I'm exhausted, what with the major abdominal surgery and all. When I am feeling less overwhelmed, I will tell you the whole story from start to finish. Suffice it to say that Ethan Jacob, formerly known as Peapod, came into this world, kicking and screaming at 5:24 on Cinco de Mayo. Mom and baby are doing quite well--him moreso than me, I think! He's in the NICU, but he's regulating his own temperature and eating on his own, for the most part. I, on the other hand, am very whiney and busy experimenting with a variety of drug cocktails to alleviate some of "sting" involved with a c-section...

Okay--must pump & sleep...

What is the world coming to?

I am shaking my head in disgust at the world today. As I lounged in bed this morning watching Regis & Kelly (I lead a life of tremendous importance and dignity), I learned that Judge freaking Judy has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Now, as cultural and/or historical landmarks go, the Walk of Fame is perhaps the least significant and shallowest of them all (hello, Gettysburg, Mont Vernon, even Graceland (maybe) rank way higher in importance), but has Judge Judy REALLY done anything to merit that honor?

She yells at yokels about how stupid they are for lending their toothless roommate a clunker of a car after the roommate drives it into a lake. She says "witty" things like, "Don't pee on my leg & tell me it's raining". Is this talent? Is this icon-making material? Do we, as a culture, really want to immortalize Judge Judy? Am I going to take my son to Hollywood one day, point at her star & say, "This is Judge Judy, honey. She yelled at dumb-asses,"?

She said in her interview that she had hoped to have her star somewhere near Sidney Poitier's. Sidney Freaking Poitier!?! I can't stop shaking my head. Its as if my little 5 lbs, 12 year old kitty just turned to me and said, "You know, I think I'd like to move out of this dump, head to the jungle and run with the big cats"...Aside from the fact that in that scenario my cat starts speaking to me, it's just ABSURD. Sidney Poitier??? Did she SEE, "To Sir, With Love"?! He makes no analogies to pee and rain in that movie...

I always thought that the Hollywood Walk of Fame was reserved for our legends--our Katherine Hepburns and our Gregory Pecks; people who made Hollywood a respectable, iconic mecca of talent as opposed to the sess-pool of "white-trash made good" that it is today. Or at least today's Walk of Fame stars should have contributed in some way to----uh, HOLLYWOOD. Your Julia Robertses and your Tom Cruises (before he went insane), or your Charlize Therons (just for ability to ugly it up when the role calls for it!) At this rate, they're going to give Lindsay Lohan a star for "Herby--Fully Loaded". How can I bring a child into a world where Lindsay Lohan gets a star for "Herby--Fully Loaded"??!!! Oh yeah, and where you need to refinance your house to fill your gas tank, there's terrorism, mad cow disease, bird flu, war, unchecked genocide & a president who says, "nucular" instead of "nuclear"? These things concern me, too.

Speaking of the little man--he is fixing to bust out of me in whatever manner possible. I don't think he's received any formal training yet on the whole, "you leave via the birth canal" tradition and is currently testing out the idea of coming out through my side, just under a rib, or burrowing his way out via my butt. The side exit seems pretty obvious--he likes to kick and punch and he's really strong. I'm not entirely convinced that at some point, I won't look down after a vigorous punch and find a teeny little fist sticking out of my body. And my burrowing through the butt theory is due to the fact that my tailbone feels like it is slowly being cracked in half, as though somehow the little guy smuggled in a chisel and is hammering away in there at this pesky piece of bone that is keeping him from the outside world. I particularly like it when the pain radiates up my entire back and down my thighs--that's a party. Thanks, kid.

I am also taking a lot of grief from my belly button these days. Apparently, prior to pregnancy, it went all the way to China because it has yet to pop out at almost 35 weeks. However, I have started to notice that it's on its last "legs" so to speak, in the "innie" department. That really isn't a big deal to me, cosmetically speaking. I have no deep connection to my innie, nor am I losing any sleep at the thought that if it pops out, it might never go back in. Please, I'm losing sleep over about a million other things right now--this doesn't even rank.

What is unexpectedly disconcerting about the shallowing out and disappearance of the belly button is that all the skin around it now has previously been sheltered from the harsh world outside my belly button by being IN my belly button. What they don't tell you is that all that skin is very sensitive and not at all happy about being rubbed by the fabric of your clothes or the constant finger poking by your husband who thinks it's "so cute" to try to push that little bit at the bottom back in. No, friends, my belly button is not happy. And if my belly button's not happy, then in some small way, I'm not happy...because it's always a bit achey and nagging.

Today the chauffeurs will escort me to another growth scan of the baby (perhaps I will be able to catch him red-handed in the act of demolishing my tailbone with his little chisel). My fingers are crossed that he has cornered 5lbs at this point, since that seems to be the 'magic NICU' number. Of course, I am also hoping that he's not pushing 8 lbs or anything obscene like that. Monday is the big meeting with Dr. Dark Cloud to discuss the removal of the old cerclage and the "planning" of....gulp, labor. I feel like from here on in, my life is going to become a blur. Hopefully a very happy, happy blur. Thank goodness I took the opportunity to bitch about Judge Judy while I still have the chance...

The Week in Review...

So I haven't posted for awhile because I've been out bungee jumping and mountain climbing. Ha ha.

Actually, last Friday I started this long rambling entry about leaving my career behind and how it is changing my sense of myself and whether that's for the better or not, considering the abruptness with which it all took place. It got long, convoluted and pretty pointless by the end, even though I tried to re-work it two or three times. The thing is, it can all be summed up in one sentence: I don't miss working & I don't think that makes me a bad person. Judge me if you must. Ahh, that was easy.

Now I have some random highlights from the past several days.

My "research" in life as a quasi-handicapped person continued on Saturday morning as Husband took over the role of wheel-chair pusher and, as anticipated, did exactly the same thing my mother did just days before as she wheeled me around Babies R Us. We went to a baby specialty store to peruse the over-priced crib options available to us. It was fine while we were in the furniture showroom, amidst a 100 little nursery set ups--everything was right there and easy to see, what with my spectacular periphery vision. It was when we went through the aisles of sheets and bottles and clothing that I noticed it. Husband pushed me two feet farther than anything I wanted to see. It truly is a phenomenon of perspective. Again, no fault of his; just the effect of not realizing that someone in a wheelchair is just a bit ahead of & below you.

Anyway, in spite of my having to crane my head to see anything of interest, we did indeed pick out a reasonably priced crib made of something other than cardboard and duct-tape (which is what you are basically getting unless you cough up the serious dough). And news of news, it was in stock and slated to be delivered a week from today!!! No waiting for months for our fancy Italian crib to cross the ocean and sit, rotting on a dock in customs! No sir; it was just sitting in their warehouse waiting to be picked.

The other joy of Saturday was that, sorry Mom, I snuck out to dinner with friends. I had no intention of doing so; I was actually pretty tired by mid-afternoon. But after lounging for several hours in bed, I felt refreshed enough to have Husband drop me at the door of a restaurant about a mile from our house, and while he went to park, my other pregnant friend and I schemed a way to get seated more quickly---

I went to the maitre d, rubbing my belly and asking how much longer for a table for 6. The man was made of stone, people. My gigantic pregnant belly and weary look did nothing to melt his stern and fair seating plan. Damn him. I haven't had a chance to get seats on subways or adoring little "ah, the circle of life" looks from strangers in the store--I wanted an opportunity to get some mileage out of this bump before it's gone! Alas, we waited for about 25 minutes on bar stools until they seated us at a table that, I swear, had the most uncomfortable chairs I have ever encountered in my life.

Is my ass so spoiled after fifteen weeks in my bed that it can't abide a regular restaurant chair? The answer to that question, my friends, is "yes". I now possess a very particular derrier.

Truth be told, I noticed it on my first foray back into the caffeine mecca that is my local Starbucks. What once was the joy of sipping coffee, filling in the crossword puzzle and lazy people-watching became an aching guanlet of "ouch, my butt!" and "ooooh, that hurts" as I shifted in the cold, unforgiving wooden seats I had never so much as noticed before. And it's not because of the baby or because I should get back into bed and need my rest, yadda, yadda, yadda. It's because I now have a snobby, prima donna butt....

I can see myself now--a la Joan Crawford, "I said NO WOODEN CHAIRS!!!!!"....really, though. They are evil and uncomfortable. Think about it the next time you sit down in one. Wouldn't you rather be on a cushion?

Cranky, sore butt aside, dinner out was lovely and well worth it. To sit among people in a normal setting and have a regular old conversation about something besides my cervix was just fantastic. It's so nice to know I'm capable of being social still. I have had nightmares during the past 15 weeks about turning into wacky recluse woman who speaks in broken sentences and points at things as a primary form of communication.

On Sunday, Husband ripped the built in bookshelves out of our guest room to make room for baby's bureau/changing table. I swear, the people who lived here before us had a love affair with built-ins the likes of which this world has never seen before. They are in the basement, they were in the livingroom, they were in our bedroom AND they were in the guest room/nursery. Gladly now, with Husband's handiwork, they are only in the basement at this point.

Not that I can't appreciate a good built-in bookshelf--I dream of a living room that looks like a library (even one of those groovy ladders would be cool). But these were, let's say, one step below Trading Spaces built-ins; thrown together in 24 hours and installed by morons.

My staff of personal shoppers, chefs, chauffeurs, house keepers and contractors have also been busy this week. They prefer I just call them "Mom" & "Dad". Thanks to them, tonight's dinner is already made, the grocery shopping is done, the laundry is clean, and the nursery is painted the most precious green and light yellow. Tomorrow they will be driving me all around town (okay, to Target and Babies R Us), so I can take care of some last minute purchasing. I say last minute because even though I am only 34w, the doctors have told me that anytime after 35w is a possibility.

That about catches us up; athough I am haunted by a dream I had on Sunday night. There's not a lot of sleeping going on here, as Husband & I seem to be locked in an unconscious battle of wills with the snoring. While he snores, I am awake, grimacing and sighing. Apparently at some point, I manage to fall asleep, commence with the crazy pregnant lady snoring and wake him up...it's funny to laugh about in the morning, but it makes for a pretty miserable night.

But anyway, I dreamt that I fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans only days after giving birth. Sigh. What are the chances? It is occurring to me that I will only be pregnant for another blink of the eye and then all eyes, when they aren't staring adoringly at my child, will be focused on how fast I can get my body back into a shape that looks anything other than "marshmallow-y"....ugh. I hope breastfeeding is the diet plan it promises to be....