The Story of “P”

I wrote this for posterity, in honor of my son’s birthday. I’ll warn you now that it’s long. I purposely didn’t whittle it down because I want to remember it as it really was, long or not. If you choose to read it, I hope you enjoy it.

Tomorrow (Saturday) my baby boy will be one year old. I can’t even believe it. This time last year, I was in labor & delivery waiting for him to be born. It was an experience I’d not had before because my first pregnancy came to fruition with a planned c-section; something I had sworn to never participate in again. Suffice it to say, my first delivery was a wholly unpleasant experience that I will probably never write about because other than the moment my newborn daughter was put before my eyes, there’s not much about it I want to remember.

But the birth of my second child was completely different and something I want to savor forever. Sadly, I waited a whole year to write this story and my memory is already failing. Thankfully my husband, who can’t remember some of the simplest day-to-day things, has a pretty good recollection of it. Between the two of us, I’m pretty sure I got all the high points. So without further ado, I give you one of my fondest memories ever…the story of my son, P.

When we decided we wanted to have another baby, I was a little afraid. I’d had an inexplicable estrogen deficiency since the birth of my first child five years prior and had worn a small patch for hormone replacement ever since. I feared that maybe I wouldn’t be able to conceive because something in my body had clearly gone awry.

As it happens, my fears were unfounded. After the first month of trying, I invested in an ovulation scope and conceived the following month.

Because of my previous unpleasant experiences with obstetric practices and because I wanted a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean), I opted for an OB group that had a number of midwives on staff that was also one of the only practices in my city that would even allow a VBAC. The midwives were kind and caring and empathetic and best of all, they totally supported my wish to have a VBAC without an episiotomy. They totally GOT me. I was elated. I thought I’d died and gone to pregnancy heaven.

Being over 35, unaffectionately known as “advanced maternal age” I had to take all sorts of tests and screens and the results were very favorable so I declined having an amniocentesis. We found out we were having a boy and though I’d never imagined myself as the mother of a boy, we were very excited.

My 40 weeks of gestation flew by and other than leg aches and major carpal tunnel syndrome that impaired my already fractured sleep, I’d had an ideal pregnancy. As I neared my due date, I had to go every week to see my midwife and then, as my due date came and went, I saw them every few days. Every time, I was only dilated one freaking centimeter! I was getting nervous because if I were more than a week past my due date, the obstetricians would not allow a VBAC as the risks of a dangerous uterine rupture were increased.

On the morning of Wednesday, June 15, I woke up feeling crampy. It wasn’t all that unusual as I’d had cramps a few days before but today I felt different. And when I went pee, I noticed a very slight pink tinge when I wiped. Not wanting to be an alarmist, I decided to ignore it. I had a million things to do that day so I got dressed, got my daughter in gear and headed out.

I went to the grocery store, the post office and a few more places, still refusing to take the cramps seriously. As they became a little stronger, I started to wonder if this was labor. It didn’t feel like much more than a mild period cramp accompanied by a sort of heavy feeling in my lower abdomen so I decided not to call my midwives just yet.

By that night, the cramps were coming and going and I started to think maybe it was, in fact, labor. When I wiped after peeing and saw “bloody show” I knew for sure. At one point, between 10 and midnight they were coming every 40 minutes. Though I was getting excited, Hubz and I figured that nothing major would happen before morning so we went to bed around 1am.

At 2:30 am I woke up with what I believed were definitely contractions because they hurt. A lot.

I woke my husband up and he was really groggy and irritated. He didn’t understand why I didn’t just go back to sleep. I tried to calmly explain that the contractions hurt really bad, to no avail. His preference for sleep was really starting to piss me off. (To be fair, he claims he couldn’t get up because he was so tired).

I could feel myself becoming anxious and adrenalin was starting to kick in. I couldn’t sit still.

As the contractions got stronger, I became more agitated and couldn’t stop pacing around, talking and bugging my husband every 2 minutes.

I’m all “Hey! I’m gonna have a baby. Get your ASS UP!” and he was all “It’s not coming right now. Let me sleep”

I was so pissed. How could he even consider letting me hang out and have painful contractions ALONE???
We still bicker about that to this day.

Finally, he got up and accepted that I wasn’t going to leave him alone. We started to pack stuff up for the hospital and get my daughter’s things together so she could go stay with her grandparents.

At 5am, I called the hospital and told the midwife on call that my contractions were about 15 minutes apart and she was basically like “You’re a VBAC? Get here right away! You can’t wait!!!” Hah. Right. The baby would beg to differ.

So we dropped my daughter off at my in-laws house and arrived at the hospital around 6am. After the initial intake, I was taken to a small triage room where I changed into the gown that I would be wearing for the next 24 hours and proceeded to be poked, prodded, questioned and monitored while my contractions became stronger and closer together.

I was SO excited. I’ll never forget that feeling of anticipation; a feeling that something really special was about to take place. From my room, I could look out the window and see the sun rising over the water and reflecting off the buildings downtown. It was a fresh new day, so full of promise, and I was having a baby. Yay!

I finally wimped out and asked for my epidural because even though I was only 3 cm by about 7:30am, the pain was getting unbearable. Much to my irritation, I had to wait for an anesthesiologist to become available. If I’d known he would take so damn long, I would have asked a lot sooner, like five minutes after I arrived.

So while I was waiting, I got moved to my first labor & delivery room and some nurse came in and brusquely asked if I would mind having a military doctor training to be an OB observe.

WTF?

I didn’t go to a practice full of nice, kind, mother-like midwives so some random guy I’ve never seen before could hang around and look up my dress.

So I said no and she got all snitty with me. “This IS a teaching hospital, you know” Uh no, actually I didn’t know.

And I replied, “Well, that’s the first I’ve heard of any of this and I really don’t want to do it”

Turns out they were hanging all their hopes on me because the other women in L & D at that moment didn’t speak English and couldn’t give permission. Oh, well.

I eventually got my epidural and was able to relax. Ahhhhh. Much better. An hour or so passed and ouch! I started feeling pain again. On ONE side. My epidural had become lopsided.

Another big long wait while I writhed in lopsided pain and finally, the anesthesiologist came back and tinkered with it and left. No change. I was BEGGING at that point for them to just do it again but they were really afraid to because of potential complications. I could have cared less. I pleaded and they said they would get another guy to re-do the epidural because the first anesthesiologist didn’t want to do it.

To chill me out while I waited, they gave me some Fentanyl. Why do people like that stuff so much? Seriously, it was awful. I itched from head to toe for thirty solid minutes.

After a while, I finally got a new anesthesiologist and another epidural. It worked and life was good again. Except that I was still 3cm dilated.

At about 1pm (I’ve now been there for 5 hours) the midwife broke my water with a thing that looked like a plastic knitting needle in hopes of moving things along.

The rest of the day was a blur of me looking at the monitor and watching the contractions of my uterus as well as the contractions of all the other women in Labor & Delivery and getting my cervix checked. Nurses went off shift and new ones came and I never got past 7cm. I stayed there all evening.

Finally, at about midnight (I’ve now been there for 18 hours) the midwife said they were going to give me a tiny bit of Pitocin because my labor had stalled and the baby had been without amniotic fluid for almost 12 hours. They typically don’t give Pitocin to VBAC candidates because it can be dangerous but because a C-section was starting to look like a real possibility and I was so vehemently against having one, she decided a small amount of Pitocin was warranted.

I fell asleep for the first time in 24 hours (remember, I had only slept about an hour the night before when the huz wouldn’t get out of bed) and when I woke up an hour or so later, I had the worst friggin’ back labor.

The feeling was indescribable and clearly something that the epidural wasn’t going to alleviate. The pressure was so intense, I almost felt like I couldn’t breathe. I asked for heat packs, which helped some, and realized that this baby would be here soon..but not as soon as I’d imagined.

More cervix checks and ice chips and monitor watching until about 4:15am (I’ve now been there for 22 hours). Then the midwife announced that I was finally 10cm and it was time to push!

I’d like to set the stage for you…

I was in my third room and second L&D suite at this point. This one had two beds, a TV and a shitload of medical equipment. But the whole time I’d been in this room, they’d never turned on the ugly, bright fluorescent lights. They used these soft, warm, cozy overhead lights above my bed and it was so nice, like being at someone’s kitchen table.

There were only four people in the room; Jan, the awesome midwife, a very awesome, young-ish OB nurse, Hubz and me. It was mostly quiet and not at all like the births I’d grown up watching on TV where the light is all bright and glaring and there are like 8 people in the room yelling at the woman to push. It was so mellow and low key.

The nurse and Hubz held my legs and every time a contraction started to come, I was to put my chin to my chest and push while Jan counted to 10 and then I rested until the next one. I stopped waiting for Jan to tell me when to push. I would feel the contractions, get in position and start pushing. This went on FOREVER!

They had put a mirror at the foot of the bed so I could see the baby’s head. He had a ton of dark hair and it was really cool to see but after an eternity of being told to push because “his head is RIGHT THERE. He’s almost out!! Just a little more” by the three of them , I just couldn’t do it anymore.

I was exhausted. I told them, implored them, to use the forceps or vacuum but Jan said it was too late, whatever that means. I told them they’d been saying his head is “right there” for so long. Why was he not coming out already?

I begged for them to just let me rest because I couldn’t do anymore and Jan said something along the lines of “Yes you can! You’re having this baby!”

I swear, the whole exchange was right out of a movie.

They let me rest for about about 30 seconds and then it was back to pushing for all eternity.

Tra la la…

And then suddenly things became urgent. I was being asked to push harder and harder; harder than I ever have. I would find out later that the baby was in serious distress and needed to come out right away.

Jan told me she needed to do an episiotomy and I was like “Nooooooooo!” but I felt the sting and she told me it was already done.

Again, I was told to push harder, harder, harder. “The baby has to come out RIGHT NOW!”

And then FLOOOOOP!

Like a big wet noodle, he was out!

I forgot all about the episiotomy and everything else and marveled at this gigantic baby I’d just delivered. The room was suddenly full of people and everyone was talking about how big he was. I heard someone say, “No wonder he wouldn’t come out.”

They weighed & measured him with more exclaiming from the nurses. He was 9lbs 6.5 oz. and 21.75 in. And his head was some number that apparently isn’t even on the chart, but most importantly, he was healthy. (And poopy. He’d pooped right after delivery. And in case you’re wondering, I pooped during the delivery. Yep.)

I looked over at him while they were doing whatever it is that they do to new babies and was awestruck, as all mothers are, at this little creature I’d grown inside me for nearly a year. Though newborns are naturally kind of funny looking, I thought he was a work of art, the most beautiful thing I’d seen since my daughter was born. And considering that I pushed for 2.5 hours, his head wasn’t even all that pointy.

I was smitten then and I’m smitten now. P started out as a grumpy baby with a scream that could shatter glass, who had trouble pooping and wouldn’t sleep unless he was being moved rhythmically while tightly swaddled and grew into a mischievous, curious, playful, friendly little guy that I love more than words can say. I am truly head over heels in love with him. We are so tightly bonded that honestly, I really miss and crave him when he’s not with me.

And as a disclaimer, in case my daughter ever reads this, saying how much I love P in no way diminishes the love I have for her. She is my firstborn and I love and adore her with an intensity that cannot be described.

While I may grouse about the dullness and lack of spontaneity and fun in my life, I would not change a thing. My kids mean everything to me.

In closing, I was technically in labor for 48 hours, from Wednesday morning when I awoke with mild contractions (that I called cramps…lol) until I gave birth almost exactly 2 days later after pushing non-stop for two and a half ass-kickingly hard hours. P was a week late and actually born on the day that I would have had a c-section if I hadn’t gone into labor. Holy crap!!!!

Happy first birthday, big guy!
Stay tuned for the postpartum installment of this story! Yeah. I know you’re excited. Thanks for sticking it out and reading the whole thing. YOU ROCK :)

Growing Up: The Magical Mystery Tour

What do you remember about learning, or NOT learning the facts of life? You know — puberty, periods, sex and the like. Do you recall what you thought before you really knew what the deal was? And guys? What about you?

I ask because last night I read this really interesting post by Tori about her daughter knowing the in’s and outs of having a period and it brought back all kinds of memories of growing up female.

As I noted in Tori’s comments, my first experience with the curse, the monthly bill or as some call it, our friend, was seeing my much, much older sister changing her maxi pad in the bathroom when I was about 4. I was simultaneously mystified and horrified. She shooed me out of there but later I went back into the bathroom, plucked her pad out of the trash, unwrapped it and just looked at it. If I’d known the expression back then, you can bet I would have been saying “WTF????”

Later, at a large holiday gathering I told everyone at the table about my discovery and even used my grandfather’s hankie as a prop to demonstrate how my sister put on a maxi pad.

Yeah. She’s still a little pissed about that.

I wouldn’t have any more period shenanigans for quite some time after that and though I recall whispers and mentions of “the period” as I got older. it wasn’t until I read Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret by my beloved Judy Blume, when I was about 9 or 10 that I started to form a vague idea of what it was all about. I became very interested in the gear and would often peek inside people’s cabinets to see if they had any tampons or pads. My mom had the pads so those were no big deal but the tampons intrigued me. You must understand that I still was not clear on the bleeding part or where it actually came from so I was very curious as to where this big old Q-tip was supposed to go.

Rather fortuitously, around that same time, my mom got me a book that was supposed to take care of everything and edumacate me on the mysterious details of womanhood. But it really didn’t help all that much. I had all the information…you know, like you bleed every 28 days to shed the uterine lining unless you’re pregnant yada yada yada but the diagrams were so scientific; so encyclopedic. It was hard to relate to or even imagine that I had all that weird stuff inside me.

And sex? Oh yeah, I definitely wanted the scoop on sex. Forget it. No mention of the deed whatsoever. The book was strictly hoo-has and other lady parts. All I knew about sex or “baby-making” was what I learned from an after- school special, which was also rather vague and as I recall, kind of cartoony. But it wouldn’t be long before information and MIS-information trickled down from older girls.

As I recall, the first real scoop I ever heard about anything sexual was from my friend’s sister. She had befriended Lola, a French exchange student that we were in total awe of and Lola had informed her that when you “suck a boy’s penis” your lips get salty. I was all “Ewwww! Why the hell would anyone want to do THAT???” And really…salty?? Not quite how I’d describe it but I suppose it’s in the ball park of accurate. At the time, though, I imagined my lips crusted with salt crystals like a pretzel…lol

And I’ll never forget my cursory introduction to concept of homosexuality. Again, the same older sister as before was outside with my friend and I and in the distance, a girl name Jo rode past on the boulevard. Big sister and Jo exchanged some snarky words and then my friend’s sister shouted out what sounded like “You’re a lead!”

As usual, I was clueless.

“Lead?” I asked, “Why is she calling her a lead?”

And my friend broke into gales of laughter. “Not LEAD!!! LEZ!!!”

Me: Lez?
Friend: Yeah, lez.
Me: What’s a lez?
Friend: A girl that likes girls
Me: So?
Friend: A girl that likes girls instead of boys
Me: Ohhhhh.

I tried to play it off but I was SO confused.

In the next few years, I would learn the more accurate facts about sex but never from a parent. My mom passed away before I ever even got my period (at age 14 I was a late bloomer) and my stepmom did try to have “the talk” with us but my stepsister and I tormented her with the most ridiculous questions and then laughed hysterically.

I plan on teaching my daughter all that puberty stuff as we go along and definitely, I want her to know everything about her period before age nine because girls develop SO early now. We’ve drunk organic milk since I was pregnant with her and we eat mostly organic meats so she’s being deprived of all those synthetic growth hormones. Add to that the fact that I was the last girl of all my friends to “become a woman” and it’s entirely possible that she, too, will be a late bloomer. Hopefully, if that’s the case, she won’t hate it as much as I did.

As for the big sex talk, I guess that sort of goes along with the period talk but God, nine seems awfully young to be discussing such mature things. I do suspect I’m deluding myself, though, and that if I waited any longer, I run the risk of being laughed at and ridiculed like my poor stepmother was.

She’ll be six in a couple months and nine in only three years. I only have three years (or less) to address all of this.

*deep breath*

God, I dread this growing up shit.

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On a totally different note, if you’re interested, check out this blog design I finished this weekend. Betty was a dream to work with and thanks to Kristen for the referral!

Izzy’s Beef Stew

You may or may not have noticed my absence from the blogosphere this week but I seem to have taken an unintended sabbatical from blogging. And I have to confess, it was kind of nice to just say “The blog will be fine. The blog will not die if you leave it alone for a few days. It’s not like one of those sad little goldfish that just keel over the second you turn your back on them.”

And I replied back “Self…you are right. You have been working very hard fulfilling your motherly duties and deflecting guilt from your eldest. You can regale your guests with the mundane details of your life later this week.”

Yep. It’s summer vacation. And those of you with children old enough to clearly articulate their feelings KNOW what this means and you KNOW what I’m dealing with here.

TQ starts day camp next week and we are ALL very excited about it. She has had two weeks off before camp starts and they happen to be the two weeks in which most everyone and their dog either goes away for their big family vacation, or to the ever-popular vacation Bible school.

This means I am scrambling to line up playdates (I know. It’s an icky yuppie-ish term but the days of sending your kid outside to play all day are long gone) and interesting baby-friendly, sun-free things for us to do. Otherwise, I will be tortured all day by her mewlings of boredom interspersed with pleas for friends, while the day goes slower than cold tar and she destroys acre upon acre of old growth forest with her paper-intensive artistic pursuits.

Complicating matters further is the fact that we are beholden to her brother’s nap schedule.

But the nap is SACRED, dammit! WE DO NOT MESS with the nap!

And her brother…another story altogether. I don’t know WHAT his deal is but this week he has been crowned “World’s Fussiest Baby.” I halfway wonder if that’s his way of complaining of boredom, too. Or maybe he’s just teething. Again.

So yes, I’ve been balls-to-the-wall momming all week and trying to get TQ ready for camp. We went shopping the other day and I got her all kinds of new stuff. She’s had a growth spurt and though she never gets any wider, everything is suddenly too short. We were in JC Penneys getting her some new bathing suits and there was this mother there with her 12-ish yr old daughter, who looked like a nun-in-training in a modest tweed skirt, white button down blouse, flesh-toned hose and low heeled mary janes.

The mom says to the girl “Don’t you LIKE short-shorts?” while holding up a tiny pair of stretchy shorts with something sassy printed across the butt.

WTF??? Since when do moms encourage their seemingly chaste daughters to buy cheesy Lolita shorts? Is it just me or is that an episode straight from the Montel Williams Show?

(Speaking of cheesiness, did anyone catch that those hated Pussycat Dolls have been canned by Hasbro? Oh, yes they have!)

Since I have been SUCH a domestic and motherly goddess this week, I thought I might share a recipe with you all for the easiest beef stew ever. I’m typically not one to enjoy cooking or share recipes but my husband and daughter really liked this. I made it up when I realized I was out of a few of the ingredients I would normally use (like those fricken missing potatoes that I never found)

WARNING: This is for the lazy or time-crunched person or anyone who is not bothered by cooking shortcuts via convenience foods. All gourmands and foodies stop reading right now. Do NOT read this recipe. I’m afraid you lose all respect for me!

Izzy’s Beef Stew

1 can of Franco-American beef gravy (I know. But it’s actually not bad)
1 sm can of tomato paste
1/2 bag of peeled mini-carrots (use whole bag if you really like carrots)
1/2 bag of frozen french fries (I used the crinkly, seasoned kind)
1.5 to 1.75 lbs of cubed beef (I used round, already cut)
1 onion cut up however you like. (I cut it into big chunks)
2 tbs olive oil
1 teaspoon of garlic powder
Add salt to taste

1. Put the gravy and tomato past in a crock pot set to 275, add meat (I skipped browning it first)
2. Add onion
3. Stir and cover meat with gravy.
4. Add garlic powder, olive oil and salt
5. Cook for one hour and then add carrots
6. Cook for 3 more hours, add french fries
7. Increase heat to 350, cook for one more hour or until meat is desired tenderness.

I promise I will not become a blog of recipes. There are others that do it much, much better than I ever could. I do, however, reserve the right to one day post photos of some of my infrequent crafty endeavors…you know like festive crocheted poodles that disguise a spare roll of toilet paper, macrame owls and other things like that.

ADDENDUM: My daughter left the bathroom door open a little while ago and Peebs got in there. I was 10 steps behind him and when I got in the bathroom, he was already playing in the toilet. It was clean (as in unsoiled by a recent deposit) but he had water all over his hands and just as I was about to scoop him up, he put his fingers in his mouth. A classic Peebs move, to be sure. My daughter was angelic compared to him. The worst thing she ever did in the bathroom was unspool a little toilet paper. He’s a cute little devil that’s into everything.

Of course I washed his hands but that fingers in the mouth business…ugh.

He’ll be okay, right?

Posted under Daily, Funny, Kiddles, Momming | 46 Comments »

Guess Who I Met Last Night?

I’ve lost my potatoes. I bought a package of baking potatoes about a week ago and now I can’t find them. This scares me. Have you ever smelled rotten potatoes? Suffice it to say…’tis very, very nasty. And they drip stuff.

But the larger question is WHY can I not find the damn potatoes? There are only so many places I could have put them. I do have a habit of accidentally putting things in odd places, especially when I’m on the phone. I consider it a small price to pay for the luxury of being distracted from a lame chore, but clearly there are some kinks to be worked out.

There is another other possibility that I prefer not to consider. Maybe I’m cracking up and didn’t really buy them at all. Maybe they’re memories of buying potatoes from a parallel existence or something. But seriously, that’s so Vanilla Sky…

Okay, enough about my missing and very possibly imaginary potatoes.

I have better news.

There IS hope for me in this godforsaken city. There IS a cool mom living here. And unlike the long disputed Bigfoot, I have proof that she is real. She gave me a book and it’s right here on my desk.

I’m happy to announce that my first blog to real-life interface was a fabulous experience!

Last night I met Wendy at a nearby Starbucks and we talked for THREE hours. Turns out she is not only a very intelligent and accomplished chiquita but she is ALSO funny, down-to-earth and she says bad words. She’s no stiff!

AND, we were wearing almost exactly the same outfit. We both had on plum-ish colored v-neck tshirts with jeans and sandals. *twilight zone music plays*

Weird, huh?

I didn’t bring my camera so there are no photos but, at the risk of seeming like an overeager puppy, hopefully we will have Get Together 2.0 and I can have someone to snap a photo or two to commemorate the occasion :)

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Addendum: Blogger blogs are freaking out and either not opening or not letting me leave comments again.

And Blogrolling is shitting the bed again.

WHAT is going on today? Grrrr…

When you guys finally get fed up with Blogger and decide to make the leap to something else, come see me and let me bend your ear about my lust for Wordpress. It’s elegant and simple and it rocks my inner geekgirl’s world. For realz :)

Has Anyone Seen My Ball-Gag?

Almost every day, I go out into the world and encounter rude people. And every time I think to myself “You assbite. I’m gonna blog about you” and then I forget about it and never see my plan to fruition.

Until now. Tonight, as I was brushing my teeth, which is when I do all my deep thinking lately, I replayed one of my many encounters with the rude and ill-mannered and decided I WILL blog about my pet peeves in the rudeness arena, if only to vent…

Here are my top four five, in no particular order, as I deem all of them to be equally unbearable:

1. People who cannot manage a wave of thanks when I have let them in front of me in traffic. I have endured the ire of people behind me so that I could let your ingrate ass go when you would have otherwise have been sitting there for God knows how long. How hard is it to wave in acknowledgement?

2. People who do not RSVP. Honestly….how fricken hard is it to pick up a phone and say yes or no? Next time, if you don’t RSVP by the requested date, consider yourself uninvited. Like the song.

3. People who consistently don’t say “please or “thank you.” These two phrases are the cornerstones of a civilized society. Did their mothers actually forget to teach them the importance of them? Or are they just too rude and self-involved to remember to use them?

4. People who repeatedly interrupt when others are speaking. We all do it occcasionally and I know sometimes it’s hard to contain one’s thoughts until the other person is finished talking, particularly for children, but adults who chronically interrupt others need to be friggin’ ball-gagged. Seriously.

5. People who don’t acknowledge you when you hold the door for them, as if you’re their personal doorman or something. I bet they’d have plenty to say if I let it close in their face! (I had to add this one after Mom-101 commented and reminded me of how much it pisses me off)

Is it just me? Or is politeness too much to expect from people anymore?

This is just the tip of the rudeness iceberg. Feel free to add your own!