On Effort

Do you catch yourself doing the most to do the absolute least? My special recipe for crazy involves putting capital 'E' Effort into problems with very simple solutions. I'm on a spiritual quest for the perfect dry shampoo that makes my hair look clean and shiny and not at all like I burn the shit out of it every day to make it curly, but not like it curls naturally, and straight, but not straight straight. I could wash my hair. I've carefully curated at least three pairs of quirky, but cute blue light blocking glasses to wear so I don't get headaches. I could stop watching the tv, phone and computer all at the same time for 91 hours a day. I like to take long soaks in the tub and spiral out worrying about whether my kids will think I was a good mother or too distant or too critical or too doting or...or...or. I have clear visions of their therapists' offices and the autobiographies they'll write. It's my very own Mommie Dearest/Psycho mashup. I could let the water out and go watch a Youtube video with them about where to get the best french fries. I take measurable time to carefully fold all of my underwear and socks, ninety percent of which are black. Then, I blindly root through them while I'm half awake stirring up a tornado of cotton blend and satin. I could skip a step and just throw it all in there to begin with. I wouldn't really call this lazy. My lazy looks like letting something go a second time through the dishwasher as if a new level will be unlocked that can get day old scrambled eggs off better than the first run. Never say I don't believe in miracles. No, this lives somewhere between type A personality and undiagnosed fill in the blank.

     Hello from the future. This old relic has been on my mind and I'll be damned if it doesn't still exist in these outer reaches of the internet. I won't share it on Facebook and no one will see it, but here it is like a moldy old year book. I'm still her, but what a laugh and a heartbreak to read my old words. I'm not a recent law school graduate or a new mom. My mother died. I'm not in the same house or the house we bought next. I had another kid. I got divorced and remarried. I have three stepdaughters. I got another job, but Max is still pooting next to me on the couch and I'm still my own favorite audience for dumb jokes.

    I'm 37. I'm middle management and quickly approaching middle age. I'm pretty sure I've got a fair amount of grey hair, but highlights keep my secrets. I have a 401k and a 20th high school reunion right around the corner. I have children that know more about pop culture (and everything else) than I do. 

   

    Speaking of culture. I can't think of anything less cool than a blog in 2022, but I think that might be what's drawing me back in. One of my favorite things about getting older and knocked down a few good times is that I am so much freer from caring about doing it right. I can still worry a hole through the wall, though. My changing face and not being the youngest in the meeting anymore has a grip on me right now, but I know its just this stage. I know I'll come out on the other side like we always do, with new wisdom and fewer fears. 

    All of this to say, I think I'll visit again soon. 

Window Shopping

Do you remember 67 years ago when I made an online window shopping dream list?  Here's another one.  Unlike that list, I won't end up buying any of these. I've developed an all new affliction in the years since then called mother guilt, which means I would never spend this much money on something for myself.  Unfortunately, I hear its incurable.  Fortunately, a zillion trips to Target at $40 piece don't seem to cause flair ups.

We have the Braising Pan already.  I used to think these were overpriced status symbols, but it really is awesome. We, and by 'we' I mean Craig, use ours all the time. Link.

I love all the offerings that Great Courses has, especially this one and one on Creative Writing.  It's like getting to go back to college, but with no pressure.  And none of the fun.  Link.

Who buys CDs anymore?  Not this girl, but if I did, I'd buy this. Link.

Do you know what this is?  Do you?  It's only the answer to a secret wish I made two years ago when I had an ornery infant that didn't seem to fully appreciate how wonderfully soft his Aden and Anais swaddling blankets were.  That wish was for an adult size version and here it is. Bliss. Link.

I love this chair.  I love all chairs.  My mom has a similar thing for lamps. I get weak in the knees over cool clocks and chairs.  I love the combination of low profile modern with a rocker. Link

For my thirtieth birthday (who said that?) my mom got me a beautiful slide bracelet.  I love to look at different options to add to it and I think this one is particularly pretty.  Link.

These have to be the perfect pair of earrings.  They're two toned, which I love, and have enough sparkle to be dressy, but they're studs so they could be worn anytime.  I might would draw from the boy's plastic animal fund for these if I could. Link.

Scented candles have to be one of the most useless luxury items.  The  tiny amount of return for the price is a little embarrassing.  Even still, I absolutely love these and burn mine with Scrooge-like greediness.  If I could save all the smell for my own nose I would. Link.

Speaking of smells, have you smelled this?  Smell. This. Link.

Do I eat soft boiled eggs?  No, but neither do I have whimsical egg cups. Link.

I also want every single thing at Sephora, a lifetime supplies of white camisoles, new jammies, and I want an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle...with the thing which tells time.

Hiding in My Office

I've lost my ability to hold a thought for more than a minute.  Hopefully its just temporarily suspended.  Because of this, I don't call.  I don't write.  Sorry.  The best I have is a few stray nuggets typed while I try to breathe quietly so a coworker/raptor won't know that I'm in my office/kitchen and try to complain about work/eat me.  Please excuse the extended Jurassic Park reference. What I mean to say is, I'm eating lunch in my office and am using my own personal electronic device to type these words, which are totally unrelated to my place of employment.

....When I'm still wearing pajamas and haven't yet put on makeup and tell Craig I'm almost ready he looks at me with a look that belies doubt.  I don't get defensive, though, because he obviously just lacks imagination.

...Where is the line between complaining and commiseration?  We know an individual that cannot commiserate.  If one of us brings up something going on in our life, this person always plays devil's advocate or points out the wrongness of our perspective as if conversations have to have a point/counterpoint format.  I don't need my friends to always agree with me, or feel like they can't offer insight, but sometimes a "me too," "that's tough," or "I hear you" can go really far.  I have a feeling that said friend thinks they're being helpful, but really, its exhausting.  Discussing the difficulties of parenting/work/life in general with friends makes your burden lighter.  I'm all for being positive, but knee-jerk positivity isn't a character asset.  Its a tic.

...I want to applaud people that look good with bangs. Like, out loud.

...I always play with the idea of trying to write a book.  Not publish, just write.  The chances that I'll follow through are so very slim that I won't even consider the astronomical odds that it would ever be worthy of publication.  I like to read articles on fiction writing and how to get started writing a book.  I've read so many that I think I could have a successful career in writing how-tos on the subject.  From what I've seen, there are two main pieces of advice floating around.  The first is to write what you know.  I know a good chunk of the Tennessee Criminal Code.  I know and celebrate all of Jay Z and The Shins catalogs.  I know how right and just it is to put on pajamas the moment one gets home from work.  The other suggestion is to write what you'd like to read.  The books I'm currently reading include Fifty Shades Freed, The Upanishads, The Centaur, The Hindu-Yogi Science of Breath, Most Talkative by Andy Cohen, and one about Christian and Sufi mystics.  So, I guess that would be a sort of post modern pervy/gossipy text centered on Eastern religion and mysticism.  Sounds like a bestseller.

...Can you really say you "don't like the taste of water" and still be considered a human?

...Are they hotdogs or are they legs (http://hot-dog-legs.tumblr.com/)?  Thank you, Craig, for sharing this. Also, if you like laughter:  http://www.toddlercouncil.org/.  Please read the "About" and "Press Release" sections.

When did this happen?

I'm not especially bothered by the passage of time. At least, not yet.  I had some good times in the first few years of this past decade, but most of it I was busting my hump trying to get where I am now.   I don't love that I'm getting grey hair and it does feel weird to not be the target demographic for pretty much anything but strollers, but at least I have stuff.  Stuff is something I definitely lacked nine years ago--legit furniture, pots and pans that match, health insurance, whatnot.

The things I miss about being younger are cultural things that have just gone out of style.  What I'm basically telling you is that 1999 was my jam and I'm not ready to accept that it's over.  Does everyone pine for the time they were fifteen? What happened to 1990s J. Crew?  By the time I was old enough to afford any of it, it was a totally different thing. But I loved layering?!  Ally McBeal, my prophetess, where have you gone?  My law firm doesn't have unisex bathrooms, but I think of you any time my skirt is a little short.  I haven't thrown away my old cordless phone.  I'm just not there yet.

I didn't fully realize that I had passed the mark from young adulthood into full blown people-call-me-ma'am adulthood until I had a baby.  Getting a babysitter and not being the babysitter was a mind trip I cannot describe.  I feel like it was just yesterday (...said the old lady)  that I was watching someone's expensive cable while their kid slept and stressing about finals and wishing I could skip to the part where I had a nice house and didn't have to worry about mapping out my future.  Hello, 2005, it's me from the future. Hi!  Ease up on the eyebrow plucking.  

I've got expensive cable now.  I know now that parents have it because they don't ever get to go anywhere and it helps them feel less sad. HBO is the opiate of the people.  I don't have the freedom that I used to, but I do have stability.  Having had both, I'd take the stability every time.  That's what approaching thirty means to me.  Craig and were talking last Saturday night about that feeling we used to get in our early twenties around eight o'clock on Saturday.  That excitement that anything could happen and anyone could be there and ohmygod the stories we'll tell tomorrow.  Except, by eleven you realized it was the same people doing the same things and telling the same stories.  We still have nights like that, but they're fewer and farther between and end a whole lot earlier and less fuzzy, because the babysitter has to go home and we can't miss CBS Sunday Morning.  Fortunately, Charles Osgood is a confirmed robot and hasn't changed at all since the 90s.

How is it Tuesday?

     I’ve come to accept that there are things in life that I’ll never understand, like anything over eleventh grade math and how salmon know where and when to go upstream to have their salmon babies and if any salmon ladies are like, “No thanks.  I’ll just stay down here and not die.”  I can deal with the fact that some of life’s mysteries will stay that way, but some things must have answers.  Like, why do young girls make that face in pictures?  You know what I’m talking about.  That face.  The one where they raise both of their eyebrows and sort of smile like you just snuck up on them talking to themselves.  Sometimes they don’t even look at the camera.  What is that?  It’s probably the surest sign that I’m rapidly approaching the end of my youth, but I just don’t get it. I never did that.  I either smiled or I didn’t.  I can only assume it’s the dark side of having a camera phone and that wonderful teenage combination of self-absorption and disdain.  Even their fresh faces are over it.  Also, the skinny arm lean thing is out of control.  Now, every pair of young women in a photo looks like Chang and Eng.  They were connected, ladies, not being sassy. 

This has quickly gone from rambling to incoherent, but here are a few other things I’d like to address.  There should be such thing as night time daycare.  Craig and I worked this out.  A bus comes and gets you and your kid.  Your baby goes to daycare and has a wonderful time and maybe a snooze. You leave a substantial down payment.  You get taken downtown with a set pick-up time of, say, eleven.  Don’t judge. Eleven is plenty late for people with babies because babies don’t sleep in.  Ever.  Also, someone has got to do something about these baby socks.  I know, I know.  The debt ceiling and gun control, but seriously, this is a crisis that must be stopped.  Baby garters?  Spandex socks?  An end to cold weather?  Here’s a question.  It was actually directed at me from Craig, but I don’t know the answer.  Is there a way that a man with thick, mostly straight hair can have anything longer than a crew cut? He says to me, he says, Laura, I like the length, but not the puffiness.  Just kidding, he’s doesn't sound like a bootlegger.  I've told him his hair looks like Liza Minelli’s when it gets too long, but apparently that’s not helpful or supportive.  And lastly, do we or do we not like Jodi Foster’s speech from the Golden Globes? 

Food for thought.

Food for lunch. 

I’m out.

Resolute 2013

I haven't made a New Year's Resolution, but I'm gonna try to do a few little things in the New Year.  First on the list is trying not to go inwardly postal about gun control/anti-gun control memes.  Try, that's all I can do.  Second, I'm gonna try to resist feeling patronized about my parenting.  On my own, I feel pretty confident and calm about how things are going, even when they're tough.  He's been teething and not sleeping as well, etc., and I lose my confidence and become a nervous wreck about it around other people.  Why?  Because of the two responses from daycare workers, people in waiting rooms, mimes, general contractors, acrobats, and oral surgeons.  I made a few of those up.  It's either(1) he's fine.  Stop worrying and being a hysterical first time parent or (2), here's what you should do because I've been around him for forty-nine seconds and am, therefore, qualified to comment on his personality, habits, and preferences.  It's enough to rattle my confidence, for sure.  One woman, who shall remain on my personal prayer list forever, saw us at daycare and said.  "What a happy baby.  You're must doing a great job with him."   She should be lauded.  There should be a paid holiday in her honor.  I'm also going to eat less cheese because, come on, no one needs that much cheese.  I'm going to  make an effort to keep my (new!) house more organized than our current one.  I'm going to celebrate little victories, even if they seem insignificant.  For example, I've managed to avoid formula for the first six months of his life.  I feel guilty saying how proud that makes me, because I know how many people would feel some implied criticism of formula, but in reality, I'm just proud that I've achieved a personal goal.  I'm sure that sounds nutty to anyone without children, but it's cause for celebration in my life.  I'm going to cook more.  I'm going to take more pictures of the baby with the real camera instead of my phone.  I'm going to walk the dog more and, perhaps, give him a bath.  Currently, he gets a bath around the beginning and the end of the fiscal year.  He stinks.  2013 shall be The Year of Less Dog Stink.  Let it be written.  Let it be done.

A November's Worth of Thanks

    I haven't done the Facebook November daily thankful thing because I am thankful for nothing!  Just kidding. The real reason is that I don't have that kind of follow through.  That's partially true.  The other reason is that I didn't get what was going on until about the fifth.  So, there. I am grateful for so many things, though, and I've always liked that we take this time of year to be mindful of gratitude and thanks.

     Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July have always been my favorite holidays because there are no gifts, and for me, not a lot of expectations.  Celebration for the sake of celebration.  We have holiday traditions, but they aren't that firm.  I don't think any two Thanksgivings have ever been the same.  I'm not really sure what traditions we'll start now with the baby.  We've always been so portable that we could go anywhere and celebrate with anyone.  Now there are just so many more moving parts to be considered.  He's one little person, but having a four month old is like trying move a caravan.  We tried to plan, because we are planners who love plans.  Plan plan plan.  Turns out, those plans just aren't going to work out this year.  So, now we're figuring something else out.  Maybe that's the new tradition.  That is, being flexible and figuring it out as we go.  I have no idea.  In my fantasy life, all of my friends and loved ones live in the same place so we can always have him wake up in his own house on holidays, but still see everyone who loves him without hopping from place to place. That wasn't the case for me growing up and probably isn't for most people.  We'll work it out, but I want so much for him to have some dinstinctly "us" memories as he gets older even if it's a little different every year.

    However we celebrate this year, I feel like this is the year that gratitude was made for.  I had a healthy baby boy.  I was finally made permanent at work.  Our friend made it through a health scare.  We've had the opportunity to spend time with friends and family we don't get to see much. I've got the most supportive husband in the world.  I can honestly say that nothing would make me happier than for my son to grow up to be just like him.   Like any other year, there has been some really tough stuff going on too, but I'm happy to take time to focus on the good things.  We've got new worries, but so many of the things I was worried about this time last year have worked out perfectly and that's important for me to remember.

 

Holla-ween

     They say pimpin' ain't easy, and I don't want to belittle what must be a challenging line of work with untold personnel issues, but being a new mom and back to work is pretty tough, too.  This mom gig is the hardest job I've ever had and he doesn't even talk yet. On top of that, indigent defense is, at times, not as fun as you may have imagined. Pimpin' may not be easy, but pumpin' isn't a cake walk either.  Breastpump joke!  So far, every morning has been an adventure in postpartum dressing.  Those last ten pounds weren't really bothering me so much when I was still wearing glorified pajamas.  I say 'glorified' because my rule during my maternity leave was that if I hadn't actually slept in it the night before, it wasn't pajamas.  Put it on in the morning and call it an outfit!  I also had a rule that the baby needed me to have ice cream pretty much every night.  See aforementioned ten pounds.

   Being back at work has been good, but really jarring. I haven't recovered from the massive change of pace or gotten used to not being attached to him all day.  He does seem to be happy at daycare, though, which is a huge relief.  Its fun to see him learn how to be a part of a little community. I hope I haven't derailed his social standing with the other babies by taking him in his costume on Halloween.  It's a kill or be killed world in the infant room. That's a complete lie, but it sounds funny.  To me. Here's a cute baby in a ketchup packet:

    We did pitifully little for Halloween other than sending him to daycare in his packet.  We didn't want the dog to blow his sweet little gasket, so we turned off the porch light and hunkered down.  I'm gonna tell you a sad true story.  Our pumpkin is still in the truck.  Yep.  We bought a pumpkin to carve and we never even brought it out of the truck.  Peter, Peter pumpkin eater had a...poor introduction to Halloween.  We'll do better next  year.  We'll definitely get him out trick or treating when he's big enough to bring home some chocolate.  You can take that to the bank.

Fear and Loafing

Way back before the dawn of Pinterest and the social media onslaught of cutesy quotations, sometime around the early paleolithic era of 1997 or 98, I found a book on the shelf at home that was a dictionary of quotes.  It had thousands of quotations listed by speaker and by subject.  We lived on the river, which is about fifteen minutes from the booming metropolis of uptown Fairhope.  We called it that because Fairhope is far too genteel for a downtown, and because it helped us know the locals from the tourists.  Anyway, I came to peruse this volume because we lived too far away from my friends and no one, Mom, wanted to chaffeur me as often as I required.  Boredom is what I'm getting at. One of the quotes that stuck with me was, "It is better to die on one's feet than to live on one's knees."  Or something.  It stayed with me, I think, because it's about fear and how fear gets in the way of life.  I'm pretty sure that I even used that quote in a paper I wrote for my G/T class in middle school.  That's Gifted/Talented, thank you very much, or more appropriately, Smart Mouth/Nerd class.  So, yeah, I liked to use quotes as a middle schooler.  Here's what we can learn from this: 1) You're never too young to be a pretentious ass, 2) teachers who have too strict of a word minimum get what they deserve, and 3) I've always been preoccupied with the theme of fear.  The first two are absolutes, but the last one I've had to put some thought into.  I've decided that I'm so interested in fear because it's such a part of me.

I'm fearful in many ways, but none quite so much as with health.  I can spiral into anxiety in an irregular hearbeat when I start reading about how this additive is linked to this calamity, and this dye causes goats to grow two goaty beards instead of one, and how the whole planet is being inundated with carcinogens, and how autism is caused by each and every thing a mother does.  I should just avoid this kind of information, but instead I eat it up, even though I know that a lot of it is skewed or incomplete data.

One thing I read, or heard, or maybe made up entirely is that one way to delay dementia and keep your mind active is to vary your routine.  An example being, that if you normally brush your teeth with your right hand, occasionally using the left will force your brain to do something neat, the specifics of which I'm not clear on. Natch.  I think the idea is that it creates new pathways.  This is where I think the mind is fascinating and why worrying about disaster is a joke.  So, I think about this recommendation every single night of my life when I take out my contacts.  I always take out my left contact first, and each time I think about how I should switch this up more. If not, my brain will rot and I will lose my mind and not be able to care for myself and I will die in squalor, not knowing my own name.  All this happens in about two seconds.  Instead of creating new pathways and keeping my mind active, I've conditioned myself to contemplate my own mortality every single night between brushing my teeth and washing my face. This is the danger of science in the hands of amatuers.  This is why it's better to not know sometimes.  When I am senile and in the aforementioned squalor, I believe I'll just wear my glasses.

mADdening

  Have you seen this new McCormick's commercial?  You have if you're currently on maternity leave with a ten week old baby who will only nap when he's held.  What this means is, sometimes I'm tied to the couch for two hours.  You could say it's my choice not to go to the bathroom at these times, or sneeze, or shift my weight, or breathe too deeply, but you also may not have been screamed at by a tired infant in a while.  What I'm saying is, I've been watching TV.  If you're wondering, Michael Strahan is a surprisingly fun co-host for Kelly and Katie Couric's new show is also quite good.

   As a recap,  I do a lot of TV watching and diaper changing, and very little getting dressed or eating with two hands.  

    Back to McCormick's.  They have a commercial right now that says, "Life is a Fajita."

.....

   And that's the end.  What does that mean?  There's no end to the metaphor.  Nothing.  Life is absolutely not a fajita.  A fajita is a fajita.  I need something more, Seasoning Sirs.  Couldn't they at least throw in something about sizzle or steam.

Life is fajita.  Don't touch the plate. 

   Another headscratcher is the old Bagel Bites commercial.  Do you remember it?  "When pizza's on a bagel, you can eat pizza anytime."  Was the crust holding us back?  I support anything that makes 'round the clock pizza a go, but I'm just not sure a bagel does it.  

  One that has blown every remaining bit of my mind recently is the new commercial for Hefty.  Let me set the scene.  Two women are in the kitchen.  A baby, presumably the home owner's, is making a mess eating.  The other woman looks on in horror and says, "What do you do with the diapers?"  We find out at the last moment that it's a commercial for odor blocking trash bags. I wanna connect the dots.  My fragile new mother mind needs logic and order.  I think I get where they're going, but they Just. Don't. Get. There.  It appears that there is an intended poo joke, but come on Hefty, if you can't land a poo joke, you need to hang it up.  Really.

   

     And what about these Charmin commercials with the evidently filthy bears?  I can't even.

Politics Shmolitics

Bleeeeehhhh. I dread election season like I dread a root canal, but I'd do that every four years to never see another hateful shared Facebook post. I'm so grateful to live in a time and place where I have the right to vote. I believe in the notion, no matter how far reaching from reality, that each voice can be heard. Here's the thing, though. I see most political debate as nothing more than disgusting vitriol, top down. From Presidential candidates, to pundits, all the way down to some yahoo from Facebook who I haven't seen in twelve years, I hate it. It's not that I can't handle disagreement. Disagreement is my bread and butter as a lawyer. What I can't stand is the "us versus them" war of words. First of all, what a ridiculous fiction? The difference between the us' and the thems is de minimus. But mostly, I can't stand the idea that for one person to be right, everyone else must be an absolute idiot. I'll say this, many people that I love and care about deeply are very vocal in their beliefs that are polar opposite to my own. I know them in life to be kind, thoughtful people.  I believe that they are wrong. Absolutely wrong. But I also believe that life is complicated and that there is more grey area than there will ever be black or white. That's why there will always be different ideological camps. I don't, however, think that they are stupid, or naive, or unChristian, or (insert various insults here.)

I don't often spout off my social/political views. For one thing, I assume no one cares, but also because I have a job and I like it. I have to admit, I assume anyone who posts offensive or inflammatory political views, no matter which flavor, is either under employed or at the top of the food chain. It is a bad idea. It just is. It's my opinion that stating your views publicly is one thing, but going extreme or inflammatory conveys a whole host of negative qualities. It shows, I think, that you don't fully understand the issue. There wouldn't be a debate if there weren't at least two equally valid sides. Pick one. Have your belief and hold to it strongly, but don't undercut it with the complete inability to see past the tip of your own nose. If the strength of your opinion is dependent upon the degradation of opposing views, it probably doesn't hold water.

Again, I'm not hiding any of my views, but I will always keep my cards a little closer to the vest than to say something out right inflammatory in order to support my views. Why? Because I'm cool like that. Ok, maybe not, but at least because I value self-control. The mean kid on the playground doesn't win because he gets the sandbox to himself. He just ends up alone with sand up his shorts.

 Plus, I heard some kid peed in there earlier.

Springs of Water

I became a mother sometime in the last week.  Technically, I've been a mother since July 14th, but it wasn't the same.  Peter and I have been building a relationship this whole time.  I thought the first time I saw him the whole thing would make sense and I would be automatically transformed.  That's the way I've always been told that it happens.  That's just not how it happened for us.  I loved him right away, but I didn't feel like he was mine or that I was his.  Instead of some single life changing instant, we've bonded through hundreds of little moments and I think that's okay, too.  I'm way too cerebral to be a natural at much of anything, so I guess it isn't surprising.  Hopefully he won't mind too much.

Over the last week, I just get it.  And wow.  And ouch.  Wow because it's amazing to love someone so much.  Ouch because it's both liberating and absolutely crushing, and that push and pull is something I could never have been prepared to feel.  My dream for him since before he was born was that he would grow into a kind and independent person.  It didn't fully sink in to me until after he was born that this means he'll have to get hurt to become those things.  Intellectually, I know that's a good and natural thing.  At the same time, it breaks my heart in the most profound way.  I realize that nothing has or will ever hurt me like something hurting him and I can't protect myself from that at all.  I try not to think about it, but a few tears may have fallen on his sweet little head like some kind of home baptism, except this one is as ancient as mothers and children and washes away my former self instead of his. 

Birth Story

 As a warning, this post isn't the one where I talk about how I fell madly in love with my new baby, although I did and will write that post at some point.  This one is the story of how we got him here.  I probably wouldn't read it if I were someone about to have a baby, or someone squeamish about labor and delivery.  I'll say this, I was right about two things.  First, an easy pregnancy did set me up for a less than easy delivery and, second, trying to plan with any detail how a baby will come into this world is completely futile.  It was not the difficult, but amazing experience I'd hoped for.  To be honest, it was just difficult and, at times, traumatic.  As different as it was from my hopes, I would still do it all over again.

We got to the hospital at eight o'clock Friday night to start the induction.  We got to our room and the nurse started me on cervadil and hooked up an iv and two monitors around my waist.  This was my first surprise. I had no idea I'd be bedridden so completely, so soon.  In fact, I had to stay flat on my back for two full hours after starting the cervadil.  As someone with lower back problems, I don't ever lay on my back, and definitely not at 41 weeks pregnant. It was uncomfortable to say the least.  The nurse gave me an ambien for sleep and said they'd start the pitocin the next morning at 6:30.  The contractions started within an hour.  Between being seriously uncomfortable and being checked by the nurse every hour, on the hour, I only slept for two. 

The next morning they started the pitocin.  I can't speak about contractions that start on their own.  I can tell you that pitocin contractions slam you.  They are intense from the beginning and only get worse.  There is no gradual building. No ebb and flow.  There is a reason almost no one has a natural labor with pitocin.  The nurse came in every half hour to up the dose, so they got much worse very quickly.  Unfortunately, that was all they were.  They were extremely painful, but essentially ineffective because even with all the contractions, I wasn't dilating at all.  So, the doctor broke my water after several hours and one centimeter of dilation.  Again, I can't speak about things I've never experienced.  Having your water broken when you are more dilated may not be that bad, and I've been told that water breaking on it's own is painless.  Having your water broken at one centimeter is painful.  Full of pain.  Not uncomfortable and not pressure, but painful. 

Three or four hours later of contractions and many, many increases in pitocin, I got to four centimeters.  I had hoped to make it longer without medication, but at that point I was crying for an epidural.  After the epidural, I was no longer in pain, so they continued to increase the pitocin every half hour.  Two or three hours later, though, I only progressed to five centimeters and never made any further progress.  They turned off the pitocin and turned it on several times trying to get my body to respond, but it never did.  The baby started showing signs of distress, so I spent the next hour or so laying on my side with an oxygen mask to try and keep his heart rate stable.  By the afternoon, I had an internal monitor for the baby, a heart rate monitor for me, a blood pressure cuff, an epidural line, an iv, catheter and two external monitors around my waist.  The whole day went like this and by 7:30, the doctor made the call and let me know that I wasn't likely to deliver the baby on my own and that for my safety and the baby's, we would need to have a c-section. The surgery would happen within the next two hours.  At this point, I'd been awake for the better part of 48 hrs and hadn't eaten or had anything to drink since the night before.  I'd been in labor for almost 24 hours.  I was delirious.  I think I would have been disappointed to be told I needed a c-section under any circumstances, but after all that had already happened, I had full scale panic attack.  I kept telling Craig I was too tired.  There was no way I was going to be able to bond with the baby because I was just too physically and emotionally drained. 

They wheeled me into the operating room, simultaneously dozing off and shaking like a leaf.  The procedure started and Craig was allowed to come in.  I won't say that it was painful, but it is very unpleasant.  Whatever is in the anesthesia makes you shake uncontrollably.   I couldn't feel sharp sensations like the incisions, but I could absolutely feel my skin and organs being moved around and the intense pressure of the baby being pulled out.  I could feel the same parts being tugged and moved while being sewn back up.  The baby cried and I basically blacked out.  I don't remember much of the next twenty minutes. 

Once we got to the recovery room, everything started to get better.  I had my baby and Craig with me and we were all safe and healthy. The adrenaline and incredible moment of seeing Peter the first time pulled me through the exhaustion for the next couple of hours.  He nursed right away and we went to our post partem room.

Because of having the c-section, I wasn't able to be discharged until Tuesday.  We had wonderful care, but were so ready to leave.  The baby had a nurse and I had a nurse around the clock, so someone was in our room to check on us at least every hour for each day and night we were there.  Luckily, I had a really smooth recovery and was moving around pretty normally by Monday. 

I would never have chosen for things to go as they did, but I thank god things didn't get any more complicated for me or Peter.  Craig was an absolute rock and I definitely couldn't have managed without him with me.  After seeing how large he was (8lbs 9oz, 21 inches) and the size of my pelvis, the Doctor said that I most likely wouldn't have been able to deliver him vaginally even if everything else had gone well.  This will sound so dark, but one of the nurses said that I was one of the those women who wouldn't have made it through labor a hundred years ago.  I had already thought the same thing.  Instead of being completely terrified by that, I am just so grateful to be here at home with my precious baby a week later, happy and healthy, and seriously tired.

Just the Facts Ma'am: An Update

     My motivation behind this post is twofold.  First, to give an update to anyone interested in the expected arrival of He Who is Karmically Destined to be Trouble Due to His Mother's Easy Pregnancy and, second, I hope that by putting this information out there, the universe will do what it do and make me look foolish by sending me headlong into labor.

    This morning at my last appointment, the Doctor decided to schedule an induction date.  He's due on Sunday, but is evidently sitting most comfortably.  So, she said that we'd schedule an eviction in case he doesn't change his mind.  Apparently, though, there are lots comfy babies right now and the hospital is booked up for inductions next week.  So, I'm on the waiting list (are you kidding me?) for something earlier, but we are firmly scheduled for the 14th.  Say what?  That's right--the FOURTEENTH.  As in, we will go in next Friday night to get this show on the road and have a baby next Saturday.  If you didn't just shed a little tear like a pollution hating Native American on the side of the road, that can only be because you don't realize that that is a WEEEEEEK from now!  I know, I know.   A week isn't that long.  Think of how many weeks you've already completed.  Enjoy time with your husband.  Catch up on your sleep.

Stop it.  Just stop it, right now.

     There is some consolation, though, in this whole 'still pregnant, gonna keep on being pregnant' thing.  Like any modern pregnant person, I've learned how to bend Google to my will by asking a question three or four different ways until I get the answer that I want.  I needed to hear that there is some really great reason to go all the way to forty weeks and possibly beyond.  Lo and behold, there is.  Babies born at term, as in 40 weeks and later, are shown to, statistically, have lower risk of breathing problems and SIDs, and less trouble breastfeeding.  I didn't invent this stuff.  It was actually in reputable journals.  So, even though I threatened to change his name to Myrtle Suzette if doesn't come immediately, I guess he's making good use of his time.

This is Your Brain on Baby

I could list all the annoying questions about my pregnancy, or questions that become annoying just by virtue of their frequency, but that's no fun.  I've learned that there are equally annoying answers that I give to a lot of said questions.  Now that's fun.  I can't say that I get why these answers are wrong, but let me tell you, they are. 

First, everyone wants to know when my last day of work is.  My honest answer is (1)when the baby comes,(2) or when I can't do it anymore, (3) or I don't know, because all of those are the same answer in my mind.  This is the part where men look at you like they might be called upon to deliver your child, thus seeing your business end and possibly having to fashion a tourniquet out of their belts/shoelaces.  If only things were going to happen that quickly. 

Another one I get a lot is whether we plan on having more children.  My brain can't really process this one.  At this point, I'm not sure that I'll ever have this baby, so I don't know where I'd put another one.   

People also ask how I feel a lot, which is really sweet and I appreciate it.  I said this in my last post, but I tend to err on the side of less information, just out of courtesy.  Sometimes, though, I think this is irritating to people. Women, especially.  I just don't really have the words to describe it, which is mostly because I feel pretty good.  If I had to though, the end of the third trimester is kiiind of like...being a capsized turtle with the appetite of a fourteen year boy.

Another one I get a lot is whether or not I plan to have an epidural--the obligatory "birth plan," as it's called in my baby books.  My plan is to not be pregnant anymore and whatever way that can best be achieved is the plan I'm signed up for.  Honestly, I just don't know.  I've never had a baby!  If I need an epidural, I'll get one.  If not, maybe not.  So many factors go into it, that the question to me is, how does anyone ever have a plan?  As you might know, I am a planner.  I set aside time to plan.  I love a plan, but I'm not about to tell the nurses and doctor what my "plan" is.  That's like when my clients start telling me about what they found on Google to get their case "squashed."   Sir, let me be the lawyer before you talk your way into stripes and plastic sandals.  I don't want to end up with the labor and delivery equivalent of plastic sandals.

I guess that's what it boils down to. I just don't want to end up with prison sandals, you know?

37 Weeks and 5 Days...

Because now I count hours and days.  I'm in my 38th week.  Are you tired of hearing about my pregnancy?

Shut up.

I'm just kidding. 

I'm not kidding. 

I'm starving. 

Why is it 900 degrees? 

Where did I put my mind? It was just here.

Why are there never any cookies?

Here's some Aristotelian Logic for you: I am pregnant. I have always been pregnant. I will be pregnant for the rest of my life.

I wish that I was intuitive enough to think that I know when he'll come, but I have no clue. Every night when I go to bed I think he's coming soon, and every morning I think he may hang in there through the end of my twenties. Even though I think I've probably got another couple of weeks, when other people suggest it, I have to fight the urge to bare teeth. Truthfully, I don't whine that much except to you, three readers, and to my ever patient husband. I may look like a marshmallow and feel like poo, but I'm still hanging on to my pride, by God! When people ask how I feel, I usually say that I feel great or that I'm a little tired. In the grand scheme of things, those things are true. Besides, no one wants to know that my hair hurts...that I had an existential crisis during breakfast...that I'm doing rain dances for contractions...that I'm scared to death sometimes...that I'd hurt someone for a strawberry pop tart...or cherry...that I can't remember what it's like to button pants. But, you know, I can't complain : )

35 Weeks

    Okay, I'm saying Uncle to pregnancy.  It got me.  I've had a pretty easy time, but I am still dunzo.  I feel terrible saying that because I've managed to avoid almost every bad pregnancy symptom in the book.  No heartburn, hemroids, constipation, insomnia, nausea, skin problems, etc.  I know, right?  I hate me too.  Even still, I'm worn out.  My energy level hasn't been that big of an issue since the beginning, but I'm definitely slowing down now.  I've gained around twenty two pounds and I don't think I want to add another ounce to carry around.  I attribute my easy time to ninety-five percent luck and five percent refusing to take it easy.  I've stayed too busy to think about how I'm feeling.  I don't want to slow down and I definitely don't want to be the whiny pregnant girl.  I don't like her. 

    Baby Locke seems to be enjoying the life aquatic.  He's gotten too big for his hijinks of a few weeks ago. Now he's more into doing a one-man hokey pokey.  But, you know, that is what it's all about.  According the doctor, he's droppin' it like it's hot, which explains why my Summer home is the bathroom.  Also, he's head down facing left/back, with his legs bent and kicking my lower left side.  I know that's hard to picture, so I'll put it this way, that moving protrustion on my right side is a tiny rear end that is womb-mooning you.  At the last ultrasound, the doctor commented on how long his fingers and his legs are and every time we tried to see his face, he'd kind of grimace and cover it with his hands and move away.  So, basically, I'm due to give birth to my husband in around five weeks.  I'm excited to have two of him!  Max has been kind enough to try out all of the baby gear for us.  He's been in the rocker, the crib and the stroller.   He's even tested a few toys to make sure they aren't a choking hazard.  That's love. 

My mom has threatened us all if I don't show her more pregnancy photos.  So:

This is from our trip to Vicksburg, before I got enormous.

We finished getting the nursery together.  I had more of a directorial role.  See above.

I think it turned out beautiful.

And then, the enormous found me.  This is yesterday:

You see, the hand helps you see where the baby is.  Why do we do this?

Afraid, with good reason, that he'll be diapered.

We're just not sure if we're ready.

On Naming

   In the last several months I've gotten an education on the very provocative subject of names.  I have to admit, I was completely ignorant of how strongly people feel about naming and, specifically, the names of children that do not belong to them.  That's not to say that there aren't names that I like better than others, but short of Pooter McPantstains, I can't really think of any names that I think are really awful.  In naming our child, I've kind of developed my own personal philosophy of naming, i.e. the qualities that are important to me.  Mind you, I don't think I've invented the wheel, or that other people should follow my thoughts, but this is what helped me decide on his name.

1.  Originality:  I must say, this was not a crucial factor for me and I realize that this makes me different from a lot of people of my generation.  I truly would have no problem with him having the same name as another kid in his class.  I can't understand why that's a problem.  In fact, I seem to fall in the other camp.  I don't want for him to lead with his name, if that makes sense.  I don't need for him to have a name that defines him, but hope, instead, that he fills his name with meaning on his own.  Afterall, I've haven't even met this guy and he's going to grown into his very own person, regardless of what the internet says his name means.

2.  Genetics:   I think we all imagine that our children will somehow be creatures of physical and mental perfection, but I think it's important to remember whose genes are in the mix.  If two very small people have a child, there is a strong chance that that child will be small.  It's cool.  I'm a shorty, so I can say these things.  If, per chance, your small child is a small boy child, perhaps it's best to avoid naming him Brutus. That's just an example for two tiny people, you know what you're working with.  Just a thought.

3.  Children (God willing) grow up to be adults:  It's hard for me to imagine that our baby will one day be kicking his legs outside of my belly, so I can totally relate to the fact that it's hard to imagine him being 6...19...60.  Even still, his name has to last him a while and, for me, it's important that he have a name that he can grow into.  Some names are cute, but will they be suitable for an adult?  On a related note, it has to be acknowledged that your child may go into any number of career fields and there are some names/spellings that just won't garner as much respect. 

4.  Teasing:  This particular aspect of naming is the most ridiculous to me.  When we first shared with people our son's name, which by the way is Peter/Pete, we got a few comments.  A few suggested that he will be made fun of.  Let me be clear about this.  Every child gets made fun of at some point.  If the worst thing my son ever gets teased about is his name then I will be grateful.  If you think that you were never made fun of, then one of three things is in play (1) you are too old to remember, (2) you were excessively sheltered, (3) or no one ever said it to your face.  I can't insulate him from other kids, nor would I.  My hope is that I can raise a resilient person who learns how to handle what comes at him.  AND (can you tell this makes me mad?!?) what child under 10 has ever heard Peter used as a euhamism for anything?  I would personally make fun of that child for such a dated insult.  Also, in a time when people intentionally mispell their childrens' names, make them up out of thin air, and borrow five syllable last names from imaginary aristocratic relatives, I think the playground will be filled with lots of little glass houses from which stones won't be thrown quite as easily.

5.  Pleasing the crowd:  It may take three licks to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, it may take a village to raise a child, but it only takes one or two people to name a child, and those are his or her parents.  Everyone has the opportunity to name their own.  I don't know why people feel so strongly about the names of other people's children, but I've been on the recieving end of a few rude remarks from people I barely even know.  At first this made me think I was crazy, but then I started hearing from other people with all kinds of names for their children who had also be subjected to the World's opinion and commentary.  You truly cannot please everyone.

Say anything..

If for one day I said exactly what I thought---

-- I'd hear someone talking about money, or theirs or their famiy's status and I would call them a classless fool. I would also suggest that they learn something about their audience first, as that is never cute or interesting to me.

-- I would say, stop whistling. No whistling before 9am.

-- I scream for ice cream.

-- If you have to tell me how much you do and/how busy you are I'll question it. Oversell always makes me think the opposite. The more someone has to hear that, the more they notice when it's not the case.

-- Rinse and repeat previous statement.

-- You're welcome (in that childish way when people don't say thank you).

-- Oooh. Shiny.

-- I don't know Ms. Lott, but I'll give her the message.

-- Yes, I'm pregnant. Stop looking at my stomach.

-- Doo do do do do do Do do...(the theme from Doug)