What IS the point?

1. Quote of the Day: "What's the point of embalming?" said to me, completely out of the blue, by G. as he walked into the kitchen. Turns out he's writing his will and is always looking for ways to save a few bucks.

And let's not even discuss why he thought I'd know such a thing.

2. Things that make me cranky:

• Unplugged toasters (that you don't realize are unplugged until you go back, in a rare baby-allowing-himself-to-be-put-down moment to quickly spread cream cheese on your toasted bagel and your bagel is still partially frozen).
  
  
• Babies born with undeveloped stomach sphincter muscles so they throw up everything they eat. What's the point of that? Talk about a design flaw.
  
  
• The volume dial on the FisherPrice Ocean Wonders Aquarium. Is there a reason children need to be able to turn the volume way up to "split-my-tiny-eardrums?"
  
  
• That it took me almost 40 years to realize that the tune to the ABC song ("now I know my ABCs, next time won't you sing with me") is the same tune as Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
  

Next Year, I'm Going as a Rabbi

It's always time for a "things A. said" post.

1. Upon seeing all the cardinals decked out for the Pope's funeral
on TV: "Halloween!"

2. A. at the breakfast table: "I like Target!"
Big Sister: "I like Target too - there's a lot to see there."
A: (pause, thinking): "Yeah! There's a lot of red there, too!"

3. Tonight after reading "A Catholic Child's Book of Prayers" at bedtime: "Wow,
that was good story!"

Since Ben has been home, A. has become quite pitiful. He says, in this really plaintive voice, "Wanna play trains wif meeeee?" drawing out the meeee in a way that suggests that no one EVER plays with him and it would be his last dying wish to have you play trains with him just for a few minutes. He will also look out the window and say sadly, "Where kids go? I see my friends?" Of course, when we do meet up with the playgroup at the park, he won't really play with any of the other toddlers. And of course, I feel guilty for not sending him to preschool this year and for not being able to get out for as many playdates now that Ben's here. Does parental guilt ever subside? It's such a big job and there's just no way to really do it right.

The big news here today is that our tub is fixed. There was some blockage in the pipes which meant that we had barely a trickle coming out of the spout. For A.'s baths, I had to fill the tub with a pitcher of hot water filled at the sink. I felt like Mrs. Pioneer Woman, except for not having to lug the water in from outside and heat it on the stove. It was still a chore, I tell you!

Scenes I Want to Remember

Scenes I want to remember from the hospital:

1. G. saying to the woman who came to sign B. up for the newborn hearing test: "Now, we don't want him circumcised."

Woman: "Um, I just do the hearing tests. You should probably talk to the nurse."

He later told me, "Hey, to me she was just a hospital official and as far as I could tell, circumcision hadn't been covered by anyone yet."

Smart-Ass Wife: "Oh, here comes the lady with the meal tray. Make sure you tell her you don't want B. circumcised."

2. The NICU nurse, Ronald, who was a large black man with dreadlocks. The little preemies practically vanished in his big hands.

3. Our other NICU nurse, Roberto, finding out that I was a therapist and telling me his concern that his 3-year-old son was "too sensitive and emotional." "He's a caretaker," said Roberto, and then added, "Hmm. Well, I guess he might get that from me," as he fed a brand new baby.

4. A tiny, very unhappy-looking Indian woman in a sari who stood right outside the NICU door without moving. It appeared that her daughter had given birth, the baby was in the NICU and the rules didn't let grandparents in. She was not happy. The mother of the baby didn't seem very involved in the baby at all, and I wondered if the grandmother would end up raising it. The mother didn't want to carry the baby out of the hospital, saying her back hurt. I guess the father didn't want to, and hospital rules wouldn't let her mother carry the baby, so the unit clerk carried the baby to the car. She came back shaking her head. "They didn't even have the car seat buckled in."

5. After B. was readmitted to the NICU, I was walking back down the hallway to my room, lost in my thoughts, and a nurse came out of nowhere and without saying anything, wrapped her arms around me. I burst into tears.

6. One of the NICU nurses made it her personal mission during one of the shifts to give each baby in the intermediate unit a bath. The bath consisted of holding each baby under the faucet of a large industrial-size sink. It looked like she was washing heads of lettuce.

7. Whenever a baby's O2 monitor went off (and the monitors went off a lot), nervous parents would inevitably look up and stare at the numbers on the screen, prompting a chorus from all the nurses: "Look at your baby! Look at your baby!" Meaning that instead of relying on the monitor, we should check the baby's color to see if he was getting enough O2.

8. On the last day, we were moved to the "annex" because of construction outside the window. The annex is where they perform circumcisions and we saw the materials. There were baby-sized plastic trays that looked like baby-shaped jello molds, to hold their arms and legs still, and little metal rings of various sizes, each with a small razor blade in the middle. I have no opinion on other parents' decision to circ or not, but yikes. I don't even have one of those things, and I was crossing my legs, saying, "ouch!"

9. All the doctors, who, trying to be sympathetic, said, "Wow, a prolapsed cord? Phew, those are really scary. You're lucky they got him out in time." And the neurologist, who said, "If any problems show up on the EEG tomorrow, it's from something earlier in the pregnancy." Perhaps there's a better way to say you don't think there's any brain damage from oxygen deprivation at the birth?

I'll have to add more as I remember them. Sorry to subject you to all this, but this blog is pretty much the only way I'm going to remember anything.

Papal Coverage

I'm just so glad that Entertainment Tonight has promised to bring us "celebrity reaction" to the Pope's death throughout the weekend.

I mean no disrespect by this at all, but as a Catholic, I'm surprised by the coverage. And if I were a non-Catholic, I'd be pretty amazed as well. I saw on the CNN crawl line (before the Pope actually died) that the church was urging Catholics to increase their prayers for the Pope. I wish they'd be more specific - exactly what were we supposed to pray for? His demise or his recovery? Neither seems quite right. That he's admitted into heaven? He's the POPE, for goodness sake. It seems to me that if anyone doesn't need our prayers to get into heaven, it would be him.

Edited to add: I myself have been riveted to the 24-hour coverage. I'm fascinated by the rituals around the papacy, and this pope was particularly charismatic. It also seems that John Paul II, despite what I may think about some of his policies, was a genuinely good, faithful man. What I wonder, though, is what it's like for non-Catholics. Do they think it's a bit overdone; after all, not everyone is Catholic? And praying for a peaceful passing makes complete sense - I'm glad that it seems that's what happened.

I think it would be really interesting if they selected a non-European pope. Maybe one from Asia or Africa. Wonder what the chances are.

Multiple Thoughts

1. It's a beautiful, almost summer-like day here in Northern California. So WHY ARE THE ANTS STILL COMING INSIDE MY HOUSE??? They're in the dishwasher, in the bathroom (going after a dirty diaper - yuck), all over the kitchen counter - WTH?

2. We are all still alive. Probably the biggest difference now that I have two is that I find my patience wearing thinner than usual by the evening. I love A. with all my heart, and I'm glad when it's his bedtime. I don't have as much patience for the pajama-wrestling game, the chases or the boob-fondling.

I also can't leave B. alone with A. so I have to cart him around with me when I go to the bathroom, to get the mail, etc. A. on the whole is very gentle with B., but he's just two and a half and doesn't get that you can't put all your weight on your baby brother when giving him a hug. He's also already tipped the car seat over once trying to "rock" him.

3. So far B. has cooperated nicely and napped when A. naps which means G. and I nap too. That helps a lot.

4. So does the fact that I can drink beer again.

5. A good friend of mine just had her first baby last Saturday. She said she was lucky - just a 7-hour labor from start to finish. I have to admit, when I heard that, my reaction was, "It's not fair! How come I can't have a normal labor?" I really wanted to have the experience of my body being able to give birth. I conceive and grow the babies OK, I just can't seem to get them out without surgical intervention. But, I'm also aware that the important thing is that both my boys are healthy, we all made it through the labors OK and I can't take that for granted.

Take a Deep Breath....

This week G. goes back to work, and Big Sister and Big Niece left this morning. A. went to our friend's house for the evening, which is what he's done since he was 4 months old. G. and I overlap our work schedules on Monday evenings, so our friend has watched A. I figured once I was on leave, he'd stay home with us, but his routines have been so messed up in the last two weeks, and he loves going over there so much, we decided to keep it up for a while. It also gives me a bit of a break.

But tomorrow is my first long (10 hours) day alone with the boys. I'm a little nervous, but I figure if we're all alive by the time G. gets home, I'll consider it a success. We may attempt an outing, I'm not sure. The advice I got from my friends with two babies was, "Don't be alone with both of them for the first six weeks." Ack. Not realistic. Fortunately, A. is a fairly patient toddler, and B. doesn't require much right now beyond feeding, sleeping and diaper changes.

Wish me luck. So begin the adventures of a mother of two....

Some Things I Didn't Expect...

1. To be so overwhelmed by my love for A.; to miss him so much while in the hospital; to grieve so deeply the loss of our "only child/mama" relationship.

2. To feel so close to G. throughout the ordeal.

3. To get as much sleep as I am getting - sometimes 3 whole hours in a row!

4. To feel sad leaving the hospital. These people were involved in such an intense period of our lives, and now it's "See you in 6 weeks."

5. To miss being pregnant, or perhaps, the anticipation that comes with being pregnant. Everything is leading up to the birth, we're just waiting, waiting, and then...what?

6. That B. would be so cute. Even if he is a brunette instead of redhead. He's got dimples.

Gotta add this:

On the second night in the hospital, the nurse came and woke us up to go feed B. in the middle of the night. G. (he was sleeping in the other bed) came rushing over to me panicked.

G: "Did you deliver??"

Me: "Um, yes. Yesterday.

G: "Where is he??"

Me: "He's in the NICU. C'mon."

G: (confused) "Oh. OK."

And the drama continues....

Let's Start at the Very Beginning....

I'm going to try really hard to make this concise, because I could really ramble on and on about everything that's happened. Just the facts, ma'am:

So from about Wednesday through Friday I was in pre-labor crankiness. I couldn't believe how "uncomfortable" it was. I could barely walk, I was crampy as hell and didn't want to eat. My Ob/Gyn didn't think I'd make it through the weekend.

Early Saturday morning, I was sitting up in bed around 5 am, trying to figure out which pains were real contractions and which ones were cramps, and if I had anything that could be timed at all. I felt a POP! GUSH! and my water broke all over my bed. G, being the thorough person that he is, had lined my side of the bed with a changing pad underneath the sheet to protect the mattress in case that happened. I rolled my eyes when he did it, but when my water broke my first thought was, "Oh no! I'm not sitting on the pad! The mattress is going to get wet!" I hopped up and gushed all over the "A Woman's VBAC Companion" book I'd checked out of the hospital library. A portentous sign. G. called our neighbors who came over to stay with A. until my sister could pick him up.

The hospital told me to take a shower and come in. I did. We arrived at L&D, and were escorted into one of their new remodeled rooms. We admired the DVD/CD player, the new furniture, and noticed how much nicer it was than last time. I was particularly looking forward to using the shower. By that time, I was having real contractions about 2-3 minutes apart. They hurt, and I was thinking, "So much for trying this without pain meds." We got settled in the room, but hadn't been checked in yet.

I had some indigestion. After the fifth contraction, the nurse came rushing in and I asked her if I could have some Maalox. She said, "OK" and rushed over to the monitor. Unbeknownst to me, the baby's heart rate had dropped dramatically. All of a sudden I had a ton of people in the room yelling at me to roll to that side, then to this side. She couldn't find the heartbeat. This was very different than when A's heart rate dropped and there were a bunch of people but they were very calm. These people were not calm. They kept yelling, "It's for your baby!" when I'd move too slowly. The midwife went to put in a scalp fetal monitor and said, "I feel the cord." That, apparently, is not a good thing.

Next thing I know, they're telling me to get on my hands and knees with my head down and my butt up. It hasn't registered why they're telling me to do this, so I'm thinking, "Wow. This sucks." I do it, and they pull the bed away from the wall and head down the hallway. The midwife is pushing up inside me, and it hurts like hell. Everyone else is yelling, so I start yelling too. "Stop pushing! Oooowwwww!" I yell as we travel. I asked G later after I woke up, "Um, so I was riding down the hallway with my ass in the air and her hand up me?" He said, "Well, she was in the way so you couldn't see anything." He's a nice guy. We get into the OR and they tell me to jump on over to the operating table. Riiiiight. I do my best and lie down. My OB shows up and says they have an emergency situation and have to do a C-section now.

More yelling. Apparently they can't get an IV in. I guess the stress is making me vasoconstrict so they can't get a vein. They also can't find an arm board for my left arm. Someone takes off my necklace. I hear, "Is she under?" and "I don't have an IV!" Someone ties my arm down, and just to show you how out of it I am about what's happening, I say, "Oh, can't we let my arms be free? I'll hold them still." They ignore me. I'm getting poked and I yell a few more times for good measure. I have the oxygen mask on, so I figure it's muffled.

Finally they give the anesthesia. Next thing I know I'm waking up in a recovery room. There's a woman next to me who I know didn't just give birth. I hear her mention gallbladder surgery and I wonder where the hell I ended up. My OB shows up and tells me something I can't remember now. She said later that I had had a very coherent conversation with her in recovery and how rare that was. I think she told me that the baby wasn't breathing at birth, but they resuscitated him and he was on a ventilator. G was outside the OR the whole time, poor guy, and a nursing supervisor gave him updates. Once they got B out, the supervisor told G., "He's out." That was all she could say, because according to a report I saw by accident later, he was "blue, floppy, unresponsive and limp." His one minute Apgar was 1, which means he got some credit for a very faint heartbeat. But, and it's a big but, his 5 minute Apgar was 8, so he recovered quite quickly.

I remember very little about the first two days, because I was on a morphine drip and more loopy than I realized. I got to see him later that day, after he was taken off the ventilator. I remember thinking that G was far more traumatized than I was by the whole thing because by the time I saw the baby, he looked pretty good and I was asleep for most of the procedure. I thought he was just in the NICU sort of as a formality because it had been such a rough start. I was feeling pretty good, considering. He had some tremors, which were concerning, but they thought that was low blood sugar. It took a couple of days to name him. (We're all friends here, I guess I can tell you - he's Benjamin).

They released him from the NICU to my room one night, and when the nurse came to check his glucose, she noticed that he was choking. He'd been choking right next to me and I hadn't known. He turned blue, and she called a code. He was fine very quickly, but it scared the hell out of me and I realized I'd been in some denial about the whole thing. He was readmitted to the NICU. I sobbed.

To make a long story just a tiny bit shorter, he's had all kinds of tests. Sonograms, EKGs, EEGs, numerous blood tests, etc. All have been normal. The neurologist came and evaluated him and said that he was very confident that there was no lasting neurological damage from the two "events," as they call them. The tremors did not seem to be related to his blood sugar after all, and every nurse who saw them said, "Wow, I've never seen anything like that." Thanks. But they don't look like seizures, and they have actually abated to the point where no one is worried about them anymore.

I was discharged on Wednesday, but because B. was staying in the NICU, we tried to stay in what they call the "Mother's Room," where moms of babies in the NICU can rest between feedings. Couldn't get in, so we told the staff "Oh, that's OK, if you can't find room for us, I guess we'll just sleep in the car," followed by a heavy sigh. They opened up the "meditation room" downstairs and let us crash there.

They were going to send him home after we took an infant CPR class at the hospital, but we convinced them to let him come home a day early. He's nursing well, his color's great, he's a brunette and while his face looks a lot like A., he has G.'s coloring. I guess that's fair, since A. has my coloring.

I'll write more about the feelings and things that struck me during the week later. I have to sort them out a bit. I'm quite hormonal, but mostly, as G. says, "It's been a real heart-chakra-opening experience." It's been less than 48 hours, but so far so good. I took a nap today, he feeds every 3 hours like clockwork and sleeps in between. No PPD (Praise the Lord), I'm not deathly exhausted, and A. is doing OK. He's a little blown away by the upheaval, and is a bit more whiney and testy than usual, but overall he's doing well. He shakes B.'s hand and says, "Nice to meet ya!"

In a few minutes the header above will show the flowers that were in bloom in our yard the week B. entered the world.

I'm Back!

Short post - typing with one hand. Had baby. Half an hour after arriving at hospital last Sat morning. Involved bare-assed gurney ride. Quite a story. Baby in NICU until today. Baby doing great now. Mama doing well, too. Baby has name = "B." Will write more when have both hands free.

I Need a 12-Step Program...

...for digital scrapping. I have found the light. I am saved.

I was despairing of ever catching up before this baby is born, but you, Photoshop Elements, have had mercy on me and have shown me the way. I have done over 50 pages since I started two months ago.

No mess, I can use papers and ribbons and stuff I have as many times as I want. I can undo anything really quickly without scraping glue off. It's much faster. I can get pretty much anything I want in pretty much any color I want. And there is tons of stuff free on the internet. I've downloaded something like 5 GB of free stuff.

If you want to see my digital pages, e-mail me and if I recognize you, I'll send you the link.

It's my version of knitting, I guess. It's also my version of nesting, since I'm due in what, 4 days? But without cleaning - what could be better?

A. Needs a 12-Step Program...

...for boob addiction. Here's our conversation as I got him into his jammies tonight. It's getting more and more difficult to wrangle him into sleepers while he's trying to fondle me. If he can't get his hands up to my chest, he tries to get his feet up there. Dude, I'm your mother. Don't go getting all kinky on me.

A: A's boobs!

Me: Well, actually, hon, they're Mama's boobs. Put your feet down.

A: OK, Mama's boobs. I like boobs. A. grow boobs?

Me: Well, probably not. C'mon, leave 'em alone.

A: Yeah! Big booobs!! Big boobs for A!!

Poor guy, he's in for such a disappointment. But, they're doing amazing things with hormones these days.

Testing...Testing....Is This Thing On?

I know you're out there, I hear you clicking. Not one comment? The birth story? It was too long, wasn't it? (Well, yeah, that was sort of the point). No one wants to read that much detail about someone else's labor. Ah well, at least I have it written out now for A's scrapbook. Maybe I'll leave out that part about spreading my legs for the janitor. And stabbing the midwife. Nah, he's going to have to find out someday that his mother is a smart-ass.

In other news: I have had a fundal height of 34.5 for the last 5 weeks. What gives? I don't mind small babies, I mean, it's not like G and I are huge people. But no growth at all? Why am I still pregnant if he's done growing? What does he think this is? Kaiser San Rafael?

So we had to do an ultrasound last week to check the fluid and measurements, which looked good except that the technicians couldn't figure out how far along I was supposed to be (I guess my repeated reassurances that I knew how pregnant I was didn't hold much water). So I'm not sure how they could compare his measurements with what he was supposed to be if they didn't know what he was supposed to be. But hey, that's why they get the big bucks.

We get to do a NST tomorrow. Last time, when I was overdue, they did those and blasted a bullhorn thing against my belly if the baby was asleep. Personally, I think that's why I didn't go into labor. If someone blasted that thing at me while I was all nice and snugly asleep, my inclincation wouldn't be to come on out and enjoy this noisy intrusive world, either.

All pregnancy, all the time. You'd be exactly the same if you were 39 weeks and holding.

I do have an A. story: Because G. likes to come to the doctor's visits and we don't have a babysitter or grandma nearby, A. comes too. He's taken to saying, "That was fun!" as we leave the exam room, which makes the staff laugh. He knows the doctor's name and says, "That was fun - Doctor Gusta - Kaiser Permuh-ente." When he hears the heartbeat on the doppler, he yells, "Baby Brudder!"

He's also taken to pronouncing parts of the house, like the shower, the tub and his bedroom, "Mine!" So I think he does understand that something's about to encroach on his territory. With much head shaking and concerned face, he told me Baby Brudder can't ever sit in his high chair because he "doesn't fit." I agreed, for now. Hopefully by the time he's like, five, he won't want the high chair anymore.

He's still very attached to my breasts. "I like boobs!" is a common phrase used by my son as he pats and nuzzles against my chest. I don't hear that phrase from his father anymore because he knows it doesn't get him anywhere -I usually say something to both of them like, "Look, if I could take them off and give them to you, they'd be yours." I've begun explaining to A. (and his father) that when baby brudder comes, he's going to be using my boobs a lot. A. gets this very resigned look on his face and says, "Boobs for Baby Brudder. OooooKaaaaaay."

Part Two, Etc.

Before I get into the sequel, a couple of random observances:

1. We have new neighbors. When they moved in, G saw them unload a huge cage full of live chickens. Reminder: we do not live in the country. Fortunately, they're not our direct next door neighbors - they're a house away. But I haven't heard much clucking in the last few days, so I'm thinking the chickens weren't pets.

2. I'm almost at 40 weeks, depending on who you ask. Doc says my cervix is high and tight. It's a wonder I get pregnant at all with this puritanical cervix of mine.

A's Birth Story, Part Two

Thursday, September 5: When we last left our heroine, she'd been hooked up to a low dose of pitocin for about 8 hours with nothing happening. The gel had been tried 7 times, and was equally ineffective. By this time I was almost 42 weeks and the show needed to get on the road. They don't let you go overdue 6 weeks the way they used to. Nurses kept teling me that no one is pregnant forever, but I was beginning to lose faith.

10:30am: So they turned up the pitocin and I headed into labor land. Ouch, but bearable. We called our doula, my sisters and my best friend. We were upgraded to a labor and delivery room (on each admission, we got progressively nicer rooms), which was nice and big. They wouldn't let me eat or drink anything, but they did give me a popsicle which I promptly threw up. We all thought we were having a baby that day.

12:00pm: The contractions started coming on hard and strong, my water broke and I was shaking violently. I wasn't cold, but the contractions were so hard and close together, I couldn't relax in between them. I always thought I'd sort of close my eyes and breathe heavily during contractions. I didn't think I'd be a moaner. Man, was I vocal. "Uuuuhhhh, uhhhhhhh, uuuhhhhh" during each one. No wonder they moved me to the end of the hallway. Not even 4 cm yet and I was sounding like I was birthing a hippo. I was pouring sweat, and the ice pack we'd brought just wasn't big enough for my whole body. I remember grabbing people's hands and, if they were cool, pressing them all over my body. Thank goodness I was among friends and family. Later I said something to the doula like, "I sweat a lot," and she said, "Yeah, I noticed."

I kept asking, "Is this as bad as they get?" The doula thought for a moment, and said, "Yes." Thank goodness she's not always brutally honest.

"You have to give me something," Ms. Natural Childbirth told the midwife.

"Well, we don't like to give anything until you're in active labor."

I ripped the IV's out, grabbed scissors from the bedside stand and stabbed her.

No, I didn't, but I did ask what the hell wasn't active about my shaking and moaning. Since I probably did look rather homicidal, she agreed to give me some Fentanyl. I hadn't wanted a narcotic because it gets into the baby's bloodstream, but at that point, I would've been happy to shoot me up some heroin.

They turned down the pitocin a little because they were sick of hearing me moan. I think I got 2 doses of the Fentanyl. When I'm dying, I want Fentanyl. Lots of it. I want to go out high as a kite on the stuff.

4pm: I was still 3 cm, but I couldn't have any more Fentanyl, so the midwife took pity on me and everyone else and said I could have an epidural. The nicest man in the hospital came and stuck a needle in my back. Much better. I couldn't walk around, but I could lie on my side all I wanted.

6pm: Nurses tried to roll me over to my left side, but my blood pressure dropped, the baby’s heart rate dropped and all havoc broke loose. A whole bunch of people suddenly arrived in my room, and I thought, "Oh, look at all the people in here. They must be training or helping out or something." Well, no, the baby was crashing. They threw an oxygen mask on me, rolled me back to my right side and apparently we were both fine as long as I stayed on my right side. A woman stuck her hand up me and fastened a monitor onto the baby’s head. I was so used to spreading my legs for anyone at this point that I would've spread them for the janitor if he'd given me a couple more centimeters. Nurse told me I would probably be pushing around midnight.

Midnight: 6 cm. La de dah de dah. They kept turning up the pitocin. I could feel the contractions on my left side because the epidural was concentrated in the right side of my spine since that was the side I was lying on. I was getting a fever because of an intrauterine infection, since it had been so long since my water broke and so many fingers had been up there. Sisters and friend went to our house to rest. G lay on the chair/bed thing they have in the room. I tried to sleep, but no go. Doula pulled out some sort of craft thingy. I told her, "This must be really boring for you." She answered, "Yeah, sometimes." Now, see, there was another point where she really didn't have to be so honest.

4am: Stuck at 8 cm. The baby’s head was pressing so hard against the cervix with each contraction that the cervix was swelling. Swelling? How unfair was that? They told me that if there was no progress in an hour, we’d have a C-section. I burst into sobs. I'd had nothing to drink for 26 hours and was dying of thirst, had been lying on my right side for 12 hours, no sleep for several days, and they were going to end up cutting him out anyway? G wanted to wait a little and see if the swelling cervix spread anymore. I told him I was exhausted and I didn't think I could do much more. My fever was around 102 by then. G. asked the doula what the risks of a C-section were. She says, "Um, death." Now see, yet another point where she didn't have to be so honest. The doctor, Dr. Massengill (yeah, I'm sure he's heard all the jokes too), comes in and tells me that "I think we should just be glad that we have this option." Um, OK. I'm glad I don't have to give birth in a rice field, too, I guess.

6am: Started getting prepped for surgery. Now THAT'S all kinds of fun - getting shaved isn't so bad, it's anticipating it all growing back in and all the itching that will accompany it that's awful.

6:45am: Was visited by the gurney demolition-derby team, who knocked me into every single doorway and wall possible while wheeling me into the operating room around 6:45am. I was told it would feel weird, like they're grabbing my rib cage and rocking me back and forth. It did feel weird. I was shaking and the anesthesiologist asked if I want my arms bound to the arm rests. I told her I didn't know her well enough for that kinda stuff.

Doc cut into me, and called out, "We have meconium!" and again, havoc broke loose. There was lots of activity and some running around by staff. They lifted A. out at 7:25am. G. said, "Wow, he's got big feet....oh my gosh, he's really hung, too." You could hear the respect in his voice. I couldn't see what was happening, but I guess a nurse waved him over to watch them aspirate A., and that was the last I saw of G. for a while. The anesthesiologist, who is the only one paying any attention at all to me at this point, tells me not to worry that I'm not hearing him cry. I finally heard him start up a tiny wail after being aspirated, and I got all teary. G. brought him over to see me after they got him all cleaned up. I was a little disappointed that I didn't get to see him with all the gunk on him, because it felt like I went numb for a while and then suddenly, out of nowhere, appeared a baby in a little hospital blanket. Like I missed the whole thing.

8am: G. accompanied A. to the NICU, I went to recovery. G. got into a fight with the NICU nurse who was trying to get him to leave his brand new son so they can do change of shift, which involved sharing confidential information about patients and G. wasn't supposed to be in the room while they did that. He stood his ground, and told them they needed to find a place where he and his 30-minute-old son could be together. So they all (G., A. and a rather cranky NICU nurse) joined me in recovery. I noticed that he had the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen on a baby. I mean, seriously, they reached up past his eyebrows. And a recessed chin. "Where'd he get that? Is that from your side? It's not from my side!" I complained to G. My sister later told me that all newborns have recessed chins. Well, there's a bit of information I could've used earlier. I was all morphined up but still dying of thirst and begged for some liquid. They finally took pity on me and let me have some 7-Up in my ice chips.

So. We started induction on Sunday, and he was finally born on Friday. My recovery was OK, but not fun. The hospital did "rooming in," where the baby stays next to the mother, which was fine, except that no one could stay with me because there were no private rooms. Since I had a roommate, G. couldn't stay the night to help, which sucked because I could barely move. Roomie's baby was in the NICU with jaundice, and she got to sleep. I did not, until the nurses again took pity on me and wheeled him out to the nurse's station for about 2 hours. Keep in mind that I had gotten maybe 10 hours of sleep total in the last week. They wouldn't let me eat, either, which makes me think I could be an FBI agent with the torture I endured. I was anemic, gassy, in pain and stunned. Frankly, I think I was remarkable perky and good-spirited, considering all that.

Oh, let me not forget this episode: I guess A. was having trouble some trouble latching on correctly. The nurses and LC told me I had flat nipples. In fact, one nurse yelled down the hallway, "Hey, who has the pump? I got one with extremely flat nipples here!" Who knew? I had to pump my breasts up to a state of attention, and then I guess he could latch on. You just learn all kinds of things about yourself during birth.

A's Birth Story

I like reading other people's birth stories. Just in case there's anyone else out there with the same inclination, here's what happened 2.5 years ago:

Tuesday, August 15, 2002: Dr. says I'm 1 cm dilated and 50% effaced. She doesn't think I'll be overdue.

Tuesday, August 22: We watch A's due date come and go.

Wednesday, August 28: Dr. DeGusta has changed her mind about A. not being late. We try stripping the membranes and I go walk 2 miles after. Don't get anything but sore hips. I'm scheduled for induction on Saturday. G. is pushing the "sex for natural induction" method and is quite optimistic about it.

Thursday, August 29: Maybe acupuncture will help. Our friend Dr. Ralf comes over to do some. “Wow, you’re really closed up tight, aren't cha?” he says, feeling my pulses and sticking in needles. The only natural induction method I don't try is the eggs cooked in castor oil recommended by the doula. I don't like eggs under the best of circumstances. Greg’s feeling like he’s getting sick.

Saturday, August 31: We postpone the induction because Greg’s sick ("It's a VIRUS, not a COLD!" he tells me so that I will appreciate the gravity of his illness), and I need him to take care of me, not himself. We’re told to call tomorrow at 8:30am.

Sunday, September 1: We call at 8:30am, but L&D is too busy. We call back at 12, 4, and finally they let us come in at 6:30pm. I thought I was going in to have a baby. Hah. Got 3 doses of prostaglandin gel at 9pm, 1:30am, and 5am. That stuff's fun because you have to lie down for 2 hours and can't even get up to use the bathroom. Know how hard it is not to think of an elephant when someone tells you not to? Tell someone, "You can't use the bathroom for 2 hours," add a chronic UTI and a very pregnant woman to that and you have hell in bed for 2 hours. Also, the nurse tells us the beds in L&D aren't really made for sleeping - that's why they're so uncomfortable. No kidding. I dozed and dreamt that the waiting room was full of laboring women and a doctor was standing outside my room and asked a nurse why I had a room when I wasn’t even in labor. (This will become relevant later).

Monday, September 2: No contractions by morning. Staff suggests we go home, rest and see if anything starts. There are several jokes about it being "Labor Day." We’re told to come back Tuesday morning.

Tuesday, September 3: Return to L&D, thinking again (silly me!) that I'm going in to have a baby this time, and get another dose of the gel. They plan to start pitocin at 2pm. At the appointed time, the midwife tells us the delivery room is full of women who "are really in labor" and they need the room and I need to leave. (See? It was my dream!) I consider going out to the waiting room and yelling at all of them that it's my turn, damnit. The nerve - I'd essentially been there since Sunday and they think they can just come in and cut in line. I have a little meltdown where I start crying on the bed and decide I don’t really want children after all. I'm secretly afraid that my fear and anxiety about labor and having my life turned upside down by an infant is causing my body to resist labor. We go home.

Wednesday, September 4: We’re back. On the way to the hospital, I have another little meltdown and ask G., "What if he's born and we don't like him?" G. wisely says, "Well, let's give it a few weeks to get to know him and then we can give him away if we really don't like him."

Get 3 more applications of the gel (that's a total of 7, for those keeping count). I look at the nurse’s board where they have the patients listed with weeks of gestation and note that I’ve been pregnant longer than anyone else on the board. Yell at nurse, "It's MY turn, damnit!" Nurse replies, “Yeah, well, you’re not exactly winning any races, are you?” Greg buys me a cheeseburger for dinner (the famous “last meal”). I think, it's gotta happen soon. I'm soon to be 42 weeks and they can't keep sending me home forever.

Thursday, September 5: 2:30am – They conclude the gel isn't working (duh) so we start the pitocin drip on a low level. Not a damn thing happens.

(to be continued....)

OK, OK...

I'm back - not that I ever really left. I'm a big ol' whining pregnant woman right now, so I haven't been posting much.

But we had some of G's friends over for dinner tonight, and they told me a funny story I had to share. Regular readers are familiar with G's nocturnal utterings (I keep wanting to write "emissions," :::snicker:::).

So he went to a Catholic college and would sometimes go to 11pm mass on Saturday nights to get his obligation out of the way. And he was a really, really good boy in college so it's not like he had anything else to do on Saturday night.

Anyway, he's at Mass one night, it's late and the church is kind of dark, and he dozes off. Something startles him awake, and he shouts out, "Do this in memory of me!" which, for all you non-Catholics, is something the priest says, quoting Jesus, during the blessing of the host. His friends in the pew with him were mortified.

You might have to be Catholic or live with a sleep-talker to appreciate this story, but believe me, I had tears from laughing so hard.

Another tear-jerker (for me):

In first grade (again with the Catholic school), G. had circle time. The teacher was talking about how Jesus did good deeds for others. They went around the circle with everyone giving an example of a good deed they'd done in the last week. G. choked and couldn't think of anything. In his panic, he remembered some story about Jesus clothing the naked, so he made up a story about how there was this naked kid walking down the street and he and his mother gave him some clothes. I'm sure the teacher looked up his address after school that day and vowed not to venture into that neighborhood. (Unless she was naked, I guess, in which case it would be good to remember G's address).

Last one:

Remember a while back when he was searching for the meaning of time in the middle of the night? Well, the other night he sits up, glares over me at my clock and announces that it's 12:58 am. OK, so I'm used to that "meaning" something dire, so I say:

Me: What does that mean?

G: What do you mean 'what does that mean'?

Me: What does it mean that it's 12:58am?

G: (scoffing with a level of disgust that he never uses when awake): It Means It's Almost 1 AM. Sheez. (rolls over and goes back to sleep).

I thought of torturing him by falling off the bed, but went back to sleep instead.

Thank goodness for G. He's always good for some material.

She's Ours!

For finding your mother,
There's one certain test.
You must look for the creature
Who loves you the best.
~ Little Miss Spider; David Kirk

Middle Sister decided, years ago, that she wanted to be a foster parent to infants. So when her youngest entered his teens, she convinced her husband to go along with the program and they began the long process of being approved as a foster home.

It took a while, but they were finally approved as an emergency infant foster care home. That meant they'd get infants and keep them for just a couple of weeks.

Three years and two days ago, they picked up their first baby at the hospital. At the time, I was just entering my second trimester with A., and I was thrilled to get some practice. I practiced bathing, bottlefeeding, and carrying an infant carrier without dislocating my shoulder.

She was only going to stay for a few weeks, but a few weeks turned into a few months, and it wasn't long before they knew she belonged with them.

Today it was made official - according to the judge, the county agrees that it is K.'s best interests that Middle Sister and Husband be her parents forever and ever.

Big Sister is 19 years older than I, and it's rare that we find a family with a bigger spread. Middle Sister (12 years older), in typical middle child fashion, has to outdo us with a 24-year-old, a 21-year-old, a 15-year-old and a 3-year-old. But some people are just meant to be mothers.

Post Valentine's Day Post

G. is one of the most romantic guys I've ever met, let alone dated. Check it out:

1. For Valentine's Day one year, he made a customized magnetic poetry set with our names, places we'd been, special words we used, memories, etc. He made it look just like the professional magnetic poetry sets by printing the words on labels and adhering them to magnetic sheets and cutting them all out by hand. Then he put them all on a cookie sheet and wrapped it up.

2. He proposed by taking me on a hike in a local regional park. I thought it was a bit strange that he'd take his backpack along on a short hike, but I am extremely good at humoring him, so I said nothing. Along the hike he pointed to the top of a hill and said, "Look! There's a red-tailed hawk! Let's go see!" I had just been looking in that direction, and there was no bird anywhere near there, but again, see comment about humoring him.

We got to the top and he took out a box. He got down on bended knee with a beautiful ring. He asked me to marry him, and I said, "OK." (Obviously, he's way more romantic and poetic than I am). Then he gave me a 5 x 7 box. Inside the box, wrapped in red velvet, were 50 small paper collages that he'd made himself - each one a different reason he loved me. He used handmade papers, and stuff cut out from magazines and cards, and handwrote something on each one, like "You let me be myself and accept me as I am," and "With you I've found my home".

I found out later that he'd been up there the week before to scout out the location and clear out the coyote dung.

3. He makes jewelry. He made me a gorgeous amethyst bracelet, a mommy bracelet with A's name on it, and a really pretty garnet lariat necklace, among others. Whenever we're out shopping and I look at jewelry, he always asks what I like and tries to remember what I like and duplicate it.


We've been together for 8 years now, married for 4.5. Valentine's Day was a little lean this year due to a lack of money, energy and time. He bought me a card and a box of chocolates. I made him two cards - one from me and one from A. We both worked, so that was pretty much it. But, what he does now on a daily basis is at least as romantic to me as anything he's done before, if not more so. Check it out:

1. He gets up every morning with A. and lets me sleep in. When I get up, sometimes an hour and a half later, he never makes me feel guilty for sleeping more. He always acts happy to greet me whenever I get up and however disheveled I am.

2. He remembers to buy me Caffeine-Free Diet Coke when he goes grocery shopping even though he never drinks it.

3. He also remembers to buy ice cream (he does eat that - sometimes he makes me crazy by leaving one teaspoon-full in the carton and putting it back in the freezer - but I know the intent is to leave at least one bite for me).

4. He takes care of all the household maintenance stuff without complaining.

5. Even when he's worked all day, he always takes over A. when he gets home - if it's early enough, he'll give him his bath and put him to bed.

6. If I say my back hurts, he always asks if I want a massage.

7. He tells me often that I'm a great mother.

8. When we took the train into the city over the weekend, he tried to carry A., my heavy bag AND the stroller so I wouldn't have to. I did end up taking the stroller.

So...a Happy Belated Valentine's Day to my Everyday Love.

~Your Everyday Lunasea.

Rambling Randomness

1. You know that song by Dido, "White Flag?" Until today, I thought the line was, "I won't poke my eyes out and surrender." Today I finally heard it as "I won't hold my hands up and surrender." I did think the line was a little violent the way I heard it, but I think I got the sentiment right.

2. Tonight when I kissed A. goodnight, I said, "Goodnight, sweetheart," and he said, "Goodnight, boobs!" The obsession continues.

3. Who would've thought that "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" would be the tearjerker of the season? Can anyone watch that show without clutching their chest and getting all teary-eyed? Geez, it's like "Brian's Song" every week. Did you see that one where the kids lost both parents and the designers put a stained glass skylight with two doves in the front entry to represent their parents watching over them? That was in a town near me. And the houses turn out so nice, it almost makes you wish for a tragic life. I don't think being super-pregnant and being uncomfortable at night qualifies.

I can see Ty at my house now. "Lunasea is so uncomfortable at night that she sometimes can't roll over to reach her Maalox. We're going to build a special Maalox holder right next to her pillow so she won't have that problem anymore. And we're building a special bed that will turn her automatically without a crane." :::sniffle:::

4. Last night's conversation with G, around 1 am:

G: Are you there!?

Me: Yeah, what?

G: Did you put your hat on??

Me: Um, yeah.

G: Good. Good.

Back Down to Earth

Sometimes I think A. is so smart. He figures stuff out really quickly, and his memory is amazing. In Target today, he saw a poster for the movie "Dodgeball," said, "There's Dodgeball!" and commented that our 11-year-old friend G. had picked it out to rent when he stayed with us over a MONTH ago. "G. pick out Dodgeball." We only watched it once, and haven't mentioned it since.

Then he does something like try to open a book while kneeling on top of it, or insist on pushing himself while sitting in the shopping cart.

"I try it!" He says, pushing my hands off the handlebar.

Yeah, OK, kid, see how far you get.

"Uuuuuuuggggghhh!" He pulls really really hard on the handlebar. While sitting in the seat.

I shouldn't laugh, but where else am I going to get my entertainment?

Big Day in the Lunasea Household

Because we're bad parents, we completely missed A.'s first use of the potty.

I rented "Once Upon a Potty" from the library and we've been watching it (and I've had that stupid "Yes, I'm going to the potty, potty" song stuck in my head for a couple of days now and it's making me crazier than I already am) while he sits on the potty chair after his bath. We don't make a big deal out of it, and we don't do it every night, I just wanted to help him get the idea. So far, he's shown very little understanding of what the potty's actually for, but he enjoys sitting on it sometimes.

So we did our little potty-sitting ritual on Friday night. The video ended, we put diapers and jammies on.

Saturday morning, we'd been up for about 2 hours when A. pointed into the potty chair and said, "Pee!"

I said, "Not yet, sweetie, but someday you'll pee in there."

"Pee!" he insisted.

G. went over and said, "Oh my God. There IS pee in there." A. was still in his sleeper and hasn't mastered getting undressed yet, so we knew it didn't happen that morning.

There's a possibility he managed to pour his morning orange juice in there, but it's unlikely. So we did the whole parade to the bathroom with applause and praise. We felt kind of bad that he'd apparently used the potty the night before and neither of us noticed it. And that there was pee sitting in the potty chair, in our TV room, for probably over 12 hours. Don't let this dissuade you from visiting, though. We're way better at checking the potty now.

As a Matter of Fact, It Is All About Me

There's been much hoopla surrounding the NY Times article on Mommy blogging. I haven't commented because I've only read the comments regarding the article, not the article itself because I'm too lazy to go over and register at the NY Times site and look it up.

I've gotten the gist, though - we Mommy bloggers are a selfish bunch writing about our kids to fill our constant need for narcissistic mirroring.

Sheesh. Like that's a bad thing.

Here's a great rebuttal, though. Thanks to Fussy for the link.

An excerpt:

...the overall message of the article seems to be, "Who wants to read about parenting?" and "what is wrong with the people who write these blogs?" And though they include a smattering of token daddies, it is clearly a critique of a feminine genre of writing. Since the article is about not only women, but mothers, there is of course a need to call in psychiatric experts to explain the pathology behind recording parenting in public, and raise concerns about how mommy blogging might damage the very offspring who inspire it in the first place.

My Little Labile One

All 2-year-olds cry and whine. A. is particularly good at using "no" as his default answer to everything. But there's this particular look A. gets when he's about to have a real meltdown that's different from the "I don't want to stop playing and get my diaper changed" complaining.

At first, he's soundless, but he gets this look like his head is going to explode, and his eyes start watering. He starts shaking his head, still soundless. It doesn't happen that often, and usually only when he's really tired or overstimulated, but we all know to flee when we see it, much like you would an exploding volcano or an avalanche. Then the wailing and flailing begins. He likes to add some fake mime-like pushing directed at whoever he can't stand at that moment.

Yesterday I made the huge mistake of putting him in his car seat when we were leaving the library. He scrunched up his face, started shaking, and most tellingly, didn't say anything, so I thought, "Uh oh." But I'm the boss, so I buckled him in and got into the driver's seat. Fortunately it was a short drive home while he wailed and flailed. When he gets like this he can't tell me what's wrong, so I guessed it was that I didn't let him climb into the seat himself.

When we got home, he insisted on having what we therapists call a "corrective experience". I took him out of the seat, put him down and he immediately climbed back in. OK, fine. Let's do it again. Whatever. Oh, great, now he won't get out. Not even for macky cheese. He just sits there silently and stares straight ahead. Sometimes he reminds me so much of my mother it freaks me out.

"You're just going to sit there in the car?" I ask.

"Yes," he answers.

"Fine." I have yet to meet a kid I couldn't wait out. I unload the trunk and ignore him.

All of a sudden, as I'm walking by the open car door, he leans out and says with a big smile, "Play soccer ball?" I suggest that maybe Papa is available to play soccer ball with him and he says, "OK!" and jumps out, all fine and happy. I know this is normal 2-year-old-ness, but it's still weird.

Great. And This Chick's Principal-in-Chief?

Thanks to Catawampus for the graphic.

So Margaret Spelling thinks we don't want our children exposed to a ::gasp:: family headed by a lesbian couple? I'll take a functional lesbian couple over many of the families I've seen any day.

Sweetie, how 'bout focusing your efforts on the idiots who don't know who their baby daddy is? (Oh, shoot, I forgot - if we just taught abstinence in the schools, that little problem would be taken care of). I saw a TV ad today for a talk show where the mother's had something like 35 men tested to see if she can find her baby daddy - clearly the abstinence talk had an effect on her.

Or how 'bout the sweethearts who don't want their kids? Here's my therapist disclaimer before someone takes away my couch: if these parents came into my office I'd find empathy for them and I'd try to get to the pain underneath the hurtful crap they're projecting onto their child.

Frankly, I'm can relate to the conservatives in that I'd rather A. didn't know right now that children lived in the kinds of families I'm talking about, and I wouldn't be happy to see these families depicted on Buster. But someday he will know, he has to know, and someday he'll have to make his own judgments. I hope he'll have some compassion.

My point, which I seem to have lost somewhere along the way, is that there are so many threats to kids from their families that are really serious problems, so let's focus on the threats that we know exist. We know that certain family structures and stresses are more likely to produce criminals and abusers, and those families aren't lesbian or gay.

Emotional and physical abuse, neglect, poverty and a broken educational system are bigger threats to your students than lesbian parents, Margey.

Birthing Thoughts

So I've been thinking about childbirth more and more lately. Guess it's because I've got about 6 weeks to go and am just now realizing I didn't learn anything in the childbirth class we took 2.5 years ago. Not that there was much taught. Our teacher was this rather odd older woman who tended to go off on tangents. Here's one of the only things I remember from the class:

"Once you're ready to deliver, nothing will stop it. (pause) Unless you're in the delivery room and a gunman runs in, I guess. That could stop it, because your body has a built-in mechanism to stop labor when it's threatened. That's so the cavewomen giving birth could stop if she were threatened by a wild animal. So if you were in the delivery room, ready to deliver, and a gunman ran in and started waving his gun around, your labor would probably stop for a while." And so on.... G and I used to be hysterical after every class. Entertaining, but not very useful.

There was nothing about breathing and very little about helpful positions, although she did recommend (and sold, conveniently) birthing balls. I am glad we bought the big orange and green birthing ball (G. was very distressed about the icky colors but that's all she had in my size). We didn't use it during A.'s birth, but sitting on it now and bouncing while watching TV reminds G. that I'm pregnant and am sacrificing my body for his child. That's usually good for at least a neck rub.

Another helpful thing she did was to make all the "partners" get phone books to elevate the feet of their pregnant companions during class. That was nice because it set the right precedent - they were there for no other reason than to make us comfortable.

G. and I weren't completely unprepared - I did read lots of books so I had the whole "imagine a flower opening" image set in my head, we'd written a birth plan (which we completely threw out the window) and we had lots of supplies, from relaxing music to the birthing ball to a foam mat for me kneel on in the shower to hard candies to an ice pack. The only thing we ended up using was the ice pack. The last thing I wanted to hear was relaxing music. And, I wasn't moving an inch more than I had to, let alone get in the shower. Don't even get me started on the "flower opening" thing.

So I think maybe I should take a refresher course, but not from the same woman, who supposedly taught Lamaze but never mentioned it at any point.

A tangent of my own: The worst advice I got as I approached the end of my first pregnancy was from a woman I barely knew who told me that the best advice she got was to not think of the contractions during labor as painful, but to "think of them as a tightening. Because that's what it really is - it's not pain, it's just a tightening."

Just a tightening, my ass.*

Anyway. Bradley? A different Lamaze? Any suggestions? Has anyone found something that really helped? The only experience I have with contractions are pitocin-induced doozies and I have no idea how to manage myself should I actually go into labor on my own. We had a doula the first time and she gave me a nice leg massage with lavender oil and was also a helpful person to bore my eyes into during contractions (G. would've freaked), but I wouldn't say she was able to help with the pain. Most of that was because I was hooked up to IVs, monitors and all sorts of crap (and refusing to move), not because she was inherently unhelpful.

OK, so your assignment is: what kind of childbirth prep should I take? I want something that may help me go natural but that won't make me feel too guilty if I decide on artificial pain relief.

Your other assignment: For those of you who have been pregnant and/or given birth, what was the worst advice you got, either about pregnancy or labor?

I'm also going to fill space here soon with A's birth story. I love reading other people's birth stories, especially if they're worse than mine. Since we began induction on a Sunday and A. wasn't born until Friday, I'm hoping to provide the same kind of satisfaction to many readers.

*I recently found out that a very dear but sometimes a tiny bit anxious (no offense - you know I am too) family member is pregnant with her first, so E., if you're reading this, don't worry, your contractions are going to be "just a tightening" and absolutely nothing to worry about. And, should you want it, Fentanyl ROCKS (check it out - 80 times the analgesic power of morphine Yeeeaaah, baby).

Jaded Mommy

Another thing I appreciate about the A-Man is his sometimes over-the-top enthusiasm. He's almost two and a half, and yesterday he came into the kitchen, pointed at his feet and yelled, "Oh! Toes! Look! Toes!" I agreed, he did in fact have toes on his feet. Ten, to be exact.

Later on, as he was eating his macky cheese, he held up his arm and cried, "Oh! Look! Hand! There's hand!"....as if he'd lost his hand and had just about given up on finding it.

I remember, in my post-partum daze, looking at his newborn toes in wonder at how they'd managed to grow perfectly within me, despite my inability to build anything. But after over two years, I'm just not as surprised to see his toes at the end of his feet. Nor am I surprised to see "So Many Toys!!" in our family room every morning. But he sure seems to be.

He reminds me to not take toes, hands or toys for granted. Wouldn't it be great to wake up every morning and say, "Oh look! We have a bathroom! How lucky are we?" or "Oh! It's cereal!" I think it would probably get on everyone's nerves just a little, but it would still be cool.

Thanks, Johnny

When I was a kid, sometimes I couldn't sleep. I could get pretty anxious feeling like I was the only person in the world who was still awake. But the nights I heard Johnny Carson coming through my parent's door, I knew everything was OK.

Silly Tickers

Oh what the heck....

If You Read it Backwards, It Says "Paul is Dead."

Even as I'm supposed to go to the store, I'm sitting here writing a blog post in code. Can you figure it out?

Look at Charlie's blog for a clue. I'm really bad at this sort of thing, but it'll postpone the grocery store for a tiny bit and that's OK. Let's talk about movie songs.

Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel....Do you know how long it took me to find the lyrics to "Windmills of Your Mind?" About 20 seconds. And here you can hear Dusty Springfield sing it while viewing photos of Buffy.

Everyone has a favorite movie song, and "Windmills" is one of mine. "MacArthur Park" is another one, simply for the non-sensical melting cake/lost recipe factor. How many times have you wanted to hear MacArthur Park played on an organ? Full service we are, here. Oh, and who could forget...

Nadia's Theme? Duh duh, duh duh, two keys at a time on the piano, that song was played with feeling and drama by every 13-year-old female piano student in the late 70's.

Did you figure it out?

More Posts about Breasts

I just want to make it clear that I was not on the top of the list of the "saggy redheaded moms" search. No, no, no - that person had to search through a ton of sites to find me. But now that I've mentioned it below, I am at the very top of said search on Google. You can't imagine my pride.

Note to guy in Copymat: Do not tell my 2-year-old son that he's "pimpin'." Believe me, if he were in fact "pimpin'," I would know about it and I would have made him buy me an iPod.

Reality Show Roundup:

I'm enjoying that Martha-Stewart-Apprentice show very much. I enjoy it so much that I can't remember the name. Wickedly Perfect - that's it (they need a new name). I had to tune out halfway through because Damn Donald starts his show at 8:30, and if I had Tivo it wouldn't matter but I don't. Another thing I'd have if my son were pimpin'.

The Apprentice looks good this season, but I liked it last season, too. It looks like they may have finally found a non-crazy black woman. The whole Burger King angle cracked me up. Are they running out of golf courses and ice cream shops to take over?

Did you hear that Jeff Probst has found "true love" with Julie from last season? WHAT?? Non-descript-whatever Julie? I am so not seeing it. Of course, I'm not a 43-year-old man stranded on a desert island, either.

I've seen the Amazing Race maybe twice, and thank goodness the wife beater's out of the running. That guy was crazy. Victoria (his ill-treated girlfriend) was quoted as saying, "We enjoyed every minute of the Race no matter what it may seem like." I'll bet - it was particularly fun when he was screaming at you and actually shoved you. Jonathan responded to the viewer backlash after that episode by saying, "I am deeply saddened by the storyline that CBS went with." How 'bout the storyline YOU WENT WITH, A**HAT?? They're still together. C'mon guys, if Brad and Jen can break up, you can too.*

And American Idol - why does it seem so vicious this time around? The faces of these poor deluded people getting their dreams dashed just aren't as laugh-out-loud funny anymore.

*Note to guy in supermarket: Don't criticize your customer's purchase, even if it's a People magazing with Brad and Jen on the cover. I'm heartbroken that their love didn't last, understand?

Trying to Find Order in Randomness

1. I think I understand what it's like to be 2 years old and not understand the rules of the game you seem to be playing. Yesterday I was cleaning out a closet and A. kept coming in, tapping me on the shoulder and saying, "Susie! Susie!" and then some sentence that seemed to include the words "red cones." I eventually figured out he was saying, "Excuse me!" and asking me if I had red cones (I think). I didn't know why he'd think of red cones, so I suggested maybe he was asking for raincoats?

Then he started coming in, tapping me on the shoulder, saying, "Excuse me! Excuse me!" (Still sounded like "Susie! Susie!")

I'd say, "Yes?"

He'd say, "Got any red cones or raincoats?"

I'd say, "No, I'm sorry, I don't have any red cones or raincoats."

He'd grin, turn around and say, "OK!" and walk out.

About 50 times. I'm still not sure what he was asking for.

2. G. very inconveniently began his day at 6:15am today. He had a very inconvenient 8am client. Who can have any insight into their psyche at 8am? Psssshhhh.

3. I have clients from 2pm to 5:30pm today. Then I'm meeting an old friend whom I haven't seen since my wedding 4.5 years ago. She's in town for a memorial service tomorrow for another college friend with whom I didn't stay in touch, but spent a lot of time with in college. She's our age and battled cancer for 4.5 years. I've been dreaming about memorial services and college all freakin' week long. I plan to go to the service tomorrow and I'll probably see people I used to be very close to in college (which was way back in the late 80's for those who are keeping track). It's all very Big Chill.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm worrying about what to wear. It's not a reunion, for heaven's sake, but it is, kind of. Not that I have many choices of attire, being 34 weeks pregnant and all. I usually wear a lot of black, but black is sort of passe for a memorial service, isn't it? What's going to look suitably sober and thoughtful, yet also say, "I've made such a success of myself and am thoroughly fulfilled now"? And how shallow am I that I'm thinking about this on the eve of a (relatively) young mother's memorial service? I know the truth, though - you'd be thinking the same thing.

It's a Big Day

Thanks to the recent mailing of the St. Matthew's Prayer Rug and whoever searched Netscape for "saggy redheaded moms," Everyday Lunasea rolled over the 10,000 visitor mark. I know that's a day's take for some bloggers, but hey, I'm impressed. Thanks for coming.

Cranky

One of the things I adore about A. is that he's very affectionate. He loves to snuggle, and a couple times a day spontaneously cries, "Big Huuuuuuuuug!" and throws his arms around me. However....for the last few days he's been in a full oedipal-breast-worship phase and I'm sooo over it.

I think I nursed A. once last week when we were in bed and he wanted to get up and I didn't. Other than that time, we haven't nursed in weeks, which is fine by me because it still feels like rubbing my boobs against a cheese grater (I really didn't want to get out of bed that day).

But, nursing has been replaced by fondling. Not discreet fondling or a little feel-ya-up, either. It's full-on patting, rubbing, burying-the-face-in-my-chest and kissing-my-T-shirt type of fondling. While making high-pitched noises. Constantly. It's as if he and They have this special relationship and I'm just a third wheel. I can't politely excuse myself, though, because They are attached to my chest. Another suggestion for Whoever's In Charge of Mommy Design - detachable breasts.

So I've got one on the inside kickboxing his way out*, and one on the outside trying to meld into my chest. This is one of those days when I'm ready for the baby wagon to come by and take both of them away.

*I found the kick count chart I kept with A. recently - where you keep track of how long it takes the fetus to kick 10 times. A. was usually good for 10 kicks in anywhere from 10 minutes to half an hour. This kid, when he's awake, can do 10 kicks in two minutes. It's like bam bam bam bam bam let-me-out-it's-too-cramped-in-here! Sorry, kid, I didn't ask to be only 5 feet tall. Believe me, it would be a lot different if I were in charge of Mommy Design.

Don't Put Jesus in the Recycling Bin

Every time the St. Matthew's Church does a bulk mailing of its Prayer Rug, I get a ton of Google hits about it. I wrote about it here, almost a year ago (March 13th, if it doesn't automatically take you there).

I ended up putting Jesus in the recycling bin. And you know...this past year has not been the greatest (except for the healthy pregnancy). Hmmm. I wonder if they'll send me another one. I hope so, because then I can make sure it's touching both my knees and I can maintain the connection between St. Matthew's and Someone Connected With This Address.

You Say Potato...

There may be hope for Jake yet. G wants an Italian name (A's is totally Irish) and likes Giacomo. Then we'd call him Jake. Sort of like Bill is short for William, yet doesn't start with the same letter (which never made sense to me before, but now is OK since I can use it for my own purposes).

The thing I can't figure out is exactly how it's pronounced. Our name book says "JOCK-uh-mo" which brings too many images of Michael Jackson to mind.

My meager college Italian says "Jee-ah-KO-mo."

What if he's a fair redhead like A? Will it be weird for him to have a very Italian name?

He-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless

G. vetoed both of my choices for names yesterday (Jake and Luke). That means we're back to square one. People think we're being coy when we say we don't have names yet. They reply, "Oh, you guys know, you're just not telling, right?"

No, we really don't know. He-Who-May-Remain-Nameless-Until-He's-Old-Enough-to-Pick-His-Own isn't sending me any signals, either. (I mean about the name - he's a serious kickboxer when he's awake). When I was pregnant with A, I wanted to name him Liam, so I told G, "He's telling me his name is Liam. It's a special connection moms have with their unborn children."

G replied, "Yeah, he told you he was a girl, too."

Last Night's Conversation

G. props himself up, peers over me at the clock and gasps.

L: What? What's wrong?
G: (gasp) It's 12:04.
L: Okay.
G: (shakes head and says dramatically) That's not good.

I asked him why, but he was already back snoring.

Vote for Pedro!*

You gotta go vote on the BOB awards.

No, sadly, Everyday Lunasea did not make the list of finalists, but I'm sure I was number 11.::::snort:::: Actually, some really awesome mommy blogs, way better than my little dusty corner o' the web, didn't make it either, so I don't feel at all sad.

I haven't voted yet because I feel compelled to check out every single finalist before I vote in a category, and that takes some time. But in my travels I've discovered some new favorites, and I'll bet you will too.

And I take personal pride in the fact that the blog I nominated for Crafty Blog, ljcfyi, is now at #3! There's a page where you can see the latest rankings, and it's updated every 15 minutes.

*See how hip I am? According to the SF Chronicle, this line references the latest teen cult favorite, "Napoleon Dynamite." Which just goes to show you...that I subscribe to the Chronicle.

Like a Cat in Heat

Does anyone watch the "West Wing" anymore? There were some strange animal references tonight:

1. CJ to Toby: "You're like a dog in Pompeii."
2. Toby: "It's like walking around Washington with a sick chicken."
3. Abbey to Jed: "You've got to hold onto the fish or it'll jump out of your hands."

Now, I admit to missing at least 30% of whatever the hell they're talking about because they talk so fast and jump between topics constantly. Still, not one of these made sense to me, even in context.

G. says it's the Dan Rather episode of the West Wing.

Oh, by the way, if anyone saw it tonight, did you see Kristin Chenoweth walking beside CJ, making Kristin look like a midget and CJ look freakish? That's what it would look like if my acting career had ever gotten started and I got a part on the West Wing walking beside CJ.

The Store That Has It All

As I was getting A. into his jammies tonight, he looked over at the floor, saw a little bugger creeping around and said, "Ant!" Regular readers will be familiar with our ant issues.

A: 'Nother ant!
L: Sure enough. Where do you think they're coming from?
A: (with absolute certainty) From Target.

Proof that God Hates Women

I seem to have entered that fun, final stage of pregnancy where my hormones cause me to sleep more lightly and wake up every hour. I'd really kind of hoped it wouldn't happen this time because I'm more tired anyway, but here it is. Every hour on the hour.

We spent the last few days moving our office from one city to another. Actually, G did most of the moving, I provided emotional support, dusted, and helped pick out the couch.

G: "I hope you're not as tired as I am."
L: "Did you wake up every hour on the hour last night?"
G: (backpedaling furiously) "No, I meant...I know you're more tired than me...I was just saying that I hoped you weren't as tired as I was, 'cause I'm pretty tired..."

Why Don't We Just Amputate His Hand For Him?

I subscribe to a parenting newsletter where you enter the ages of your kids and they send you helpful tips. It just featured some suggestions for letting toddlers help in the kitchen.

"Give your toddler a butter knife and a cutting board on the floor and he can cut up a potato."

First of all, I can't cut up a potato with a butter knife. Second, ARE YOU PEOPLE CRAZY????

And Of Course, More to Be Grateful For

I've been having a hard time conceptualizing the devastation in Southeast Asia. I read the headlines, which are appalling, and I read some of the first-person accounts, but I don't really get it. A wall of water? What does that look like? The death toll might rise to 100,000? How many is that? I throw the newspaper in the recycling bin and go to work.

So now the amateur videos have been found and are being played on the news. It's a bit more real, but I still can't quite wrap my brain around it. I can't imagine grabbing onto my child and then having him slip from my grasp. Or, maybe I just don't want to. I don't want to think that there is anything in the world stronger than my grasp on him.

Another Thing to Be Grateful For

1. The trend of wearing pants so loose that you always need one hand holding them up will probably be over by the time my boys are teens.

Things to Be Grateful For

(in no particular order)

1. Gift Cards. What's with the animosity towards gift cards? Why do I keep hearing that people hate giving them? As far as I'm concerned, it's two gifts in one - the item, plus the gift of shopping! Nothing says "Go shop with someone else's money" like a gift card. The only problem with them is that you either have to spend a bit more than the card's value or you end up with a whole bunch of 25 cent cards. I've got them from L.L.Bean and Land's End. Looks like I'll finally be able to get a warm jacket. One year my MIL gave me one for Sephora. Ah yes, that was a good year.

2. Leftovers. We have lots and lots of sweet potatoes with apples left over.

3. Chocolate. Especially chocolate with caramel inside.

4. Two-year-olds. A. is just thrilled with his 3 new Thomas cars. I hope he's this thrilled every Christmas. He shouts out "Kiss-Muss Yights!" whenever we pass a decorated house. And my heart melts when he tells everyone, "May Kiss-Muss!"

5. Onion dip. I'd forgotten how good this stuff is. And so easy!

6. We have a leftover bag of potato chips to go with the onion dip.

7. We also have leftover beer, which will come in handy in March.

8. Family traveling out for the holidays. My dad came from AZ, and Big Sister and Niece came from Portland. And we got to see Medium Sister and all her kids (Big Nephew, Medium Niece, Medium Nephew and Little Niece), who live about 40 minutes away, several times over the last couple of days. I'm very lucky - my family is fun to hang out with.

9. My nomination for crafty blog got into the finalists of the BOB awards! ljc fyi Go check out the projects page.

10. Jon Stewart's America (The Book). I ostensibly bought it for G, but guess who's nightstand it's on?

I'm feeling a bit like I have to really post something fantastic and original since it's the week that BOB finalists are chosen. I don't believe this post qualifies. I also got a really flattering comment on another blog (read the Monday 12/27 entry). Oh the pressure!

We Hate the Opera, Too

Big Niece and Big Sister went to the Nutcracker a few weeks ago in Portland. Behind them sat a mother who kept telling her kid, "You don't even KNOW how beautiful this is!"

At the end, she gave a one-woman standing ovation, and when the rest of the audience didn't join her, she said (loudly), "Damn Liberals!"

Wish Me the Luck

This morning, G-the-Christmas-Elf was in fine spirits, bustling around and humming christmas carols. He's really a bustler. The verb "to bustle" was created for him. It became cute as soon as I'd finished my first cup of coffee.

Tomrrow, Christmas Eve, we're having 14 people for dinner. Two of those people are little, yet they each take up a whole place setting. It will be very cozy at our dining room table. Wanna know what we're having?

Honeybaked Ham
Mashed Potatoes with Gruyere
Sweet Potatoes with Apples & Brown Sugar
Brussel Sprouts with Bacon and Shallots
Green Salad
Rolls
Jello (for the nephews/nieces who don't like Auntie Lunasea's fancy-ass cooking)
Mulled Cider
Cherry and Apple Pie with Ice Cream (also homemade choc chip cookies and choc chip shortbread)

MMMMMmmmmmm. It's gonna be good. I'm not the best cook, but I can follow a recipe.

More Talking in His Sleep

Regular readers will be familiar with G's nightime guarding of my safety. We've had a bit of a quiet period, but about a week ago, my safety again appeared in jeopardy.

The other night, he startled and sat straight up.

Me: "What?"
G: "Don't fall off the bed!"
Me: "I'm not going to fall off the bed."
G: (pointing to the edge of the bed) "Well, I'm on this side of you, but THAT'S on the other side of you!"
Me: "Thanks for the geography lesson. Go. Back. To. Sleep."

Last night I reached for the Maalox that's always on my nightstand while pregnant, and he jumped up and grabbed me.

G: "What...what?"
Me: "It's OK, I'm just reaching over. I'm not going to fall."
G: (dubiously) "Well.....OK."

He lies back down, wrapping his right arm tightly around my legs to keep me on the bed. I kick him off. It's bad enough having indigestion without being restrained on top of it.

Blogging Fool

Nominations are being accepted through December 24 for the BOB Awards! The idea is to honor the little guys out here in blogland. There are 10 million nominations for the "Mommy Blogs" and less than 100 for the "Daddy Blogs." You can also nominate crafty blogs, big-name blogs (like Dooce or Mimi Smartypants), blog whores (people who will do anything for a link), etc. I think it's a great idea and have nominated some of my perennial favorites.

Oh, and you can't nominate Busy Mom, Genuine, Zero Boss, and some other favorites because they're on the panel. Besides, who's gonna go up against Busy Mom? She'd run ya down with the Busy Van.

Sergeant Christmas

This is a picture of A shouting commands tonight as we decorated the tree. Most of the commands were for G to "Play Trains!" with him, but they also included, "right here!" and "over dere!" and "juice!"

G finally got down on the floor and played trains with him for a while, and here was their conversation:

A: Play trains? Play trains!
G: We are playing trains.
A: Play trains!
G: I believe that's what we're doing.
A: Play trains!
G: I'm not sure we could be playing trains more than we already are.
A: Play trains!

"You see, kids, there's all sorts of trash in the world."

I always thought heroism involved going above and beyond the call of duty. On Higglytown Heroes (one of my least favorite Playhouse Disney shows and of course, one of A's favorites), the garbage man is our hero because he's going to pick up the kid's trash. Oh, but wait! It's not trash, but leaves? "Well, that's a truck of a different color." Garbage Man doesn't pick up leaves. But it's OK - because there are so many different kinds of trash in the world, the sanitation heroes split the work and Leaf Man/Woman will come pick those leaves up. And then, Recycling Man will sort and recycle! "Wow, sort and recycle! It doesn't get any better than that!" I swear that's an actual quote.

On every episode, the featured townspeople sing, "You can be a hero, just like me."

Arrrgh. Let's just leave out the fact that these kids are those roly-poly nesting dolls that live inside each other. That's creepy enough. But while I believe sanitation workers to be absolutely necessary to our quality of life, isn't it their job to pick up the trash and leaves?

On another segment, the hero was the supermarket worker who helped the kids find the pasta aisle. I thoroughly appreciate supermarket workers, don't get me wrong, especially when they reach things that are very high on the shelf for me, but is it heroic to know where the macaroni stars are? I believe it's worthy of a thank you, maybe, but not a medal. The guy in front of me at Target today, who took one look at me, my full cart and toddler, and unloaded my entire cart onto the belt for me, now there's your hero. And he didn't even work there. And when I saw him in the parking lot afterward, he was walking with a pronounced limp. So there.

Whatever Works

A thinks our Christmas tree is called, "Kiss-Mus-Yights-Vewy-Hot."

Why is it....

that when you have a cut or a sore on any other part of your body, you try to avoid bumping it or otherwise hurting it more. But when the sore is on your tongue, you can't stop rubbing it against the edge of your teeth so that it will hurt more?

Lucky

There's a gas station attendant in my town who is very lucky to be alive tonight. After being stuck on the bridge for an hour and a half behind not one, but TWO accidents with a baby sitting on my bladder, I got off at the first exit and pulled in to his stupid station. And he wouldn't let me use the bathroom. He pointed to the sign that said they were very sorry, but the restroom couldn't be used after 8:00pm. I actually sputtered. I don't think I've ever actually sputtered before.

I always thought they locked the doors early and made you talk to the attendant through the little window to avoid robbers. No, it's to keep pregnant women from jumping across the counter and strangling the attendant, trailing urine the whole way.

Update

OK, my head's not spinning so fast anymore. It's floating about 2 feet above my neck, but that's because I've got a bad cold.

The interview for the part-time job in CA went well, but they'd already filled the position G thought he was applying for and were looking for an early-childhood specialist. He's many wonderful things, but an infant specialist is not one of them. Still he made a new friend in the interview, and hopefull will get some RAD referrals for his private practice. (He's completed a year long training in treating Reactive Attachment Disorder).

He also had a long talk with the dude from Kaiser Portland. He told him our situation, which is that we would be due with New Baby right around the time they'd want him to start. The guy in Portland said, "Oh, you don't want to do that. That's not fair to your wife or your family. We get openings every 6-8 months - why don't we wait for the next one?" G didn't feel like he could really argue with him ("No, damnit! Screw my family! Give me the interview!") He was very nice about it and G made another new friend.

So he now has some new friends and probably doesn't need to take the full-time job at Kaiser down here in order to transfer up. He didn't really want a full-time job here, and he's not excited about the one he'd be up for. It's too much like what he did for years in residential treatment.

OK, so plans for the time being are a little more settled. We need to buy a sofa for our new office, and we'll move in over Jan 1st. Sorry, Oregonians, but don't worry - it'll still probably happen, just in its own time.

This just in: A new little blogger on the block. Head on over and congratulate Henry and Michelle on their new little blog topic!

Measure of Evil

Big sign on the church around the corner: "Give Satan an inch and he'll be a ruler."

(darn minister changed it before I had a chance to get a photo)

Twists and Turns

Well, life does throw some interesting curve balls, doesn't it? (By the way, if you're a member of my family and you're reading this, SSSSHHHHHHH! It's not public knowledge! I mean, except that it's on a public website, but don't be telling anyone, 'kay? And if you live in Oregon, don't be getting your hopes up. Till we figure out what to do.) This is a bit of a rambling blather...

Here in the Lunasea household, your beloved Lunasea has been working her pregnant ass off, taking every referral who calls and can fit into her schedule. Being self-employed, I do not give myself paid maternity leave or health benefits (I mean, I have them, we just pay an arm and leg for them), so I need to save up a bit for the 6-8 weeks I won't be working. Save - hah. We're barely making our bills. G's practice has been down since summer, and he's been working like a dog trying to get it back up. That means he's pretty preoccupied and anxious and talking in his sleep a lot.

We've been debating whether or not he should continue to work on marketing his practice, or just go get a job here in the Bay Area. We are (and by "we are" I mean "he is") still applying for jobs in Portland, but they seem to be few and far between.

He's got an interview for a part-time position today about 30 miles away - it would be a good security blanket, but probably not enough hours to qualify for health benefits. It would also allow him to keep his private practice.

He also has an interview next week for a full-time position at our local Kaiser. The good parts: short commute, benefits, steady income, paid vacation, and it might be a gateway to transferring to Portland. The bad parts: we're moving our office Jan 1st and if he takes a full-time job, he's going to have to close his private practice, and I'm on the hook for the whole darn office by myself. We'd probably have to find a subleaser. He's also just not crazy about working full-time for someone else. And above all, I want him to be happy because it makes my life much easier. Yeah, and because I love him.

Let's throw something else into the mix: Kaiser Portland called out of the blue this week and (finally) want to talk to him about a job. This would've been great news back in September. Right now, we just signed a year and a half lease for a new office, I'm about to enter my third trimester, we'd have to sell our house, buy a new one, terminate with clients, say goodbye to our support network here, and move (G wondered aloud if my BIL would be willing to drive the truck over the mountain pass. "What truck?" I ask. "The U-Haul," he answers. "We've got a fully furnished 3-bedroom house, an office and a garage so full we've never parked our cars in it. Sweetie, our U-Haul days are over," I reply).

And, we'd only have one income for a while. I'm not at all sure which is easier - moving when I'm 7-8 months pregnant or moving when I've got a baby and a toddler. Anyway, it's probably not going to happen because we're both too overwhelmed by the chaos right now.

On the other hand, shouldn't we grab for opportunities when they come? What if this is our only chance? Are we being wimps? The opportunity arises and we run for cover, saying, "Uh, yeah, that's what we thought we wanted but maybe not. Come back later." Ultimately, we would like to move to a better neighborhood with better schools. And that's unlikely to happen here in the Bay Area. And interest rates are good, prices are good and especially in Oregon, there's less competition for houses in the winter.

On the other hand, it really is a bad time to move. Who's going to want to buy our house right during the holidays? I'd have to switch prenatal providers in my 3rd trimester, I'd be in a new place with family but no friends, no mom's group, no job, cold rainy weather and I'd be unpacking a whole house. With a toddler, a small bladder and sore hips. Still, the new baby is easier to take care of when it's inside me than it is outside me.

Oh, yeah, and there are all the conflicting feelings that come up watching him ambivalently apply for jobs that I'd be very qualified for and would probably enjoy. He's more suited for private practice than I am. I'm more suited to working in an outpatient setting than he is. I've also interviewed a heck of a lot more. He was noting that he hasn't had an interview in over 10 years. Know what that means? That means that at 7am this morning, the three of us still in bed, A. lying on my head, he suggests, "Say a few words about how you do play therapy." Ack. Just let me go to the darn interview.

I do like my private practice for the most part, but it's isolating and I don't like the ups and downs of the income, and that I don't get paid when clients cancel or don't show up. However, I'm due in 3 months and am not really in a position to take on a new job right now. Because I am the possessor of the uterus in the family, I feel like my options are limited. I know, I know, they can't disqualify me because I'm pregnant. But let's be realistic - all other things being equal, why wouldn't an employer take someone who's available now over someone who will be taking at least 6-8 weeks off a few months later? And do I really want to jump into a new job while I'm learning to juggle multiple motherhood?

My head is spinning and I'd like to get off. Would someone please get out their crystal ball and tell us what to do? Now, I know G hasn't been offered any of these jobs and we may have no choices at all. I also know that things, one way or another, tend to work out. For the most part, I'm able to remain optimistic that we'll figure it out. But then there are days like today, where it doesn't really look like any of the options are particularly happy ones.

Taking a cue from: my box of high-fiber cereal that says it now has "Tastier Twigs!" Talk about making the best of a bad situation.

The other night:

G sits up and peers over me at the clock. "What time is it?" he asks.

Although he's the one staring at the clock, I answer, "Almost midnight."

"It's 11:58! What does that mean?" he corrects me.

"That it's almost midnight. Go back to sleep."

"But what does it mean?" he asks, really intently.

"It means it's time to sleep!" I'm getting a little impatient.

"No! It means something else!" he insists.

"Go back to sleep."

He got up and went to the bathroom but then went back to sleep. He remembered the next morning that he was thinking there was some hidden message in the time. I wish he didn't think so much in the middle of the night.

A Coupla Posts All Rolled Into One!!

1. What's the secret to Shrinky Dinks? I've tried twice now to make cute shrinky dink wine charms, and you're supposed to wait until 30 seconds after they lie flat to pull them out of the oven, but you're also supposed to only bake them 3-5 minutes. So what do you do when they're not lying flat after 5 minutes? Hmmmm? They're supposed to be pliable when you take them out, but mine were hard as rocks. Curly, wavy rocks.

2. What do you say when people tell you your child is cute? A's got very nice red hair, and he happens to be pretty cute in it, with the blue eyes and long eyelashes and all. "Ya can't get that from a bottle!" as we've heard many times. It's nice, don't get me wrong - I'm just never sure what to say. It's not like I personally designed his hair. When I say "Thank you," I feel like I'm taking credit for something I had nothing to do with. But I can't say nothing, and A isn't the best at saying "Thank you" himself yet. He couldn't care less that he's cute.

My family has also heard about, and sometimes witnessed, people asking where he got it. My hair has maybe faded a little bit, and I've got a touch of gray here and there, but c'mon - I'm clearly a redhead. Even my eyebrows and eyelashes are red. The other day someone said, "Oh, wouldn't you just love having hair like that?" "Yeah, I do love having hair like that." To be fair, most of the queries about where he got the hair come in darker places, like church, but still. How do you answer that? "Well, you see, the redhead gene is a recessive gene, so he has to get it from both his dad and I." ((Yawn)). I guess it if happens in church, "God gave it to him" is as good an answer as any.

Even more awkward is when people with children comment on how cute my kid is, and I feel like I'm expected to return the compliment about how cute their kids are. But what if their kid's not cute? I mean, all kids are cute in a sort of way, but if someone says, "Oh, he's so cute!" and I come back with "Thanks, so's yours," let's face it, it sounds lame. I try to find something remarkable about their child, like "she's so focused!" or "what a good climber!" But if you're just sitting in the supermarket checkout line, it can be difficult. "Gee, he really wants some cookies, huh?"

Sometimes I Think Too Much

When I think hard about it, the idea that I'm growing a completely separate human being (with a penis, even) inside my own body just weirds me out.

TV Update: Loving The Apprentice. Although I think it was a bit unfair to fire Andy just because he didn't jump in the middle of the boardroom blondie catfight. I liked Andy. He was like the younger brother no one ever had. Missed Survivor last week (was busy hauling plates up those stairs) and heard it was the best episode yet. Greeeeat. Also loved Desperate Housewives last Sunday. My favorite part was when Lynette was on the couch trying to sleep, the doorbell rang and she said, "Go to hell. Gotohellgotohellgotohellgotohell." Oh, how many of us have been there?

The day after Thanksgiving, we were eating Oreos in Big Sister's kitchen and we came across one that had the wafer turned inside out - the engraved (?) side was next to the cream filling, and the plain side was on the outside. Do we get a prize for that? I immediately took a photo for the blog.



Oh, and the ants are on our ceiling. They're a stupid, stupid clan.

Excuse me, gotta go steal a holiday banner.