 |
| Krumps has shed so much on her bed that she blends right in. |
1.31.2016
1.30.2016
Birthing Story Pt II
November 4th, 2015
Turns out I'm dilated to 3.5cm, when it was only 1.5cm yesterday afternoon. I'm glad to hear it- but I'm also having contractions so strong that I've ripped off all my clothes and am clawing my way up the side of the hospital bed they're examining me on.
"Are you planning on a natural birth?" one of the nurses asks me, and when I'm capable of speaking again I say, "Well, that was the idea, but right now I'm feeling pretty good about drugs. I'm feeling even better about them in the middle of the contractions." No one laughs. Tough crowd.
They strap monitors to me, and never in my life have I hated anything as much as I hate these damn monitors. I don't like to be touched when I'm in pain- and the stupids things do nothing but touch me. I ask plaintively if we can take them off- but no, not until they've gotten 20 minutes of baby-monitoring out of them.
It does not seem likely that I can hold still for 20 minutes.
There is no way in hell I can walk by this point, so they begin the laborious process of wheeling the bed out the door and down the hallway to my private birthing room. By the time we get there I've progressed to 6.5cm, and I'm pretty adamant about getting into the bath I was promised I could labor in.
"Okay honey, but if you feel the baby drop, or like you have to poop, you have to get out: you can't give birth in the tub."
I snarl something unintelligible- anything to shut them up and get me into the water.
And then they begin the first attempt at inserting an I.V. port. I say "first" because it is not successful. Nor is the second. Nor the third. I have three holes in my arms, and finally they call for someone else to come and try.
But then I feel the baby drop.
I shoot up out of the tub like a rocket, shrieking, "I can't give birth in the tub!" because the pain has driven out any other coherent thoughts. The nurses catch me and Nathan says something along the lines of, "Okay but maybe let's not break your neck on wet tiles," and then they're helping me back over to the bed.
A new nurse comes and gets the port placed, so they can give me fentanyl to "take the edge of". It does not. Or if it does, I've got such a wide swath of pain that the edge makes no difference. Nathan will later tell me I clung to the bed crying out, "Why? Why? Why?", in addition to making low animal noises he'd never heard before.
They check my progress again as the epidural guy wheels his equipment in, and I'm at 8cm. He is telling me to hunch my back, but when I do he snaps, "No, not like that, like this!" and attempts to demonstrate. But he is in loose scrubs, and I am in labor, and who the hell knows what his spine is doing over there. At last a nurse touches me lightly on my mid-back. "We need you to make this part flat," she says gently. That I can do.
For approximately ten seconds.
But that's not long enough, so Nathan is gripping my hands and I'm drawing on willpower I didn't even know I had to hold perfectly still through not one but two contractions as they put a needle next to my spine, and it is literally the worst part of this entire experience, not being able to thrash and scream obscenities like I have been.
Oh but then it starts to take effect!
Except... only halfway. My right side is pain-free and relaxed, but my left side is still actively laboring. It's one of the oddest sensations of my life. But having the pain cut in half lets me speak coherently again, and I let them know what's going on.
They roll me on my side and up the dosage a bit, until at last I'm properly numbed- and just in time, as now it's time to push. The doctor moves to get the stirrups out, but I explain that I actually would like human touch, and is it okay if we don't use stirrups?
"Of course!" she says, and directs Nathan and a nurse to help hold my legs.
The epidural, by the way, is amazeballs. I am relaxed and cracking jokes. I think to myself, Oh good, now they'll know that I'm a fun person, and not just a screaming bitch, and to tell the truth I'm actually enjoying myself now, as insane as that sounds. Don't get me wrong- pushing is work- even with no sensation below the waist I can tell that, and I think, I'm so grateful for my strong body!- but it's satisfying that it's going so quickly. The doctor asks if I'd like to feel his head, and I pause. If you'd asked me a week ago if I'd thought I'd like to feel my son's head emerging from my vaginal canal, the answer would have been an adamant, "No thank you." But now? Hell, this is literally my one and only chance to feel him from the inside and the outside at the same time.
"Okay!" I reach down and she guides my fingers to his head- it's softer than velvet, and covered in downy fine hair. Looks like the old wive's tale about heartburn is right this time!
The final push isn't actually a push; I'm laughing at something, and the force of my laughter pops him out. I feel him slide free of my abdominal cavity, and my lungs fully inflate for the first time in months. It's miraculous on more than one level.
It's 6:15pm. Less than four hours after walking through the door, they are placing my son on my chest. He is the violet color of the sky at dawn, and I think he is beautiful. I stare at him as he screams his strong lungs into life, and I'm filled with joy, such pride, such-
"Did he... pee on me?" I ask. "No, wait, I think it's poop..." Nathan lifts the blanket they laid over us and sure enough- my son has used his first few moments in life to defecate on my stomach. I will be cleaning meconium from my navel for days.
I burst into laughter, into tears, and kiss him over and over. We'll do just fine.
Turns out I'm dilated to 3.5cm, when it was only 1.5cm yesterday afternoon. I'm glad to hear it- but I'm also having contractions so strong that I've ripped off all my clothes and am clawing my way up the side of the hospital bed they're examining me on.
"Are you planning on a natural birth?" one of the nurses asks me, and when I'm capable of speaking again I say, "Well, that was the idea, but right now I'm feeling pretty good about drugs. I'm feeling even better about them in the middle of the contractions." No one laughs. Tough crowd.
They strap monitors to me, and never in my life have I hated anything as much as I hate these damn monitors. I don't like to be touched when I'm in pain- and the stupids things do nothing but touch me. I ask plaintively if we can take them off- but no, not until they've gotten 20 minutes of baby-monitoring out of them.
It does not seem likely that I can hold still for 20 minutes.
There is no way in hell I can walk by this point, so they begin the laborious process of wheeling the bed out the door and down the hallway to my private birthing room. By the time we get there I've progressed to 6.5cm, and I'm pretty adamant about getting into the bath I was promised I could labor in.
"Okay honey, but if you feel the baby drop, or like you have to poop, you have to get out: you can't give birth in the tub."
I snarl something unintelligible- anything to shut them up and get me into the water.
And then they begin the first attempt at inserting an I.V. port. I say "first" because it is not successful. Nor is the second. Nor the third. I have three holes in my arms, and finally they call for someone else to come and try.
But then I feel the baby drop.
I shoot up out of the tub like a rocket, shrieking, "I can't give birth in the tub!" because the pain has driven out any other coherent thoughts. The nurses catch me and Nathan says something along the lines of, "Okay but maybe let's not break your neck on wet tiles," and then they're helping me back over to the bed.
A new nurse comes and gets the port placed, so they can give me fentanyl to "take the edge of". It does not. Or if it does, I've got such a wide swath of pain that the edge makes no difference. Nathan will later tell me I clung to the bed crying out, "Why? Why? Why?", in addition to making low animal noises he'd never heard before.
They check my progress again as the epidural guy wheels his equipment in, and I'm at 8cm. He is telling me to hunch my back, but when I do he snaps, "No, not like that, like this!" and attempts to demonstrate. But he is in loose scrubs, and I am in labor, and who the hell knows what his spine is doing over there. At last a nurse touches me lightly on my mid-back. "We need you to make this part flat," she says gently. That I can do.
For approximately ten seconds.
But that's not long enough, so Nathan is gripping my hands and I'm drawing on willpower I didn't even know I had to hold perfectly still through not one but two contractions as they put a needle next to my spine, and it is literally the worst part of this entire experience, not being able to thrash and scream obscenities like I have been.
Oh but then it starts to take effect!
Except... only halfway. My right side is pain-free and relaxed, but my left side is still actively laboring. It's one of the oddest sensations of my life. But having the pain cut in half lets me speak coherently again, and I let them know what's going on.
They roll me on my side and up the dosage a bit, until at last I'm properly numbed- and just in time, as now it's time to push. The doctor moves to get the stirrups out, but I explain that I actually would like human touch, and is it okay if we don't use stirrups?
"Of course!" she says, and directs Nathan and a nurse to help hold my legs.
The epidural, by the way, is amazeballs. I am relaxed and cracking jokes. I think to myself, Oh good, now they'll know that I'm a fun person, and not just a screaming bitch, and to tell the truth I'm actually enjoying myself now, as insane as that sounds. Don't get me wrong- pushing is work- even with no sensation below the waist I can tell that, and I think, I'm so grateful for my strong body!- but it's satisfying that it's going so quickly. The doctor asks if I'd like to feel his head, and I pause. If you'd asked me a week ago if I'd thought I'd like to feel my son's head emerging from my vaginal canal, the answer would have been an adamant, "No thank you." But now? Hell, this is literally my one and only chance to feel him from the inside and the outside at the same time.
"Okay!" I reach down and she guides my fingers to his head- it's softer than velvet, and covered in downy fine hair. Looks like the old wive's tale about heartburn is right this time!
The final push isn't actually a push; I'm laughing at something, and the force of my laughter pops him out. I feel him slide free of my abdominal cavity, and my lungs fully inflate for the first time in months. It's miraculous on more than one level.
It's 6:15pm. Less than four hours after walking through the door, they are placing my son on my chest. He is the violet color of the sky at dawn, and I think he is beautiful. I stare at him as he screams his strong lungs into life, and I'm filled with joy, such pride, such-
"Did he... pee on me?" I ask. "No, wait, I think it's poop..." Nathan lifts the blanket they laid over us and sure enough- my son has used his first few moments in life to defecate on my stomach. I will be cleaning meconium from my navel for days.
I burst into laughter, into tears, and kiss him over and over. We'll do just fine.
1.29.2016
My Milk Ducts (Lyrically Speaking)
(with apologies to Kelis)
My milk ducts brings all the boys to the yard,
My milk ducts brings all the boys to the yard,
'Cos they're like
All super engorged,
Damn right they're super engorged.
I can feed him,
And it's free of charge.
All super engorged,
Damn right they're super engorged.
I can feed him,
And it's free of charge.
(Repeat)
I know he wants it,
The thing that makes me,
What babies go crazy for-
They lose their minds,
When I unbind.
I think its time...
The thing that makes me,
What babies go crazy for-
They lose their minds,
When I unbind.
I think its time...
La la la la la,
Warm it up,
La la la la la,
The boy is waiting
Warm it up,
La la la la la,
The boy is waiting
(Repeat)
My milk ducts brings all the boys to the yard,
'Cos they're like
All super engorged,
Damn right they're super engorged,
I can feed him,
And it's free of charge.
'Cos they're like
All super engorged,
Damn right they're super engorged,
I can feed him,
And it's free of charge.
(Repeat)
I can see he's hungry.
You want me to teach thee
Techniques that feed this boy.
It can't be fought;
Just know, milk will spot.
(Pump if you're smart)
You want me to teach thee
Techniques that feed this boy.
It can't be fought;
Just know, milk will spot.
(Pump if you're smart)
La la la la la,
Warm it up,
La la la la la,
The boy is waiting
Warm it up,
La la la la la,
The boy is waiting
(Repeat)
My milk ducts brings all the boys to the yard,
'Cos they're like
All super engorged,
Damn right they're super engorged,
I can feed him,
And it's free of charge.
'Cos they're like
All super engorged,
Damn right they're super engorged,
I can feed him,
And it's free of charge.
(Repeat)
Oh, once you get involved,
Everyone will look your way, so,
You must maintain your child,
Same time maintain your sweet flow,
Just get the perfect blend,
That's what you have within,
When next his face is squint,
Then he's picked up your scent,
Everyone will look your way, so,
You must maintain your child,
Same time maintain your sweet flow,
Just get the perfect blend,
That's what you have within,
When next his face is squint,
Then he's picked up your scent,
La la la la la,
Warm it up,
La la la la la,
The boy is waiting
Warm it up,
La la la la la,
The boy is waiting
(Repeat)
My milk ducts brings all the boys to the yard,
'Cos they're like
All super engorged,
Damn right they're super engorged,
I can feed him,
And it's free of charge
'Cos they're like
All super engorged,
Damn right they're super engorged,
I can feed him,
And it's free of charge
(Repeat)
 |
| Damn right, it's better than yours. |
1.28.2016
Beyond Babysitting Pt III
I had a lot of fun doing my little "Beyond Babysitting" exercises (parts I and II), but more than one person joked with me about how I'd written them all as ending up wildly successful. Which, of course I did- they're the BSC! They always come out on top, no matter how ridiculous the scenario (or inconsistent the internal logic). But it did get me thinking- sure, it's easy to write them living happily ever after, but how would I do it if I wrote them as failures? Specifically, how would those same personality traits that I used to dream up endings also be used to create nightmares?
Turns out it wasn't that hard.
***
Kristy Thomas: Kristy went to school on a softball scholarship, and majored in business. She worked at the campus gym for spending money, but when that didn't quite cover her expenses she started placing small bets on sporting events. She won regularly enough to make it worth her while, and she kept up the habit even after graduation, when started doing personal training while she tried to figure out what she really wanted to do with her life. She got in early on the whole Crossfit craze, and eventually moved back to Stonybrook to open up a box of her own. Unfortunately for Kristy, it failed miserably and left her completely bankrupt. In an attempt to get back in the black, Kristy began betting (and losing) more and more money, until she found herself so deeply indebted to various shady characters that she went on the run. She currently lives out of her car, picking up odd jobs where she can, and gambling most of the money away.
Claudia Kishi: Claudia passed up a chance to go to Japan after high school, choosing instead to move to New York with Stacey and focus on her art. Specifically she began experimenting with psychedelic drugs as a way to "expand her consciousness" and bring her work to another level. Unfortunately she wasn't content with what she found, and continued to pursue more and more varied highs, always looking for the ultimate altered state of being. She found it when she died of a heroin overdose at age 23.
Mary Anne Spier: Because her father refused to talk about sex beyond "don't do it", Mary Anne found herself pregnant at 16. She married the emotionally abusive boy, and they had a second child before he ran out on them at age 18. After that she bounced from one manipulative man to the next, and has had four more children from as many fathers. She is currently married once more, this time to a highly controlling man almost twice her age that beats her when he's drunk- but she's afraid to leave the security his paycheck provides her and the children.
Stacey McGill: Stacey returned to New York City to double-major in communications and finance, with the intention of working in fashion journalism (the finance was just an easy backup plan). Those plans were swiftly put on hold when she was scouted as a model her freshman year. Her new friends got her into the New York City party scene, with all the drugs and sex that involves- and Stacey liked sex a lot. She ended up infected with HIV by the time she was 20, lost her modeling contract as a result, and died from pneumonia (as a complication of AIDS) at 24.
Dawn Schafer: Like Claudia, Dawn didn't bother with college after high school. Instead she transitioned from part-time to full-time as a waitress in a vegetarian restaurant on the beach, where she met a man who got her involved in an "environmental activist group" that actually turned out to be a cult dedicated to Mother Gaia. Dawn was slowly but surely brainwashed and isolated from her former friends and family, until she was finally "allowed" to become a sister-wife at age 21. When she was 29 she sacrificed herself as a suicide-bomber to destroy a logging camp.
Mallory Pike: Mallory got her degree in English Literature from a university in New York, but her writing career never took off. Because she refused to accept any career that was "beneath her genius", she currently lives in her parents' basement and is used as a free baby sitter by her many siblings. She spends her spare time writing embittered one star reviews on Goodreads and Amazon.
Jessi Ramsey: Jessi moved to New York her freshman year of high school, to study ballet full-time. When she was offered a permanent position in the prestigious dance company she'd been apprenticing at, she took Stacey up on her offer of a celebratory drink- and then made the mistake of driving home. She wrecked her car, killing her dance career before it could truly take off, and leaving herself crippled and in chronic pain. As the years went by she took to drinking and drugs to manage both her physical and emotional pain, until she lost her job and eventually ended up living on the streets. She is currently in rehab for the third time, on her little brother's dime.
***
You guys, that was depressing as hell. I think I'll go back and read the unrealistically happy endings... and maybe next time I'll try to write something somewhere in between.
Turns out it wasn't that hard.
***
Kristy Thomas: Kristy went to school on a softball scholarship, and majored in business. She worked at the campus gym for spending money, but when that didn't quite cover her expenses she started placing small bets on sporting events. She won regularly enough to make it worth her while, and she kept up the habit even after graduation, when started doing personal training while she tried to figure out what she really wanted to do with her life. She got in early on the whole Crossfit craze, and eventually moved back to Stonybrook to open up a box of her own. Unfortunately for Kristy, it failed miserably and left her completely bankrupt. In an attempt to get back in the black, Kristy began betting (and losing) more and more money, until she found herself so deeply indebted to various shady characters that she went on the run. She currently lives out of her car, picking up odd jobs where she can, and gambling most of the money away.
Claudia Kishi: Claudia passed up a chance to go to Japan after high school, choosing instead to move to New York with Stacey and focus on her art. Specifically she began experimenting with psychedelic drugs as a way to "expand her consciousness" and bring her work to another level. Unfortunately she wasn't content with what she found, and continued to pursue more and more varied highs, always looking for the ultimate altered state of being. She found it when she died of a heroin overdose at age 23.
Mary Anne Spier: Because her father refused to talk about sex beyond "don't do it", Mary Anne found herself pregnant at 16. She married the emotionally abusive boy, and they had a second child before he ran out on them at age 18. After that she bounced from one manipulative man to the next, and has had four more children from as many fathers. She is currently married once more, this time to a highly controlling man almost twice her age that beats her when he's drunk- but she's afraid to leave the security his paycheck provides her and the children.
Stacey McGill: Stacey returned to New York City to double-major in communications and finance, with the intention of working in fashion journalism (the finance was just an easy backup plan). Those plans were swiftly put on hold when she was scouted as a model her freshman year. Her new friends got her into the New York City party scene, with all the drugs and sex that involves- and Stacey liked sex a lot. She ended up infected with HIV by the time she was 20, lost her modeling contract as a result, and died from pneumonia (as a complication of AIDS) at 24.
Dawn Schafer: Like Claudia, Dawn didn't bother with college after high school. Instead she transitioned from part-time to full-time as a waitress in a vegetarian restaurant on the beach, where she met a man who got her involved in an "environmental activist group" that actually turned out to be a cult dedicated to Mother Gaia. Dawn was slowly but surely brainwashed and isolated from her former friends and family, until she was finally "allowed" to become a sister-wife at age 21. When she was 29 she sacrificed herself as a suicide-bomber to destroy a logging camp.
Mallory Pike: Mallory got her degree in English Literature from a university in New York, but her writing career never took off. Because she refused to accept any career that was "beneath her genius", she currently lives in her parents' basement and is used as a free baby sitter by her many siblings. She spends her spare time writing embittered one star reviews on Goodreads and Amazon.
Jessi Ramsey: Jessi moved to New York her freshman year of high school, to study ballet full-time. When she was offered a permanent position in the prestigious dance company she'd been apprenticing at, she took Stacey up on her offer of a celebratory drink- and then made the mistake of driving home. She wrecked her car, killing her dance career before it could truly take off, and leaving herself crippled and in chronic pain. As the years went by she took to drinking and drugs to manage both her physical and emotional pain, until she lost her job and eventually ended up living on the streets. She is currently in rehab for the third time, on her little brother's dime.
***
You guys, that was depressing as hell. I think I'll go back and read the unrealistically happy endings... and maybe next time I'll try to write something somewhere in between.
1.27.2016
Birthing Story Pt I
November 4th, 2015
It's 0100 and I am awake.
I'm awake because I'm being gripped by another damn Braxton Hicks contraction. Awesome. I am super excited to be having another round of False Labor at o'dark-thirty.
(I'm not. I'm annoyed as hell, actually. False labor is, as I wrote in my journal the other day, "an enormous waste of time, energy, and back pain.")
I drift back off to sleep, only to be awoken ten minutes later by another one. This repeats for hours: semi-sleep, wake long enough to groan with discomfort for thirty seconds, repeat. It is not restful.
Fortunately the contractions peter out around 0600, just in time for me to wake up for real, and get ready for work. Oh the joy of a workday on extremely-interrupted sleep.
The contractions reappear once I'm at work, causing me to waddle up and down the hallway, grunting, and my boss to eye me skeptically as he packs his briefcase for his out-of-office appointments.
"It's just more false labor," I say, waving him away. "Like Monday afternoon. I'll just be stopping to swear every once in a while, but it's fine."
"Okay," he says doubtfully, then adds, "Text if you need anything," before taking off. So now I'm alone in the office, a fact I take full advantage of by leaning over my desk and breathing heavy (and yes, swearing) as needed. In between the contractions I'm fine, but come noon they've increased enough in both intensity and frequency that I've decided I don't want to suffer at the office any longer. I want to strip naked and get into my own tub and feel sorry for myself until they go away.
...but I don't want to leave before the stock market closes at one, just in case a client needs something. I'm trying to be responsible with my playing-hooky.
I text Nathan and let him know to come get me, which he does. By this point the contractions are coming about every 6-7 minutes apart, and I'm starting to think maybe this isn't false labor, after all. I text my boss to let him know that I'm leaving, and that I'll keep him updated on whether it's real or not.
By the time I'm home and stripped the contractions are 5 minutes apart.
"Um, should we maybe go to the birthing center?" Nathan asks as I lower myself into blessedly hot and scented water.
"Nah," I wave him off as I did my boss earlier. "The doctor said not until they've been five minutes apart for an hour." I text my mother (who is flying cross-country to be with me for the birth next week) from the bath to let her know what's going on, and she instructs me to cross my legs until she gets there. I laugh and text her back: "Mom, even if this is real labor I have at least eight hours before anything happens!"
Except that when I get out of the tub, fifteen minutes later, the contractions are coming 3 minutes apart.
"Maybe we'd better go to the birthing center, after all," I say through gritted teeth as I clutch the counter top. Nathan agrees before I can finish my statement.
It's during the four-mile drive to the hospital that the pain starts to get... intense. I bite the leather of my seat's headrest in protest. Nathan jokingly attempts to coach my breathing; "Hee hee haaaah..." to which I growl "I... will... fucking... kill you." He wisely stops.
But in between contractions everything is fine! I feel great, actually, and cheerful that this might actually Be It. We get to the birthing center and Nathan pulls into the patient drop-off, then helps me inside. I hobble up to the reception desk and announce cheerfully, "We're here to see if I need to be here yet!" and then a contraction hits (they're 1 minute apart now). The nurses eye me doubling over and say, "Yep, pretty sure you need to be here now," and escort Nathan and I to the intake room. It's 2:20pm.
It's 0100 and I am awake.
I'm awake because I'm being gripped by another damn Braxton Hicks contraction. Awesome. I am super excited to be having another round of False Labor at o'dark-thirty.
(I'm not. I'm annoyed as hell, actually. False labor is, as I wrote in my journal the other day, "an enormous waste of time, energy, and back pain.")
I drift back off to sleep, only to be awoken ten minutes later by another one. This repeats for hours: semi-sleep, wake long enough to groan with discomfort for thirty seconds, repeat. It is not restful.
Fortunately the contractions peter out around 0600, just in time for me to wake up for real, and get ready for work. Oh the joy of a workday on extremely-interrupted sleep.
The contractions reappear once I'm at work, causing me to waddle up and down the hallway, grunting, and my boss to eye me skeptically as he packs his briefcase for his out-of-office appointments.
"It's just more false labor," I say, waving him away. "Like Monday afternoon. I'll just be stopping to swear every once in a while, but it's fine."
"Okay," he says doubtfully, then adds, "Text if you need anything," before taking off. So now I'm alone in the office, a fact I take full advantage of by leaning over my desk and breathing heavy (and yes, swearing) as needed. In between the contractions I'm fine, but come noon they've increased enough in both intensity and frequency that I've decided I don't want to suffer at the office any longer. I want to strip naked and get into my own tub and feel sorry for myself until they go away.
...but I don't want to leave before the stock market closes at one, just in case a client needs something. I'm trying to be responsible with my playing-hooky.
I text Nathan and let him know to come get me, which he does. By this point the contractions are coming about every 6-7 minutes apart, and I'm starting to think maybe this isn't false labor, after all. I text my boss to let him know that I'm leaving, and that I'll keep him updated on whether it's real or not.
By the time I'm home and stripped the contractions are 5 minutes apart.
"Um, should we maybe go to the birthing center?" Nathan asks as I lower myself into blessedly hot and scented water.
"Nah," I wave him off as I did my boss earlier. "The doctor said not until they've been five minutes apart for an hour." I text my mother (who is flying cross-country to be with me for the birth next week) from the bath to let her know what's going on, and she instructs me to cross my legs until she gets there. I laugh and text her back: "Mom, even if this is real labor I have at least eight hours before anything happens!"
Except that when I get out of the tub, fifteen minutes later, the contractions are coming 3 minutes apart.
"Maybe we'd better go to the birthing center, after all," I say through gritted teeth as I clutch the counter top. Nathan agrees before I can finish my statement.
It's during the four-mile drive to the hospital that the pain starts to get... intense. I bite the leather of my seat's headrest in protest. Nathan jokingly attempts to coach my breathing; "Hee hee haaaah..." to which I growl "I... will... fucking... kill you." He wisely stops.
But in between contractions everything is fine! I feel great, actually, and cheerful that this might actually Be It. We get to the birthing center and Nathan pulls into the patient drop-off, then helps me inside. I hobble up to the reception desk and announce cheerfully, "We're here to see if I need to be here yet!" and then a contraction hits (they're 1 minute apart now). The nurses eye me doubling over and say, "Yep, pretty sure you need to be here now," and escort Nathan and I to the intake room. It's 2:20pm.
1.26.2016
Man of the Cloth
Today was our first full day of cloth diapering, and after a lot of experimenting with various folding and rolling methods...
...we survived!
Actually we did more than just "survive"- we were "totally fine". And if you'd asked me last night if that would be my feelings at the end of the day (or even if you'd asked me this morning, while I was wallowing in my irrational "I'm not a good mother" funk) that's probably not the answer you'd have gotten. I had some Capital A Anxiety over the whole thing, which is so weird because it's not like we haven't sprung leaks/had blowouts with disposable diapers- why did it seem So Horrible that it might happen with a cloth diaper? Irrational Brain is Irrational. And anyway we didn't actually have any leaks (or blowouts!), so there's still that to look forward to. Yay?
So far the main thing that's getting to me is just how wet the cloth gets. Like, totally soaked, edge to edge. Apparently my son pees, like, a lot, because I'm changing him at least every two hours, and each time there's not a bit of dry material left. Mind boggling. And I can't imagine it's comfortable, but he doesn't seem to mind. At any rate, his half-gallon bladder makes me glad I decided to stick with disposables for overnight.
But on to the solids! I spent all day On Edge, waiting for his first Cloth Diaper Bowel Movement. I was expecting it to come in the morning (which it normally does) but of course it didn't, and the anticipation just continued to build, leading to probably way too many instances of me holding Neeps above my head so I could sniff his butt. When it finally happened in the late afternoon it... wasn't that bad. In fact I liked being able to use any and every part of the diaper to wipe him with. And it was so soft, too- I felt like it was probably much nicer on the skin than his normal wipes.
(Look at me. I'm reduced to blogging about the little pleasures to be found in wiping poop off another human's derriere. ::sigh:: Oh well! Experience! Adventure!)
Anyway, I signed a three-month contract with the diaper service people, so here's hoping that most of the awkwardness wears off well before then- and that I can figure out a way to make the whole process as easy as possible for whatever daycare provider we go with!
...we survived!
Actually we did more than just "survive"- we were "totally fine". And if you'd asked me last night if that would be my feelings at the end of the day (or even if you'd asked me this morning, while I was wallowing in my irrational "I'm not a good mother" funk) that's probably not the answer you'd have gotten. I had some Capital A Anxiety over the whole thing, which is so weird because it's not like we haven't sprung leaks/had blowouts with disposable diapers- why did it seem So Horrible that it might happen with a cloth diaper? Irrational Brain is Irrational. And anyway we didn't actually have any leaks (or blowouts!), so there's still that to look forward to. Yay?
So far the main thing that's getting to me is just how wet the cloth gets. Like, totally soaked, edge to edge. Apparently my son pees, like, a lot, because I'm changing him at least every two hours, and each time there's not a bit of dry material left. Mind boggling. And I can't imagine it's comfortable, but he doesn't seem to mind. At any rate, his half-gallon bladder makes me glad I decided to stick with disposables for overnight.
But on to the solids! I spent all day On Edge, waiting for his first Cloth Diaper Bowel Movement. I was expecting it to come in the morning (which it normally does) but of course it didn't, and the anticipation just continued to build, leading to probably way too many instances of me holding Neeps above my head so I could sniff his butt. When it finally happened in the late afternoon it... wasn't that bad. In fact I liked being able to use any and every part of the diaper to wipe him with. And it was so soft, too- I felt like it was probably much nicer on the skin than his normal wipes.
(Look at me. I'm reduced to blogging about the little pleasures to be found in wiping poop off another human's derriere. ::sigh:: Oh well! Experience! Adventure!)
Anyway, I signed a three-month contract with the diaper service people, so here's hoping that most of the awkwardness wears off well before then- and that I can figure out a way to make the whole process as easy as possible for whatever daycare provider we go with!
1.25.2016
Prelude to a Neeps
I'm going to share with you what I wrote in my journal less than 24 hours before giving birth to my son. The context is that I was still just over a week from my official due date, had experienced false labor the day before, and was feeling... well, pretty crotchety. So that's what I was processing as I sat in bed that night.
***
According to the doctor I'm now 1.5 centimeters dilated, which just seems like bullshit after yesterday's adventures.
Oh well. The truth is, I need to work on letting go of my impatience and frustration, and finding my way to a state of calm acceptance/readiness. I made some progress during acupuncture today, but for real I need to bring meditation back into my life on a regular basis.
See, the thing is, Neeps will come, and moreover he will come when it's time. When waiting has filled, as Valentine Michael Smith would say. Right now he's getting bigger and fatter, and his brain is getting more wrinkly and his lungs able to function easier. All very good things. So I just need to chill out and let him take the time he needs. I can consider it my first exercise in treating him as his own person rather than just an extension of my Self.
It's still so hard to accept that he's really real. Even as he jabs his little heels into my rib cage.
***
I'm sharing this today because I plan on writing up The Birthing Story very soon (perhaps even tomorrow) and I thought this would be a lovely little lead-in to it. I know it makes me laugh when I look back at how hard I was struggling to Be Serene, Damn It! But I do like to believe that Neeps feeling me make that attempt to let him be his own separate being kick-started his desire to fulfill that destiny.
***
According to the doctor I'm now 1.5 centimeters dilated, which just seems like bullshit after yesterday's adventures.
Oh well. The truth is, I need to work on letting go of my impatience and frustration, and finding my way to a state of calm acceptance/readiness. I made some progress during acupuncture today, but for real I need to bring meditation back into my life on a regular basis.
See, the thing is, Neeps will come, and moreover he will come when it's time. When waiting has filled, as Valentine Michael Smith would say. Right now he's getting bigger and fatter, and his brain is getting more wrinkly and his lungs able to function easier. All very good things. So I just need to chill out and let him take the time he needs. I can consider it my first exercise in treating him as his own person rather than just an extension of my Self.
It's still so hard to accept that he's really real. Even as he jabs his little heels into my rib cage.
***
I'm sharing this today because I plan on writing up The Birthing Story very soon (perhaps even tomorrow) and I thought this would be a lovely little lead-in to it. I know it makes me laugh when I look back at how hard I was struggling to Be Serene, Damn It! But I do like to believe that Neeps feeling me make that attempt to let him be his own separate being kick-started his desire to fulfill that destiny.
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