In search of somewhere to walk around that was not scorchingly hot, we went to a huge outlet mall last weekend. We made the mistake of entering the baby section of a clothing store. Even though we are drowning in baby clothes, have more clothing than triplets could wear, have sworn that not one more item of clothing can enter our home lest the closets explode cartoon-style, we could not resist the tiny bodysuits and hats with coordinating blankets. I'm starting to think they put some sort of addictive chemical on that stuff, to make you keep buying it even though what you have at home could fill a dump truck. That's probably the real reason everyone tells you to be sure and wash everything thoroughly before giving it to or putting it on the baby. It's one of those parenting secrets they don't let you in on until you've actually joined the club.
Anyway, Max picked out a onesie with a crab on it, because he knows how much the crab in the Honda Element commercials cracks me up. "Look," he said, holding up the blue-and-white garment. "He pinches." I cracked up, and agreed that maybe we should get it, because it was pretty cute and, more imporantly, cheap.
"That will be so cute for summer," I said. "With a little hat and those blue bubble Babylegs we bought."
He started to laugh. I asked him what was so funny. "Bubbles and crabs," he chortled. "Basically, we're going to dress our baby like a frat-house hot tub."
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
The Tides of Yesterday
We are close. We are so close, my due date is only two weeks away. Somehow I don't feel quite ready. I don't think Max does either. We are comfortable with the idea of bringing a baby into our house, but not quite ready to actually do it. People have "helpfully" been telling me things I should do to bring on labor, and I have to explain that I'm trying to avoid that right now. We need these two weeks.
When my parents had me, their first child, they were not ready. They were young and unprepared to start with, and on top of that I was born by emergency c-section at 30 weeks' gestation. My mother said she "got a headache, got a nosebleed, had a baby." So as unprepared as I feel right now, I can't imagine how much more disorenting and frightening it would be to come into parenthood so abruptly. Our child is at 38 weeks' gestation; by this time in my own life, I had already been out in the world complicating their lives for two months.
When we took our hospital tour a few months ago, our group stopped in front of the NICU window. There were only a couple of tiny babies on the other side of the glass, but one incubator was pulled up close. A doctor and at least two residents were clustered around it, working intently at doing something to the baby inside. As they moved around the artificial womb of plastic and rubber, I caught a glimpse of the baby's foot waving around. It took me entirely by surprise. That little baby's foot looked like the tiniest thing in the world. I wondered how old it was, how far along it had been when it was born. I wondered if my foot was that small when I entered this world.
I have read blogs of parents with NICU babies and wondered about the circumstances of my own birth. I know I was in the hospital for a number of weeks; I know I weighed around three pounds when I was born. I know it was pre-ecclampsia that caused the doctors to rush my mother into an OR. I have seen a few pictures of my tiny body, wires and tubes snaking out from my small form like extra limbs. I know they told my mother that I would always be behind the other kids, I would be slow and would never really catch up mentally or physically and that my mother has spent all the years since then laughing at that diagnosis. I know I have never been a very good sleeper and my mother has always thought it was the result of spending my first weeks among the lights and noise and bustle of that NICU. But lately I have begun to wonder about other things. Did my parents come visit me every day? Did they bring toys to put in my plastic cradle? Hats to put on my tiny head? Did my mother and father come, sit with me, hold me when able, rock me in the stiff hospital-nursery chair?
I have never had the courage to ask these questions. I don't even know how to bring the subject up. Whenever we are discussing babies or preemies I hold my breath and wait for a new scrap of information, a nugget of story I have not heard before. I cling to these snippets, and wait for the day when I can piece it all together. This is one of the times when I regret the unspoken rule in our family that does not allow for direct questioning about past events. If someone offers information, you listen, but we are not people who probe and push to get it. Even with the birth of my own child looming, I do not have the courage now to ask my mother if she was as terrified at the prospect of motherhood as I am right now.
When my parents had me, their first child, they were not ready. They were young and unprepared to start with, and on top of that I was born by emergency c-section at 30 weeks' gestation. My mother said she "got a headache, got a nosebleed, had a baby." So as unprepared as I feel right now, I can't imagine how much more disorenting and frightening it would be to come into parenthood so abruptly. Our child is at 38 weeks' gestation; by this time in my own life, I had already been out in the world complicating their lives for two months.
When we took our hospital tour a few months ago, our group stopped in front of the NICU window. There were only a couple of tiny babies on the other side of the glass, but one incubator was pulled up close. A doctor and at least two residents were clustered around it, working intently at doing something to the baby inside. As they moved around the artificial womb of plastic and rubber, I caught a glimpse of the baby's foot waving around. It took me entirely by surprise. That little baby's foot looked like the tiniest thing in the world. I wondered how old it was, how far along it had been when it was born. I wondered if my foot was that small when I entered this world.
I have read blogs of parents with NICU babies and wondered about the circumstances of my own birth. I know I was in the hospital for a number of weeks; I know I weighed around three pounds when I was born. I know it was pre-ecclampsia that caused the doctors to rush my mother into an OR. I have seen a few pictures of my tiny body, wires and tubes snaking out from my small form like extra limbs. I know they told my mother that I would always be behind the other kids, I would be slow and would never really catch up mentally or physically and that my mother has spent all the years since then laughing at that diagnosis. I know I have never been a very good sleeper and my mother has always thought it was the result of spending my first weeks among the lights and noise and bustle of that NICU. But lately I have begun to wonder about other things. Did my parents come visit me every day? Did they bring toys to put in my plastic cradle? Hats to put on my tiny head? Did my mother and father come, sit with me, hold me when able, rock me in the stiff hospital-nursery chair?
I have never had the courage to ask these questions. I don't even know how to bring the subject up. Whenever we are discussing babies or preemies I hold my breath and wait for a new scrap of information, a nugget of story I have not heard before. I cling to these snippets, and wait for the day when I can piece it all together. This is one of the times when I regret the unspoken rule in our family that does not allow for direct questioning about past events. If someone offers information, you listen, but we are not people who probe and push to get it. Even with the birth of my own child looming, I do not have the courage now to ask my mother if she was as terrified at the prospect of motherhood as I am right now.
Friday, April 27, 2007
The Crying Game
Dutch's post about tears and children's books made me think of something that happened a few weeks ago. It was a Sunday, and we were nearing the end of a weekend-long move-the-furniture-around-and-clean-the-carpets binge. While we waited for the living room to dry so we could go over it one more time, we started fixing lunch and flipped channels. That silly Steve Martin movie Parenthood was on, and we stopped flipping to watch. We exchanged glances, because we both realized that in a few weeks, we would be part of this club, we would be parents. It was a little weird.
When it got to the end part where everyone's at the hospital waiting for a baby to be born, and there's babies and kids and moms and dads everywhere, we both got a little sentimental. I suppose we can't be blamed, there are like twenty babies or something in that final scene, all tiny and cute and being held and adored and receiving misty-eyed gazes from loving members of the Buckman clan. Anybody would be doomed. It's all so cheesy and the life-affirming-ness of it clubs you over the head like you're a baby seal. There's no escape.
I could hear Max sniffle next to me, and I felt my eyes grow warm and watery. I clenched my jaw and told myself I will not cry at this stupid movie, I will not, it's so hokey I will have to be ashamed of myself forever, but I lost the fight. There were fourteen babies too many, I could not fight the tide of parents beaming at their drooly little wonders while changing diapers on a hospital waiting-room chair. A tear slipped out and trickled down my cheek, and I wiped it away fast, before Max could see. He was sniffling and rubbing his eyes, and he reached over and hugged me tight and buried his face in my hair. I tried to fight off the waterworks I could feel building, but it was no use. Some of them got out. After Max let go, I raced into the kitchen and pretended to finish lunch. I didn't want him to see me getting all teary like, you know, a girl.
He wandered in and, between bites of carrot stick, made a comment about how it's funny that he's much more emotional and sentimental than I am, especially where this whole baby/pregnancy/parent thing is concerned. "I'm the girly one," he laughed. "I'm the weepy emotional wreck."
I just smiled and handed him his sandwich, then pretended to be fussing with my hair as I checked for stray tear-tracks on my face.
When it got to the end part where everyone's at the hospital waiting for a baby to be born, and there's babies and kids and moms and dads everywhere, we both got a little sentimental. I suppose we can't be blamed, there are like twenty babies or something in that final scene, all tiny and cute and being held and adored and receiving misty-eyed gazes from loving members of the Buckman clan. Anybody would be doomed. It's all so cheesy and the life-affirming-ness of it clubs you over the head like you're a baby seal. There's no escape.
I could hear Max sniffle next to me, and I felt my eyes grow warm and watery. I clenched my jaw and told myself I will not cry at this stupid movie, I will not, it's so hokey I will have to be ashamed of myself forever, but I lost the fight. There were fourteen babies too many, I could not fight the tide of parents beaming at their drooly little wonders while changing diapers on a hospital waiting-room chair. A tear slipped out and trickled down my cheek, and I wiped it away fast, before Max could see. He was sniffling and rubbing his eyes, and he reached over and hugged me tight and buried his face in my hair. I tried to fight off the waterworks I could feel building, but it was no use. Some of them got out. After Max let go, I raced into the kitchen and pretended to finish lunch. I didn't want him to see me getting all teary like, you know, a girl.
He wandered in and, between bites of carrot stick, made a comment about how it's funny that he's much more emotional and sentimental than I am, especially where this whole baby/pregnancy/parent thing is concerned. "I'm the girly one," he laughed. "I'm the weepy emotional wreck."
I just smiled and handed him his sandwich, then pretended to be fussing with my hair as I checked for stray tear-tracks on my face.
Friday, April 20, 2007
California, You Break My Heart
A couple of weeks ago, we drove the hour-ish out to Newport Beach to see a friend of Max's. Usually I don’t get along with this friend very well. I mean, we make nice conversation, but end up arguing about stupid stuff. I try to make all these highfallutin’ points about how if you’re a real fan, you’ve got to be willing to admit when something sucks and you need to maintain some objectivity or you’re a mere sheep who will wind up watching the new Star Wars trilogy while sucking down a Big-Gulp and raving about how funny Jar-Jar Binks is. Much of my ass-talking about art and artforms is lost on my husband’s friend. But Max loves this person as though they were blood brothers forged from the same unholy mold, so I try to shut the fuck up and make nice. I often get the impression that Friend doesn’t quite know what to do with me, he’s unaccustomed to a girl who talks about which actresses she’d like to sleep with and curses like a sailor. And I don’t know what to do with him, either. He has an engineering degree, he’s from the same small town Max is from, we have some TV shows that we both like. That’s about it.
This time, we did better. We managed to find some things in common. We went to Huntington Beach and walked the windy, chilly pier up and down. It was a fun outing.
Friend lives in a tiny studio apartment. He doesn’t have much stuff, mostly a few clothes, a big-ass computer (with two huge monitors), and a really big-ass television. You know, the usual trappings of an unattached guy with disposable income. We gazed around his small, just-moved-into place with envy. I think, in our hearts, we both long to live like that. Barely any stuff, able to pack up and go whenever we please. But we have a lot of stuff, and nine cats. We have school debt and car payments and will usually opt for groceries over a faster Internet connection. There are no studio apartments near the beach in our future. Which did not stop me from being filled with a terrible longing to live where Friend lives. He’s just up the hill from the beach, less than two miles. In my head I saw myself pushing an expensive, streamlined stroller full of baby those two miles and back to our tiny, uncluttered apartment. I saw myself working at a desk, doing freelance writing, and actually making enough to help with the gargantuan cost of living so near the ocean.
It was a stupid thing to imagine, stupid stupid stupid. Unchecked fantasies of a life so completely different from the one we have now are dangerous; they are insidious, creeping like vines to infiltrate the brain. They grow like cancer, and poison everything in their path. Weeks later, I still find myself drifting off to sleep lulled by these visions. I ache for this different life, this fantasy life. The longing fills my days and makes me useless to manage the life we already have.
But, truthfully, can I be fully blamed? I love it when we go out to the coast. We’ve never been in the summer, so I haven’t gotten the full-force experience of noisy, rude tourists crowding every square inch of space and crawling so far up the locals’ asses it takes the Jaws of Life to pry them out. We go in the off-season, November or February or other months when the sunlight fades fast and breezes are more chilling than welcoming. I still love it. It’s always about twenty degrees cooler there, the wind is incessant but not dry and baking like it is here. There’s little or no graffiti on the buildings there; here anything that doesn’t move for 12 hours will be covered in spray-painted scrawling. There are sidewalks everywhere, and real bike trails; it’s not like here where you’re lucky to even find a sidewalk and the drivers consider anyone on a bike a moving target. There are actual things to walk to along the sidewalks there, shops (albeit full of overpriced souvenirs and “beach wear”) and restaurants and grocery stores. We’d hardly need our car.
I build this life in my head and then idealize it. In this dream-life, we’re both the trim, athletic versions of ourselves we've always wanted to be. Our daughter is adorable in her tiny tank tops and sandals as we let her toddle about in the sand. And there I am, sipping coffee in a real cup from a local coffee house as our adorable girl slumbers in the stroller beside my table and I type furiously on my laptop. The baby and the stroller and the laptop and I walk all the way home to our tiny uncluttered apartment, and a few minutes later my husband arrives, smiling. He loves this job, which actually pays him enough to live on. Later, we turn out the lights and crack the window, then fall asleep in each other’s arms with the ocean smell wafting in.
You see? It’s poison. I ache so badly for this future that can never be. We will never have this, this simple but happy life in a beautiful place we love. At least, that's how it feels from where we are now.
While we were in Newport, I kept thinking that California is evil. Because this, this was the California all our friends are shocked we want to leave. Sandy beaches, breezes, a sense of freedom – it’s the California you see on television, the one they write songs about. It in no way resembles the place we actually live. And it broke my heart to get in our car and drive back out to the dust and sand and the terrible kids my husband tries to teach all day and the trash everywhere and graffiti covering everything. I felt so miserable as we came back to all this, miserable and trapped and filled with rage that we couldn’t have our tiny slice of the good life.
This time, we did better. We managed to find some things in common. We went to Huntington Beach and walked the windy, chilly pier up and down. It was a fun outing.
Friend lives in a tiny studio apartment. He doesn’t have much stuff, mostly a few clothes, a big-ass computer (with two huge monitors), and a really big-ass television. You know, the usual trappings of an unattached guy with disposable income. We gazed around his small, just-moved-into place with envy. I think, in our hearts, we both long to live like that. Barely any stuff, able to pack up and go whenever we please. But we have a lot of stuff, and nine cats. We have school debt and car payments and will usually opt for groceries over a faster Internet connection. There are no studio apartments near the beach in our future. Which did not stop me from being filled with a terrible longing to live where Friend lives. He’s just up the hill from the beach, less than two miles. In my head I saw myself pushing an expensive, streamlined stroller full of baby those two miles and back to our tiny, uncluttered apartment. I saw myself working at a desk, doing freelance writing, and actually making enough to help with the gargantuan cost of living so near the ocean.
It was a stupid thing to imagine, stupid stupid stupid. Unchecked fantasies of a life so completely different from the one we have now are dangerous; they are insidious, creeping like vines to infiltrate the brain. They grow like cancer, and poison everything in their path. Weeks later, I still find myself drifting off to sleep lulled by these visions. I ache for this different life, this fantasy life. The longing fills my days and makes me useless to manage the life we already have.
But, truthfully, can I be fully blamed? I love it when we go out to the coast. We’ve never been in the summer, so I haven’t gotten the full-force experience of noisy, rude tourists crowding every square inch of space and crawling so far up the locals’ asses it takes the Jaws of Life to pry them out. We go in the off-season, November or February or other months when the sunlight fades fast and breezes are more chilling than welcoming. I still love it. It’s always about twenty degrees cooler there, the wind is incessant but not dry and baking like it is here. There’s little or no graffiti on the buildings there; here anything that doesn’t move for 12 hours will be covered in spray-painted scrawling. There are sidewalks everywhere, and real bike trails; it’s not like here where you’re lucky to even find a sidewalk and the drivers consider anyone on a bike a moving target. There are actual things to walk to along the sidewalks there, shops (albeit full of overpriced souvenirs and “beach wear”) and restaurants and grocery stores. We’d hardly need our car.
I build this life in my head and then idealize it. In this dream-life, we’re both the trim, athletic versions of ourselves we've always wanted to be. Our daughter is adorable in her tiny tank tops and sandals as we let her toddle about in the sand. And there I am, sipping coffee in a real cup from a local coffee house as our adorable girl slumbers in the stroller beside my table and I type furiously on my laptop. The baby and the stroller and the laptop and I walk all the way home to our tiny uncluttered apartment, and a few minutes later my husband arrives, smiling. He loves this job, which actually pays him enough to live on. Later, we turn out the lights and crack the window, then fall asleep in each other’s arms with the ocean smell wafting in.
You see? It’s poison. I ache so badly for this future that can never be. We will never have this, this simple but happy life in a beautiful place we love. At least, that's how it feels from where we are now.
While we were in Newport, I kept thinking that California is evil. Because this, this was the California all our friends are shocked we want to leave. Sandy beaches, breezes, a sense of freedom – it’s the California you see on television, the one they write songs about. It in no way resembles the place we actually live. And it broke my heart to get in our car and drive back out to the dust and sand and the terrible kids my husband tries to teach all day and the trash everywhere and graffiti covering everything. I felt so miserable as we came back to all this, miserable and trapped and filled with rage that we couldn’t have our tiny slice of the good life.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Let's (Not) Get Naked
We realized early on that one of the drawbacks to becoming parents was that while children often enjoy Naked Time if it involves them running around bare-bottomed and swingin' in the breeze, our own Naked Time would be severely curtailed. We would probably even have to, we speculated, wear pajamas to bed.
We are naked sleepers, you see. We've never routinely worn clothes to bed, the whole time we've been together. If I am cold, I will attempt it, but what usually ends up happening is I wake up tangled in the middle of the night and shuck everything off in frustration. Max never wears anything to bed, and I have occasionally had to remind him that naked sleeping is inappropriate when we have company for the night or when we're guests somewhere. Naked may be a comfortable state, but only for the naked person. When your sister comes in to wake you up in the morning and ask where you keep the coffee or you have to use the bathroom right outside your friends' bedroom door, it's better to be clothed.
We like our Naked Time. We are not hang-out-around-the-house-naked people, but we will often wander around naked for a few minutes after a shower or get a snack on a sleepless night without putting clothes on.
My parents slept naked. I know this because once in a while they'd leave their bedroom door open a crack, or in cases of dire emergency I'd have to violate The Forcefield of The Master Bedroom Doorway and come in to tell them that my brother was bleeding all over the front porch or I had "accidentally" just smashed the obnoxious neighbor kid's toe with a brick. So one or both of them would get up, and they would be naked, my parents, adults, naked. I don't think I was necessarily grossed out, but I remember thinking pretty much every time it happened, Jesus, can't you people put some fucking clothes on?! I didn't really want to see them naked (or in their underwear), and I wore pajamas to bed, so I figured it was only fair that they should, too. Max has expressed similar sentiments about his parents. Much as we both respect our parents as people and realize that they exist as more than just "our parents," we both wish they would've worn pajamas.
Of course, now that we're about to be on the other side of this issue, we both wonder if we'll be able to manage it. Naked sleeping is so...comfy. The cool feel of sheets against bare skin (or the soft warmth of flannel sheets in the winter), the pleasant unemcumbered slide beneath the covers, the ability to wriggle and turn and twist into a comfortable sleeping pose without restraint. Whenever I try to give pajamas a go, I wake up with tank-top straps digging into my skin or twisted around my arms and breasts, lounge pants with the legs hiked and wadded up past my knees, t-shirts that have worked their way up and around my neck like a noose, nightgowns that catch on the sheets and trap me like a mummy. It is definitely not comfy. I remember that I used to sleep in pajamas, all the time in fact. I just can't remember how I did it.
We both feel pretty strongly about this, so I'm sure we will find a way to manage it. And if all else fails, we can always use it as leverage against our daughter when she's in Bratty Teenage Mode - "We have made sacrifices for you! We wore pajamas for your sake! Pajamas! To bed! Don't tell me I never do anything for you!"
We are naked sleepers, you see. We've never routinely worn clothes to bed, the whole time we've been together. If I am cold, I will attempt it, but what usually ends up happening is I wake up tangled in the middle of the night and shuck everything off in frustration. Max never wears anything to bed, and I have occasionally had to remind him that naked sleeping is inappropriate when we have company for the night or when we're guests somewhere. Naked may be a comfortable state, but only for the naked person. When your sister comes in to wake you up in the morning and ask where you keep the coffee or you have to use the bathroom right outside your friends' bedroom door, it's better to be clothed.
We like our Naked Time. We are not hang-out-around-the-house-naked people, but we will often wander around naked for a few minutes after a shower or get a snack on a sleepless night without putting clothes on.
My parents slept naked. I know this because once in a while they'd leave their bedroom door open a crack, or in cases of dire emergency I'd have to violate The Forcefield of The Master Bedroom Doorway and come in to tell them that my brother was bleeding all over the front porch or I had "accidentally" just smashed the obnoxious neighbor kid's toe with a brick. So one or both of them would get up, and they would be naked, my parents, adults, naked. I don't think I was necessarily grossed out, but I remember thinking pretty much every time it happened, Jesus, can't you people put some fucking clothes on?! I didn't really want to see them naked (or in their underwear), and I wore pajamas to bed, so I figured it was only fair that they should, too. Max has expressed similar sentiments about his parents. Much as we both respect our parents as people and realize that they exist as more than just "our parents," we both wish they would've worn pajamas.
Of course, now that we're about to be on the other side of this issue, we both wonder if we'll be able to manage it. Naked sleeping is so...comfy. The cool feel of sheets against bare skin (or the soft warmth of flannel sheets in the winter), the pleasant unemcumbered slide beneath the covers, the ability to wriggle and turn and twist into a comfortable sleeping pose without restraint. Whenever I try to give pajamas a go, I wake up with tank-top straps digging into my skin or twisted around my arms and breasts, lounge pants with the legs hiked and wadded up past my knees, t-shirts that have worked their way up and around my neck like a noose, nightgowns that catch on the sheets and trap me like a mummy. It is definitely not comfy. I remember that I used to sleep in pajamas, all the time in fact. I just can't remember how I did it.
We both feel pretty strongly about this, so I'm sure we will find a way to manage it. And if all else fails, we can always use it as leverage against our daughter when she's in Bratty Teenage Mode - "We have made sacrifices for you! We wore pajamas for your sake! Pajamas! To bed! Don't tell me I never do anything for you!"
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Ten Good Things
Ten Things I Thought of That Will Be Good About Having A Kid
(in no particular rank, importance, or order):
1. Will never struggle for a conversational topic with my in-laws again.
2. Baby is a girl and therefore we could have our own crack dealer - I mean, Seller Of Girl Scout Cookies - in a few years.
3. I will never have to go into the toy aisle at Target, K-B Toys, Toys R Us, or any other toy store with my husband again. He and the kid can walk up and down every aisle punching all the noisemaking buttons, looking at every single action figure, and waving the toy swords around to their hearts' content. I will be outside on a bench with some knitting and a double skim latte.
4. We will now have an excuse for getting out of any family parties/"traditions"/events we want to skip. Kids get sick, crabby, or onery a lot.
5. It will be interesting to see what the other mothers/PTA members/members of parenting groups think of my pierced nose and lassiez-faire hair.
6. Those teething toasts are way yummy. Nobody has to know the second box is just for me.
7. Will have an excuse to eat mac n' cheese for 4 of every 7 meals and not feel like I'm pathetically trying to re-live my college days.
8. I get a big smile thinking about all the obnoxious kids I know whose asses my kid will be able to kick.
9. When I drop/spill things on myself, like I ususally do at least once a day, now I can blame the kid.
10. Will be able to watch Teletubbies every day and not feel like a creepy whack-job.
(in no particular rank, importance, or order):
1. Will never struggle for a conversational topic with my in-laws again.
2. Baby is a girl and therefore we could have our own crack dealer - I mean, Seller Of Girl Scout Cookies - in a few years.
3. I will never have to go into the toy aisle at Target, K-B Toys, Toys R Us, or any other toy store with my husband again. He and the kid can walk up and down every aisle punching all the noisemaking buttons, looking at every single action figure, and waving the toy swords around to their hearts' content. I will be outside on a bench with some knitting and a double skim latte.
4. We will now have an excuse for getting out of any family parties/"traditions"/events we want to skip. Kids get sick, crabby, or onery a lot.
5. It will be interesting to see what the other mothers/PTA members/members of parenting groups think of my pierced nose and lassiez-faire hair.
6. Those teething toasts are way yummy. Nobody has to know the second box is just for me.
7. Will have an excuse to eat mac n' cheese for 4 of every 7 meals and not feel like I'm pathetically trying to re-live my college days.
8. I get a big smile thinking about all the obnoxious kids I know whose asses my kid will be able to kick.
9. When I drop/spill things on myself, like I ususally do at least once a day, now I can blame the kid.
10. Will be able to watch Teletubbies every day and not feel like a creepy whack-job.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
New Doctor, Same Old Tricks
So I managed to switch doctors and have had 2 visits with the new practice. I am unimpressed. The new guy is younger and more hippie-ish than the old one, but he annoyed me by trying to make me feel stupid every time I asked a question or voiced a concern. I told him I was a little tiny bit concerned about pre-eclampsia, since my mom had it with me. He blew me off saying that it was nothing to worry about and "just because your mom had it doesn't mean you will." Well, yes, I know that part, but my mom having it with me does mean I'm at a higher risk, as does the fact that this is my first pregnancy. But he didn't mention that. His tone indicated that I was wasting his time by even saying anything because of course I could not possibly have it. He could've just said "well, everything's fine so far, but we'll keep an eye out" but no, he had to treat me like a moron.
I asked about the call rotations, trying to get an idea of how many doctors there are in the practice and how often they rotate, since I could potentially end up with any one of them. I'm not bothered by this, I was just curious. He responded by telling me that they have on-call doctors because he cannot be expected to just leave in the middle of a surgery or procedure. Um, no kidding? Wow, I thought you'd just ditch that emergency c-section to come running every time I feel a twinge! All I wanted was some useful information, and again got treated like an idiot for even asking.
Questions about monitoring were handled in a similar fashion. I was told that "it will be a few minutes every hour until your water breaks, but after that you shouldn't be out of bed anyway." To which I later told my husband: to Hell with that. I will get up if I bloody well feel like it and am able. Part of the reason we went through this pain-in-the ass 3-rd Trimester game of doctor-hopping was because of Old Doc's monitorning policies (all internal, all the time) and his accompanying hospital's "no getting out of bed EVER for any reason after your water breaks" policy. After Old Doc's internal monitoring policy, I wanted to make sure this guy wasn't in the same camp, so I asked. New Doc looked at me like I had two heads and said external. I tried to explain that our last doctor had been a superfreak about internal monitoring, but New Doc really didn't care. I'm not even sure he listened long enough for me to finish my sentence.
New Doc did mention this no-out-of-bed thing is to prevent cord prolapse, which blindsided me. I mean, I know what it is (umbilical cord comes out ahead of baby) but not a single one of the dozen books we have laying around the apartment have mentioned that Southern California doctors are apparently hysterically paranoid about it. None of the books, or my friends, or the half-dozen websites, or the multiple baby blogs I read have even mentioned that a doctor could try and force me to stay in bed to prevent it. I have to say, I feel a little betrayed that The Books have let me down. They could've at least warned me.
My husband, my mother, my aunt, my best friend, my sister, and practically everyone else around me are always nagging at me to tell my doctor every little thing. I usually respond with "he won't care, and he won't do anything." And they never believe me, until I am at the appointment begging for some sleep medicine and my husband watches the doctor totally blow me off for the third time in a row. I'm not sure if it's that nobody believes me that my doctors are so indifferent, or that nobody believes me when I say I research things like a mofo and I'm pretty sure I'll know when something is seriously wrong. We got into a car accident and smashed up the front end of our beloved little car at the beginning of the month, and my husband was freaking out about the fact that I refused to call the doctor afterwards. I think he would've been happy to trot me down to the ER and get checked out, but I said no. My best friend and my mom were horrified that I didn't even call the doctor's office and let them know. "Why would I do that?" I asked. "They'll just get mad and ask me why I'm even calling." There was no bleeding, I felt fine (I helped push the car out of the road because it wouldn't start, actually), and the baby was moving just like normal. I had my first appointment with New Doc coming up a week after the accident, so at the urging of about 15 people, I told him we were in an accident. As I expected, I got almost no response. Baby still moving? No bleeding? You're fine, end of story ok gotta go. Once again, I got the impression that he thought I was dumb for even mentioning it.
Most of the time, my doctors make me feel like I am wasting their time for even being there. So when my friends and family pester me to tell the doctor that I have a stuffy nose or describe how my hips hurt or make sure they write down in my chart that I was born 10 weeks early by emergency C-section, I roll my eyes and say I'll mention it, but I almost never do. My husband has been with me at every appointment up 'til now, and sometimes he'll say something if I don't, but he always gets blown off too. It took him a lot longer to accept that the doctors just don't give a shit - it's only been since the car accident mention that he's started to agree with me. Long ago I stopped seeing these "healthcare providers" as my first and best resource during this pregnancy. Whenever one of my books says "check with your healthcare provider" or "talk to your doctor," I roll my eyes and snort "yeah, right." I view the doctors as a necessary...not evil, that's not the world I want...more like obligation. I have to go, so I'll go. They're there to point out any huge red flags, but other than that it's all me. If I have a problem or a question, I have to find my own solution/answer/consultant, because "consulting my healthcare provider" usually results in no answer to my query and being made to feel stupid for even asking.
After my last appointment, during which the nurse-practitioner (New Doc was out of town) wouldn't give me a straight answer when I asked if it was okay to take Pepto-Bismol, all I could think was thank God everything's been going fine so far. I can't even imagine the uphill battle I'd have getting these turkeys to pay attention to me if I had an actual problem.
I asked about the call rotations, trying to get an idea of how many doctors there are in the practice and how often they rotate, since I could potentially end up with any one of them. I'm not bothered by this, I was just curious. He responded by telling me that they have on-call doctors because he cannot be expected to just leave in the middle of a surgery or procedure. Um, no kidding? Wow, I thought you'd just ditch that emergency c-section to come running every time I feel a twinge! All I wanted was some useful information, and again got treated like an idiot for even asking.
Questions about monitoring were handled in a similar fashion. I was told that "it will be a few minutes every hour until your water breaks, but after that you shouldn't be out of bed anyway." To which I later told my husband: to Hell with that. I will get up if I bloody well feel like it and am able. Part of the reason we went through this pain-in-the ass 3-rd Trimester game of doctor-hopping was because of Old Doc's monitorning policies (all internal, all the time) and his accompanying hospital's "no getting out of bed EVER for any reason after your water breaks" policy. After Old Doc's internal monitoring policy, I wanted to make sure this guy wasn't in the same camp, so I asked. New Doc looked at me like I had two heads and said external. I tried to explain that our last doctor had been a superfreak about internal monitoring, but New Doc really didn't care. I'm not even sure he listened long enough for me to finish my sentence.
New Doc did mention this no-out-of-bed thing is to prevent cord prolapse, which blindsided me. I mean, I know what it is (umbilical cord comes out ahead of baby) but not a single one of the dozen books we have laying around the apartment have mentioned that Southern California doctors are apparently hysterically paranoid about it. None of the books, or my friends, or the half-dozen websites, or the multiple baby blogs I read have even mentioned that a doctor could try and force me to stay in bed to prevent it. I have to say, I feel a little betrayed that The Books have let me down. They could've at least warned me.
My husband, my mother, my aunt, my best friend, my sister, and practically everyone else around me are always nagging at me to tell my doctor every little thing. I usually respond with "he won't care, and he won't do anything." And they never believe me, until I am at the appointment begging for some sleep medicine and my husband watches the doctor totally blow me off for the third time in a row. I'm not sure if it's that nobody believes me that my doctors are so indifferent, or that nobody believes me when I say I research things like a mofo and I'm pretty sure I'll know when something is seriously wrong. We got into a car accident and smashed up the front end of our beloved little car at the beginning of the month, and my husband was freaking out about the fact that I refused to call the doctor afterwards. I think he would've been happy to trot me down to the ER and get checked out, but I said no. My best friend and my mom were horrified that I didn't even call the doctor's office and let them know. "Why would I do that?" I asked. "They'll just get mad and ask me why I'm even calling." There was no bleeding, I felt fine (I helped push the car out of the road because it wouldn't start, actually), and the baby was moving just like normal. I had my first appointment with New Doc coming up a week after the accident, so at the urging of about 15 people, I told him we were in an accident. As I expected, I got almost no response. Baby still moving? No bleeding? You're fine, end of story ok gotta go. Once again, I got the impression that he thought I was dumb for even mentioning it.
Most of the time, my doctors make me feel like I am wasting their time for even being there. So when my friends and family pester me to tell the doctor that I have a stuffy nose or describe how my hips hurt or make sure they write down in my chart that I was born 10 weeks early by emergency C-section, I roll my eyes and say I'll mention it, but I almost never do. My husband has been with me at every appointment up 'til now, and sometimes he'll say something if I don't, but he always gets blown off too. It took him a lot longer to accept that the doctors just don't give a shit - it's only been since the car accident mention that he's started to agree with me. Long ago I stopped seeing these "healthcare providers" as my first and best resource during this pregnancy. Whenever one of my books says "check with your healthcare provider" or "talk to your doctor," I roll my eyes and snort "yeah, right." I view the doctors as a necessary...not evil, that's not the world I want...more like obligation. I have to go, so I'll go. They're there to point out any huge red flags, but other than that it's all me. If I have a problem or a question, I have to find my own solution/answer/consultant, because "consulting my healthcare provider" usually results in no answer to my query and being made to feel stupid for even asking.
After my last appointment, during which the nurse-practitioner (New Doc was out of town) wouldn't give me a straight answer when I asked if it was okay to take Pepto-Bismol, all I could think was thank God everything's been going fine so far. I can't even imagine the uphill battle I'd have getting these turkeys to pay attention to me if I had an actual problem.
Monday, March 26, 2007
The Ties That Bind
I just spent the past week in the Midwest, because my little brother got married. A bunch of my extended family traveled North to my parents' house for the St. Patrick's Day ceremony. I stayed at my parents' house, too, and it was somewhat unnerving to have so many people hovering over me. Everywhere I went, someone was asking me if I was tired or hungry or fussing about me not eating or sleeping enough, or telling me I shouldn't do this and shouldn't lift that, or I needed to do this or get that. It was freakin' exhausting.
My husband was not with me (he was stuck at work), so I had no go-between, nobody to say "it's okay, she's really fine" or ask people to keep it down during the 3 hours per night I did get to sleep. My mom and my sister caught on pretty quick and treated me like a person, not just a baby-carrier. The rest of the family...well, I know they meant well and had the best of intentions, but after a couple days I just wanted to yell "I'm OKAY! I take care of myself ALL THE TIME! At home I eat and sleep and go to school and clean the house and go to the store and I haven't died yet! Please stop FUSSING!"
There were a few cases where I had to explain things like why I'm avoiding aspartame and that no, I don't tell my doctors everything, because they just do not give a crap. And why I don't want an epidural if I can help it. And that yes, I'm still riding my bike to school, I actually feel much better when I do because I need the exercise.
I got lots of "advice" too, like my new sister-in-law's mother telling me flatly "well, I hate to break it to you but just because you and your husband were both small babies, that has nothing to do with how big your baby is going to be." Or my grandma telling me that the pants I was wearing did not have a big enough panel.
It's really nice to be home again, because my husband knows that one cup of coffee won't kill the fetus and it's really better for everyone around me if I don't skip it, that I will say something or trundle off to bed when I get tired so he doesn't need to ask, and that rubbing my belly is not a good thing to do because the stretched-out skin is very raw and tender there. He also knows better than to argue with me when I want to do something, which is more than I can say for some of my family members.
My husband was not with me (he was stuck at work), so I had no go-between, nobody to say "it's okay, she's really fine" or ask people to keep it down during the 3 hours per night I did get to sleep. My mom and my sister caught on pretty quick and treated me like a person, not just a baby-carrier. The rest of the family...well, I know they meant well and had the best of intentions, but after a couple days I just wanted to yell "I'm OKAY! I take care of myself ALL THE TIME! At home I eat and sleep and go to school and clean the house and go to the store and I haven't died yet! Please stop FUSSING!"
There were a few cases where I had to explain things like why I'm avoiding aspartame and that no, I don't tell my doctors everything, because they just do not give a crap. And why I don't want an epidural if I can help it. And that yes, I'm still riding my bike to school, I actually feel much better when I do because I need the exercise.
I got lots of "advice" too, like my new sister-in-law's mother telling me flatly "well, I hate to break it to you but just because you and your husband were both small babies, that has nothing to do with how big your baby is going to be." Or my grandma telling me that the pants I was wearing did not have a big enough panel.
It's really nice to be home again, because my husband knows that one cup of coffee won't kill the fetus and it's really better for everyone around me if I don't skip it, that I will say something or trundle off to bed when I get tired so he doesn't need to ask, and that rubbing my belly is not a good thing to do because the stretched-out skin is very raw and tender there. He also knows better than to argue with me when I want to do something, which is more than I can say for some of my family members.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Thank Heaven for Little Girls
A couple of days ago, Max came home from work with Girl Scout Cookies. Thin Mints for him, Caramel Dee-Lights (aka Samoas) for me.
"You know what occured to me today? The most wonderful thought EVER," he said around a mouthful of minty, crispy chocolate.
"Mmm?" I asked as I ripped open the purple box and dug in.
"In a few years, " he said, "we could potentially have our own private line on Girl Scout Cookies."
It took me a second to figure out what he meant. Then it sank in. "Oh my God."
"I know, right? It'll be awesome."
"She'll be the top seller in her troop...all to us."
"We're going to have to buy a chest freezer just for Thin Mints."
"Yup."
"I'm so glad we're having a daughter."
"Me too. Because the Boy Scouts are nice, but their popcorn just doesn't do it for me."
"No way."
"You know what occured to me today? The most wonderful thought EVER," he said around a mouthful of minty, crispy chocolate.
"Mmm?" I asked as I ripped open the purple box and dug in.
"In a few years, " he said, "we could potentially have our own private line on Girl Scout Cookies."
It took me a second to figure out what he meant. Then it sank in. "Oh my God."
"I know, right? It'll be awesome."
"She'll be the top seller in her troop...all to us."
"We're going to have to buy a chest freezer just for Thin Mints."
"Yup."
"I'm so glad we're having a daughter."
"Me too. Because the Boy Scouts are nice, but their popcorn just doesn't do it for me."
"No way."
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Mothers and Daughters
As much time as we spent hoping, for various reasons, that this baby would be a girl, there were a few things that I either brushed over or avoided thinking about altogether. The first of these was that, when it was all said and done, I would be someone's mother. This made my eyes cross when I thought about it too much. Being a mother meant something very different from having a baby. Being a mother meant sitting up nights with a sick, unhappy child; it meant nagging about homework and chores; it meant school activities and decisions about colleges and wondering if your twentysomething child will ever find their place in this world. I am well into my twenties and my mom is still my mother; it's not something that ended when I was born or got my two-year molars or learned to tie my shoes. My brain would whirr and click like a confused computer when I tried to grasp all this. When I was a kid in Sunday school, our teachers told us that God is infinite, and the human mind is too puny to grasp the true concept of infinity. At seven, I had no problem with infinity. Goes on forever? Check. God is everything, everywhere, all the time, this time and all times before and after? Not a problem. Turns out it was the thought of being someone's mother that caused my brain to grind to a screeching halt.
The other thing that was difficult for me to think about was being the mother of a daughter. My own relationship with my mother has always been a difficult one; we were frequently like those huge fighting elk and goats you see on Wild Kingdom: bashing heads, locking horns, each trying to drive the other into submission, until we let go, circled 'round and did it again. My dad frequently had to seperate us and send us to opposite corners of the house. The dishes not being done properly or speedily, my choice of friends, the way I dressed, my choice of college major, the boyfriends I chose, the jobs I applied for, my choice of wedding invitations - anything was cause for a fight. The fights didn't stop as I grew older. If anything, they grew more intense because the issues had been building up for so long. Once I was old enough, I learned to just pack up my car and move out of town to end a fight, because I had lost all hope of ever forming a truce.
When I found out that I would be the mother of a daughter, I thought of all those fights. I wondered if one day thirteen or fourteen years from now, this child and I will scream at each other across a kitchen and my husband will have to step in and send us to our rooms. I can only hope not, I can only strive to parent in a different way than my mother did and try to avoid the same pitfalls. And who knows? Maybe I'll learn something along the way. Maybe I'll finally be able to admit out loud to my mother that yes, she was right, when you are a teenager, dating someone four years your senior with no job and no permanent address is not the best idea.
The other thing that was difficult for me to think about was being the mother of a daughter. My own relationship with my mother has always been a difficult one; we were frequently like those huge fighting elk and goats you see on Wild Kingdom: bashing heads, locking horns, each trying to drive the other into submission, until we let go, circled 'round and did it again. My dad frequently had to seperate us and send us to opposite corners of the house. The dishes not being done properly or speedily, my choice of friends, the way I dressed, my choice of college major, the boyfriends I chose, the jobs I applied for, my choice of wedding invitations - anything was cause for a fight. The fights didn't stop as I grew older. If anything, they grew more intense because the issues had been building up for so long. Once I was old enough, I learned to just pack up my car and move out of town to end a fight, because I had lost all hope of ever forming a truce.
When I found out that I would be the mother of a daughter, I thought of all those fights. I wondered if one day thirteen or fourteen years from now, this child and I will scream at each other across a kitchen and my husband will have to step in and send us to our rooms. I can only hope not, I can only strive to parent in a different way than my mother did and try to avoid the same pitfalls. And who knows? Maybe I'll learn something along the way. Maybe I'll finally be able to admit out loud to my mother that yes, she was right, when you are a teenager, dating someone four years your senior with no job and no permanent address is not the best idea.
Friday, February 16, 2007
The second child
Last week, we finally got the long-awaited ultrasound and discovered the sex of the baby. It's a girl. I was pretty surprised by my reaction to the news. Which was no reaction at all. After all this time, waiting and waiting to find out and both of us wanting a girl so much, all I said was "Oh." I didn't high-five my husband. I didn't pump my fist enthusiastically and shout "YESSSS!" Nope. Just "oh." I know we've been saying for weeks that at this point it wasn't really that important anymore, but I wasn't entirely sure if it was true. Apparently it was.
As we walked across the parking lot at the OB's office, clutching our pictures of the grainy V that revealed a lack of boy-parts on the child inside my belly, we discussed the news. max said he'd felt like it was a girl, but he knew I'd had a strong hunch all along about which way the pendulum (or lack thereof) would swing, but I had steadfastly refused to say anything for fear of jinxing it. I am terribly paranoid about jinxing things, a paranoia that closely matches the superstition of wizened old ladies with herbs drying in their kitchens and horseshoes above their doorways. My husband asked me if I would, at long last, reveal honestly what my hunch had been.
"Iknew thought it was a girl."
"What, like today? Before he told us?"
"No, the whole time. From the very start. Like how I had that really strong feeling we'd succeeded and I was pregnant on the first try, but I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to jinx it. This was the same. I just really, really felt it was a girl. Even when your mom was running around saying that she was so sure it was a boy. I kept quiet, but I knew."
"I have another...feeling. I mean, the same thing that made me think it was a girl is telling me we'll do this again."
I stopped walking, in the middle of the parking lot. "AGAIN? Are you crazy? You want another one already?" I probably sounded panicked. We've been in agreement for a long time that one is plenty, and if we do get the urge for another we fully intend to pursue fostering or adopting. We debated long and hard about adopting this one, but didn't have the patience or outlay of cash needed to adopt an infant, and he really wanted the whole Infant Experience. So what the hell was this shit?
"No, it's not that," he said, tugging my arm and pulling me toward the car. "I just...have a feeling. I have a feeling that we'll do this again. And that if we do, that one will be a boy."
"You have a feeling I'm going to accidentally get pregnant? Because after all we've discussed, 'doing this again' would mean the next one really will be a surprise."
"No, it's not that, it won't be accidental..." He was floundering.
"We're going to do this again on PURPOSE? I'm going to get hit with those supposedly-huge post-baby hormones and beg you for another baby? Or you're going to beg me for one and I'll give in?" I was definitely starting to panic. Even in the supposedly-magical second trimester, I have not been a big fan of pregnancy. I spend a lot of time wondering if I'll ever feel like "myself" again, and as time goes by I have forgotten what "myself" feels like. On top of that, I often wonder how we'll manage this baby with everything else we have going on.
"No, it's not that I super-want another one already or anything, I just have a feeling."
I let the discussion fade away as we got in the car and went on our way, but he has mentioned it several times since then. After a commercial featuring siblings and cellphones: "See? See what we'd be depriving our kid of if it's an only child?" Veiled references to "the next one," "next time" or "when we do this again."
It struck me that when people become parents for the first time, there is always an assumption that there will be another kid somewhere along the way. The parents themeselves assume it, their friends and relatives assume it, everyone takes it for granted that there will be more than one. The only question seems to be "when?"
I'm not one of those people. I think that one kid is a good number, for us anyway. The assumption that there will be another has always somewhat mystified me. Why? If you like the one you have and things are going great, why throw another one into the mix? The responses I get when I ask this question always seem to involve women's out-of-control-hormones, men's manly desires for a son, or the woe and tragedy of the pitiful only child.
And when they don't cover those options, there's always "well, I wanted First Kid to have someone to play with." Which makes me think on all the times my brother and sister and I played together. Much of that "playtime" involved one of us beating the everloving crap out of another, or two of us torturing the third. I also think about all the times we nearly drove my mother to choke us out of sheer frustration. I remember how hard it was when I was responsible for the two younger ones, how hard it was to get them to shut the fuck up and stop bickering. We all love each other fiercely, but we still fight. When I'd come home from college on breaks, my brother and I frequently got into fistfights over control of the television remote control. When I was 25, I got into a screaming match at 3:00 am with my sister over useage of the word "bridezilla." And then I thought of my mother's siblings, how they cannot go three months without fighting and rumor-spreading and "I'm not talking to you"-ing. Even my grandfather and his siblings spent a good part of our last family reunion bitching about who got what when their mother died thirty years ago.
So when my husband talks about "the next one," I have to wonder about his sanity. I'm just not sure I'm up for hearing my kids fighting every day until I die, and then having to spend my afterlife listening in as they bitch about who got my collection of carnival glass.
As we walked across the parking lot at the OB's office, clutching our pictures of the grainy V that revealed a lack of boy-parts on the child inside my belly, we discussed the news. max said he'd felt like it was a girl, but he knew I'd had a strong hunch all along about which way the pendulum (or lack thereof) would swing, but I had steadfastly refused to say anything for fear of jinxing it. I am terribly paranoid about jinxing things, a paranoia that closely matches the superstition of wizened old ladies with herbs drying in their kitchens and horseshoes above their doorways. My husband asked me if I would, at long last, reveal honestly what my hunch had been.
"I
"What, like today? Before he told us?"
"No, the whole time. From the very start. Like how I had that really strong feeling we'd succeeded and I was pregnant on the first try, but I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to jinx it. This was the same. I just really, really felt it was a girl. Even when your mom was running around saying that she was so sure it was a boy. I kept quiet, but I knew."
"I have another...feeling. I mean, the same thing that made me think it was a girl is telling me we'll do this again."
I stopped walking, in the middle of the parking lot. "AGAIN? Are you crazy? You want another one already?" I probably sounded panicked. We've been in agreement for a long time that one is plenty, and if we do get the urge for another we fully intend to pursue fostering or adopting. We debated long and hard about adopting this one, but didn't have the patience or outlay of cash needed to adopt an infant, and he really wanted the whole Infant Experience. So what the hell was this shit?
"No, it's not that," he said, tugging my arm and pulling me toward the car. "I just...have a feeling. I have a feeling that we'll do this again. And that if we do, that one will be a boy."
"You have a feeling I'm going to accidentally get pregnant? Because after all we've discussed, 'doing this again' would mean the next one really will be a surprise."
"No, it's not that, it won't be accidental..." He was floundering.
"We're going to do this again on PURPOSE? I'm going to get hit with those supposedly-huge post-baby hormones and beg you for another baby? Or you're going to beg me for one and I'll give in?" I was definitely starting to panic. Even in the supposedly-magical second trimester, I have not been a big fan of pregnancy. I spend a lot of time wondering if I'll ever feel like "myself" again, and as time goes by I have forgotten what "myself" feels like. On top of that, I often wonder how we'll manage this baby with everything else we have going on.
"No, it's not that I super-want another one already or anything, I just have a feeling."
I let the discussion fade away as we got in the car and went on our way, but he has mentioned it several times since then. After a commercial featuring siblings and cellphones: "See? See what we'd be depriving our kid of if it's an only child?" Veiled references to "the next one," "next time" or "when we do this again."
It struck me that when people become parents for the first time, there is always an assumption that there will be another kid somewhere along the way. The parents themeselves assume it, their friends and relatives assume it, everyone takes it for granted that there will be more than one. The only question seems to be "when?"
I'm not one of those people. I think that one kid is a good number, for us anyway. The assumption that there will be another has always somewhat mystified me. Why? If you like the one you have and things are going great, why throw another one into the mix? The responses I get when I ask this question always seem to involve women's out-of-control-hormones, men's manly desires for a son, or the woe and tragedy of the pitiful only child.
And when they don't cover those options, there's always "well, I wanted First Kid to have someone to play with." Which makes me think on all the times my brother and sister and I played together. Much of that "playtime" involved one of us beating the everloving crap out of another, or two of us torturing the third. I also think about all the times we nearly drove my mother to choke us out of sheer frustration. I remember how hard it was when I was responsible for the two younger ones, how hard it was to get them to shut the fuck up and stop bickering. We all love each other fiercely, but we still fight. When I'd come home from college on breaks, my brother and I frequently got into fistfights over control of the television remote control. When I was 25, I got into a screaming match at 3:00 am with my sister over useage of the word "bridezilla." And then I thought of my mother's siblings, how they cannot go three months without fighting and rumor-spreading and "I'm not talking to you"-ing. Even my grandfather and his siblings spent a good part of our last family reunion bitching about who got what when their mother died thirty years ago.
So when my husband talks about "the next one," I have to wonder about his sanity. I'm just not sure I'm up for hearing my kids fighting every day until I die, and then having to spend my afterlife listening in as they bitch about who got my collection of carnival glass.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
The quickening
In the past couple weeks, I have started to feel the baby move. It has grown from "Hmm...is that gas or the baby?" to "What are you DOING in there?!"
It did not feel like "flutters" or "butterflies" or "bubbles" or any of the other froofy language the books used to describe it. It felt like tiny muscle spasms down in my abdomen.
Last week, I lay down with Max for a late-afternoon nap. I snuggled up to him, with my front against his back. I could feel the tiny spasms very low down. The baby was kicking just above my pelvic bone. I started to laugh.
"What's so funny?" Max asked.
"The baby is kicking you in the butt right now."
"Damn. Kid's not even born yet and it's already kicking my ass."
It did not feel like "flutters" or "butterflies" or "bubbles" or any of the other froofy language the books used to describe it. It felt like tiny muscle spasms down in my abdomen.
Last week, I lay down with Max for a late-afternoon nap. I snuggled up to him, with my front against his back. I could feel the tiny spasms very low down. The baby was kicking just above my pelvic bone. I started to laugh.
"What's so funny?" Max asked.
"The baby is kicking you in the butt right now."
"Damn. Kid's not even born yet and it's already kicking my ass."
Thursday, January 25, 2007
OB woes
I am starting to understand why someone would opt for an unassisted homebirth.
Two nights ago, I sat in my living room with a heating pad tied around my head. I turned it on high, draped it over my head, and then used a long tiki-print scarf to tie it in place. I sat like that for over two hours, while the pain in my head subsided a little, until I could finish my homework without having to stop and massage my skull every thirty seconds to dull the throbbing.
I'm sure I looked entirely stupid - in spite of (or perhaps because of) the small bow I'd tied in the scarf. I probably gave myself some sort of brain tumor, or my child will be born with two heads now. At this point, I don't really care, because when the baby is born I expect the headaches to cease immediately. At least the ones caused by pregnancy.
They started when I was less than a week pregnant, if you do the math. Blinding, pounding pain, usually in the front or top of my head. If the headache went on for long enough, eventually I'd get nauseous and sometimes sparkling flashes of light would dance at the edges of my vision. I tried chugging water, I tried peppermint tea, I tried laying in a dark, quiet room. I tried having a caffeinated beverage or two, I tried hot washcloths and hot showers. The only thing that helped even a little was VERY hot steam - I'd hold my head over a hot of boiling water with a towel over my head and inhale, my nasal passages searing and my face turning lobster-red. It usually provided enough relief for me to fall asleep and hope it would be gone in the morning.
When I started regular visits with my OB, I told him about the headaches. He said there was nothing to be done for it. Drink lots of water, take only regular-strength Tylenol for the pain. I just had to put up with it. I followed his advice, I drank lots of water. The two times I cracked and broke my oath to keep this pregnancy as chemical-free as possible, I immediately puked my guts out. Not so much with the Tylenol, then. Meanwhile, the headaches increased in frequency and duration, the average number climing to two or three per week. Sometimes they lasted for days. I told my doctor at every visit and asked over and over if there was something he could do, something I could take, anything. I got the same response every time: drink lots of water, take Tylenol.
I got the same response from him when I told him about my insomnia, another symptom that started after less than a week of pregnancy. I can't sleep. I can't fall asleep, I can't stay asleep. I have rarely slept more than four hours at a stretch since mid-August. I have asked about it at every visit, and again got "nope, nothing can be done." I specifically asked if there's anything I can take, because although I wanted to stay chemical-free, exhaustion is not healthy for me or the baby. A friend's midwife gave her Ambien during her pregnancy, and both she and the baby were fine. But he blew me off. One time he said "maybe try walking more during the day," but that's all I got. Not even "try yoga" or a handout with stretches and relaxation exercises or anything.
My husband has tried to step in and press the issue, and been similarly blown off. My best friend has advised me to get bitchy with the doctor, to just say "Look. I know I can have Ambien, it's perfectly safe, so just write me a damn scrip already." But I don't feel comfortable doing that. Truth is, I don't feel comfortable with my doctor at all. We barely speak at my visits, which are usually very short (less than seven minutes). The two times he's done ultrasounds, they were also pretty short - "okay, there it is, everything's fine, okay bye." If we hadn't pinned him down and asked him a bunch of questions at the first visit, we never would've known about the internal monitoring issue, or anything else about his regular practices.
I wanted to switch right away after that first visit, because neither I nor my husband was cool with the internal monitoring thing. I was bothered that the history they took was only about three questions long, with nothing about my own birth. But I thought I'd give it a few more visits with this guy, because when my primary care office referred me, the girl on the phone said he was well-liked, and he seemed personable enough. Switching meant picking another random name off the insurance company's list, so what if I wound up with somebody worse? I didn't want to be hasty. I figured I'd give it another visit or two and see how it went. If we liked everything else with this doc and I developed a rapport with him, we could deal with the internal monitoring thing one way or another.
But things have gotten worse, not better. I feel less confident in this doctor now than I did after that first visit. My mom told me that she also had headaches when she was pregnant with me, and was also blown off by her doctors. It's nothing, they told her. It happens. Then, whoops, sorry, ma'am, you have preeclampsia, we're going to to do an emergency c-section 10 weeks early. And that's how I was born. This means that my risk of developing preeclampsia is much higher than normal - four times higher, according to some studies. It's also my first pregnancy, which is when most cases appear. But my doctor has no idea my risk is higher, because he's never asked. And I never get a chance to volunteer the information - our visits are so short and I don't feel comfortable bringing it up. I don't feel comfortable bringing anything up, in fact. At the last visit I didn't even bother telling him the headaches were worse. My husband did tell him, and pointedly asked if there was anything that could be done about that or the insomnia. And again got blown off, the same "there's nothing to be done for it" as the doctor was on his way out the door.
I just feel so helpless and angry. I don't want this man delivering my baby. I want to switch to a midwife, but our insurance doesn't cover either the traveling midwives or the nice birth center nearby and there are no others in the area.
I called another OB to try and switch, except this time I was going to to do like the books advise, and interview them first. I called a clinic with three doctors listed, two of whom were female. I wanted a woman this time, to see if that would make me feel more comfortable. I was going to do things right and do my homework before I came in as a patient. I was going to be prepared.
Except those doctors don't do that, apparently. I called and asked if I could come in and talk to the doctors before making an appointment, but was told that I need to drop off the records from my current doctor for their doctor to review, and then he will decide if he wants to take me as a patient. The girl who answered the phone kept saying "he," and I gathered that it was the male doctor I'd be seeing if I'd even be accepted as a patient. One of the female doctors, although listed with this clinic's name and phone number, doesn't work there, she only works at their office in another city. The girl also seemed incredulous that a) I wanted to switch doctors at 22 weeks along, b) I wanted to switch just because I was unhappy with the care I'm currently getting, and c) I'd called up wanting to talk to the doctor at all.
So, basically, I'm screwed.
The message board I hang out on has members in other countries. The women on there who live in places with universal healthcare make it seem so effortless - they just ring up whoever they want and make an appointment. If they want a homebirth with a water tub and a crunchy-granola midwife, they get it. If they want the most sterile hospital environment possible, they can have it. Meanwhile I am stuck with no way to get what I want, no control over how this is going to go. My hopes for a nice, friendly midwife-attended birth are just silly fantasies. It's enough to make a person go buy obstetrics textbooks and take a crash-course in baby delivering.
Two nights ago, I sat in my living room with a heating pad tied around my head. I turned it on high, draped it over my head, and then used a long tiki-print scarf to tie it in place. I sat like that for over two hours, while the pain in my head subsided a little, until I could finish my homework without having to stop and massage my skull every thirty seconds to dull the throbbing.
I'm sure I looked entirely stupid - in spite of (or perhaps because of) the small bow I'd tied in the scarf. I probably gave myself some sort of brain tumor, or my child will be born with two heads now. At this point, I don't really care, because when the baby is born I expect the headaches to cease immediately. At least the ones caused by pregnancy.
They started when I was less than a week pregnant, if you do the math. Blinding, pounding pain, usually in the front or top of my head. If the headache went on for long enough, eventually I'd get nauseous and sometimes sparkling flashes of light would dance at the edges of my vision. I tried chugging water, I tried peppermint tea, I tried laying in a dark, quiet room. I tried having a caffeinated beverage or two, I tried hot washcloths and hot showers. The only thing that helped even a little was VERY hot steam - I'd hold my head over a hot of boiling water with a towel over my head and inhale, my nasal passages searing and my face turning lobster-red. It usually provided enough relief for me to fall asleep and hope it would be gone in the morning.
When I started regular visits with my OB, I told him about the headaches. He said there was nothing to be done for it. Drink lots of water, take only regular-strength Tylenol for the pain. I just had to put up with it. I followed his advice, I drank lots of water. The two times I cracked and broke my oath to keep this pregnancy as chemical-free as possible, I immediately puked my guts out. Not so much with the Tylenol, then. Meanwhile, the headaches increased in frequency and duration, the average number climing to two or three per week. Sometimes they lasted for days. I told my doctor at every visit and asked over and over if there was something he could do, something I could take, anything. I got the same response every time: drink lots of water, take Tylenol.
I got the same response from him when I told him about my insomnia, another symptom that started after less than a week of pregnancy. I can't sleep. I can't fall asleep, I can't stay asleep. I have rarely slept more than four hours at a stretch since mid-August. I have asked about it at every visit, and again got "nope, nothing can be done." I specifically asked if there's anything I can take, because although I wanted to stay chemical-free, exhaustion is not healthy for me or the baby. A friend's midwife gave her Ambien during her pregnancy, and both she and the baby were fine. But he blew me off. One time he said "maybe try walking more during the day," but that's all I got. Not even "try yoga" or a handout with stretches and relaxation exercises or anything.
My husband has tried to step in and press the issue, and been similarly blown off. My best friend has advised me to get bitchy with the doctor, to just say "Look. I know I can have Ambien, it's perfectly safe, so just write me a damn scrip already." But I don't feel comfortable doing that. Truth is, I don't feel comfortable with my doctor at all. We barely speak at my visits, which are usually very short (less than seven minutes). The two times he's done ultrasounds, they were also pretty short - "okay, there it is, everything's fine, okay bye." If we hadn't pinned him down and asked him a bunch of questions at the first visit, we never would've known about the internal monitoring issue, or anything else about his regular practices.
I wanted to switch right away after that first visit, because neither I nor my husband was cool with the internal monitoring thing. I was bothered that the history they took was only about three questions long, with nothing about my own birth. But I thought I'd give it a few more visits with this guy, because when my primary care office referred me, the girl on the phone said he was well-liked, and he seemed personable enough. Switching meant picking another random name off the insurance company's list, so what if I wound up with somebody worse? I didn't want to be hasty. I figured I'd give it another visit or two and see how it went. If we liked everything else with this doc and I developed a rapport with him, we could deal with the internal monitoring thing one way or another.
But things have gotten worse, not better. I feel less confident in this doctor now than I did after that first visit. My mom told me that she also had headaches when she was pregnant with me, and was also blown off by her doctors. It's nothing, they told her. It happens. Then, whoops, sorry, ma'am, you have preeclampsia, we're going to to do an emergency c-section 10 weeks early. And that's how I was born. This means that my risk of developing preeclampsia is much higher than normal - four times higher, according to some studies. It's also my first pregnancy, which is when most cases appear. But my doctor has no idea my risk is higher, because he's never asked. And I never get a chance to volunteer the information - our visits are so short and I don't feel comfortable bringing it up. I don't feel comfortable bringing anything up, in fact. At the last visit I didn't even bother telling him the headaches were worse. My husband did tell him, and pointedly asked if there was anything that could be done about that or the insomnia. And again got blown off, the same "there's nothing to be done for it" as the doctor was on his way out the door.
I just feel so helpless and angry. I don't want this man delivering my baby. I want to switch to a midwife, but our insurance doesn't cover either the traveling midwives or the nice birth center nearby and there are no others in the area.
I called another OB to try and switch, except this time I was going to to do like the books advise, and interview them first. I called a clinic with three doctors listed, two of whom were female. I wanted a woman this time, to see if that would make me feel more comfortable. I was going to do things right and do my homework before I came in as a patient. I was going to be prepared.
Except those doctors don't do that, apparently. I called and asked if I could come in and talk to the doctors before making an appointment, but was told that I need to drop off the records from my current doctor for their doctor to review, and then he will decide if he wants to take me as a patient. The girl who answered the phone kept saying "he," and I gathered that it was the male doctor I'd be seeing if I'd even be accepted as a patient. One of the female doctors, although listed with this clinic's name and phone number, doesn't work there, she only works at their office in another city. The girl also seemed incredulous that a) I wanted to switch doctors at 22 weeks along, b) I wanted to switch just because I was unhappy with the care I'm currently getting, and c) I'd called up wanting to talk to the doctor at all.
So, basically, I'm screwed.
The message board I hang out on has members in other countries. The women on there who live in places with universal healthcare make it seem so effortless - they just ring up whoever they want and make an appointment. If they want a homebirth with a water tub and a crunchy-granola midwife, they get it. If they want the most sterile hospital environment possible, they can have it. Meanwhile I am stuck with no way to get what I want, no control over how this is going to go. My hopes for a nice, friendly midwife-attended birth are just silly fantasies. It's enough to make a person go buy obstetrics textbooks and take a crash-course in baby delivering.
Friday, January 12, 2007
On (not) Getting Ready For Baby
We have done nothing to get ready for the baby. Partly because I figure we’ve got plenty of time (more than 4 months to go), partly because I don’t know where we’ll be after it arrives (a possible job change could have us moving across the country within 6 weeks of my due date), and partly because I’m not entirely sure what “getting ready” would entail. The women on the message board are busy picking out baby furniture and painting nurseries, something which is not likely to happen in our house any time soon. It’s an apartment, so we can’t paint anyway, and our spare bedroom is chockablock full of crap like guitars, bookcases, a futon, half-completed craft projects, boxes that never got unpacked from the last move, and anything else we don’t know what to do with. Not only that, but I don’t even have $2,000 of matching furniture and $500 bedding in MY room, why would I do it for someone who’s not even born yet and won’t care about any of it after they are?
I suppose I could buy something other than the one or two clearance-priced outfits we’ve picked up so far, but all my friends and relatives are telling me that we’ll be buried under an avalanche of baby stuff that has been bought, loaned, given, and otherwise transported to our house by well-wishers. There are two fanged, drooling grandmothers waiting in the wings, and we’ve speculated that this could turn into the episode of Mad About You where both grandmothers buy a crib and then get into a fistfight about whose crib should be used.
I do need to sign up for some classes, but I’m not really sure what ones to take. I already know how to take care of a baby; taking care of siblings, babysitting, nannying, and other interaction with kids is something I’ve had plenty of. Max has not has as much, but really how hard is it? You change the diaper, you feed it (although I’ll probably be doing most of it, since my husband doesn’t have the right equipment for breastfeeding), you hold it for a while, it sleeps. When it gets older, don’t let it stick its fingers in electrical sockets, eat small sharp objects, or play in traffic. I already have a pretty good idea what to expect during childbirth, and we have some books for pain-management techniques. I’m not sure we need a bunch of six-to-twelve-week classes to tell us stuff we already know. I suppose I should schedule a hospital tour, so we can make sure the place we have to go to have our baby isn’t the set from Hostel or something.
I think we’re pretty well-prepared mentally, too. I mean, not 100% and all, but we realize that this will be a tiny human being whose every need we’ll have to see to for quite a while. We realize that it will be a person, with its own ideas and will. We realize that there will be fun stuff sometimes, and not-so-fun-stuff other times, and then it’ll be a teenager who slams doors and screams “I hate you!” even though we tried really hard to be sensitive, understanding parents without creating a total brat in the process. I just hope we do a good job.
I suppose I could buy something other than the one or two clearance-priced outfits we’ve picked up so far, but all my friends and relatives are telling me that we’ll be buried under an avalanche of baby stuff that has been bought, loaned, given, and otherwise transported to our house by well-wishers. There are two fanged, drooling grandmothers waiting in the wings, and we’ve speculated that this could turn into the episode of Mad About You where both grandmothers buy a crib and then get into a fistfight about whose crib should be used.
I do need to sign up for some classes, but I’m not really sure what ones to take. I already know how to take care of a baby; taking care of siblings, babysitting, nannying, and other interaction with kids is something I’ve had plenty of. Max has not has as much, but really how hard is it? You change the diaper, you feed it (although I’ll probably be doing most of it, since my husband doesn’t have the right equipment for breastfeeding), you hold it for a while, it sleeps. When it gets older, don’t let it stick its fingers in electrical sockets, eat small sharp objects, or play in traffic. I already have a pretty good idea what to expect during childbirth, and we have some books for pain-management techniques. I’m not sure we need a bunch of six-to-twelve-week classes to tell us stuff we already know. I suppose I should schedule a hospital tour, so we can make sure the place we have to go to have our baby isn’t the set from Hostel or something.
I think we’re pretty well-prepared mentally, too. I mean, not 100% and all, but we realize that this will be a tiny human being whose every need we’ll have to see to for quite a while. We realize that it will be a person, with its own ideas and will. We realize that there will be fun stuff sometimes, and not-so-fun-stuff other times, and then it’ll be a teenager who slams doors and screams “I hate you!” even though we tried really hard to be sensitive, understanding parents without creating a total brat in the process. I just hope we do a good job.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Pregnant Island
One thing I was totally unprepared for about being pregnant was how lonely it would feel. We moved from the Midwest to Southern California almost a year and a half ago, and I haven't made any friends at all. I had a gig for a bit as a nanny, and while I at least got to interact with another person during the day, she was only four months old, so our conversations were somewhat limited. Other than that, all my work has been done at home. I have a few acquaintances, people I know through my husband's job and chat with if I see them around town, but there is not a single person here I can call up and ask out for coffee. I have searched the Internet and the posted notices at coffeehouses to try and find groups I might join, but have had no luck. Having a baby on the way only limits my options further; it's not like I can open up our apartment for an all night booze-fest with the clean-faced Freshmen in my Sociology class. Nor would I want to if I could, I'm just not at the all-night booze-fest stage of my life anymore. It would just be nice to talk to another human being once in a while, that's all.
Even the human beings I do talk to, though phone calls back to friends and family, leave me feeling like I'm marooned on my own little island. My mom and sister have been polite and concerned when asking about my symptoms, and my mom laughs when I ranted about how tired I was of throwing up, but I often feel like they're checking my growth as an experiment-in-progress, with most of their focus on the end result. My childless friends, aside from some curiosity, don't want to hear me talk nonstop about my pregnancy (nor do I blame them for that). My few friends with kids either offer up their own tales of gestational woe or sit back with a smug "Yep, you'll have that" when I talk about some new symptom or sign. I get a lot of "well, you could have it a lot worse, my cousin's friend's sister puked for her entire pregnancy and lost 50 pounds and could only eat wildflowers from the slopes of the Andes..." I also pick up from one or two friends in particular a vibe of superiority, as though since they've had a kid or two they are now the ultimate expert on pregnancy and birth, and I should be grateful for their sage wisdom.
My friends with kids are pretty out of sync with our lofty first-time parenting ideals as well. I have a friend who absolutely can't fathom our plans to cloth diaper; I get the impression that she thinks we'll be doing some sort of irreparable harm to our baby by not buying bulk packages of Pampers and running with it. None of our childed friends can understand our dislike of ruffles and pastels and ducks and bunnies (and this is a lost cause as far as most of our family members - especially the grandmothers-to-be - are concerned. They just don't understand why we don't want everything in sight covered with baby animals and big, squishy-looking letters and huge bows) or our attempts to keep the "baby-looking" baby crap to a minimum. Limiting TV time? Fuhgeddaboutit. Many of my friends' kids knew what Elmo's favorite food was and all the words to the Spongebob Squarepants theme song before they took their first steps. I'm trying not to be critical of their choices, since I realize that in a year or two we could be viewing Elmo as our Lord and Savior and popping in that DVD at every opportunity. It would be nice, though, if even my best friend didn't make me feel like I was from Jupiter when I mention I don't want an epidural and I don't like baby toys with flashing lights and loud noises.
The Internet has been no saving grace, either. The message board I joined expecting to find camraderie and support has not quite panned out. The women there are busy talking about how they're decorating their nurseries and what they're all registering for and going on about the fabulous birthing centers inside their hospitals and how great their midwives are. I read it all but don't respond much, since I am sitting here not planning to do a room for the baby at all, with no plans to purchase furniture or register at The Den of Satan (otherwise known as Babies R Us) and an obstetrician I don't even feel very comfortable talking to. It sort of makes me depressed, because I look around my own situation and it's so very far from how I wanted all this to go.
It all makes me feel very alone, like I'm on some tiny desert island in the middle of a vast ocean. My husband Max is wonderful, he's been very excited and supportive and pays as much attention to me as he can, but it's not the same as having a trusted circle of friends to talk to. I just wish I could talk to somebody who was on the same page as me, somebody who likes modern baby things and is a bit unsure about this whole parenting gig. Somebody who isn't getting the ideal set of options but has figured out how to make the most of it. Somebody who isn't going to make me feel hopelessly uncool for not being a hipster or sit in smug judgement when I say I'm tired of throwing up and feeling exhausted. But I don't have that, and I can't figure out how to get it, short of cloning myself.
Even the human beings I do talk to, though phone calls back to friends and family, leave me feeling like I'm marooned on my own little island. My mom and sister have been polite and concerned when asking about my symptoms, and my mom laughs when I ranted about how tired I was of throwing up, but I often feel like they're checking my growth as an experiment-in-progress, with most of their focus on the end result. My childless friends, aside from some curiosity, don't want to hear me talk nonstop about my pregnancy (nor do I blame them for that). My few friends with kids either offer up their own tales of gestational woe or sit back with a smug "Yep, you'll have that" when I talk about some new symptom or sign. I get a lot of "well, you could have it a lot worse, my cousin's friend's sister puked for her entire pregnancy and lost 50 pounds and could only eat wildflowers from the slopes of the Andes..." I also pick up from one or two friends in particular a vibe of superiority, as though since they've had a kid or two they are now the ultimate expert on pregnancy and birth, and I should be grateful for their sage wisdom.
My friends with kids are pretty out of sync with our lofty first-time parenting ideals as well. I have a friend who absolutely can't fathom our plans to cloth diaper; I get the impression that she thinks we'll be doing some sort of irreparable harm to our baby by not buying bulk packages of Pampers and running with it. None of our childed friends can understand our dislike of ruffles and pastels and ducks and bunnies (and this is a lost cause as far as most of our family members - especially the grandmothers-to-be - are concerned. They just don't understand why we don't want everything in sight covered with baby animals and big, squishy-looking letters and huge bows) or our attempts to keep the "baby-looking" baby crap to a minimum. Limiting TV time? Fuhgeddaboutit. Many of my friends' kids knew what Elmo's favorite food was and all the words to the Spongebob Squarepants theme song before they took their first steps. I'm trying not to be critical of their choices, since I realize that in a year or two we could be viewing Elmo as our Lord and Savior and popping in that DVD at every opportunity. It would be nice, though, if even my best friend didn't make me feel like I was from Jupiter when I mention I don't want an epidural and I don't like baby toys with flashing lights and loud noises.
The Internet has been no saving grace, either. The message board I joined expecting to find camraderie and support has not quite panned out. The women there are busy talking about how they're decorating their nurseries and what they're all registering for and going on about the fabulous birthing centers inside their hospitals and how great their midwives are. I read it all but don't respond much, since I am sitting here not planning to do a room for the baby at all, with no plans to purchase furniture or register at The Den of Satan (otherwise known as Babies R Us) and an obstetrician I don't even feel very comfortable talking to. It sort of makes me depressed, because I look around my own situation and it's so very far from how I wanted all this to go.
It all makes me feel very alone, like I'm on some tiny desert island in the middle of a vast ocean. My husband Max is wonderful, he's been very excited and supportive and pays as much attention to me as he can, but it's not the same as having a trusted circle of friends to talk to. I just wish I could talk to somebody who was on the same page as me, somebody who likes modern baby things and is a bit unsure about this whole parenting gig. Somebody who isn't getting the ideal set of options but has figured out how to make the most of it. Somebody who isn't going to make me feel hopelessly uncool for not being a hipster or sit in smug judgement when I say I'm tired of throwing up and feeling exhausted. But I don't have that, and I can't figure out how to get it, short of cloning myself.
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