Blown Fuse

Birth Story, Part 1

Things have settled down around here sufficiently enough for me to sit down in five minute blocks and type out what went down on Roland’s birth day. Thanks to all for the congratulatory wishes – it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy to know that people care! Squeeee!

Anyway, on Saturday the 18th, we got up and had our respective hot beverages and newspaper perusal as usual. Being increasingly perturbed with a pregnancy that seemed to be stalling its ending, I suggested that we go walk the mall (for all you locals, this was the day that they were lighting up the tree at the Streets of Southpoint and Cheyenne Kimball was performing). I figured that putting some pressure on the area where my two legs meet would remind the kid that his shelter was meant to be a temporary one and that he should make his way towards the nearest exit. The mall traffic flow was disastrous, but we left early enough in the day to find a parking spot by Belk (fewer people park there – it’s like the mall boondocks).

[I must interject here that going into a mall knowing that you’re not going to buy a damn thing is a completely liberating feeling – especially getting to tell the clerks that you’re not interested in the particular item you’re fingering. Scott and I were poking about Williams-Sonoma and were conversing about how the coffee maker he’d purchased five years ago hadn’t gone down in price yet – of course, the clerk came over and tried to sell us one.]

A couple of hours into our mall wandering, I needed to stop and sit for a while. I had the sensation of a bowling ball being stored in my pelvis and my lower back was voicing complaints as well. We sat for a few minutes, but the firmness of the display we were sitting on made me even more uncomfortable. I could only get settled by sitting back on my tailbone which passer-bys must have thought to be quite an interesting sight. After doing one more lap around the ground floor I wanted to call it quits so we headed towards the car.

We stopped at Target for something or other…shampoo? Then I decided that I was in the mood for P.F. Chang’s and we circled back around to see how long the wait was. After being told by a hostess that we would have to wait two hours for a table (“But ma’am, you can also wait for a seat at the bar and next time you can call ahead for advanced seating…”), I gave her stink-eye, and a dry “Um, no – that’s okay.” What woman at 39 weeks 5 days pregnant is going to sit at the freakin’ bar when she has enough trouble getting off the toilet seat? I can’t remember what we ended up doing for dinner. I think it involved potato chips and Rice Krispies Treats.

At home I fired off an angry blog post in between periodic back pains that had me pacing around the front room. It didn’t dawn on me to time them until I realized they were going away and coming back regularly. After about three hours of toe-curling back tightening I realized I was probably having back labor. At that point I began freaking out because I was expecting uterine contractions and didn’t know if they’d even admit me for weird back pain that I couldn’t even describe. All knew is that my obstetrician told me that if I got reeeeally uncomfortable that I should go to the hospital. When I was sufficiently uncomfortable, I made Scott put his shirt back on to drive me to the hospital.

Of course they didn’t admit me. My cervix still hadn’t dilated beyond 1 cm and was 50% effaced. The triage doctor wanted to see at least 3 cm and contractions that were more regular. Although the nurse suspected that I would be back by early afternoon, they gave me an Ambien to try to sleep through the pain at home (HAR HAR HAR). The doctor told me that if my contractions started to get regular, (“trust me,” he said) that I wouldn’t be able to sleep through them. I took the Ambien at the hospital and Scott drove me home. Pissed.

By the time we pulled into the driveway I was so high off the sleeping pill that Scott had to physically escort me across the threshold. It was a little after midnight and I shed my clothes and got immediately in bed. I won’t speak of the weird hallucinations and dreams the pill brought on mostly because I can’t remember their exact contexts. All I can say is that pill had me so jacked up I thought that someone had slipped me some hard drugs.

Something woke me at around 5:30 or 6. I don’t know if it was the cats scratching on the door or some distress from my mid-regions, but I got up and went to the potty figuring that if I was indeed going to deliver that day I should do a load of laundry so I’d have something clean to wear home. I never did get those clothes washed.

[To be continued after a nap or two]

Cootchie coo.

That there is a baby. More specifically, mine. Er, "ours," I guess. His name is Roland, but I'm holding out for a suitable nickname.

He was born Sunday afternoon. Details later. Must forage for food before the whining begins.

Oh, by the way - inflatable donuts are awwwwwesome.

Tiffany on Obsessive Parenting

Okay, seeing as how I'm up and not quite ready to fry that bacon in the fridge, I'll discuss with you my feelings about Stepford Mommies (mentioned last night). To start, Stepford Mommies and Soccer Moms are not necessarily the same breed. Stepford Mommies almost always have an agenda. Soccer Moms may not necessarily have an agenda, but their zeal may cause them to have unfortunate nicknames (like "cowbell lady" at football games). Stepford Mommies are like "stage mothers" in that they only show up to push and support their own child. Soccer Moms tend to want to support a team.

Some background:

I was raised in a single parent home in rural NC. Specifically, I lived with my grandma. Some of you may know how I got there in the first place, but I don't have the mental stamina to include that story now. The property I lived on was several acres large, handed down trough the generations since right after the Civil War, blah blah blah.

Certain responsibilities go along with living out in the boonies that town kids are often not affected by, mostly involving yard work, clothes lines that were just a wee bit too close to the woods for my comfort, and fixing stuff with inadequate tools. I played in the dirt a lot. Me and the neighbor kids also played a lot of Barbie on my back porch.

We lived at least five miles from my elementary school, four miles from my middle school, and 18 miles from my high school.

When it was time to become involved with all those PTA meetings, band parents associations, and all that crap, my grandma would sometimes attend the meetings, find out what she needed to buy/make/send, and send it to school with me. She didn't sit on boards and make decisions. She didn't have an "agenda" to help get her kid ahead. She just picked me up, dropped me off, and didn't ask a whole lot of questions. That's the way I liked it. (I wasn't the kind of kid who liked being "watched" when put on a stage.) We always had the sort of relationship where if I needed help or for her to participate in something, I'd push her into it, but for the most part, I was a pretty independent kid and wanted to rise above all the riff-raff using my own talents. To be frank, my grandma was an elderly woman (even then) and would rather just take my word for things than sit on bleachers and listen to boring people drone on and on about selling shit to buy new banners for the cafeteria. Been there, done that.

It annoys the shit out of me when people naturally assume that a parent doesn't participate in their kids' activities because they don't care. I'm sure there are many parents who'd like to sit on boards and make decisions but are unable to take the time off work (do you know how long it takes the average American to earn enough money to buy a Big Mac?). Many other parents simply have children (like I was) who would die from shame if their parents helped them in public.

Okay, so what does that have to do with the so-called Stepford Mommies? Well, mostly that they have their kids on such a tight rein that every aspect of their lives is controllable. They tend to guide their children towards activities that may have nothing to do with the child's interests but are based on some trend that the mom feels the child should be a part of. They sit on boards and make decisions that are the best choices for their children, but not necessarily best for the greater group. They feel attacked when "outsiders" make suggestions that are contrary to the status quo. They show up at rehearsals and practices that already have adequate, trained leadership and tell other peoples' kids what to do (I can think of one particular parent during j.v. cheerleading who was always trying to get her heavier-than-average twins on top of the pyramid....ooOooh, that woman burned my biscuits).

Stepford Mommies tend not to research serious issues and merely parrot what their husbands/mother-in-laws/pastors tell them. They gang with others holding the same "beliefs" and attempt to exclude people who wish for them to hear both sides of a story.

If you know anything about me at all, you can assume that I won't be that type of parent. I will bitch and moan and scratch eyeballs out to make sure that my kids are gettng an academically sound education, but unless they ask me to be there, I'm not going to stalk all their extra-curricular activities. That's where kids develop leadership skills and refine their personalities. They don't need me to watch them experimenting and making painful mistakes.

I think I'd rather be known as the "smart" mommy. Until my kid is old enough to say "Mom, can you not come?" I'll be sitting out there with my crappy little camera taking pictures and dabbing my eyes with snotty Kleenex.

He must not understand.

I've been beaching myself on the bed like a whale for the past couple of days using my dinosaur of a laptop and the wireless connection to keep myself entertained. Since it's Saturday and Scott is still asleep, he has effectively trespassed on my beach.

So I'm up. And I'm not happy about it. Now I have no choice but to be productive. Grr!

*stretch, yawn*

Still pregnant. This kid is reluctant, it seems. After Scott's mom told me that he would only come out after her water was broken I'm not looking forward to potentially being pregnant indefinately. (Yeah, yeah - "No pregnancy lasts forever" and all that crap.)

While I was at the doc's yesterday, I did go ahead and have a "just in case" induction scheduled for the evening of the 26th. They don't like to go past 1 week beyond your due date at UNC clinics, which is fine with me. I'm 100% certain that my due date is accurate because I charted pre-pregnanchy, so he's just dragging ass.

I can't even get out and walk to help get the contractions closer together because the weather is kooky. I'm just going to sit here on the bed and feel sorry for myself until lunch time.

*wookie roar*

Had the membranes swept. Within three minutes the reflex points in my feet that correspond to my reproductive bits began throbbing.

Oh my feet. Oh my back. Oh my feet and my back.

My doctor's success rate with membrane sweeps that result in labor within 24 hours is about 33%. Say a prayer to your diety of choice that Tiffany is lucky today. I have this psychologically perverse desire to be in enough pain right about now that a baby magically appears in my arms before nightfall.

I'm even tempted to go walk the neighborhood to get this party moving along. I might even have to talk to a neighbor or two.

Go pick it up. NOW.

Why do these things happen ONLY when I'm at home watching? You would think that having two cats means that you'd leave the house and occasionally return to a mess. That rarely happens. Instead, they'll ransack the house while I watch.

This overturned chair fell in this position about five minutes ago. Bodie was sitting on the back, and Puffy took a flying leap at her. When the chair started teeter-tottering, I just knew it was going to slap the floor. And it did, taking the much-abused remote control with it. Bodie scrambled to the living room where she took up position to lick herself. Puffy ran into the kitchen.

I'm still waiting for them to pick it up. Little brats. As they scratched at the bedroom door all night and meowed like they were in pain, I'm already thisclose to dousing them with cold water as it is.

Dang.

Completely effaced, but not dilated. Not dilated means no room to strip the membranes.

Frick.

Hee hee, hooooo. Hee hee, hoooo.

I'm up early with the cats today...or, I guess I should say, I've been up since around 2:30 am. I went to bed super-early last night, being completely exhausted and all around bored.

Shortly after midnight the top of my uterus started bunching up near where the kid has his feet stationed. It felt sort of like he was trying to rotate his body straight up and down, placing his feet right between my breasts where they've never been. For those of you who do not know what this feels like, imagine a square-shaped peg being smooshed into a triangle-shaped hole: something has to give way. Anyway, I'm not physically large enough to accomodate the position it felt like he was trying to take, so it hurt like hell.

I got up and squatted on the toilet for a while to relieve some of the pressure and eventually his feet returned to their 10 o'clock location.

Over the next four hours or so, that little foot bump turned into minute-long contractions radiating off my right side. They've stopped now, but my back is killing me. I'm afraid to go back to bed as every time I lay on my side they come back.

At one point I was in such distress that I was going to take a shower and head towards the hospital, knowing full well that unless I demand to be admitted and induced they'd probably send me home to labor. I was dealing with the kind of pain that makes you contort your lips into odd shapes and curl your fingers and toes until they cramp in protest.

I have a 9:15 prenatal appointment. It's 5:18 right now, so I assume I can make it that long without crying like a little bitch. If when I go in I'm told that I'm indeed in early labor and dilated enough for admission, I swear to God I'm going to punt my purse and do a damn happy dance. If this is "false" labor, or "pre"labor, then they'd better go ahead and administer the epidural right now because this ain't pleasant.

Grr!

If you want to hear a pregnant woman roar like a wookie, wake her up before her time.

I sleep on the alarm clock side of the bed because I don't have to crawl over Scott to get to the bathroom (which I use frequently during the night). Scott likes to remove at least one hearing aid at night, typically on the side he sleeps on. By the time morning comes around he's rolled over to the other side.

What that means is that the alarm clock howls for at least two minutes every nine minutes or so. Sometimes if I get really pissed, I'll take my foot and give him a hard shove to wake him up. Sometimes I turn to him with an angry scowl on my face and stare him awake. Sometimes I hit "snooze" and go back to sleep - let him deal wih the consequences of being ten minutes late.

Anyway, this morning I had one of those "find the noise" dreams when the alarm went off. My dream self could hear the sound of the alarm, but couldn't identify where it was coming from. I was putting my ear to toasters, radios, and all manner of appliances trying to figure out who was trying to set off a bomb or something. I unplugged things and removed batteries and yet the noise still persisted. I really, really thought someone was trying to jack me up. It was when my full bladder got my attention that I finally woke up and shut the damned alarm clock off.

Great. Now I'm cranky.

Who me? Facetious?

Now that the Democrats have regained some semblance of control, will the price of pre-packaged Rice Krispies Treats go down or will we need to invade the Keebler Elves to steal protect their marshmallows?

:) Mmm...yummy preservative-laced cereal bars.....*drools*

The Grid

Here's a picture of the kitty booby trap I have set up on the kitchen table. You can probably tell that they're using the table as a perch to look outside. I think the window sill has been adequate for that purpose and they should continue using it for such.

The premise behind the tape is that cats don't like the feeling of having sticky stuff on their paws so they'll avoid the tape by avoiding the table. Furthermore, any cat dumb enough to sit her fat rear on the table will find that when they stand they'll lose a few hundred hairs. Since I don't have to be in the room to monitor them, they won't associate ME with the punishment when it happens. They'll think the table is doing it to them.

Hopefully, after a couple of weeks they'll get the point that their butts do not belong where I eat.

In for the day

I have very few clothing items that fit well enough to wear in public at this point, so if I have to endeavor outdoors for some reason, I want to squeeze in as many errands as possible. I've been putting off going to get my free flu shot because it seemed like a waste of clean pants if they'll be running the retail events for the next several weeks.

I showered, dressed, and went out to vote this morning after doing about five minutes of research on state judicial candidates. Of course, there's a cold rain coming down - the sort that would normally merit carrying an umbrella if you weren't walking such short distances between your vehicle and the buildings you're trying to get to. As my hair was still wet from the shower, having cold droplets fall on my head to replace the shower water that my brain has been keeping lukewarm was less than pleasurable.

Anyway, voted. Then I went out in search of double-sided tape, or at least some close fascimile that would train the cats to stay off the kitchen table. I went to the Food Lion closest to the voting location first. Nope. Then I went to CVS. Nope. Then I figured I'd drive to Petco and see what sorts of furniture repellants they had. Surprisingly, their selection was a lot better than what my normal pet supply superstore carries. I bought a spray bottle of bitter stuff to spray on my chairs so that [that damn cat] will stop chewing the spindles. They also had a special tape that can be attached to fabric to prevent your cat from scratching. It was super-expensive, so I left it be and checked Target.

Target, of course, had double-sided tape, but because I've become incredibly cheap since my "sabbatical," I didn't want to pay $2.59 for the 3/4" name brand stuff. The Target brand, 50 cents cheaper, was sold out. I left the store, annoyed, and resigned to jerry-rigging some booby trap from packaging tape - which we have in spades.

Driving home, I realized that since I'm wearing clothes this would be a good day to go to one of those flu shot events. OF COURSE there isn't one within 10 miles today...the next one close to my zip code is Friday. That's what I get for procrastinating, I guess. I really want to get one before the kid is born so that we'll both have some immunity, but it's so hard to get out the house. There are a couple tomorrow, so we'll see.

On to domestic tasks, I guess.

That must be tasty.

I've observed this weird behavior from our junior cat, Puffy. When she and Bodie are going to blows, she likes to bite Bodie on the neck or rump. But these aren't just bites to break skin - she's trying to pull hair, which she promptly spits out.

Look, at this point in my pregnancy, I could care less if they maul each other. JUST DON'T FRICKING LEAVE HAIR PILES ON THE CARPET I VACUUMED YESTERDAY.

Seriously, this cat is driving me nuts. So much so that I want to throw cat toys at her head. Between the hair-eating, the inappropriate pee locations, the wood chewing, and the periodic vomit piles, I'm ready to...well, let her explore the great outdoors.

I'm sure she feels irreplacable, but you know what? I was in Petsmart on Sunday, and they had at LEAST three grey kittens with yellow eyes. Yup.

"Business in the front, party in the back": The Mullet Hat

I usually don't like wearing winter caps because I have "big hair" that doesn't rebound well from being squashed down. However, sometimes I do leave the house without showering or otherwise primping, so the state of my hair is of little concern to anyone. During those times, I squash a hat over the mess and don't give it a thought.

This here's a "squash" hat. It's just long enough to cover the ears as long as I don't try to pull my hair into a ponytail.

I adapted it from the Lion Brand yarn "Quick Cabled Hat" (you have to register to download the free) pattern and somehow missed that it had a longish neck flap in the back. When I realized that the hat had a mullet, I had to edit that out.

The well-dressed baby

My fingers have been busy lately. As soon as the swelling went down in my hands, I resumed some of the knitting projects I had been working on.

This pair of knit pants was adapted from Stitch 'n Bitch Nation. I omitted the little devil tail that is supposed to be attached in the back. The pattern was actually sized for a 3-month-old and for finer yarn, so I had to adjust accordingly. Hopefully they'll fit. They'll likely be worn on one of those few occassions where we have company or else I have to leave the house w/ kid in tow. The rest of the time I'm pretty certain he'll be wearing drool-stained pajamas.

The cost of constructing these pants, which The Kid will only be able to wear for a couple of months, was about $7.50. Much cheaper than comparable quality store-bought youngun' clothes, but still pricey by cheapskate standards.

Feeling Novel-ish

Okay, okay. After a few years of blogging and seeing National Novel Writing Month come around every November, this year I think I'll finally take the plunge.

While there are other half-finished stories in my reportoire that I should be working on, I think it'll do me good to start something fresh and try to get it done in the suggested time frame. As is, I'm starting a couple of days late, but I'm confident I can make up the ground and get my 50,000 words on paper by the end of the month (gulp).

Well, can't hurt to try. If it's palatable, I may serialize it on the blog.

Oh, speaking of things that won't get finished - Scott, how are those birth announcement designs coming, hmmmmmm?

I can tell by my ringtone that I don't need to get up.

I've got about six phone calls that I need to return to friends and family. You see, I have set periods where I feel like having phone conversations. They tend to be very short windows during the day right after my morning tea and before I turn catatonic around lunchtime.

So, when a bunch of people call me on the same day, I start thinking the fates are conspiring against me. Generally I prioritize my calls by listening to my voicemail, seeing who wants something, and calling them last.

I think most people are calling me now because they have some sick curiosity about the pregnancy. NOBODY I know has seen me this pregnant. In fact, the last time a friend saw me was when I was about five months. I could easily hide a tummy bulge with a baggy t-shirt and well-formed slouch. My grandma hasn't seen me since around month 4, at which point my mother had informed me that I was "carrying in the back." (Like hell if I was going to parade around and be insulted after that.) I last saw my mother-in-law back during that whole morning sickness marathon...I guess sometime during month three.

Anyhow, they all know I'm fixin' to evict this kid any day now so they're trying to get their last conversations in to make sure that when he is born, they'll be amongst the first to be notified.

I'll start with returning grandma's call. She bought me stuff.

Not even fit to make croutons with.

I'm not at all intimidated by baking bread, even if it means that I have to stand on a step stool to get over it to knead it enough. That being said, I'm incredibly pissed off that I've wasted at least two cups of flour on Emeril's sourdough bread recipe (available at foodnetwork.com). I followed the directions to a "T" and ended up with a bread-scented rock for all my efforts.

I was suspicious after I printed the recipe out that there is absolutely no water added to the dough other than what you put in the starter. The little chef voice in my head said "Go ahead and add a little water - it can't hurt!" but I didn't heed it. I ended up dumping the dough and excess flour in the food processor just to get it incorporated. It never really did - it just ground up into crumbs which I poured out and then patted into a ball-like shape.

The dough never really rose, and I know my yeast isn't to blame. I cooked it anyway hoping it'd expand, but duuuhhhhh, how's it going to do that with no moisture?

The taste test was disappointing as well, but I won't get into that.

I'm going to keep the starter for a little while since I've invested so much time in it and try it with someone else's bread recipe.

So annoyed.