I've been worried for weeks about today the day I commute 3 hours (each way) from Sac to Santa Cruz with a baby in the back seat who has no predictable eating schedule yet. Lit 101/Marxism is calling -- 8AM lecture.
Things seemed like they were going to work out with less belly-aching than I thought. Dave got the (Cesar Chavez) day off and could accompany us there and back, taking a lot of pressure off our first day back in school.
I prepared all day yesterday to get everything set up for our early morning departure. The diaper bag and school bag were packed, the stroller was stowed, the bottles were made in advance and the cooler bag was ready. All I had to do was wake up, feed the baby, and be on my way. And we were making excellent time, I was to be there with a good half hour to breathe.
Except half-way there I had a vision that did not include seeing myself putting the bottles in the car. I remember throwing the diaper bag and my school bag in the backseat, next to the camera which I thought I should bring. But the bag of bottles, were they there? Nope.
So for the last hour of the journey, Dave and I worried: where were we going to buy formula, and bottles, and how were we going to sterilize them? And would hungry Desmond give us the time to figure all this out? We were straight panicking our merry way over highway 17, and what should have been a pleasant early morning drive down memory lane was nailbiting nightmare.
With a happy ending. Dave called his old Paper Vision bosses who kindly opened their doors to our screaming baby and let bottles be sterilized and formula mixed as I strolled into a packed auditorium pretending that motherhood is really a cinch.
Thankfully, my sister-in-law offered to care for poor Desmond Tuesdays and Thursdays so he'll never have to suffer that drive again.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Pass the Chicken Soup I guess
Yesterday evening we went to pick up a fancy Pali crib we found on craigslist. The woman selling the crib was a local East-Sac mom with a hip husband in a Volvo. They seemed like nice people who decorate their modest home in French bistro decor and stunning black-and-white wedding photos. We agreed to take their crib, and kindly accepted the accoutrements: mattress, crib bumper, sheets. And then the mom let me know that she has published a book and said I should take one home with me. She even signed it. The Light at the End of the Diaper Pail (and I see she has a blog too).
In another life, I think I might have scoffed at a publication of this nature. In fact, because I'm a cynical snob (and probably also jealous of all "regular" people who also have a published book), I did scoff a bit as I flipped through pages that reminded me to "Breathe. Repeat." or to "Love your partner." Little chicken-soup tidbits geared to a specific demographic who just so happens to spend a lot of money on feel-good baby-shower gifts. But it actually did make me feel good. While I may ignore the advice to "Beam. Cry. Laugh. Be real." I do kind of appreciate the reassurance that my hours of sitting on the big bed watching bad cable is acceptable behavior.
In another life, I think I might have scoffed at a publication of this nature. In fact, because I'm a cynical snob (and probably also jealous of all "regular" people who also have a published book), I did scoff a bit as I flipped through pages that reminded me to "Breathe. Repeat." or to "Love your partner." Little chicken-soup tidbits geared to a specific demographic who just so happens to spend a lot of money on feel-good baby-shower gifts. But it actually did make me feel good. While I may ignore the advice to "Beam. Cry. Laugh. Be real." I do kind of appreciate the reassurance that my hours of sitting on the big bed watching bad cable is acceptable behavior.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Around the Bed
We've been living at my father-in-law's since we got back from France three(!!) months ago. In fact, we've been living in my father-in-law's bedroom, while he's been staying at his lady friend's as his children figure their shit out. J -- my sister-in-law -- and her husband have recently moved from here to their re-modeled mega-house next door. And Dave and I are packing up and heading out to our new one-bedroom apartment, with all the old-school features -- like a built-in kitchen hutch, a Wedgewood stove, and a strange swiveling door that used to house a Murphy bed.
I'm excited about our move, to finally be in our own space with our own things. But I must admit, I'm also regretting some amenities of living in the burbs -- washer/dryer (I'm not quite sure I can live without one at this point . . . this will be a test), no apartment neighbors for Desmond to bother, no utilities or cable bills.
What most characterizes our stay here has been "going around the bed." Going around, that is, the California King sized bed that is the main piece of furniture in the room in which we live. The in-law's bedroom is of a generous size -- bigger than my studio in Paris for sure -- with a bathroom and walk-in closet attached. It also houses a huge flat-screen TV that offers one million channels or something close to that. What I do all day is sit on the bed, feed the baby, walk around the bed to gather clothes to put in the washer, check to see if I've already seen the "What Not to Wear" episode, walk around the bed to get to the kitchen to prepare lunch, feed the baby, walk around the bed to stare blankly at a bookshelf with books that I'll definitely read tomorrow. The bed is big and to get anything accomplished, you must walk around it. Thankfully, I'm not concerned these days with getting much accomplished, so I've been occupied mostly upon rather than around the bed.
Soon I'll be sitting on the new-to-me sofa I bought through craigslist that we tried to squeeze through a series of apt. doors, scuffing and streaking its white micro suede fabric, only to decide that we entered through the wrong entrance. The currently cushion-less couch is now sitting in the back utilities room waiting for Dave to regain his strength to take it through the correct series of doors.
I'm excited about our move, to finally be in our own space with our own things. But I must admit, I'm also regretting some amenities of living in the burbs -- washer/dryer (I'm not quite sure I can live without one at this point . . . this will be a test), no apartment neighbors for Desmond to bother, no utilities or cable bills.
What most characterizes our stay here has been "going around the bed." Going around, that is, the California King sized bed that is the main piece of furniture in the room in which we live. The in-law's bedroom is of a generous size -- bigger than my studio in Paris for sure -- with a bathroom and walk-in closet attached. It also houses a huge flat-screen TV that offers one million channels or something close to that. What I do all day is sit on the bed, feed the baby, walk around the bed to gather clothes to put in the washer, check to see if I've already seen the "What Not to Wear" episode, walk around the bed to get to the kitchen to prepare lunch, feed the baby, walk around the bed to stare blankly at a bookshelf with books that I'll definitely read tomorrow. The bed is big and to get anything accomplished, you must walk around it. Thankfully, I'm not concerned these days with getting much accomplished, so I've been occupied mostly upon rather than around the bed.
Soon I'll be sitting on the new-to-me sofa I bought through craigslist that we tried to squeeze through a series of apt. doors, scuffing and streaking its white micro suede fabric, only to decide that we entered through the wrong entrance. The currently cushion-less couch is now sitting in the back utilities room waiting for Dave to regain his strength to take it through the correct series of doors.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
In February, Bad Things Happened
Like two bouts of breast infection -- one of which sent me to the emergency room to have a huge abscess drained, leaving me with a hole that I *affectionately* call my "boob wound" which must be dressed twice daily.
So, with the least amount of guilt that I can manage, I've given up breast-feeding and have moved Desmond to the formula'ed bottle. He doesn't seem to mind at all.
However, I must admit that, despite the decidedly motherly intimacy that breast feeding provides -- I do feel a kind of pride that I am able to produce food to nourish my child -- I was not that keen on nursing. It is really totally exhausting. I know that some of my own happiness and independence must be sacrificed for the good of my dependent, but I had some difficulty coming to terms with the many months and countless hours ahead of me, hunched over a hungry child whose appetite seemed eternal.
What is more, I was feeling a fair amount of resentment toward all the websites and advice books -- and even California legislation -- compelling me to think of my body as a sacred trough that not only provides the best nourishment -- a miracle elixir allegedly preventing diabetes, asthma, obesity and slow-wittedness -- but also points to a morally superior mother who deeply, truly loves her progeny (unlike the bottle-feeding mother who is either conceived of as a self-absorbed diva or a lower-income, under-educated teenager).
Here's a pretty convincing article detailing the breastfeeding trend and questioning the actual medical benefits of nursing.
So, with the least amount of guilt that I can manage, I've given up breast-feeding and have moved Desmond to the formula'ed bottle. He doesn't seem to mind at all.
However, I must admit that, despite the decidedly motherly intimacy that breast feeding provides -- I do feel a kind of pride that I am able to produce food to nourish my child -- I was not that keen on nursing. It is really totally exhausting. I know that some of my own happiness and independence must be sacrificed for the good of my dependent, but I had some difficulty coming to terms with the many months and countless hours ahead of me, hunched over a hungry child whose appetite seemed eternal.
What is more, I was feeling a fair amount of resentment toward all the websites and advice books -- and even California legislation -- compelling me to think of my body as a sacred trough that not only provides the best nourishment -- a miracle elixir allegedly preventing diabetes, asthma, obesity and slow-wittedness -- but also points to a morally superior mother who deeply, truly loves her progeny (unlike the bottle-feeding mother who is either conceived of as a self-absorbed diva or a lower-income, under-educated teenager).
Here's a pretty convincing article detailing the breastfeeding trend and questioning the actual medical benefits of nursing.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Labor Story
My appointment for the induction was Friday night, 8pm. I was not thrilled about the idea of being induced. I wasn't really sure what it entailed, nor was I sure -- based on my (not really) extensive internet research -- how patient-friendly, as opposed to doctorly-convenient, it was going to be. I was afraid, as was Dave, that I was setting myself up for a chain of interventions. First an induction, next thing you know a C-section.
But we arrived promptly at the scheduled hour and I was immediately surrounded by nurses attaching monitors to my belly and sticking me with needles, taking my temperature, asking me questions then doubting with their sidelong looks the veracity of my answers (No really, I haven't done street drugs. Not cocaine OR heroine. Swear.) But once these pleasantries were out of the way, the first of three main nurses was really sweet. She looked just like Joan from *Mad Men*. She explained the deal with inducing labor: she was going to insert a tiny pill that would slowly release a hormone and my contractions would get going. The thing is, though, is that my contractions had already begun. I just couldn't feel them really. I could see them on the contraction monitor -- but felt nothing like pain when I was supposedly experiencing a contraction. The induction pill was supposed to help things along. But as soon as "Joan" went to take her break -- around 9pm -- my water broke. On it's own. It had nothing to do with the hormone pill. Weird.
For the next 6 hours, I didn't need the monitor to tell me when I was having a contraction. I was in pain. What's unfortunate about scheduling a labor induction is that they have you come in at night, assuming that you'll be opting for pain medication. I think I could have handled the pain however if I hadn't been so miserably tired. As it was, both Dave and I were struggling to find the energy to withstand what felt like . . . you know, I don't even remember what it felt like exactly. All I remember is that it hurt and that I had to audibly moan because for some reason that helped soothe the pain.
Anyway -- they did have to ask twice, but I took their drugs. Because it was too early for the epidural (I wasn't dilated enough -- you need to be between 5-6 inches), but my contractions were practically on top of each other, they injected into my IV some kind of narcotic that immediately made me feel great. I felt high. And good. And then recalled that I have never been straight-edge. I have mostly always enjoyed a dopey high, especially one that dulls pain (although, for the record, I've never really taken drugs to alleviate pain before). So Dave was off pain-partner duty and, at 3AM, we could both get some rest.
I remember at around 6AM, the drugs were wearing off and the sun was beginning to rise. All I wanted was to be surrounded by peaceful things. There was a TV station that showed images of nature -- winter landscapes, fall foliage -- accompanied by soft music. Despite the rising pain, I wanted to live in this moment it was so quiet.
But then at 8pm the epidural brigade arrived, along with my new main nurse, Irene, who is much younger than her name suggests. This was her first day back from a four month maternity leave after delivering her second child. She was great and I kind of want to go back to give her a proper thank you for her help. So, they inserted the epidural: it was a scary sounding procedure and I think Dave was really uncomfortable watching them thread things into my back. But, whoo, it's kind of amazing how the pain completely disappeared. I was a little concerned, about 6 hours later, when one of my legs -- which were both tingly and numb -- wouldn't stop tingling (it eventually did, though).
About 7 hours later, after almost 18 hours of active -- though mostly painless -- labor and a steady dose of pitocin (yet another hormone that speeds labor along) I was ready to deliver. Irene told me when to push and Dave held my hand (and leg) and counted to 10 three times. What was unexpected about delivery is that it's much calmer than in the movies. There's not constant screaming and cursing. When there was a contraction I would push as hard as I could. But then there'd be a couple of minutes of just hanging out, chatting with the nurses about other deliveries, or their own babies, or nothing at all -- just staring and zoning out. There was about 45 minutes of this. And the scariest thing about it all, as you would imagine, is the thought -- and the reality -- of a head passing through a smaller passageway, that I would have to experience this passing, and that it would (or should, if it drugily didn't) hurt. But out he came. And all because, I'm sure, of my expert pushing. Everyone was really impressed with my pushing.
And it was CRAZY, crazy to have little Desmond placed on my chest two seconds later. Things then start to become real, but not really because I'm worn out and addled, with nurses and doctors running in and out, and I don't fully understand what's going on. And maybe because I don't know what else to do and definitely don't know what to think, I'm just smiling and crying and looking at Dave, whose state will remain unwritten, and Desmond who knows no better than me what to do next.
But we arrived promptly at the scheduled hour and I was immediately surrounded by nurses attaching monitors to my belly and sticking me with needles, taking my temperature, asking me questions then doubting with their sidelong looks the veracity of my answers (No really, I haven't done street drugs. Not cocaine OR heroine. Swear.) But once these pleasantries were out of the way, the first of three main nurses was really sweet. She looked just like Joan from *Mad Men*. She explained the deal with inducing labor: she was going to insert a tiny pill that would slowly release a hormone and my contractions would get going. The thing is, though, is that my contractions had already begun. I just couldn't feel them really. I could see them on the contraction monitor -- but felt nothing like pain when I was supposedly experiencing a contraction. The induction pill was supposed to help things along. But as soon as "Joan" went to take her break -- around 9pm -- my water broke. On it's own. It had nothing to do with the hormone pill. Weird.
For the next 6 hours, I didn't need the monitor to tell me when I was having a contraction. I was in pain. What's unfortunate about scheduling a labor induction is that they have you come in at night, assuming that you'll be opting for pain medication. I think I could have handled the pain however if I hadn't been so miserably tired. As it was, both Dave and I were struggling to find the energy to withstand what felt like . . . you know, I don't even remember what it felt like exactly. All I remember is that it hurt and that I had to audibly moan because for some reason that helped soothe the pain.
Anyway -- they did have to ask twice, but I took their drugs. Because it was too early for the epidural (I wasn't dilated enough -- you need to be between 5-6 inches), but my contractions were practically on top of each other, they injected into my IV some kind of narcotic that immediately made me feel great. I felt high. And good. And then recalled that I have never been straight-edge. I have mostly always enjoyed a dopey high, especially one that dulls pain (although, for the record, I've never really taken drugs to alleviate pain before). So Dave was off pain-partner duty and, at 3AM, we could both get some rest.
I remember at around 6AM, the drugs were wearing off and the sun was beginning to rise. All I wanted was to be surrounded by peaceful things. There was a TV station that showed images of nature -- winter landscapes, fall foliage -- accompanied by soft music. Despite the rising pain, I wanted to live in this moment it was so quiet.
But then at 8pm the epidural brigade arrived, along with my new main nurse, Irene, who is much younger than her name suggests. This was her first day back from a four month maternity leave after delivering her second child. She was great and I kind of want to go back to give her a proper thank you for her help. So, they inserted the epidural: it was a scary sounding procedure and I think Dave was really uncomfortable watching them thread things into my back. But, whoo, it's kind of amazing how the pain completely disappeared. I was a little concerned, about 6 hours later, when one of my legs -- which were both tingly and numb -- wouldn't stop tingling (it eventually did, though).
About 7 hours later, after almost 18 hours of active -- though mostly painless -- labor and a steady dose of pitocin (yet another hormone that speeds labor along) I was ready to deliver. Irene told me when to push and Dave held my hand (and leg) and counted to 10 three times. What was unexpected about delivery is that it's much calmer than in the movies. There's not constant screaming and cursing. When there was a contraction I would push as hard as I could. But then there'd be a couple of minutes of just hanging out, chatting with the nurses about other deliveries, or their own babies, or nothing at all -- just staring and zoning out. There was about 45 minutes of this. And the scariest thing about it all, as you would imagine, is the thought -- and the reality -- of a head passing through a smaller passageway, that I would have to experience this passing, and that it would (or should, if it drugily didn't) hurt. But out he came. And all because, I'm sure, of my expert pushing. Everyone was really impressed with my pushing.
And it was CRAZY, crazy to have little Desmond placed on my chest two seconds later. Things then start to become real, but not really because I'm worn out and addled, with nurses and doctors running in and out, and I don't fully understand what's going on. And maybe because I don't know what else to do and definitely don't know what to think, I'm just smiling and crying and looking at Dave, whose state will remain unwritten, and Desmond who knows no better than me what to do next.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
In February, Things Happen
-- Little Desmond Harold aka Ji-myung has arrived (labor details to follow). As the pediatrician commented today, he's a robust lad for being only a week and a half old. He eats well, sleeps tolerably well, and cries whenever he feels like it.
-- The jobs Dave has been *patiently* awaiting have slowly started to hatch. The State job (whose hiring staff has had me wondering how anything gets done at the state level) may actually happen. Could it be true? After months of random and pointless test-taking and stalling and paper-shuffling, will there come a day when he walks into an office to work and leaves with a paycheck in hand? Let's not get too excited . . .
-- And sadly, Dave and his family had to put their dog Bubba down this morning. He had a growth in his stomach and looked miserable and heartbreakingly ashamed. Bubba leaves behind his twin brother, Poncho.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
January is the month of waiting
It's five in the morning and I've been up for an hour and a half. I think this might be my new schedule for a little while: up at 1 and 4 am.
It seems like everything is going to happen at once. After an entire month on the edge of our seats, waiting for things to start moving and get decided, it's all going to get done this weekend. I'll still keep my fingers crossed:
The baby's about a week late and the doctor will induce labor Friday night.
David finally has an interview with the State tomorrow, I mean this morning.
The in-laws' house next door is almost done with renovations and it looks like they can move back this weekend.
My parents arrive on Sunday.
The Australian Open Finals are this weekend.
As is the Super Bowl.
Obama passed a stimulus package.
It seems like everything is going to happen at once. After an entire month on the edge of our seats, waiting for things to start moving and get decided, it's all going to get done this weekend. I'll still keep my fingers crossed:
The baby's about a week late and the doctor will induce labor Friday night.
David finally has an interview with the State tomorrow, I mean this morning.
The in-laws' house next door is almost done with renovations and it looks like they can move back this weekend.
My parents arrive on Sunday.
The Australian Open Finals are this weekend.
As is the Super Bowl.
Obama passed a stimulus package.
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