I proposed to Julie at a Halloween party. She was dressed as a witch, and I was supposed to come as Harry Potter, which I only agreed to because I had other plans in mind.
I walked up the stairs of the split level house wearing a tuxedo, carrying a pumpkin. As soon as I got to the top, my insider assistant turned off the music. Julie, dressed all in black with a pointed hat and holding a beer, took one look at me and said, "You're not Harry Potter."
At that point I turned the pumpkin around. It was gutted and lit from within by a candle. Into it I had carved "Marry me."
"Nooooo," she said in disbelief.
I raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Is that your answer?" I got down on one knee, pulled the ring box out of my coat pocket.
The rest is kind of a blur. She said yes, people clapped, she was close to tears but did not cry, and we went into another room for a moment of privacy.
"I have to call my parents," she said.
"Yes, they're excited to hear from you. I talked to them this morning."
Tonight we're off to another Halloween party. I'm dressing as Linus, and Julie's going as the Great Pumpkin. She found a Halloween-themed pumpkin chair cover and sewed it to the belly of a black maternity shirt. I'll be the guy in the red striped shirt, holding a blankie.
Time flies.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Feeding
Last night at 3:00 in the morning, Julie got hungry. "Dan? Daaaaaan?" she whispered. When I didn't wake up, she tiptoed downstairs like a child on Christmas morning, located a granola bar, and crept back upstairs and ate it in bed.
I'm so proud of her. I think that's the first food she's gotten for herself in the entire pregnancy.
I'm in trouble now, aren't I. See, here's the deal. I'm a teacher, which means I get home earlier than Julie does. I also have random days off, sometimes weeks, and much of the summer. (Note to those who scoff at the hours of us teachers: suck it.) So anyway, I'm usually the hunter and gatherer. This is especially true during pregnancy. My concern is what happens when Julie is home for 16 weeks fending for herself and the kid.
Well, the kid will be fine. She'll have two mommy spigots to latch onto. But Julie will need some help if she's expected to feed herself too. Seriously. Take a girl who doesn't normally cook, and suddenly make her do it while simultaneously caring for an infant. Breakfast and lunch...she'll need some on-the-job training, I fear.
Perhaps I'll help Julie establish a series of breakfast and lunch menus and write a spreadsheet of what foods she'll need in the house. What am I saying? She'll be fine. Maybe I'm just overcompensating for the whole birthing ordeal that I will not have to go through. I need to be useful, you know? It'll be easier to stand in that delivery room like an idiot if I ensure that things will run smoothly once we come home.
I'm so proud of her. I think that's the first food she's gotten for herself in the entire pregnancy.
I'm in trouble now, aren't I. See, here's the deal. I'm a teacher, which means I get home earlier than Julie does. I also have random days off, sometimes weeks, and much of the summer. (Note to those who scoff at the hours of us teachers: suck it.) So anyway, I'm usually the hunter and gatherer. This is especially true during pregnancy. My concern is what happens when Julie is home for 16 weeks fending for herself and the kid.
Well, the kid will be fine. She'll have two mommy spigots to latch onto. But Julie will need some help if she's expected to feed herself too. Seriously. Take a girl who doesn't normally cook, and suddenly make her do it while simultaneously caring for an infant. Breakfast and lunch...she'll need some on-the-job training, I fear.
Perhaps I'll help Julie establish a series of breakfast and lunch menus and write a spreadsheet of what foods she'll need in the house. What am I saying? She'll be fine. Maybe I'm just overcompensating for the whole birthing ordeal that I will not have to go through. I need to be useful, you know? It'll be easier to stand in that delivery room like an idiot if I ensure that things will run smoothly once we come home.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Shift
This is 38 weeks. Someone told me today to watch out for people who call my baby precious because what they really mean is ugly. A cute baby, you'd call cute. A homely one is precious. I don't care what she looks like; I just want to see her. I'm also looking forward to responding to the first person who unwittingly calls her precious: "What, are you saying she's ugly?!" That will be hilarious.
Julie's headache is a little better. Headaches are concerning during pregnancy when they're coupled with other symptoms. High blood pressure, protein in the urine, and a headache while seeing spots are symptoms of preeclampsia, which is bad. Julie's only symptom was the headache, but she had it for several days, sometimes throbbing, sometimes not. And we watch far too many medical dramas on TV to rule out some of the more dire, ridiculous possibilities.
But her doctor told her to try a cocktail of Extra Strength Tylenol, Benadryl, and Coke. Dr. House never would have said that, but Julie agreed to give it a go anyway. This morning, it basically worked. No throbbing, anyway, so at least she avoided that agony.
Julie once coughed for so many weeks that she cracked a rib. When she finally went to the doctor, she was admonished for waiting so long. Whereas I'm like, "Take pills! Go in! Take more pills!" Julie has always been more of the "Oh, I'll be fine" mentality. It drives me crazy.
The last couple days, though, she has made occasional offhand comments about feeling weird or like things aren't quite right. This from the girl who nearly didn't go to the doctor when she broke her toe. Today she said she was walking in the skyway in Minneapolis and she wondered whether she was in labor. I just sat there with wide eyes when she told me this and then assured me, ha ha, that she must not have been in labor because look at her now.
I feel as though something is shifting. Pregnant women can get headaches from their changing hormone levels. I wouldn't want to comment publicly on how hormones affect her mood (for fear of bludgeoning), but it wouldn't surprise me if Julie's body was shifting into birthing mode. Still, we both have a hunch that she's headed for a late delivery. But I wonder. I'm struggling to reconcile my desire to meet my daughter with my need for a couple more days of relative independence.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Cholesterol
In order to qualify for life insurance, this nurse came over to do some tests. I peed, I gave blood, and I stood on the scale. The results of this test came back yesterday. I tested negative for cocaine (no joke) but high for cholesterol. That wasn't all that surprising as it runs in my family. Also, I eat whatever I want because I've never really been a weight gainer.
But now the cholesterol has me concerned. I know it's all about diet and exercise, so I'm planning to eat less junk and occasionally get my heartbeat above 60. Julie is not helping with the food part.
"I want fudge stripy cookies."
"How many?"
"Just bring the package."
Plus we have miniature candy bars all over the house and banana split ice cream in the freezer. Banana split ice cream! Ice cream is literally my favorite food, above steak, above sushi, above pizza rolls. I could eat ice cream for every single meal and yet now I'm considering a hiatus because the ice part runs right through me and the cream part goes straight from my esophagus to the lining of my arteries.
And there she is eating those cookies. I should mention that her cholesterol is just fine. Plus she's pregnant, so if she wanted a bucket of lard and a wooden spoon, I'd have to get it for her. So I got home from school today, and what did I eat? Chips? Candy? Ice cream? Try Total cereal. Have you ever eaten cereal angrily? With bitterness and resentment? It makes it crunchier.
But hopefully as a result, my daughter will have a daddy to help her celebrate her 70th birthday. (I'm optimistic.) And if in six months my cholesterol is still high, then medication, here I come.
But now the cholesterol has me concerned. I know it's all about diet and exercise, so I'm planning to eat less junk and occasionally get my heartbeat above 60. Julie is not helping with the food part.
"I want fudge stripy cookies."
"How many?"
"Just bring the package."
Plus we have miniature candy bars all over the house and banana split ice cream in the freezer. Banana split ice cream! Ice cream is literally my favorite food, above steak, above sushi, above pizza rolls. I could eat ice cream for every single meal and yet now I'm considering a hiatus because the ice part runs right through me and the cream part goes straight from my esophagus to the lining of my arteries.
And there she is eating those cookies. I should mention that her cholesterol is just fine. Plus she's pregnant, so if she wanted a bucket of lard and a wooden spoon, I'd have to get it for her. So I got home from school today, and what did I eat? Chips? Candy? Ice cream? Try Total cereal. Have you ever eaten cereal angrily? With bitterness and resentment? It makes it crunchier.
But hopefully as a result, my daughter will have a daddy to help her celebrate her 70th birthday. (I'm optimistic.) And if in six months my cholesterol is still high, then medication, here I come.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Genie
There's a practical joke that all parents are in on, and it's telling soon-to-be-new parents that infant poo doesn't stink at first. I mean come on. Are you telling me that infants, in their infinite capacity to vomit and poo, actually create poo that is benign in smell? Are you seriously telling me that their shit doesn't stink?
Julie insists this is true. Therefore, we have not yet bought a diaper pail because apparently the right way to go is to simply throw away the neutral-smelling diaper in the regular trash. Perhaps you take out the trash more often so your kitchen doesn't become the poo kitchen, but that's it.
Unbelievable, I say. I predict that in the first week I'll be sent to Target for a Diaper Genie or whatever. Diaper Genie? What, do you rub it and the poo forms into a giant talking poo that comes out and grants three wishes?
Okay, that's stupid. Cheap toilet humor. The Poo Genie. Hee hee.
Julie has a headache that won't go away. It gets stronger and weaker, but for the past couple days, she's woken up with it and gone to bed with it. Which sucks. But tomorrow she has a previously scheduled doctor appointment, so hopefully they'll give her something for it, because Tylenol does nothing. It's stressful when your extremely pregnant wife has a perpetual headache. Makes you incapable of a thought deeper than "Poo Genie." But I know what my first wish would be: healthy baby. Second wish: no more headache for Julie. Third wish: no-smell poo. Or opposable toes...it's tough to decide.
Julie insists this is true. Therefore, we have not yet bought a diaper pail because apparently the right way to go is to simply throw away the neutral-smelling diaper in the regular trash. Perhaps you take out the trash more often so your kitchen doesn't become the poo kitchen, but that's it.
Unbelievable, I say. I predict that in the first week I'll be sent to Target for a Diaper Genie or whatever. Diaper Genie? What, do you rub it and the poo forms into a giant talking poo that comes out and grants three wishes?
Okay, that's stupid. Cheap toilet humor. The Poo Genie. Hee hee.
Julie has a headache that won't go away. It gets stronger and weaker, but for the past couple days, she's woken up with it and gone to bed with it. Which sucks. But tomorrow she has a previously scheduled doctor appointment, so hopefully they'll give her something for it, because Tylenol does nothing. It's stressful when your extremely pregnant wife has a perpetual headache. Makes you incapable of a thought deeper than "Poo Genie." But I know what my first wish would be: healthy baby. Second wish: no more headache for Julie. Third wish: no-smell poo. Or opposable toes...it's tough to decide.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Beauty
Inclement weather is especially cruel to the pregnant. Julie's coat doesn't close around her stomach's orb, so yesterday's perfect storm found her run-waddling from Macy's to the car while screaming "Eeeeeeee!" I ran behind her with arms outstretched to catch her should she trip, and managed to snap this picture before she fixed her hair.
Macy's was just the first stop on our BABOS date (stands for Buy A Bunch Of Stuff, remember?). By the time Target came around, she had me drop her off and pick her up. Then at Byerly's, she sat in the coffee shop while I made the rounds. The energy wanes, you see, which I suppose could be explained by the fact that she's past 37 weeks, otherwise known as hella-pregnant.
"What if our baby is ugly?" she asked yesterday, clearly joking. But you know how it is with some babies: they're like potatoes with limbs. And when you say "She is so beautiful," what you're referring to is the beauty inherent in all living things, not the actual physical qualities of the potato-child in front of you. But the parents don't know that, so they go along thinking that you think that their baby could model for Gerber or Target. Which is all fine and good.
See, there are a couple reasons why Julie and I in particular do not need to worry about the physical attractiveness of our baby. The obvious reason is that our own beauty defies description. Julie is a Disney princess. And I am a smoldering hunk of man-pretty stud cake (my blog, my delusions).
But the real reason is that having a baby causes you to revise your paradigm of beauty. In other words, whatever our daughter looks like will automatically become our new definition of beautiful, by which we'll then judge all living things. So if you don't end up resembling our daughter, your beauty rating will decrease, at least according to us. Sorry: those are the breaks. You're the same way with your kids, right? Well, I hope you are.
Since our daughter will look like both of us, thereby making us even more beautiful, we might struggle to walk past her crib mirror without preening. Then again, if she's in there, I doubt we'll be looking at anything else.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Biding
I neglected to mention it the other day, but as of Wednesday Julie was considered full term, 37 weeks. Generally if you have a preemie and they have to stay in the hospital longer, it's because their lungs aren't yet fully developed. Well at 37 weeks, the lungs are fine, so this baby could come any time and we'd be deemed normal.
Still, we're hoping the November 12th due-date holds true. We can't picture an October baby. October was supposed to be our last month of immaturity, the last month of running naked down the street with pompoms shouting "WE ARE CHILDLESS AND IRRESPONSIBLE! WHEEEEEE!" I don't think October is the time to drive down the street in a minivan, screaming out the window, "IT'S A GIRL AND HER NAME IS BROOMHILDA!"
It's not Broomhilda, by the way. Although it kind of slips off your tongue like Jello, doesn't it? Broomhilda.
Every day from now until the 12th that we don't have a baby is a bonus for the baby. It's all about the fat and the hair, you see, for these are the areas still developing. If we go to the 12th, she'll have a wicked baby-fro and weigh like 17 pounds. She'll probably be able to crawl, too. And pee in the toilet.
But no matter. When she comes, she comes. In the meantime we'll just go to restaurants, watch movies, and generally come and go as we please, trying not to take it for granted that in under a month, our lives will fundamentally change.
Still, we're hoping the November 12th due-date holds true. We can't picture an October baby. October was supposed to be our last month of immaturity, the last month of running naked down the street with pompoms shouting "WE ARE CHILDLESS AND IRRESPONSIBLE! WHEEEEEE!" I don't think October is the time to drive down the street in a minivan, screaming out the window, "IT'S A GIRL AND HER NAME IS BROOMHILDA!"
It's not Broomhilda, by the way. Although it kind of slips off your tongue like Jello, doesn't it? Broomhilda.
Every day from now until the 12th that we don't have a baby is a bonus for the baby. It's all about the fat and the hair, you see, for these are the areas still developing. If we go to the 12th, she'll have a wicked baby-fro and weigh like 17 pounds. She'll probably be able to crawl, too. And pee in the toilet.
But no matter. When she comes, she comes. In the meantime we'll just go to restaurants, watch movies, and generally come and go as we please, trying not to take it for granted that in under a month, our lives will fundamentally change.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Lump
We think the lump on the upper part of Julie's stomach is a butt. More toward the side is a foot or two. And on her bladder are the hands, with fingers playing Chopsticks. She used to be round, but now she's getting lumpier by the day.
And the stomach moves. You can be sitting across the room for her, and if you gaze at her stomach (as I often do, in affection or horror depending on the second) you will see all kinds of flutters. Picture a calm lake at night, water like glass, and suddenly a giant aquatic snake-monster slithers above the surface. Well, it's sort of like that. I remember a movie where these alien bugs would get into your skin and crawl around. You'd see them below the surface. I now believe that movie is a metaphor for pregnancy.
As for the rest of her, she's survived pregnancy quite well, though you'd never know it by talking to her. She refers to the physical changes as the preggy squish. Where muscle previously resided, preggy squish has infiltrated. It's not true, exactly, but she feels like it is. I've definitely lucked out in the sense that I think some women really do become giant sea monsters when they get pregnant. Their entire beings mutate, and so then do their personalities. Pregnant Julie is all lumpy belly. The rest of her is still relatively unscathed.
I took her to the ballet tonight (67 husband points that I'll spend tomorrow by not mowing the lawn). You can tell that a lot of the women in the audience are ballet dancers themselves because they're nearly six feet tall and look like they could use a sandwich or two. There Julie sat among them with her lumpy belly, weeks (possibly days) away from childbirth. She was oblivious to it, but I noticed some of them notice her, and clearly they were jealous.
And the stomach moves. You can be sitting across the room for her, and if you gaze at her stomach (as I often do, in affection or horror depending on the second) you will see all kinds of flutters. Picture a calm lake at night, water like glass, and suddenly a giant aquatic snake-monster slithers above the surface. Well, it's sort of like that. I remember a movie where these alien bugs would get into your skin and crawl around. You'd see them below the surface. I now believe that movie is a metaphor for pregnancy.
As for the rest of her, she's survived pregnancy quite well, though you'd never know it by talking to her. She refers to the physical changes as the preggy squish. Where muscle previously resided, preggy squish has infiltrated. It's not true, exactly, but she feels like it is. I've definitely lucked out in the sense that I think some women really do become giant sea monsters when they get pregnant. Their entire beings mutate, and so then do their personalities. Pregnant Julie is all lumpy belly. The rest of her is still relatively unscathed.
I took her to the ballet tonight (67 husband points that I'll spend tomorrow by not mowing the lawn). You can tell that a lot of the women in the audience are ballet dancers themselves because they're nearly six feet tall and look like they could use a sandwich or two. There Julie sat among them with her lumpy belly, weeks (possibly days) away from childbirth. She was oblivious to it, but I noticed some of them notice her, and clearly they were jealous.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Showers
We've had four baby showers. Two were thrown by our respective colleagues. I couldn't make it to Julie's, but I'm sure it was very girly. They went in on a gift card to a website that lets you design your own diaper bag. And oh my. You can do anything, basically. Julie's will fold out into a changing table, robot arms will come out and do the changing for her, and then it'll give her the candy-bar of her choice. It also has a digital clock.
My colleagues threw us a shower, too. There were homemade desserts, people milling about, and various gifts including a Target card that 32 people contributed to. Julie made it for that one, thank the sweet Lord, because can you imagine a baby shower where the pregnant lady doesn't come? How awkward would that be, to have people show up, look around, not see any pregnant people, and then try to conjure excuses to leave? Oh, it's just the husband here? Hmm...I was hoping to see a gigantic stomach today. Well, I guess I'll grab a cupcake and sneak out. Damn, did he see me? Run! Run!
Julie's high school friends threw her a shower, which I did not have to attend because no men were allowed. I have no idea what transpired at this party, but I can only guess that it involved diaper games, makeovers, and husband-gossip.
For those of you in my extended family who might be reading this and thinking, "What the EFF?!" note that my mother is planning a December post-baby shower, and you will be invited. Which reminds me: one of the complications of baby showers is the multiple categories of people in your life. There are work people, immediate family, extended family, old friends, new friends, and people who fall in multiple categories. Add to it the fact that as the new parents, you are not in charge of anything, including the invitation lists, which the planners do their best with. You hope that during the five or six showers you have, everyone in your life who's interested in your baby will be invited to at least one of them. If they're not, then I suppose they need to speak up or throw their own shower.
And if you throw a shower for someone, make it exactly like the one Julie's sisters and mom threw for us:
1. Make it at the new parents' house. That way, the parents will do all the cleaning they should do anyway for the baby, but will put off until it's too late. Having it here caused us to finalize the nursery, redo the dog fence, and buy the area rug for our living room.
2. Show up an hour before the party starts, and tell the new parents to get the hell out. Give them a Starbucks card and show them the door. Tell them they are welcome to come back in one hour. Then decorate while they're gone.
3. Use an open house format so people can come and leave as they wish. Have music playing and chairs set up in various places, but no structure beyond that. If there's a big TV in the living room, put the football game on mute.
4. Make the women bring their men. Call it a couples shower. Promise beer, chili, and the aforementioned football game. It's just a party, tell them, but the guests of honor happen to be wickedly pregnant.
5. New parent games, such as "Pin the diaper on the baby" or "Find the rectal thermometer" are strictly prohibited.
Finally, if you're the new parents, do what we did. When the time comes when everyone insists you open presents, recognize the party buzz-kill inherent in this activity. If you pass cards around, ooh and ahh about everything, and generally take your sweet time, everyone will want to kill you. Instead, do these three things:
1. Let the father open every single present. That's what he wants to do anyway, and all the mother wants to do is sit there and eat nachos. Trust me.
2. Be quick about the unwrapping, but make smart-ass comments about each item. If someone gives you the insulated bag you'll use to transport the pumped breast milk from work to home, the father should exclaim, "Fantastic! Now the breast milk won't rot!" See, this is the advantage to letting the father do the unwrapping: he'll have a comment for everything. "Butt lotion! Oh thank God!" Then say "I'll be right back" and pretend like you're leaving with it. And so on.
3. Make sure the party planners immediately bag the wrappings and bring them to your garage.
That's all you need to know about baby showers. I wasn't a believer in them until now, but they really did make me feel like I was cared for, like Julie and I weren't alone on an island with this pregnancy. Plus, we made out like bandits.
My colleagues threw us a shower, too. There were homemade desserts, people milling about, and various gifts including a Target card that 32 people contributed to. Julie made it for that one, thank the sweet Lord, because can you imagine a baby shower where the pregnant lady doesn't come? How awkward would that be, to have people show up, look around, not see any pregnant people, and then try to conjure excuses to leave? Oh, it's just the husband here? Hmm...I was hoping to see a gigantic stomach today. Well, I guess I'll grab a cupcake and sneak out. Damn, did he see me? Run! Run!
Julie's high school friends threw her a shower, which I did not have to attend because no men were allowed. I have no idea what transpired at this party, but I can only guess that it involved diaper games, makeovers, and husband-gossip.
For those of you in my extended family who might be reading this and thinking, "What the EFF?!" note that my mother is planning a December post-baby shower, and you will be invited. Which reminds me: one of the complications of baby showers is the multiple categories of people in your life. There are work people, immediate family, extended family, old friends, new friends, and people who fall in multiple categories. Add to it the fact that as the new parents, you are not in charge of anything, including the invitation lists, which the planners do their best with. You hope that during the five or six showers you have, everyone in your life who's interested in your baby will be invited to at least one of them. If they're not, then I suppose they need to speak up or throw their own shower.
And if you throw a shower for someone, make it exactly like the one Julie's sisters and mom threw for us:
1. Make it at the new parents' house. That way, the parents will do all the cleaning they should do anyway for the baby, but will put off until it's too late. Having it here caused us to finalize the nursery, redo the dog fence, and buy the area rug for our living room.
2. Show up an hour before the party starts, and tell the new parents to get the hell out. Give them a Starbucks card and show them the door. Tell them they are welcome to come back in one hour. Then decorate while they're gone.
3. Use an open house format so people can come and leave as they wish. Have music playing and chairs set up in various places, but no structure beyond that. If there's a big TV in the living room, put the football game on mute.
4. Make the women bring their men. Call it a couples shower. Promise beer, chili, and the aforementioned football game. It's just a party, tell them, but the guests of honor happen to be wickedly pregnant.
5. New parent games, such as "Pin the diaper on the baby" or "Find the rectal thermometer" are strictly prohibited.
Finally, if you're the new parents, do what we did. When the time comes when everyone insists you open presents, recognize the party buzz-kill inherent in this activity. If you pass cards around, ooh and ahh about everything, and generally take your sweet time, everyone will want to kill you. Instead, do these three things:
1. Let the father open every single present. That's what he wants to do anyway, and all the mother wants to do is sit there and eat nachos. Trust me.
2. Be quick about the unwrapping, but make smart-ass comments about each item. If someone gives you the insulated bag you'll use to transport the pumped breast milk from work to home, the father should exclaim, "Fantastic! Now the breast milk won't rot!" See, this is the advantage to letting the father do the unwrapping: he'll have a comment for everything. "Butt lotion! Oh thank God!" Then say "I'll be right back" and pretend like you're leaving with it. And so on.
3. Make sure the party planners immediately bag the wrappings and bring them to your garage.
That's all you need to know about baby showers. I wasn't a believer in them until now, but they really did make me feel like I was cared for, like Julie and I weren't alone on an island with this pregnancy. Plus, we made out like bandits.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Stretch
Julie still has an itchy belly (I think I first mentioned it in early August). It's a hygiene issue. Just kidding; I'm guessing it's because it's stretching at a superhuman rate.
Did you have a Stretch Armstrong toy when you were a kid? If so, then your parents definitely loved you. Stretch Armstrong is the opposite of Pregnant Julie. He gets longer while she gets wider. He does not itch, and she does. She has a baby in her, and Stretch just has flour and poison.
So for Julie, lotion is a necessity, but most lotions contain parabens, another type of poison that acts as a preservative. It's been linked to breast cancer. Look at every creamy product you use and chances are it has parabens. It's something to think about, especially if you've been on the hunt for a way to be high maintenance. Julie buys paraben-free lotion at a fancy hippy store in the Galleria. I don't blame her, actually, because I'd prefer that she avoid breast cancer. Plus, I get my hair cut at a diva salon in the Galleria, so I'd be a hypocrite if I ripped on her diva lotion.
But picture if Julie fell asleep and involuntarily clawed on the outside of her belly while the baby simultaneously clawed on the inside. Pretty soon we could have a problem. So it's important to cure the itch, even if it takes $20 hippy diva lotion.
Did you have a Stretch Armstrong toy when you were a kid? If so, then your parents definitely loved you. Stretch Armstrong is the opposite of Pregnant Julie. He gets longer while she gets wider. He does not itch, and she does. She has a baby in her, and Stretch just has flour and poison.
So for Julie, lotion is a necessity, but most lotions contain parabens, another type of poison that acts as a preservative. It's been linked to breast cancer. Look at every creamy product you use and chances are it has parabens. It's something to think about, especially if you've been on the hunt for a way to be high maintenance. Julie buys paraben-free lotion at a fancy hippy store in the Galleria. I don't blame her, actually, because I'd prefer that she avoid breast cancer. Plus, I get my hair cut at a diva salon in the Galleria, so I'd be a hypocrite if I ripped on her diva lotion.
But picture if Julie fell asleep and involuntarily clawed on the outside of her belly while the baby simultaneously clawed on the inside. Pretty soon we could have a problem. So it's important to cure the itch, even if it takes $20 hippy diva lotion.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Remembering
Julie's doctor appointment today went well. The cervix door still has a "Gone fishing" sign on it, but the doctor said it's getting thinner. Um, thinner? Oh, and (swallow your breakfast now) the doctor could feel the head through the cervix door.
OH MY EFFING GOD.
I think the doctor could more like sense the head there; I highly doubt it was a scratch-behind-the-ears, coochie-coochie-coo scenario with the baby thinking to herself, "What the hell was that?"
Anyway, moving on now because that's not what I want to talk about. I have car seats on the brain, specifically the unthinkably tragic notion of accidentally leaving the kid in the car seat. Here is an instance of a good person whose brain goes completely bonkers for one day and as a result the person loses the child, gets charged with a crime, ruins the marriage, and becomes a guilt-ridden pariah forever. It's the ultimate mistake and yet it happens every year to multiple parents.
There are two major problems that young parents need to tackle. One is how to prevent this from ever happening. Two is how to not become a raving neurotic in the process.
So first I must say that it's criminal that car seat and car companies haven't figured this out. All it would take is a weight sensor in the base of the car seat that's connected to your car's alarm and automatic locks. As soon as your car is shut off with doors closed and locked, any weight in that car seat would trigger the car's alarm. Further, the alarm wouldn't be the typical BEEP BEEP BEEP that everyone is accustomed to ignoring. It would be a more startling, faster, staccato series of beeps. Easy fix to this problem, hundreds of lives saved and even more prevented from ruin. I am a genius; now give me a million dollars.
Julie and I were brainstorming other precautions. What if you kept a big hair scrunchy on the car seat, and every time you put the kid in it, you put the scrunchy on your wrist? And the scrunchy would have an obnoxious object tied to it, say a giant plastic penis. Even if you forgot the kid and forgot about the scrunchy, someone would say, "Hey, what's with the penis?" and your kid's life would be saved.
But your temperament would determine your commitment to the exercise. If you grew tired of the scrunchy idea and stopped wearing it, then it obviously wouldn't be effective. However, if you were a person mainly worried about spacing out during changes of routine--say you're the one driving to daycare today, not your spouse--then maybe you use the dick trick only during those occasions.
For me, I need something to do every single time I exit a car, whether it's my car or not. I'm an all-or-nothing person. You'll note that I write every day, not when I randomly feel like it. And so this topic reminds me of Boy Scouts when I took lifesaving merit badge. The problem with saving a drowning person is that it's human nature to want to jump in after them even though this is precisely the wrong thing to do. A 30-pound toddler who's filled with panic and adrenaline can drown a grown man. So our instructor taught us a rhyme and made us say it every single time we entered the water. Fifteen years later, I still remember it.
"Reach, throw, row, go with support as a last resort."
The saying indicates the order of methods you should use to save someone in the water. What makes it effective, though, is that it interrupts human nature. Human nature says jump in and save the person. Human nature can also say, "My baby isn't in the car." The brain has blind spots. For me, the method that might work is to make up a stupid rhyme that will shine a light on those blind spots. Here's what I've come up with:
"Time to get out and go? Well maybe. I have my brain, but do I have my baby?"
Admittedly, it's a little ridiculous, but I'm going to start now to test whether I can make this a part of my routine. Every single time I exit a car, even before this baby is born, I will say that rhyme to myself.
OH MY EFFING GOD.
I think the doctor could more like sense the head there; I highly doubt it was a scratch-behind-the-ears, coochie-coochie-coo scenario with the baby thinking to herself, "What the hell was that?"
Anyway, moving on now because that's not what I want to talk about. I have car seats on the brain, specifically the unthinkably tragic notion of accidentally leaving the kid in the car seat. Here is an instance of a good person whose brain goes completely bonkers for one day and as a result the person loses the child, gets charged with a crime, ruins the marriage, and becomes a guilt-ridden pariah forever. It's the ultimate mistake and yet it happens every year to multiple parents.
There are two major problems that young parents need to tackle. One is how to prevent this from ever happening. Two is how to not become a raving neurotic in the process.
So first I must say that it's criminal that car seat and car companies haven't figured this out. All it would take is a weight sensor in the base of the car seat that's connected to your car's alarm and automatic locks. As soon as your car is shut off with doors closed and locked, any weight in that car seat would trigger the car's alarm. Further, the alarm wouldn't be the typical BEEP BEEP BEEP that everyone is accustomed to ignoring. It would be a more startling, faster, staccato series of beeps. Easy fix to this problem, hundreds of lives saved and even more prevented from ruin. I am a genius; now give me a million dollars.
Julie and I were brainstorming other precautions. What if you kept a big hair scrunchy on the car seat, and every time you put the kid in it, you put the scrunchy on your wrist? And the scrunchy would have an obnoxious object tied to it, say a giant plastic penis. Even if you forgot the kid and forgot about the scrunchy, someone would say, "Hey, what's with the penis?" and your kid's life would be saved.
But your temperament would determine your commitment to the exercise. If you grew tired of the scrunchy idea and stopped wearing it, then it obviously wouldn't be effective. However, if you were a person mainly worried about spacing out during changes of routine--say you're the one driving to daycare today, not your spouse--then maybe you use the dick trick only during those occasions.
For me, I need something to do every single time I exit a car, whether it's my car or not. I'm an all-or-nothing person. You'll note that I write every day, not when I randomly feel like it. And so this topic reminds me of Boy Scouts when I took lifesaving merit badge. The problem with saving a drowning person is that it's human nature to want to jump in after them even though this is precisely the wrong thing to do. A 30-pound toddler who's filled with panic and adrenaline can drown a grown man. So our instructor taught us a rhyme and made us say it every single time we entered the water. Fifteen years later, I still remember it.
"Reach, throw, row, go with support as a last resort."
The saying indicates the order of methods you should use to save someone in the water. What makes it effective, though, is that it interrupts human nature. Human nature says jump in and save the person. Human nature can also say, "My baby isn't in the car." The brain has blind spots. For me, the method that might work is to make up a stupid rhyme that will shine a light on those blind spots. Here's what I've come up with:
"Time to get out and go? Well maybe. I have my brain, but do I have my baby?"
Admittedly, it's a little ridiculous, but I'm going to start now to test whether I can make this a part of my routine. Every single time I exit a car, even before this baby is born, I will say that rhyme to myself.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Diapers
I haven't changed a diaper in so long that I think it might have been my own. I know how they work, but do I really? Putting a diaper on a doll to practice is stupid because they don't move around. It's not like you can say to your infant, "Okay, keep still there, pumpkin, Daddy's new at this."
So in exchange for three treats and a later bedtime, Tulip agreed to act as proxy. I also promised not to take pictures, but then I remembered that I'm the alpha.
She'll pay me back in the next life.
Diapers are unbelievably absorbent, you know. After liberating Tulip, I poured an entire glass of water in the crotch/butt part. It got pretty heavy, but I could turn that sucker upside-down with nary a drip. They must have some crazy super-absorbent polymer, much like the powder sold at the magic shop.
Okay, so you put a teaspoon of it in the bottom of a glass, then pour water from a pitcher in front of your victim. Then you fling the water into your victim's face, except it sticks in the glass because the powder instantly turns it to thick gel. It's great for getting dates. When they first started selling it at the Mall of America, I heard that in under a month someone had done all the toilets on the third floor. Um, can we say awesome?
I swear it wasn't me.
So anyway, when my daughter is all Miley and I'm all Billy Ray (meaning that I'm stinking rich), I will use diapers to clean everyday spills. You know the commercial where the little boy spills a gallon-pitcher of red Kool-Aid and his high-heeled Stepford mother sops it up with one paper towel? It says "Dramatization" in nano-font in the lower-left corner. But I will live that reality with diapers, the new thicker, quicker, picker-upper.
Yet somehow I can imagine my daughter's excretions circumventing the elastic leg-bands of these diapers. She will take glee in it, somehow. And I will clean her off with, you guessed it, more diapers.
So in exchange for three treats and a later bedtime, Tulip agreed to act as proxy. I also promised not to take pictures, but then I remembered that I'm the alpha.
She'll pay me back in the next life.
Diapers are unbelievably absorbent, you know. After liberating Tulip, I poured an entire glass of water in the crotch/butt part. It got pretty heavy, but I could turn that sucker upside-down with nary a drip. They must have some crazy super-absorbent polymer, much like the powder sold at the magic shop.
Okay, so you put a teaspoon of it in the bottom of a glass, then pour water from a pitcher in front of your victim. Then you fling the water into your victim's face, except it sticks in the glass because the powder instantly turns it to thick gel. It's great for getting dates. When they first started selling it at the Mall of America, I heard that in under a month someone had done all the toilets on the third floor. Um, can we say awesome?
I swear it wasn't me.
So anyway, when my daughter is all Miley and I'm all Billy Ray (meaning that I'm stinking rich), I will use diapers to clean everyday spills. You know the commercial where the little boy spills a gallon-pitcher of red Kool-Aid and his high-heeled Stepford mother sops it up with one paper towel? It says "Dramatization" in nano-font in the lower-left corner. But I will live that reality with diapers, the new thicker, quicker, picker-upper.
Yet somehow I can imagine my daughter's excretions circumventing the elastic leg-bands of these diapers. She will take glee in it, somehow. And I will clean her off with, you guessed it, more diapers.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Nesting
We got an area rug for the living room in anticipation of increased floor time with the baby. Hardwood floors make a lot of sense when you're childless, but it seems like you need at least one good carpeted area when a baby's in the picture. This will also give her a place to aim her vomit. I scotch-guarded it yesterday, so don't worry.
The dogs approve. They celebrated the addition with a full-on battle royale, complete with snarling, rolling around, and a little humping. I think if a martian rang our doorbell and asked for the earthling definition of "funny," I'd point to a 16-pound spayed female dog humping a 36-pound spayed female dog.
Julie and I are both nesting in our own ways. Check out this organization. This came after Julie insisted we not use Tide detergent and instead find the all-natural unscented kind. So these clothes are as pure as clothes can get.
Julie also prettied up the crib. Now, the baby will actually sleep in a bassinet for the first couple months, but no matter. This will be ready for her, though I'm sure on the day of the big baby bed switcheroo, I will be rewashing these sheets with the aforementioned hippy detergent.
I'm trying my hardest to conceptualize the size of an infant. My current favorite unit of measurement is the hanger. Baby will be one hanger in length, not counting the head and feet.
Speaking of heads, hers will be ridiculously small. I think perhaps this hat is too small even for her, what with the cranial enormity my family is known for.
And speaking of feet, this sock is just plain goofy. How many of these do you think we'll lose in the first year? As it was, I had to dig into the furthest recesses of the washing machine just to find them all, and I still might have missed a couple.
To recap, our baby will be one hanger in length with a pin head and teeny, possibly sockless feet. And somehow, through all this, I think we're that much more ready.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Evolution
If you're upstairs in our house, you won't hear anything downstairs besides our dogs barking bloody murder at the mailman. And you have to understand how loud that is because our mailman is very squirrelly, and all our dogs ever want to do is kill squirrels.
We've had people stay upstairs and people live upstairs, and all report utter calm even when I play God of War downstairs with volume higher than Poseidon's rage.
Well since we moved our bedroom upstairs, we've figured out that Julie possesses a sense of hearing that would shame a rabbit. And that's weird because Julie's ears are the size of croutons. But I could be carving "Welcome, [Baby's name]!" into a pumpkin and Julie would come downstairs all groggy and ask me if I could have possibly squished the guts any louder.
It makes sense, though. I bet way back in the day when it mattered, a bunch of random new cave-mothers experienced increased hearing. It was a genetic anomaly but one so beneficial to survival that natural selection kicked in. Some cave-woman ancestor of Julie's heard a flock of hungry pterodactyls approaching and was able to heave a boulder in front of the cave's mouth not a second too soon, so now I have to watch Boston Legal reruns with lower volume.
Ooh, I just thought of something else totally scientific. Julie's sense of smell, pre-pregnancy, was intolerable. "Did you eat Funyons?" she would ask a week after a Funyon binge. I'd be like "Um a week ago, and I've brushed, flossed, and used mouthwash roughly 25 times since then," and she'd be like "You're grody." Then we'd be in a restaurant and she'd call the water poisonous even though it smelled like water.
But since pregnancy, she hasn't complained about random smells nearly as much. The reason is that once again back in the day, a bunch of cave-mothers randomly had smelling failure when the baby was born. And those mothers were more likely to care for their babies because they weren't as grossed out by them, and the new mother smelling deficiency was thereby passed down. So now you know, boys and girls, why mothers often have increased hearing and decreased smell. Find me during office hours if you have any questions.
Or it could be that my wife is just weird.
We've had people stay upstairs and people live upstairs, and all report utter calm even when I play God of War downstairs with volume higher than Poseidon's rage.
Well since we moved our bedroom upstairs, we've figured out that Julie possesses a sense of hearing that would shame a rabbit. And that's weird because Julie's ears are the size of croutons. But I could be carving "Welcome, [Baby's name]!" into a pumpkin and Julie would come downstairs all groggy and ask me if I could have possibly squished the guts any louder.
It makes sense, though. I bet way back in the day when it mattered, a bunch of random new cave-mothers experienced increased hearing. It was a genetic anomaly but one so beneficial to survival that natural selection kicked in. Some cave-woman ancestor of Julie's heard a flock of hungry pterodactyls approaching and was able to heave a boulder in front of the cave's mouth not a second too soon, so now I have to watch Boston Legal reruns with lower volume.
Ooh, I just thought of something else totally scientific. Julie's sense of smell, pre-pregnancy, was intolerable. "Did you eat Funyons?" she would ask a week after a Funyon binge. I'd be like "Um a week ago, and I've brushed, flossed, and used mouthwash roughly 25 times since then," and she'd be like "You're grody." Then we'd be in a restaurant and she'd call the water poisonous even though it smelled like water.
But since pregnancy, she hasn't complained about random smells nearly as much. The reason is that once again back in the day, a bunch of cave-mothers randomly had smelling failure when the baby was born. And those mothers were more likely to care for their babies because they weren't as grossed out by them, and the new mother smelling deficiency was thereby passed down. So now you know, boys and girls, why mothers often have increased hearing and decreased smell. Find me during office hours if you have any questions.
Or it could be that my wife is just weird.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Close
In this picture taken today, Julie does not look as though a full-grown baby lives in a duplex inside her. Black is slimming, and I'm an excellent photographer. Either that or the baby is on a play-date in someone else's womb.
Ah, there she's back. Next Wednesday, Julie will be full term, 37 weeks. The goal is 40 weeks, but really it could be any time. If I suddenly go two or three days without posting, you can safely assume that she is about to give birth to the youngest person ever born in the history of humankind. Do you think Guinness will care for that fraction of a second?
One reason I'm totally freaked out (one of 7,000 reasons or so) is that Julie has not packed her hospital bag. If tonight she wakes up in a puddle of amniotic fluid, I will throw things in a bag willy-nilly, and I will certainly screw it up. Sweat pants, soap, coffee cup, magazines, crossword puzzles, toilet paper (wait, they'll have that there), movies...I have no freakin' clue. Tomorrow I will mandate bag packing. Cross your fingers for a labor-free evening until then.
I picture an hourglass with 37 weeks of sand in the bottom and an unknown amount on top. If someone could just tell me how much sand is up there, then I could cross off myriad unknowns. Will I need to get a substitute teacher right away? Will it be rush-hour traffic? Will it be a long labor? Etc. And as I write this, sand is trickling down. I wish I could turn the thing on its side for a few days and just sit and think.
*Update*
I woke up in the middle of the night. Julie was sitting up on the bed, moaning in pain.
"What's wrong?"
"Huuuuuuuuuuunnnnnn."
"Oh God."
"Gnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn."
I started counting in my head because you want to know how long the contractions are and how long in between, though I didn't remember how long was too long.
"Pmmmmmmmmmmm."
"What should I put in the bag?"
"It's...mmmmmmmmm...a leg cramp."
"Oh for the love."
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Clean
When we moved here, the washing machine had a note on it with instructions. "Use 1/2-cup liquid detergent. Leave all settings alone!" Apparently, the previous owners discovered the one way for the machine to work. So for the past three years, our clothes have been the clean-equivalent of a five-minute cold shower with hotel soap.
Until today. Now we have a front-loader with numerous settings plus the ability to use hot water, something the previous washer couldn't do. I also specifically bought one with a sanitation setting, which is an internal heater that jacks up the water's temperature for shirts so clean they squeak.
With a baby coming, there will be days when we have something so steeped in biohazards that we could either bring it to the yard, light a match, and watch it explode into a methane fireball, or we could sanitize it. I'm so excited that I sort of feel like Danny Tanner, only with Uncle Jesse's coolness and Joey's hilarity. (Oh come on now: Cut! It! Out!)
Also, the door is glass, so you can watch everything. It reminds me of my grandma's house when I was little. I would watch a mug of hot chocolate turn and turn and turn on the microwave rotating plate, all the while horrified that I wouldn't be able to finish it since I didn't really like it that much anyway.
"Daniel, don't you like your hot chocolate?"
"Yes Grandma, I love it so much! [Chug chug scald scald gag]"
Anyway, laundry is much more fun to watch. The spin cycle is wicked fast. And the best thing is that our sewage line is fixed, so the small amount of water this thing uses will not cause our laundry's drain to burp fetid putrescence. All in all, morale is quite high.
Until today. Now we have a front-loader with numerous settings plus the ability to use hot water, something the previous washer couldn't do. I also specifically bought one with a sanitation setting, which is an internal heater that jacks up the water's temperature for shirts so clean they squeak.
With a baby coming, there will be days when we have something so steeped in biohazards that we could either bring it to the yard, light a match, and watch it explode into a methane fireball, or we could sanitize it. I'm so excited that I sort of feel like Danny Tanner, only with Uncle Jesse's coolness and Joey's hilarity. (Oh come on now: Cut! It! Out!)
Also, the door is glass, so you can watch everything. It reminds me of my grandma's house when I was little. I would watch a mug of hot chocolate turn and turn and turn on the microwave rotating plate, all the while horrified that I wouldn't be able to finish it since I didn't really like it that much anyway.
"Daniel, don't you like your hot chocolate?"
"Yes Grandma, I love it so much! [Chug chug scald scald gag]"
Anyway, laundry is much more fun to watch. The spin cycle is wicked fast. And the best thing is that our sewage line is fixed, so the small amount of water this thing uses will not cause our laundry's drain to burp fetid putrescence. All in all, morale is quite high.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Pipe
Remember in August how I dug a hole in the sand so Julie could lie on her stomach? Well, she's bigger now.
Actually, we had a break in our sewer pipe, which allowed stuff to build up to the point where our laundry room drain would back up. It wasn't pretty. But today it's fixed. They dug down about 10 feet and replaced a section of old broken pipe with new PVC.
As you see, they also put in a clean-out line, so in the future our pipe will be accessible from the yard in addition to the laundry room.
All of this is not cheap, of course, but luckily babies are small and only eat breast milk for the first (what was it?) seven years or so.
At least now when Julie is home with the baby doing laundry, dishes, and flushing baby poo down the toilet, all the while trying to find time to take a shower, she won't have to then deal with fecal water in the laundry room. See, as a husband I feel it is my duty to prevent her from having to clean up sewage while she cares for our infant. It's the least I can do.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Flu
In terms of hair color, eye color, and name, my wife and mother could not be more similar.
Oh God. I put the pal back in Oedipal.
Luckily the devil's in the details. Shots, for instance. My mom gives them and my wife hates them. So they're opposites.
My mom says everyone who spends a lot of time with the baby should get a flu shot. She's also in love with flu shots. If she were a shot, say a tetanus shot, she totally would've married a flu shot. It does kind of make sense to get one, though, because we're having a flu season baby, and she'll be too young for her own shot. And if you hang out with the baby and then two days later discover you have the flu, then that's bad. When babies catch the flu, they turn into vampire bats.
Julie went to the doctor yesterday. I forgot to remind her to get a flu shot, and I was kicking myself all the way home from school. But as soon as I saw her and mentioned it, she lifted her shirt sleeve with mild hatred in her eyes and showed me the bandage. I was so proud of her. Of course today she feels like crap, which the internet says is okay if you're preggers and get a flu shot. I think it's because all of your immunities and whatever are attacking those miniscule flu cells and forget to make you feel generally decent otherwise. She'll be better tomorrow after sleeping most of the day today.
But anyway, I also called Julie's mom today and mentioned flu shots. Imagine calling your mother-in-law and being like "Hey yeah, my mom thinks everyone needs a flu shot. So...thoughts?" Pretty dictatorial, really, to impose flu shots on your in-laws. She humored me, so that's cool. If you ever want to test whether your mother-in-law likes you, ask her to get a shot.
I talked to Julie's sisters, too. I encouraged both to tease me behind my back about calling to relay my mom's two cents on flu shots, which really are my two cents on flu shots. Hopefully they will all either get flu shots or lie to me and say they did. Maybe I'm turning into Dadzilla.
Which reminds me: I have to get my own flu shot. Hey, maybe I'm the one who's like my mom.
Oh God. I put the pal back in Oedipal.
Luckily the devil's in the details. Shots, for instance. My mom gives them and my wife hates them. So they're opposites.
My mom says everyone who spends a lot of time with the baby should get a flu shot. She's also in love with flu shots. If she were a shot, say a tetanus shot, she totally would've married a flu shot. It does kind of make sense to get one, though, because we're having a flu season baby, and she'll be too young for her own shot. And if you hang out with the baby and then two days later discover you have the flu, then that's bad. When babies catch the flu, they turn into vampire bats.
Julie went to the doctor yesterday. I forgot to remind her to get a flu shot, and I was kicking myself all the way home from school. But as soon as I saw her and mentioned it, she lifted her shirt sleeve with mild hatred in her eyes and showed me the bandage. I was so proud of her. Of course today she feels like crap, which the internet says is okay if you're preggers and get a flu shot. I think it's because all of your immunities and whatever are attacking those miniscule flu cells and forget to make you feel generally decent otherwise. She'll be better tomorrow after sleeping most of the day today.
But anyway, I also called Julie's mom today and mentioned flu shots. Imagine calling your mother-in-law and being like "Hey yeah, my mom thinks everyone needs a flu shot. So...thoughts?" Pretty dictatorial, really, to impose flu shots on your in-laws. She humored me, so that's cool. If you ever want to test whether your mother-in-law likes you, ask her to get a shot.
I talked to Julie's sisters, too. I encouraged both to tease me behind my back about calling to relay my mom's two cents on flu shots, which really are my two cents on flu shots. Hopefully they will all either get flu shots or lie to me and say they did. Maybe I'm turning into Dadzilla.
Which reminds me: I have to get my own flu shot. Hey, maybe I'm the one who's like my mom.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Cankles
I'm at parent-teacher conferences tonight, experiencing a slight lull. As our daughter grows up and we have to attend conferences, putting me on the other side of the table, I think I will be mindful of a few things. One, if she's getting an A, I won't show up and nod my head until the teacher gives her (actually me) the praise she deserves (actually the praise I deserve).
Two, I will try my hardest to suppress rage if I suspect the teacher does not know her name. I have 140 students and know all of their names and usually something substantive about them beyond their performance in my class. But I know there are teachers here tonight who are nervous because they don't know all their kids after six weeks. God help any teacher who doesn't know my daughter's name after six weeks.
And other than that...well, I think I'll bring a cold beverage to each teacher. You can't see it from reading this post, but I've been interrupted about 37 times since I started it. Talk talk talk talk talk. I'm parched!
Of course, this whole post ignores what's actually going on right now, which is that I think Julie is developing cankles. A cankle, for those of you less worldly than me, is an ankle so swollen that it blends into the calf. I'd wager they're common with third-trimester pregnant ladies. What can you do but laugh? Well rub her feet, I guess, which I did last night. It's just one adventure after another, and today's is cankles.
Two, I will try my hardest to suppress rage if I suspect the teacher does not know her name. I have 140 students and know all of their names and usually something substantive about them beyond their performance in my class. But I know there are teachers here tonight who are nervous because they don't know all their kids after six weeks. God help any teacher who doesn't know my daughter's name after six weeks.
And other than that...well, I think I'll bring a cold beverage to each teacher. You can't see it from reading this post, but I've been interrupted about 37 times since I started it. Talk talk talk talk talk. I'm parched!
Of course, this whole post ignores what's actually going on right now, which is that I think Julie is developing cankles. A cankle, for those of you less worldly than me, is an ankle so swollen that it blends into the calf. I'd wager they're common with third-trimester pregnant ladies. What can you do but laugh? Well rub her feet, I guess, which I did last night. It's just one adventure after another, and today's is cankles.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Sense
I think it's natural to secretly harbor dread about what will happen with your baby. The illusion that tragedy only befalls other people does not apply to new parents, I suspect. Rather, we concoct elaborate doomsday scenarios because we have no idea what we're getting ourselves into.
What if the umbilical cord wraps around the neck?
What about SIDS?
What about the relationship between my clumsiness and gravity?
It can keep you up at night, especially if you're not feeling very friendly toward yourself. And even if you and your partner are not the least bit exceptional medically, there's a feeling that you might be due, that the ugly head of karma has avoided you but has its eyes lasered on your baby.
Well, I must say that I'm completely geeking out about something Julie's parents got us. It's a movement sensor mat that you put under the crib mattress. If your baby were to, say, stop breathing for 20 seconds, it would sound an alarm not unlike the one our government will use to signify curfew after the zombie revolution. Loud, in other words.
I think part of the deal with SIDS is that the brain stem isn't fully developed. Therefore, a breathing malfunction can occur because the brain might not communicate effectively yet with the lungs. It's rare, of course, but it's one of those things that even parents without highly creative death imaginations worry about.
But a device that beeps when your baby stops breathing! It's tough to quantify piece of mind, but I can safely say that this device might, for me, be worth 300+ hours of sleep. And it might also save our daughter's life.
What if the umbilical cord wraps around the neck?
What about SIDS?
What about the relationship between my clumsiness and gravity?
It can keep you up at night, especially if you're not feeling very friendly toward yourself. And even if you and your partner are not the least bit exceptional medically, there's a feeling that you might be due, that the ugly head of karma has avoided you but has its eyes lasered on your baby.
Well, I must say that I'm completely geeking out about something Julie's parents got us. It's a movement sensor mat that you put under the crib mattress. If your baby were to, say, stop breathing for 20 seconds, it would sound an alarm not unlike the one our government will use to signify curfew after the zombie revolution. Loud, in other words.
I think part of the deal with SIDS is that the brain stem isn't fully developed. Therefore, a breathing malfunction can occur because the brain might not communicate effectively yet with the lungs. It's rare, of course, but it's one of those things that even parents without highly creative death imaginations worry about.
But a device that beeps when your baby stops breathing! It's tough to quantify piece of mind, but I can safely say that this device might, for me, be worth 300+ hours of sleep. And it might also save our daughter's life.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Teeth
I don't know a single person who likes going to the dentist. And don't give me that "dentist fresh feeling" crap. That's gum, not the actual dentist. The dentist is about discomfort, vulnerability, and a woman who asks you questions while your mouth is full of her double-gloved fingers. It's about the sucker thing and the scraper thing and deciding whether you want toothpaste flavored with orange, bubblegum, or chocolate.
When I was ten I picked chocolate. Stupid, stupid.
I hate the dentist so much that I skipped it for five years after college. Then I went and had no cavities. So why ever go again?
I'm going on Tuesday for the first time in 18 months. I told the receptionist, "If you people aren't nice and gentle with me, I might never come back again." She laughed, but I couldn't tell if it was maniacal or if she thought I was cute. But I am dreading it like you might dread a punch in the face if you knew it was coming. The superball I will demand to choose out of the toy bucket will in no way make up for that 45 minutes of hell.
Ahh. Thanks for reading. You see, I can't rant like that to the pregnant lady. I tried the other day, and she was like, "Are you even trying to COMPARE the dentist with passing a human being out of your [edited]?! I hope she scrapes the f[edited] s[edited] out of you and you sit there and bleed!"
We had been watching Scrubs, so then she got all Dr. Cox on me.
"But--"
"Listen Sally Sue, I don't care if they run out of scrapers and instead use a rusty tent stake and your hygienist has a seizure and impales your epiglottis. I re-he-heally don't think it compares to childbirth. Now hitch up your skirt and pretend like you have a pair!"
Okay, she didn't really say that. But her eyes were thinking it.
When I was ten I picked chocolate. Stupid, stupid.
I hate the dentist so much that I skipped it for five years after college. Then I went and had no cavities. So why ever go again?
I'm going on Tuesday for the first time in 18 months. I told the receptionist, "If you people aren't nice and gentle with me, I might never come back again." She laughed, but I couldn't tell if it was maniacal or if she thought I was cute. But I am dreading it like you might dread a punch in the face if you knew it was coming. The superball I will demand to choose out of the toy bucket will in no way make up for that 45 minutes of hell.
Ahh. Thanks for reading. You see, I can't rant like that to the pregnant lady. I tried the other day, and she was like, "Are you even trying to COMPARE the dentist with passing a human being out of your [edited]?! I hope she scrapes the f[edited] s[edited] out of you and you sit there and bleed!"
We had been watching Scrubs, so then she got all Dr. Cox on me.
"But--"
"Listen Sally Sue, I don't care if they run out of scrapers and instead use a rusty tent stake and your hygienist has a seizure and impales your epiglottis. I re-he-heally don't think it compares to childbirth. Now hitch up your skirt and pretend like you have a pair!"
Okay, she didn't really say that. But her eyes were thinking it.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Brain
Julie's pregnancy has slowed her brain's processing speed. She loses keys, forgets where she put the remote, and is less successful at crossword puzzles.
Still, in one specific way, pregnancy has enhanced her brain. It has made her into a superhero of sorts. She is now able to criticize me at lightning speed on a boundless array of topics.
Last night we played a game, kind of a free-association exercise. I said a word, and she connected that word to something objectionable about me. Read the following dialogue without pausing, and you'll get the idea.
"Car."
"You either drive like a grandpa or like you're trying to kill people."
"Frame."
"You think it takes lasers and a ruler to hang a picture, and it still ends up crooked."
"Shelves."
"You can't build shelves without whining like a little girly man."
"Window."
"You've never cleaned one since I've known you."
"Rumpelstiltskin."
"That's just stupid."
"Incredible! That was amazing; nice work, honey! You wanna go upstairs and, you know--"
"[Edited to preserve the dignity of the husband]"
"The game's over, Julie. We're not playing anymore."
"Quitter."
I have a new theory. I've heard from several women that their brains take a vacation during pregnancy. I don't think that's true, though. The pregnant brain just narrows its focus.
Still, in one specific way, pregnancy has enhanced her brain. It has made her into a superhero of sorts. She is now able to criticize me at lightning speed on a boundless array of topics.
Last night we played a game, kind of a free-association exercise. I said a word, and she connected that word to something objectionable about me. Read the following dialogue without pausing, and you'll get the idea.
"Car."
"You either drive like a grandpa or like you're trying to kill people."
"Frame."
"You think it takes lasers and a ruler to hang a picture, and it still ends up crooked."
"Shelves."
"You can't build shelves without whining like a little girly man."
"Window."
"You've never cleaned one since I've known you."
"Rumpelstiltskin."
"That's just stupid."
"Incredible! That was amazing; nice work, honey! You wanna go upstairs and, you know--"
"[Edited to preserve the dignity of the husband]"
"The game's over, Julie. We're not playing anymore."
"Quitter."
I have a new theory. I've heard from several women that their brains take a vacation during pregnancy. I don't think that's true, though. The pregnant brain just narrows its focus.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Install
Our car seat is rated high for safety, and it's the lightest one on the market. I'm trying to wrap my head around why it's so difficult to install. I haven't attempted it yet, but I hear you're supposed to take it to the fire department so they can double-check your work.
Is it seriously that complicated? I understand the necessity of getting it right, so I will bring it to the fire department. But I'll feel like a complete tool.
"Um, sirs? Could one of you come away from the card table and check my car seat? Wow, that's an awfully big hose."
They will all crowd around the car. "Did you read the instructions?" the gigantic one will ask.
"No. I mean yes. I mean yeah totally. Not that I needed to, you know? Pretty, um, self-explanatory."
"Self-explana-what?" the bald, bearded one will say, and the others will laugh.
"Um yeah, heh heh, so anyways fellas, did I do it right, or is my baby gonna be like decapitated or something?"
They will not find this funny whatsoever. Gigantor and Baldy will shake their heads gravely while the old grizzled one speaks:
"Well son, somehow you managed to put it in upside-down. So yes, decapitation is a possibility." He'll pat me on the shoulder. "Are you mentally handicapped?"
It'll go downhill from there, probably ending with them rescuing me from a tree branch like a scared kitty.
Well, I'm sure it'll be fine. They'll appreciate that I'm diligent enough to get it checked out. Still, I'll pore over those instructions this weekend and try not to screw it up too royally. Think they'll let me run the siren?
Is it seriously that complicated? I understand the necessity of getting it right, so I will bring it to the fire department. But I'll feel like a complete tool.
"Um, sirs? Could one of you come away from the card table and check my car seat? Wow, that's an awfully big hose."
They will all crowd around the car. "Did you read the instructions?" the gigantic one will ask.
"No. I mean yes. I mean yeah totally. Not that I needed to, you know? Pretty, um, self-explanatory."
"Self-explana-what?" the bald, bearded one will say, and the others will laugh.
"Um yeah, heh heh, so anyways fellas, did I do it right, or is my baby gonna be like decapitated or something?"
They will not find this funny whatsoever. Gigantor and Baldy will shake their heads gravely while the old grizzled one speaks:
"Well son, somehow you managed to put it in upside-down. So yes, decapitation is a possibility." He'll pat me on the shoulder. "Are you mentally handicapped?"
It'll go downhill from there, probably ending with them rescuing me from a tree branch like a scared kitty.
Well, I'm sure it'll be fine. They'll appreciate that I'm diligent enough to get it checked out. Still, I'll pore over those instructions this weekend and try not to screw it up too royally. Think they'll let me run the siren?
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Guess
We're still not telling the name, but people continue to guess. My favorite thing to say to my mom is, "How do you know you haven't guessed it already?" Statistically, one of her 700 guesses is probably right.
But no, she hasn't guessed it, not even close.
Or has she?
No seriously, she hasn't. Mom, breathe.
Our surname, which I won't share here, starts with K. This fact influences people's guesses because of course it would make sense that we'd want a daughter with a K name. Make her middle name a K name too, right? No problems there...
Some women Julie works with want the name to be Kristina. But that's not all. If we name her Kristina, they reason, then naturally her nickname will be Kiki. That's right. They want our daughter to become a prostitute. Or at least tend bar at Hooters.
On the other hand, a passionate group of my freshmen today insisted that we name our daughter Copernicus. ("Yeah Mr. K., Copernicus!" "Tell your wife!" "Name her Copernicus!" "What's a Copernicus?" "Who cares! It's Copernicus!") Which makes complete sense because...wait, it actually makes no sense at all. But it's silly and would give them an excuse to tease me.
Rest assured, our daughter's name is awesome. Except it's capitalized, so it's Awesome. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Plus, we believe in self-fulfilling prophesies, so there's no way she won't be awesome if we name her Awesome. God hates irony. I can't wait till she grows her hair into a rockin' shmullet.
Until we tell you the actual name, please consider your suggestion of Kiki Copernicus, Porn-star Astronomer, respectfully rejected.
But no, she hasn't guessed it, not even close.
Or has she?
No seriously, she hasn't. Mom, breathe.
Our surname, which I won't share here, starts with K. This fact influences people's guesses because of course it would make sense that we'd want a daughter with a K name. Make her middle name a K name too, right? No problems there...
Some women Julie works with want the name to be Kristina. But that's not all. If we name her Kristina, they reason, then naturally her nickname will be Kiki. That's right. They want our daughter to become a prostitute. Or at least tend bar at Hooters.
On the other hand, a passionate group of my freshmen today insisted that we name our daughter Copernicus. ("Yeah Mr. K., Copernicus!" "Tell your wife!" "Name her Copernicus!" "What's a Copernicus?" "Who cares! It's Copernicus!") Which makes complete sense because...wait, it actually makes no sense at all. But it's silly and would give them an excuse to tease me.
Rest assured, our daughter's name is awesome. Except it's capitalized, so it's Awesome. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Plus, we believe in self-fulfilling prophesies, so there's no way she won't be awesome if we name her Awesome. God hates irony. I can't wait till she grows her hair into a rockin' shmullet.
Until we tell you the actual name, please consider your suggestion of Kiki Copernicus, Porn-star Astronomer, respectfully rejected.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Witness
Julie will stay home between 12 and 16 weeks with the baby while I work. Then I will stay home around 24 weeks while Julie works. Then it'll be September, and we haven't planned that far yet.
While one of us is home, milestones will happen. Our daughter will roll over for the first time, crawl, and master long division with decimals. It will suck for one of us to arrive home from work and hear the other say, "You missed out! The baby did her first back-handspring. Do it again, sweetie. Come on, one more time. Oh well, she doesn't want to. What's for dinner?"
So I proposed to Julie that we lie to each other through omission. In other words, when the baby draws the Pythagorean Theorem on the bathtub wall with soap crayons, the one who witnessed it need not blab to the other. Simply wait for it to happen again when both are home, and experience the moment together.
Healthy marriages are built on little white lies, aren't they?
A problem might arise if our daughter only performs certain feats while just one of us is present. Then we might lie through omission to each other about the same thing. Years from now we'll be at a restaurant, and Julie will exclaim "You can eat with a fork!" thinking I don't know.
And I'll say, "Honey look, she's eating with a fork!" thinking Julie doesn't know.
And the kid will say, "You guys are losers. Wanna see chopsticks?"
Julie thinks the whole idea is dumb anyway. She claims she won't care if I call her at work to report that our daughter has finally landed her first triple axle, double lutz combo at baby figure skating class. But I might lie anyway just to be sure. She'll never know.
While one of us is home, milestones will happen. Our daughter will roll over for the first time, crawl, and master long division with decimals. It will suck for one of us to arrive home from work and hear the other say, "You missed out! The baby did her first back-handspring. Do it again, sweetie. Come on, one more time. Oh well, she doesn't want to. What's for dinner?"
So I proposed to Julie that we lie to each other through omission. In other words, when the baby draws the Pythagorean Theorem on the bathtub wall with soap crayons, the one who witnessed it need not blab to the other. Simply wait for it to happen again when both are home, and experience the moment together.
Healthy marriages are built on little white lies, aren't they?
A problem might arise if our daughter only performs certain feats while just one of us is present. Then we might lie through omission to each other about the same thing. Years from now we'll be at a restaurant, and Julie will exclaim "You can eat with a fork!" thinking I don't know.
And I'll say, "Honey look, she's eating with a fork!" thinking Julie doesn't know.
And the kid will say, "You guys are losers. Wanna see chopsticks?"
Julie thinks the whole idea is dumb anyway. She claims she won't care if I call her at work to report that our daughter has finally landed her first triple axle, double lutz combo at baby figure skating class. But I might lie anyway just to be sure. She'll never know.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Strain
Yesterday Julie went to Target in search of bins to put on the nursery's closet shelves. Into the bins will go crib sheets, burp towels, and anything else that won't fit in the dresser and might get dusty sitting there by itself.
She also bought a bunch of other junk at Target because, for us, Target is like recreation. Well, two things happened in succession at Target that are so ridiculous that they'll blow your mind. I wish I had been there to inject some sanity into the proceedings, but alas no.
First, the go-getter cashier decided that rather than bag the goods, he'd just place them all in one of the bins. Never mind that the bin ended up weighing over 40 pounds, and never mind that his customer was 8 months pregnant.
Second, Julie let him do it. Apparently once he finished, he stood there all pleased with himself as Julie lifted this bin into the cart. Who was more foolish in this situation? I think we have ourselves a tie. Then she lifted the bin from the cart to the car and drove home and complained of a sore back.
To which I replied with some passion: "You did what?! What did you think would happen? Why didn't you make him unload it or lift it for you?"
There were people in line. She just figured she'd lift it quick and be on her way.
"Unbelievable! And you're surprised your back hurts? Maybe you should help this cashier move out of his parents' basement this weekend. You could carry his boxes of magic cards and pewter Dungeons and Dragons figurines. Seriously!"
I'm not usually a total dick. At that moment, though, I was thinking about the baby, not Julie. That's something that new parents have to figure out because, I'll tell you, it doesn't work to get all papa bear on a pregnant lady who's just hurt her back.
At any rate, after some time with the heating pad, Julie's back felt better. I don't know if I should continue to urge Julie to take care of herself, find the Target employee and kick his ass, or just keep my loud mouth shut. Probably the last two.
She also bought a bunch of other junk at Target because, for us, Target is like recreation. Well, two things happened in succession at Target that are so ridiculous that they'll blow your mind. I wish I had been there to inject some sanity into the proceedings, but alas no.
First, the go-getter cashier decided that rather than bag the goods, he'd just place them all in one of the bins. Never mind that the bin ended up weighing over 40 pounds, and never mind that his customer was 8 months pregnant.
Second, Julie let him do it. Apparently once he finished, he stood there all pleased with himself as Julie lifted this bin into the cart. Who was more foolish in this situation? I think we have ourselves a tie. Then she lifted the bin from the cart to the car and drove home and complained of a sore back.
To which I replied with some passion: "You did what?! What did you think would happen? Why didn't you make him unload it or lift it for you?"
There were people in line. She just figured she'd lift it quick and be on her way.
"Unbelievable! And you're surprised your back hurts? Maybe you should help this cashier move out of his parents' basement this weekend. You could carry his boxes of magic cards and pewter Dungeons and Dragons figurines. Seriously!"
I'm not usually a total dick. At that moment, though, I was thinking about the baby, not Julie. That's something that new parents have to figure out because, I'll tell you, it doesn't work to get all papa bear on a pregnant lady who's just hurt her back.
At any rate, after some time with the heating pad, Julie's back felt better. I don't know if I should continue to urge Julie to take care of herself, find the Target employee and kick his ass, or just keep my loud mouth shut. Probably the last two.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Teamwork
Do you think she's starting to show?
The teacher of our breastfeeding and child care class talked a lot about the husband's role in the first couple days. Since a newborn's stomach is the size of a Stegosaurus's brain, the mom's breasts are busier than a Bud Light tap at a Vikings game.
Wow, there's a mixed metaphor that spans 150 million years.
Anyway, I assume that eventually Julie will become adept at breastfeeding while doing other things such as laundry or wrapping presents for me. Until then, however, I will be her minion. When the baby is feeding on lefty, I will stand ready with a burp towel and my raincoat. Julie will hand the baby to me when lefty is done, and I will burp the baby, carefully aiming any spit-up onto the towel or, worst case, the shoulder or upper back of my raincoat.
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and this is why the baby spits up. She sucks, she spits. Here's an analogy to consider if you're studying for a standardized test.
Breast milk : Oxygen :: Spit-up : ______________
A. Vanity Smurf
B. Crocs
C. A kick to the groin
D. Carbon dioxide
The answer is D.
Babies also spit up because breast milk is absolutely disgusting.
So while I dodge puke, Julie might pump dessert out of lefty or simply prepare righty. After the meal, I will change the baby's diaper, put her to bed, and try not to hurl.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Suck
This morning was our baby care and breastfeeding class. After four hours of listening to a woman talk about breastfeeding techniques, I'm pretty sure I could do it too. It's all in the latch, it turns out.
A lactating breast is a lot like a toilet. When you flush a toilet, the tank fills back up until the big rubber ball floats high enough to stop the flow. Likewise, after you breastfeed a child, flushing out your milk so to speak, the milk glands fill back up, and then they automatically stop when they're full. They don't explode like a bladder might. This was comforting. But breasts are also like dairy cows in that they become uncomfortable if they're not milked.
But the lactating breast also operates on supply and demand. The more the baby drinks, the more the mom will produce. And if she doesn't use both breasts, then she can kiss symmetry goodbye.
But! You shouldn't switch the baby to the other breast until the baby finishes with the first one. The reason is that the first milk of the feeding is thinner in order to quench thirst and whatnot. Gradually it becomes thicker and fattier. If you force the switch too soon, the baby misses out on nutrients. It's an exercise in balance, I suppose, for if the baby's like "Okay, Mom, enough" before she's drained both, then you have to start on the fuller one next time. Marking the used breast with a Sharpie was not brought up in class, but I think it would be an excellent way to keep track.
We learned a bunch of other stuff too, like how to swaddle the baby and how to check an overly absorbent diaper for wetness. The instructor did not tell us how to do it without gagging. All in all, we are more ready to take care of a baby. That doesn't mean we're ready, but we're getting closer.
A lactating breast is a lot like a toilet. When you flush a toilet, the tank fills back up until the big rubber ball floats high enough to stop the flow. Likewise, after you breastfeed a child, flushing out your milk so to speak, the milk glands fill back up, and then they automatically stop when they're full. They don't explode like a bladder might. This was comforting. But breasts are also like dairy cows in that they become uncomfortable if they're not milked.
But the lactating breast also operates on supply and demand. The more the baby drinks, the more the mom will produce. And if she doesn't use both breasts, then she can kiss symmetry goodbye.
But! You shouldn't switch the baby to the other breast until the baby finishes with the first one. The reason is that the first milk of the feeding is thinner in order to quench thirst and whatnot. Gradually it becomes thicker and fattier. If you force the switch too soon, the baby misses out on nutrients. It's an exercise in balance, I suppose, for if the baby's like "Okay, Mom, enough" before she's drained both, then you have to start on the fuller one next time. Marking the used breast with a Sharpie was not brought up in class, but I think it would be an excellent way to keep track.
We learned a bunch of other stuff too, like how to swaddle the baby and how to check an overly absorbent diaper for wetness. The instructor did not tell us how to do it without gagging. All in all, we are more ready to take care of a baby. That doesn't mean we're ready, but we're getting closer.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Weird
Julie is weird. "What if I was an alien, and I knew it but I never told you?"
"What makes you say--"
"Beep boop boop."
"Oh my god. Is your brain pregnant?"
"What if I was a Klingon?" One eyebrow raised.
"Does that mean that thing in your stomach is a Klingon? Were you secretly impregnated by a Klingon?"
"Don't say that! You'll give me bad dreams."
Weird.
"What makes you say--"
"Beep boop boop."
"Oh my god. Is your brain pregnant?"
"What if I was a Klingon?" One eyebrow raised.
"Does that mean that thing in your stomach is a Klingon? Were you secretly impregnated by a Klingon?"
"Don't say that! You'll give me bad dreams."
Weird.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Protrusion
On the beach about 15-20 pregnant pounds ago, Julie and I were in the water and she jumped on my back to dunk me. Her stomach thwarted her and she bounced backwards and crushed a school of freshwater seahorses who were on their way to church.
Julie still forgets about her stomach and bumps into stuff. It's hilarious. She makes split-second decisions about whether she will, for example, fit past the crib box and out the door. But while pregnant, the spatial awareness part of her brain works about as well as a solar-powered calculator in a closet.
As the weeks pass, she has nowhere left to grow up or down, so out is the only option left. I remember in Boy Scouts when I tied my sleeping bag to the back of my pack rather than the top of it. The farther from your body, the heavier it is, so I suffered that day. With a stomach that keeps extending, I expect to devote an entire post in the coming weeks to lower back pain.
But I hope to also have stories of coat racks, vases, water glasses, and table lamps toppling to the ground after my wife pivots or simply exhales too quickly.
In other news, she still looks beautiful.
Julie still forgets about her stomach and bumps into stuff. It's hilarious. She makes split-second decisions about whether she will, for example, fit past the crib box and out the door. But while pregnant, the spatial awareness part of her brain works about as well as a solar-powered calculator in a closet.
As the weeks pass, she has nowhere left to grow up or down, so out is the only option left. I remember in Boy Scouts when I tied my sleeping bag to the back of my pack rather than the top of it. The farther from your body, the heavier it is, so I suffered that day. With a stomach that keeps extending, I expect to devote an entire post in the coming weeks to lower back pain.
But I hope to also have stories of coat racks, vases, water glasses, and table lamps toppling to the ground after my wife pivots or simply exhales too quickly.
In other news, she still looks beautiful.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Relief
Everything is okay.
That said, last night Julie woke up in pretty excruciating pain. We've read all about round ligament pain and of course we're aware that she gets non-labor contractions. Still, this pain was different and worse. So we called the nurse line at 12:30 in the morning.
And what does the nurse say to all pregnant women? Say it with me, kids: "You should come in right away."
OB-Gyns get sued more than any other doctor. It makes sense: if something bad happens with our baby, my rage rays will immediately zero in on anyone in the room that is not Julie. Consequently, nurses and doctors won't tell a pregnant woman, "Chill girl, you're pregnant. It's painful sometimes." Instead it's, "We'll need a blood test to make sure your liver hasn't eaten your pancreas."
So we found ourselves back in the hospital, same room in fact. The cervix door is still vacuum sealed, the baby is still a one-woman kick-line, and Julie's liver gets a gold star. The contraction Richter scale monitor was drawing the Himalayas, though. It's great to look at your wife grimacing and then look at the monitor and see that it's a contraction resembling K2.
But nothing is wrong, technically. It's a blessing, obviously, but we definitely wanted some medication to treat pain that was bad enough to send us to the hospital in the middle of the night. To put it another way, at 5:30 in the morning, we wanted to hear more from the doctor than "You should try Maalox."
I don't think you read that closely enough or truly processed it, so I'll repeat it: "You should try Maalox." These doctors insist you come in, insist that you rot in that room for four hours and then tell you to go to Walgreens for Maalox--which makes you never want to err on the side of caution again. I've already offered to edit this doctor's next scholarly article, tentatively titled, "Maalox and Pregnant Pain: Putting the Hypocrite Back into the Hypocratic Oath." The other title she's considering is "Diagnosis: Tummy Ache."
Makes us feel like whiners, like nervous first-timers. When you're pregnant and in agony, it's nice to hear that your baby is okay and you're not in labor. It's not fun to have the intense pain trivialized. But we'll give Maalox a shot; what the hell. And if it doesn't work, then maybe we'll get crazy and try Rolaids.
That said, last night Julie woke up in pretty excruciating pain. We've read all about round ligament pain and of course we're aware that she gets non-labor contractions. Still, this pain was different and worse. So we called the nurse line at 12:30 in the morning.
And what does the nurse say to all pregnant women? Say it with me, kids: "You should come in right away."
OB-Gyns get sued more than any other doctor. It makes sense: if something bad happens with our baby, my rage rays will immediately zero in on anyone in the room that is not Julie. Consequently, nurses and doctors won't tell a pregnant woman, "Chill girl, you're pregnant. It's painful sometimes." Instead it's, "We'll need a blood test to make sure your liver hasn't eaten your pancreas."
So we found ourselves back in the hospital, same room in fact. The cervix door is still vacuum sealed, the baby is still a one-woman kick-line, and Julie's liver gets a gold star. The contraction Richter scale monitor was drawing the Himalayas, though. It's great to look at your wife grimacing and then look at the monitor and see that it's a contraction resembling K2.
But nothing is wrong, technically. It's a blessing, obviously, but we definitely wanted some medication to treat pain that was bad enough to send us to the hospital in the middle of the night. To put it another way, at 5:30 in the morning, we wanted to hear more from the doctor than "You should try Maalox."
I don't think you read that closely enough or truly processed it, so I'll repeat it: "You should try Maalox." These doctors insist you come in, insist that you rot in that room for four hours and then tell you to go to Walgreens for Maalox--which makes you never want to err on the side of caution again. I've already offered to edit this doctor's next scholarly article, tentatively titled, "Maalox and Pregnant Pain: Putting the Hypocrite Back into the Hypocratic Oath." The other title she's considering is "Diagnosis: Tummy Ache."
Makes us feel like whiners, like nervous first-timers. When you're pregnant and in agony, it's nice to hear that your baby is okay and you're not in labor. It's not fun to have the intense pain trivialized. But we'll give Maalox a shot; what the hell. And if it doesn't work, then maybe we'll get crazy and try Rolaids.
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