The Cat Daddy is smart; he locks the door every time. Then the boys knock and ask him what he's doing, because they want details every time. I don't need details, so I generally leave him alone. Every so often I'll knock, but generally only if I have a good reason or want to throw him off his game a little.
I rarely lock the door, especially if I'm the only grown-up present. Sometimes I do, but usually it's an extra step for which I just don't take time. Heck, I usually don't even take the time to shut the door completely. While in the shower, I'll hear the door creak open, and I'll sing-song, "Who's there?" and peek around the curtain. And just as often as not, it'll be Zoe or Max:
"Hey Mom, just taking inventory. I found everyone else, but you left for like two minutes and I had to make sure you were still on the premises. I'll go now, and leave the door open so all this warm steam can get out and you can cool off."
"Thanks for nothing, Zoe."
So then earlier today, I stole a moment away to, um, take care of some business. Little E (Yes, I'm thinking that fits nicely. Maybe.) came with me, because at her age she goes with me everywhere about 98% of the time. It's just not a good idea to leave an almost-8-week-old unguarded in the presence of her extremely well meaning, extremely affectionate, extremely ambitious, and somewhat clumsy brothers. So she was on the floor, lounging against the Boppy. This is how we roll.
Obviously, then, within seven seconds the door cracked open and two little eyes peered through, right about the height of a small-ish three year old.
"I'm peeting, Mommy!"
"What?"
"PEETING! I'm peeting at you!"
"OH! I see you peeking at me. I'm going potty. Can I have some privacy?"
"No."
"I'm not surprised."
And then the Cat Daddy called. And did I answer? Yes I did. I don't every time, but in this particular moment the timing worked out, and no one was screaming.
"Hang on, Littler One, lemme talk to Daddy for a minute."
"Daddy's on the phone?? LemME talk to him!"
"No. Hang on kiddo."
Then I talked to the Cat Daddy for long enough to commiserate with him about the cost of our car maintenance this time around (timing belt, etc...'The Big One,' as he calls it), before he was summoned back to work-ish things. So we hung up, and I got myself together and so on.
"Mommy really likes privacy sometimes. I might start locking the door."
"Otay, Mommy."
And then of course the Littler One shut the door completely--with me, him, and his little sister still inside--and helpfully locked the door.
"Thanks, buddy"...
May 31, 2012
May 24, 2012
Homebirth-A-Go-Go 2012--Part IV...
Part I Part II Part III Part V
Well, let's get down to brass tacks. Or is it brass tax? As I was leaning on a chair during a contraction I started to feel pressure down low, as in my butt-region. In short, I felt like I needed to poop. It is estimated that about 30% of women do in fact poo in labor, and if you are familiar at all with my history, then you know it's a "gift" of mine. I poo, and then out comes a baby. Gross, but reassuring if you think about it. Because as I got that sensation part of me thought "Eh, it might just be poop," but most of me thought, "Alright, almost there!!"
But having the (neurotic) desire to remain cool & calm all the time, I said something like, "Carol I'm feeling pressure down low. I might have to go poop." And we talked it over & came to the conclusion that I would sit on the toilet for a little bit and see what happened, with strict instructions not to strain or push. And oh-by-the-way, to give a yell if a baby came out. It was a good plan.
Well, I sat on the toilet through a couple of contractions, but the results were, um, miniscule at best. It was so disappointing. But soon another contraction came, producing a higher quantity of mucus than before, simultaneously grossing out and encouraging me. As I was coming out of the contraction the Cat Daddy knocked to see how I was doing, and I told him to hold on a minute, that I was in the middle of a contraction and would talk to him when it was over. Except in way fewer words. I left out the part about the mucus, because he is squeamish about a lot of things, and talk of mucus right then might have put him over the edge.
Now by this point I knew birth was imminent. Things were moving along nicely. And what did my brain choose to obsess over? Whether or not to put my underwear and jammy-pants back on. I mulled it over for probably a few seconds, but it felt like ten minutes. Seriously, I couldn't decide and then I was all "Who cares, Skerrib, you're in labor for heaven's sake!" So finally I kind of settled in the middle, walking out with my pants draped over my shoulder and explaining myself: "So, I think my pants are staying off, but I still have my underpants on for now." And I told Carol about the mucus. I can only imagine the things that Carol & Marte hear in the course of the labors they attend. I mean, to me it's mildly outlandish, discussing the state of my pants/underwear and the quantity and hue of my mucus, but it has to be something they deal with all the time, which might explain why they took it all calmly in stride. That, or they are great at pretending to take it all in stride and then giggle about it later on the way home.
So as I was walking out of my bathroom, through the dining room, toward the living room, the next contraction came on. I stopped and grabbed a chair, and within my brain there occurred great chaos, as I could feel everything happening at once. The baby was dropping suddenly, and was going to come out shortly, and the reason I knew this is that the real poop was coming out, and I swear I wasn't consciously pushing, but there my body was, making it all happen. What I consciously thought was, "The baby's coming out." And I think in my desire to be overly-precise and not mislead Carol into believing the baby was coming out at that exact moment, I actually said, "Something's happening."
Over in the living room the Cat Daddy sprung into action, recruiting Marte to help him get the plastic sheet down on the rug. To an extent this made sense, as I gave birth to the Littler One in there. However, in my mind I said, "I'm not making it over there; the baby is coming out here." I don't know how the poop got removed, but I know that it came out into my underwear, and I know that I did not do the removing. I'm not sure exactly what I said, but I know in my mind I was thinking about how to tell Carol that she was going to have to remove my underwear for me, and somehow they ended up about halfway down, right around my knees.
This might seem incredibly gratuitous and unnecessary, but there's a reason to remember it; I promise.
As far as I can tell, Carol put down a chux (?) pad and some towels on the wood floor where we were standing. And then began the yell. With the last birth it snuck up on me, but this time around I was ready. The baby was coming out, and somehow a little yell gives me the oomph to get the baby out as well as the patience not to push too eagerly. I think so, anyway; you'd actually have to ask Carol because she said she didn't remember me yelling too loud, but to me it seemed pretty loud, so it's one of those things that is just whatever it was. And with the yell came the ring of fire, and feeling increasing relief as, still standing in my dining room with my underpants down around my knees, I felt the baby's head come out, and then her shoulders, and then there was one last hangup--I think she had her arm up against her chest or something--and then she was out. Carol might have said "The baby's out," but I don't know. I do know that I thought in my head "I know she's out, because I feel so much better."
Carol had caught the baby from behind me and sort of fed her thru so I could pick her up from the front, but my gifted baby delayed things slightly because she reached out and grabbed onto my underpants on the way! I think this is rather resourceful; I mean, for all she knew she was falling, and when you're falling you save yourself by grabbing onto whatever you can find. She had no idea that she wasn't falling, so it's understandable. But I'm trying to pick her up, and thinking (saying?) "Let go of the underpants so I can hold you!" and I pried her tiny hand open, and then I had to sort of maneuver the cord around her leg a bit (giving me a chance to verify that she was in fact a girl), and then I know I told her "I am so glad you're here!!"
The others rigged up some pillows and towels and such so I could sit down/lie back for a bit. In the dining room. The Cat Daddy took a couple quick photos with his phone, and Carol and Marte did their thing. I know there was observing and charting out the wazoo. There may or may not have been Apgar scores; I don't remember. I might have babbled like a brook or just sat there taking it all in. The things I remember vividly, as with all my babies' births, are the intense relief and gratitude to be not only not pregnant anymore, but also holding a healthy and perfect little kiddo...
Part I Part II Part III Part V
Well, let's get down to brass tacks. Or is it brass tax? As I was leaning on a chair during a contraction I started to feel pressure down low, as in my butt-region. In short, I felt like I needed to poop. It is estimated that about 30% of women do in fact poo in labor, and if you are familiar at all with my history, then you know it's a "gift" of mine. I poo, and then out comes a baby. Gross, but reassuring if you think about it. Because as I got that sensation part of me thought "Eh, it might just be poop," but most of me thought, "Alright, almost there!!"
But having the (neurotic) desire to remain cool & calm all the time, I said something like, "Carol I'm feeling pressure down low. I might have to go poop." And we talked it over & came to the conclusion that I would sit on the toilet for a little bit and see what happened, with strict instructions not to strain or push. And oh-by-the-way, to give a yell if a baby came out. It was a good plan.
Well, I sat on the toilet through a couple of contractions, but the results were, um, miniscule at best. It was so disappointing. But soon another contraction came, producing a higher quantity of mucus than before, simultaneously grossing out and encouraging me. As I was coming out of the contraction the Cat Daddy knocked to see how I was doing, and I told him to hold on a minute, that I was in the middle of a contraction and would talk to him when it was over. Except in way fewer words. I left out the part about the mucus, because he is squeamish about a lot of things, and talk of mucus right then might have put him over the edge.
Now by this point I knew birth was imminent. Things were moving along nicely. And what did my brain choose to obsess over? Whether or not to put my underwear and jammy-pants back on. I mulled it over for probably a few seconds, but it felt like ten minutes. Seriously, I couldn't decide and then I was all "Who cares, Skerrib, you're in labor for heaven's sake!" So finally I kind of settled in the middle, walking out with my pants draped over my shoulder and explaining myself: "So, I think my pants are staying off, but I still have my underpants on for now." And I told Carol about the mucus. I can only imagine the things that Carol & Marte hear in the course of the labors they attend. I mean, to me it's mildly outlandish, discussing the state of my pants/underwear and the quantity and hue of my mucus, but it has to be something they deal with all the time, which might explain why they took it all calmly in stride. That, or they are great at pretending to take it all in stride and then giggle about it later on the way home.
So as I was walking out of my bathroom, through the dining room, toward the living room, the next contraction came on. I stopped and grabbed a chair, and within my brain there occurred great chaos, as I could feel everything happening at once. The baby was dropping suddenly, and was going to come out shortly, and the reason I knew this is that the real poop was coming out, and I swear I wasn't consciously pushing, but there my body was, making it all happen. What I consciously thought was, "The baby's coming out." And I think in my desire to be overly-precise and not mislead Carol into believing the baby was coming out at that exact moment, I actually said, "Something's happening."
Over in the living room the Cat Daddy sprung into action, recruiting Marte to help him get the plastic sheet down on the rug. To an extent this made sense, as I gave birth to the Littler One in there. However, in my mind I said, "I'm not making it over there; the baby is coming out here." I don't know how the poop got removed, but I know that it came out into my underwear, and I know that I did not do the removing. I'm not sure exactly what I said, but I know in my mind I was thinking about how to tell Carol that she was going to have to remove my underwear for me, and somehow they ended up about halfway down, right around my knees.
This might seem incredibly gratuitous and unnecessary, but there's a reason to remember it; I promise.
As far as I can tell, Carol put down a chux (?) pad and some towels on the wood floor where we were standing. And then began the yell. With the last birth it snuck up on me, but this time around I was ready. The baby was coming out, and somehow a little yell gives me the oomph to get the baby out as well as the patience not to push too eagerly. I think so, anyway; you'd actually have to ask Carol because she said she didn't remember me yelling too loud, but to me it seemed pretty loud, so it's one of those things that is just whatever it was. And with the yell came the ring of fire, and feeling increasing relief as, still standing in my dining room with my underpants down around my knees, I felt the baby's head come out, and then her shoulders, and then there was one last hangup--I think she had her arm up against her chest or something--and then she was out. Carol might have said "The baby's out," but I don't know. I do know that I thought in my head "I know she's out, because I feel so much better."
Carol had caught the baby from behind me and sort of fed her thru so I could pick her up from the front, but my gifted baby delayed things slightly because she reached out and grabbed onto my underpants on the way! I think this is rather resourceful; I mean, for all she knew she was falling, and when you're falling you save yourself by grabbing onto whatever you can find. She had no idea that she wasn't falling, so it's understandable. But I'm trying to pick her up, and thinking (saying?) "Let go of the underpants so I can hold you!" and I pried her tiny hand open, and then I had to sort of maneuver the cord around her leg a bit (giving me a chance to verify that she was in fact a girl), and then I know I told her "I am so glad you're here!!"
The others rigged up some pillows and towels and such so I could sit down/lie back for a bit. In the dining room. The Cat Daddy took a couple quick photos with his phone, and Carol and Marte did their thing. I know there was observing and charting out the wazoo. There may or may not have been Apgar scores; I don't remember. I might have babbled like a brook or just sat there taking it all in. The things I remember vividly, as with all my babies' births, are the intense relief and gratitude to be not only not pregnant anymore, but also holding a healthy and perfect little kiddo...
Part I Part II Part III Part V
Homebirth-A-Go-Go 2012--Part III...
Part I Part II Part IV Part V
So the midwife and her assistant (Carol & Marte) arrived around 8:45 pm. I was to the point in labor that I was still wearing pants, and I had to stop and concentrate thru contractions, but otherwise I was all, "Come on in, would you like a drink?" as if we were getting together just for fun. I don't know why I do that.
Actually, I know exactly why I do that. Here's my deal with labor--it is hard work. I don't ever want to minimize the work of it and tell someone "Oh, it's no big deal," so please kick me in the shin if you hear that come out of my mouth with regard to labor and birthing. At the same time, while I am entering in and respecting the process and all of that, I don't want to feel completely consumed by it, or I will freak out. The part of me with control issues needs to control something. If I can stay present enough to say things like "please," "thank you," and so on, then I feel like--while it is big and important--it is manageable enough that it will not overcome me, and I will indeed make it through to the other side. So there's that.
Anyway, if you've been in my living room, you've seen the big rug, the 2 rocking chairs, and the blue & khaki couches. Really the khaki couch is just tan, but somehow when His Highness started learning colors we started calling it khaki. And why not? Khaki sounds so much more interesting than boring old tan. So picture two very nice ladies sitting on the khaki couch, the Cat Daddy on the old rocker, and me sitting cross-legged on the floor next to a white fitness ball except during contractions, when I draped myself face-down over the ball. We all sat & chatted. The Cat Daddy regaled us all with tales of a co-worker who shattered his ankle in an avalanche while ice climbing. I shook my head in amusement at first, and then a little later I was getting a little annoyed, mostly because labor was moving right along and contractions were getting harder to breathe thru, so I was beginning to hum through them.
Also during the process I was having a hard time deciding whether I was hot or cold. When the ladies arrived I had the windows open and they were all, "Gosh, are you feeling warm?" And I was for a while, but then I got cooler and shut the windows, and eventually started shivering a little bit, which I suspect was at least part due to nerves, but when I put on socks & a sweatshirt I stopped shivering, so there's that. But then I got warm and took the sweatshirt off...and started shivering again before long. So my clothing was variable.
During all this Carol had listened to the baby's heartbeat a few times. I liked how she approached it--she didn't seem to have a particular time schedule, but she listened under different circumstances. For example she listened once in between contractions, once as I was coming out of a contraction, and I forget what the third one was; maybe as I was going through a contraction? But the cool thing for me is that she could tell me the overall pattern or whatever she was listening for. And thankfully, the baby was following the normal patterns, giving all indications that she was doing well and was indeed getting ready to come out.
And let's not forget Marte. From what I can tell, Marte is a champion of charting. It is most definitely not the only thing she does in the birthing process, but it is one thing that she does prolifically. I don't even know what all she wrote down, but I'm pretty sure there are lots of things they are watching for during labor in both mom & baby.
The Cat Daddy finally switched the iPad from YouTube videos of his ice climbing co-worker to the Simon & Garfunkel station on Pandora, and I was grateful. By this time it was somewhere around 10:30 or 11pm, I believe. I'd moved over to the blue chair-and-a-half and had stretched out on it and the ottoman. The dang contractions were getting more annoying though, which really put a damper on my desire to nap. I can remember starting to complain a little bit by this time, saying I knew I had to get thru this to be done, but that I really didn't like this part of things.
It's a tricky thing sometimes with labor. By this point it was past my bedtime, so I was tired and wanted to rest in between contractions. And not knowing exactly how long labor would go, it is reasonable to want to rest, especially around bedtime. However for me, it was not the best choice. The contractions didn't go away, but neither did they pick up or get stronger or anything like that. So after a time Carol & Marte gently suggested I get up and walk around a bit. I was good-naturedly-annoyed (is that even possible?), meaning I really did want to take a nap, but I also agreed that getting up would be the best thing to get thru labor and be done so we could all go to sleep for real.
Awesome thing number 597 about home birthing: I decided I wanted an English muffin. So I walked myself over to my toaster, toasted an English muffin, chose to spread apricot jam and butter (olive oil spread, actually) on it, and ate part of it. Entirely possible in a hospital, yes. But not nearly as simple a process.
And guess what? The contractions did in fact speed up and even got a little harder, so we all agreed I was staying up and putzing around for a while. Mostly I just paced around my living/dining room area, taking an occasional bite of English muffin, leaning on my dining chairs during contractions, and complaining that they were getting harder and I was super annoyed by them. Carol said after the fact that she didn't remember me being all that complain-y, but I sure felt it.
This is another thing about labor--it is sometimes difficult to remember what you actually said, and what you thought in your head. There were a few things where I really thought I said them and neither Carol nor Marte remembered me saying them. It's the ultimate case of "Did I just say that out loud?" except it's entirely possible that the answer is no...
Part I Part II Part IV Part V
So the midwife and her assistant (Carol & Marte) arrived around 8:45 pm. I was to the point in labor that I was still wearing pants, and I had to stop and concentrate thru contractions, but otherwise I was all, "Come on in, would you like a drink?" as if we were getting together just for fun. I don't know why I do that.
Actually, I know exactly why I do that. Here's my deal with labor--it is hard work. I don't ever want to minimize the work of it and tell someone "Oh, it's no big deal," so please kick me in the shin if you hear that come out of my mouth with regard to labor and birthing. At the same time, while I am entering in and respecting the process and all of that, I don't want to feel completely consumed by it, or I will freak out. The part of me with control issues needs to control something. If I can stay present enough to say things like "please," "thank you," and so on, then I feel like--while it is big and important--it is manageable enough that it will not overcome me, and I will indeed make it through to the other side. So there's that.
Anyway, if you've been in my living room, you've seen the big rug, the 2 rocking chairs, and the blue & khaki couches. Really the khaki couch is just tan, but somehow when His Highness started learning colors we started calling it khaki. And why not? Khaki sounds so much more interesting than boring old tan. So picture two very nice ladies sitting on the khaki couch, the Cat Daddy on the old rocker, and me sitting cross-legged on the floor next to a white fitness ball except during contractions, when I draped myself face-down over the ball. We all sat & chatted. The Cat Daddy regaled us all with tales of a co-worker who shattered his ankle in an avalanche while ice climbing. I shook my head in amusement at first, and then a little later I was getting a little annoyed, mostly because labor was moving right along and contractions were getting harder to breathe thru, so I was beginning to hum through them.
Also during the process I was having a hard time deciding whether I was hot or cold. When the ladies arrived I had the windows open and they were all, "Gosh, are you feeling warm?" And I was for a while, but then I got cooler and shut the windows, and eventually started shivering a little bit, which I suspect was at least part due to nerves, but when I put on socks & a sweatshirt I stopped shivering, so there's that. But then I got warm and took the sweatshirt off...and started shivering again before long. So my clothing was variable.
During all this Carol had listened to the baby's heartbeat a few times. I liked how she approached it--she didn't seem to have a particular time schedule, but she listened under different circumstances. For example she listened once in between contractions, once as I was coming out of a contraction, and I forget what the third one was; maybe as I was going through a contraction? But the cool thing for me is that she could tell me the overall pattern or whatever she was listening for. And thankfully, the baby was following the normal patterns, giving all indications that she was doing well and was indeed getting ready to come out.
And let's not forget Marte. From what I can tell, Marte is a champion of charting. It is most definitely not the only thing she does in the birthing process, but it is one thing that she does prolifically. I don't even know what all she wrote down, but I'm pretty sure there are lots of things they are watching for during labor in both mom & baby.
The Cat Daddy finally switched the iPad from YouTube videos of his ice climbing co-worker to the Simon & Garfunkel station on Pandora, and I was grateful. By this time it was somewhere around 10:30 or 11pm, I believe. I'd moved over to the blue chair-and-a-half and had stretched out on it and the ottoman. The dang contractions were getting more annoying though, which really put a damper on my desire to nap. I can remember starting to complain a little bit by this time, saying I knew I had to get thru this to be done, but that I really didn't like this part of things.
It's a tricky thing sometimes with labor. By this point it was past my bedtime, so I was tired and wanted to rest in between contractions. And not knowing exactly how long labor would go, it is reasonable to want to rest, especially around bedtime. However for me, it was not the best choice. The contractions didn't go away, but neither did they pick up or get stronger or anything like that. So after a time Carol & Marte gently suggested I get up and walk around a bit. I was good-naturedly-annoyed (is that even possible?), meaning I really did want to take a nap, but I also agreed that getting up would be the best thing to get thru labor and be done so we could all go to sleep for real.
Awesome thing number 597 about home birthing: I decided I wanted an English muffin. So I walked myself over to my toaster, toasted an English muffin, chose to spread apricot jam and butter (olive oil spread, actually) on it, and ate part of it. Entirely possible in a hospital, yes. But not nearly as simple a process.
And guess what? The contractions did in fact speed up and even got a little harder, so we all agreed I was staying up and putzing around for a while. Mostly I just paced around my living/dining room area, taking an occasional bite of English muffin, leaning on my dining chairs during contractions, and complaining that they were getting harder and I was super annoyed by them. Carol said after the fact that she didn't remember me being all that complain-y, but I sure felt it.
This is another thing about labor--it is sometimes difficult to remember what you actually said, and what you thought in your head. There were a few things where I really thought I said them and neither Carol nor Marte remembered me saying them. It's the ultimate case of "Did I just say that out loud?" except it's entirely possible that the answer is no...
Part I Part II Part IV Part V
We Interrupt...
I soooooo want to finish up the birth story, I promise, but in the meantime I need to get a few throughts out of my head. They're starting to pile up, and my head is getting full, and that's just...crowded.
--Moving time is creeping up on us a day, a week at a time. Except that time is traveling at crazy speeds these days so while we're moving on July 9, it turns out that July 9 will be here, like, tomorrow.
--I'm a little Ecclesiastical these days. I don't know if "Ecclesiastical" has a real definition, but what I mean by it is that I'm looking around in my world, seeing a lot of the same old things. Cycles such as seasons (in the weather/climate sense)...moving (duh)...babies and kids growing and developing (and for some inexplicable reason wearing one boot and one Croc)...hearing people rant about politics, and baby/child care, and reality TV. All these things are bombarding me, and I'm thinking "Nothing is new under the sun." Which is both alarming and reassuring. So I spent a little time in Ecclesiastes one evening, and I was all "Geez Solomon, you need a cookie, man" but at the same time going "It's so sad but he's dead-on." And I wanted to skip to the end but I made myself stick with his moaning and groaning and I was still thinking "Cut it out, Solomon!" And when I got to the end...well, there aren't really any neat & tidy answers, except for God, who rarely seems to tie up our loose ends on this side of things. Which is at once alarming and reassuring. But I think more reassuring. It helped me a little bit to calm down and wonder less what/if I needed to do differently to feel better. My life is in a mildly chaotic place right now, but we are healthy and reasonably happy...so there's not much to do at this moment except keep doing what I'm doing (and trust that I'm doing plenty), and hang on for the ride.
--I love (LOVE) humor and sarcasm, but at my deepest, soft chewy core I am a Tenderheart. Sometimes these things seem in competition, but I decided they are just aspects that come out at different times. These days I'm a little fragile, so I lean toward Tenderheart. It's not that things aren't funny, it's just that the fragile is a little more at the forefront than the funny.
--I'm also what one of the major women's magazines calls a Ruminator. Which basically means I think a lot, to the point that sometimes I need to shut it down a bit and go banter with someone. And maybe more often. But maybe not.
--I did a great job keeping the house super-neat for, like, almost four weeks. Then I let down for a bit and felt about 70% more relaxed. Thereby proving that chores are the cause of so many evils in this world. Now I'm ramping up again til we sell the dang house...evil chores.
--The relationship of moving and relationships--don't even get me started.
These are the things on my mind lately. Also these things: His Highness is trolling for food, the Littler One is going down the stairs in the pop-up tunnel, and the Wee One (eh, probably not) needs to eat.
And chores...
--Moving time is creeping up on us a day, a week at a time. Except that time is traveling at crazy speeds these days so while we're moving on July 9, it turns out that July 9 will be here, like, tomorrow.
--I'm a little Ecclesiastical these days. I don't know if "Ecclesiastical" has a real definition, but what I mean by it is that I'm looking around in my world, seeing a lot of the same old things. Cycles such as seasons (in the weather/climate sense)...moving (duh)...babies and kids growing and developing (and for some inexplicable reason wearing one boot and one Croc)...hearing people rant about politics, and baby/child care, and reality TV. All these things are bombarding me, and I'm thinking "Nothing is new under the sun." Which is both alarming and reassuring. So I spent a little time in Ecclesiastes one evening, and I was all "Geez Solomon, you need a cookie, man" but at the same time going "It's so sad but he's dead-on." And I wanted to skip to the end but I made myself stick with his moaning and groaning and I was still thinking "Cut it out, Solomon!" And when I got to the end...well, there aren't really any neat & tidy answers, except for God, who rarely seems to tie up our loose ends on this side of things. Which is at once alarming and reassuring. But I think more reassuring. It helped me a little bit to calm down and wonder less what/if I needed to do differently to feel better. My life is in a mildly chaotic place right now, but we are healthy and reasonably happy...so there's not much to do at this moment except keep doing what I'm doing (and trust that I'm doing plenty), and hang on for the ride.
--I love (LOVE) humor and sarcasm, but at my deepest, soft chewy core I am a Tenderheart. Sometimes these things seem in competition, but I decided they are just aspects that come out at different times. These days I'm a little fragile, so I lean toward Tenderheart. It's not that things aren't funny, it's just that the fragile is a little more at the forefront than the funny.
--I'm also what one of the major women's magazines calls a Ruminator. Which basically means I think a lot, to the point that sometimes I need to shut it down a bit and go banter with someone. And maybe more often. But maybe not.
--I did a great job keeping the house super-neat for, like, almost four weeks. Then I let down for a bit and felt about 70% more relaxed. Thereby proving that chores are the cause of so many evils in this world. Now I'm ramping up again til we sell the dang house...evil chores.
--The relationship of moving and relationships--don't even get me started.
These are the things on my mind lately. Also these things: His Highness is trolling for food, the Littler One is going down the stairs in the pop-up tunnel, and the Wee One (eh, probably not) needs to eat.
And chores...
May 6, 2012
Homebirth-A-Go-Go 2012--Part II...
Part I Part III Part IV Part V
So then things were boring for a while. More paperwork, more writing down start times for contractions...and dang it if they didn't start getting closer together. And I thought, "Well, maybe something really is happening. I'd better get this paperwork done just in case."
Unfortunately though, the paperwork was just too involved to finish right then. It was a really long and really boring form requiring things like old addresses, people who "knew me when," alternate names for the color beige, and so on. Things I would have to dig around a bit to find. And my 'puter was forcing me offline so it could do some updates for work. Plus by now it was in the 5's, and the natives were getting hungry, and I thought, "If something really is happening I should probably feed my children." So there was that. And then there were the early-labor tasks, like making up the bed (good sheets on bottom, plastic layer, and old sheets on top), and prepping the egg-bake for the after-the-birth meal, and so on. All to say, I put away the work stuff and got down to business on home stuff.
The interesting thing to me about the next few hours--except for the fact that I was fairly convinced I was finally in labor--is how ordinary was the course of events. The Cat Daddy came home at his regular time, having not even looked at my texts until I told him about them, thereby rendering all of them moot. I gave Carol a call just before dinner to check in, and based on my descriptions she said it sounded pretty labor-ish (my words), and to call again in an hour (or sooner if it all hit the fan--my words again). Then there was dinner, and bathtime, and pulling the Littler One out of a mailbox a couple times (which wasn't nearly as bizarre as it sounds), though not in that order. Then the Cat Daddy ushered the boyz to their slumber party and ran a coupla quick errands while I called Carol back. She determined that, while it was still likely a little early in the process, she and her assistant (Marte, pronounced like Marta) would pack up their gear and head my way. For the most part I felt calm and happy and not-competitive, but there was that one part of me that went "YES!!"
**I feel the need to clarify the nature and reason behind the "YES!!" With the homebirthing, things can get hairy if two or more moms go into labor at the same time. But not that hairy--quite simply, lots of midwives work back-up for each other. So if the first-time mom's labor had progressed quickly and Carol headed over there, then the back-up midwife (a lovely and fantastic lady who was the primary midwife for a friend of mine, so I felt pretty comfortable about her even thought I'd never met her) would have come to me, and we all would have been quite content and well-cared-for. While this is a fantastic and effective system of contingency plans, I was grateful for Plan A. Hence the "YES!!" And as it turned out, the first-time mom did not go into full labor that night, so no one had to "beat" anyone to anything, which made me feel good because I like it when things turn out nice & neat that way. End digression.**
By this point it was 7:30ish and the ladies were shooting to arrive around 9ish (packing time plus a 45-min drive). Also by this point, the house was as clean as it was gonna get, so we finished the early-labor tasks. Then we were all "What do we do now?" and decided to put the office back together. See, we had painted it a couple weeks prior, and the stuff was still out in our family/play room, so we figured we might as well do what we could before things got really intense, what with a baby coming out and all. I did leave the bulk of the lifting to the Cat Daddy--my main tasks were running cables to the modem and so on so they would be nice & neat. There were contractions every few minutes in there, during which I would stop & sit & breathe thru them. After that it was 8:30, and there were some ticky-tack-type tasks to do (filing, anyone??) but I got about 5 minutes into those before deciding I didn't really want to do that anymore. I told the Cat Daddy, "I'm gonna go upstairs & hang out while I wait for Carol & Marte." He teased me about bailing on him, and I made snide remarks that were equal parts "I love you" and "Tread lightly, Buster Brown."
See? Boring...
Part I Part III Part IV Part V
So then things were boring for a while. More paperwork, more writing down start times for contractions...and dang it if they didn't start getting closer together. And I thought, "Well, maybe something really is happening. I'd better get this paperwork done just in case."
Unfortunately though, the paperwork was just too involved to finish right then. It was a really long and really boring form requiring things like old addresses, people who "knew me when," alternate names for the color beige, and so on. Things I would have to dig around a bit to find. And my 'puter was forcing me offline so it could do some updates for work. Plus by now it was in the 5's, and the natives were getting hungry, and I thought, "If something really is happening I should probably feed my children." So there was that. And then there were the early-labor tasks, like making up the bed (good sheets on bottom, plastic layer, and old sheets on top), and prepping the egg-bake for the after-the-birth meal, and so on. All to say, I put away the work stuff and got down to business on home stuff.
The interesting thing to me about the next few hours--except for the fact that I was fairly convinced I was finally in labor--is how ordinary was the course of events. The Cat Daddy came home at his regular time, having not even looked at my texts until I told him about them, thereby rendering all of them moot. I gave Carol a call just before dinner to check in, and based on my descriptions she said it sounded pretty labor-ish (my words), and to call again in an hour (or sooner if it all hit the fan--my words again). Then there was dinner, and bathtime, and pulling the Littler One out of a mailbox a couple times (which wasn't nearly as bizarre as it sounds), though not in that order. Then the Cat Daddy ushered the boyz to their slumber party and ran a coupla quick errands while I called Carol back. She determined that, while it was still likely a little early in the process, she and her assistant (Marte, pronounced like Marta) would pack up their gear and head my way. For the most part I felt calm and happy and not-competitive, but there was that one part of me that went "YES!!"
**I feel the need to clarify the nature and reason behind the "YES!!" With the homebirthing, things can get hairy if two or more moms go into labor at the same time. But not that hairy--quite simply, lots of midwives work back-up for each other. So if the first-time mom's labor had progressed quickly and Carol headed over there, then the back-up midwife (a lovely and fantastic lady who was the primary midwife for a friend of mine, so I felt pretty comfortable about her even thought I'd never met her) would have come to me, and we all would have been quite content and well-cared-for. While this is a fantastic and effective system of contingency plans, I was grateful for Plan A. Hence the "YES!!" And as it turned out, the first-time mom did not go into full labor that night, so no one had to "beat" anyone to anything, which made me feel good because I like it when things turn out nice & neat that way. End digression.**
By this point it was 7:30ish and the ladies were shooting to arrive around 9ish (packing time plus a 45-min drive). Also by this point, the house was as clean as it was gonna get, so we finished the early-labor tasks. Then we were all "What do we do now?" and decided to put the office back together. See, we had painted it a couple weeks prior, and the stuff was still out in our family/play room, so we figured we might as well do what we could before things got really intense, what with a baby coming out and all. I did leave the bulk of the lifting to the Cat Daddy--my main tasks were running cables to the modem and so on so they would be nice & neat. There were contractions every few minutes in there, during which I would stop & sit & breathe thru them. After that it was 8:30, and there were some ticky-tack-type tasks to do (filing, anyone??) but I got about 5 minutes into those before deciding I didn't really want to do that anymore. I told the Cat Daddy, "I'm gonna go upstairs & hang out while I wait for Carol & Marte." He teased me about bailing on him, and I made snide remarks that were equal parts "I love you" and "Tread lightly, Buster Brown."
See? Boring...
Part I Part III Part IV Part V
Apr 21, 2012
Homebirth-A-Go-Go 2012--Part I...
Part II Part III Part IV Part V
I should probably get this down, while it's fairly fresh, and before the true hectic-ness (Hectic-ment? Hecticity??) of 3 kids sets in for reals. The Youngest--she doesn't have an official bloggy-name yet, but I'll start with The Youngest and go from there--made her entrance about as early as one can on a given day, 1203 AM on Friday, April 6.
The plan this time was, again, a homebirth. I was so pleased with how things went with The Littler One that, barring any complications or issues, it was a no-brainer for me to choose the homebirth route again. My midwife from before doesn't travel all the way from Denver to Cheyenne anymore. She said she would for me (because she is just that fantastic), but it turned out a colleague of hers in Fort Collins was starting a new homebirth practice, and I thought "Hey, Fort Collins is that much closer than Denver, if she's a good fit for us this could be good too." The new (to us) midwife is also a CNM (Certified Nurse Midwife, as opposed to a CPM--Certified Professional Midwife--who are credentialed differently and not covered by Tricare, so the CNM-part was kind of important to me), and has been practicing in hospital settings for years but recently made the switch to homebirths. So we set up a meeting, and got acquainted, and long story short, we went with the new midwife in Ft Collins.
Now, the last time I did such a good job of anticipating a not-early baby that it nearly shocked me when The Littler One came at 39 weeks and in just over 5 hours from start to finish. This time I did such a terrible job of anticipating a not-early baby that it threw me for a loop when I sped not-so-swiftly past 39 weeks...and then 40. I began alternating grumpy days and OK-days, and tried to keep up with the tidying and grocery shopping and so on, and finally convinced myself that she had decided to just stay put forever and was never coming out. Once I determined this, things didn't exactly get cheerful, but they did get more bearable. When friends/relatives/foreign ambassadors from small republics pulled the old "So, anything yet???" I could explain that, in fact, there would never be anything because my daughter was just going to stay put, because apparently my womb is quite comfortable and sufficient for long-term sustenance. Then they were all, "Oh, ha ha Skerrib!" and I felt good about not burning any bridges with overly-snarky responses, because I had some serious snark available had the situation called for it, but I knew that people were just being nice, so I didn't really want to, um, alienate anyone or anything.
By this time it was Thursday April 5--40 weeks and 4 days. Two other friends due right around the same time had had their babies, and in a deep and secret corner of my brain I thought, "If she were to decide to come out, she would round out the group of 3 quite nicely," followed quickly by "but she's staying in forever. Too bad."
Then I got a call from work. It turned out I needed to fill out some security paperwork (because I'm very important and official) and I thought "Good, something to keep me occupied," and I figured I should get started on it, just in case she decided to come out, even though she probably never would. I joked with my boss that maybe having a task to accomplish would start labor, and then realized that just by hoping to start labor I was dooming myself further to perma-pregnancy, and I assured my boss that I should be able to get the paperwork filled out in the next day or two. So I fed the boyz lunch and got to it.
It's an interesting thing, the subconscious. I'd been having Braxton-Hicks contractions for months in the afternoons. They are the laid-back "practice" contractions that don't usually mean much. In my case it has always been very distinct when actual labor contractions started, so I don't generally pay a whole lot of attention to the BH's. But you know, by this point I did know that I had them mostly in the afternoon/evenings, that they were never closer than 10 minutes apart, and that by reclining and drinking water they would pretty much subside. I don't know that I ever consciously told myself or anyone else all of this...but as I was filling out my paperwork I noticed that they kept coming every 10 minutes or so, even though I was drinking water, and they were starting to resemble more of a "wave" pattern, where they would gradually get more intense and then subside. Suddenly they were different than before.
"Maybe I'll just start keeping track of these," I told myself, "even though she's never coming out." So starting at 1:41 pm, in between tracking down past residences and references and such, just for grins & giggles, I wrote down start times, and pulled up an online stopwatch.
After an hour or so I texted a few folks. I told the Cat Daddy "Don't come home yet, but I might be having a few contractions." I told our fabulous neighbors, who had 8 family members--including 5 children--staying with them "I'm not sure yet, but I may be sending the boys over for their slumber party tonite. And may I please have your middle name and email address for my work paperwork?" I told Carol (the midwife), "Just so you know, I might be having some contractions. I'll let you know if things get interesting." And Carol texted back, "Hmmm, my first-time-mom client might be showing signs of early labor too."
And suddenly I switched mental tactics and thought, "I have GOT to beat the first-time-mom!" (Geez Skerrib, competitive much?!) and I allowed myself to think, "She just might come out after all..."
Part II Part III Part IV Part V
I should probably get this down, while it's fairly fresh, and before the true hectic-ness (Hectic-ment? Hecticity??) of 3 kids sets in for reals. The Youngest--she doesn't have an official bloggy-name yet, but I'll start with The Youngest and go from there--made her entrance about as early as one can on a given day, 1203 AM on Friday, April 6.
The plan this time was, again, a homebirth. I was so pleased with how things went with The Littler One that, barring any complications or issues, it was a no-brainer for me to choose the homebirth route again. My midwife from before doesn't travel all the way from Denver to Cheyenne anymore. She said she would for me (because she is just that fantastic), but it turned out a colleague of hers in Fort Collins was starting a new homebirth practice, and I thought "Hey, Fort Collins is that much closer than Denver, if she's a good fit for us this could be good too." The new (to us) midwife is also a CNM (Certified Nurse Midwife, as opposed to a CPM--Certified Professional Midwife--who are credentialed differently and not covered by Tricare, so the CNM-part was kind of important to me), and has been practicing in hospital settings for years but recently made the switch to homebirths. So we set up a meeting, and got acquainted, and long story short, we went with the new midwife in Ft Collins.
Now, the last time I did such a good job of anticipating a not-early baby that it nearly shocked me when The Littler One came at 39 weeks and in just over 5 hours from start to finish. This time I did such a terrible job of anticipating a not-early baby that it threw me for a loop when I sped not-so-swiftly past 39 weeks...and then 40. I began alternating grumpy days and OK-days, and tried to keep up with the tidying and grocery shopping and so on, and finally convinced myself that she had decided to just stay put forever and was never coming out. Once I determined this, things didn't exactly get cheerful, but they did get more bearable. When friends/relatives/foreign ambassadors from small republics pulled the old "So, anything yet???" I could explain that, in fact, there would never be anything because my daughter was just going to stay put, because apparently my womb is quite comfortable and sufficient for long-term sustenance. Then they were all, "Oh, ha ha Skerrib!" and I felt good about not burning any bridges with overly-snarky responses, because I had some serious snark available had the situation called for it, but I knew that people were just being nice, so I didn't really want to, um, alienate anyone or anything.
By this time it was Thursday April 5--40 weeks and 4 days. Two other friends due right around the same time had had their babies, and in a deep and secret corner of my brain I thought, "If she were to decide to come out, she would round out the group of 3 quite nicely," followed quickly by "but she's staying in forever. Too bad."
Then I got a call from work. It turned out I needed to fill out some security paperwork (because I'm very important and official) and I thought "Good, something to keep me occupied," and I figured I should get started on it, just in case she decided to come out, even though she probably never would. I joked with my boss that maybe having a task to accomplish would start labor, and then realized that just by hoping to start labor I was dooming myself further to perma-pregnancy, and I assured my boss that I should be able to get the paperwork filled out in the next day or two. So I fed the boyz lunch and got to it.
It's an interesting thing, the subconscious. I'd been having Braxton-Hicks contractions for months in the afternoons. They are the laid-back "practice" contractions that don't usually mean much. In my case it has always been very distinct when actual labor contractions started, so I don't generally pay a whole lot of attention to the BH's. But you know, by this point I did know that I had them mostly in the afternoon/evenings, that they were never closer than 10 minutes apart, and that by reclining and drinking water they would pretty much subside. I don't know that I ever consciously told myself or anyone else all of this...but as I was filling out my paperwork I noticed that they kept coming every 10 minutes or so, even though I was drinking water, and they were starting to resemble more of a "wave" pattern, where they would gradually get more intense and then subside. Suddenly they were different than before.
"Maybe I'll just start keeping track of these," I told myself, "even though she's never coming out." So starting at 1:41 pm, in between tracking down past residences and references and such, just for grins & giggles, I wrote down start times, and pulled up an online stopwatch.
After an hour or so I texted a few folks. I told the Cat Daddy "Don't come home yet, but I might be having a few contractions." I told our fabulous neighbors, who had 8 family members--including 5 children--staying with them "I'm not sure yet, but I may be sending the boys over for their slumber party tonite. And may I please have your middle name and email address for my work paperwork?" I told Carol (the midwife), "Just so you know, I might be having some contractions. I'll let you know if things get interesting." And Carol texted back, "Hmmm, my first-time-mom client might be showing signs of early labor too."
And suddenly I switched mental tactics and thought, "I have GOT to beat the first-time-mom!" (Geez Skerrib, competitive much?!) and I allowed myself to think, "She just might come out after all..."
Part II Part III Part IV Part V
Feb 26, 2012
Spoonful of Sugar Not Required...
These are the things you need to know ahead of time:
--We are moving to the DC-area this summer (unless it's Alabama instead, but at this point it's DC), so we are in the process of de-cluttering and trying to make/keep our house looking nice in anticipation of people coming to look at it. Hopefully someone will like it enough to buy it.
--Some folks we know are actually thinking about buying a house, so they made plans to come look at our house after church today, to see if it might be a possibility for them.
--I'm relationally-oriented. Given the demands of managing the household, I can generally accomplish 1-2 tasky-type tasks in a given day.
--The Cat Daddy is task-oriented. Given 1-2 hours and assuming things go smoothly, the Cat Daddy will manage 5-6 tasky-tasks, along with dressing and grooming the children, including styling their hair with product. If things get in any way "sporty," the Cat Daddy will still accomplish all of the above, but will get a little intense.
So, this morning I had to be to church early for music practice. Things were going along swimmingly and we were getting close to the end of practice, when I saw the sound/tech guy flagging down the leader (or so I thought) from the tech area.
"Hey Leader, Sound/Tech Guy is flagging you down."
But the the sound/tech guy gesticulated that no, he was addressing me.
"Skerrib, I am talking to you. I got a text from the Cat Daddy saying to call him ASAP."
To which I replied, "OK I'll call him." Because for the Cat Daddy to text other people in search of me has the potential for urgency. Not certain urgency, mind you, but definitely the potential. I grabbed my phone (which I'd left in my bag) and dialed, and found a very worked up Cat Daddy on the other end. I learned the following, in rapid-fire fashion and in this order:
--The Cat Daddy needed to find the carpet cleaner because...
--The Littler One drank an undetermined amount of Children's Tylenol-Equivalent and spilled the rest on the carpet, and oh-by-the-way how much was in the bottle to begin with because...
--Poison Control told him that the danger point for this particular medicine is 2.5 oz. Also...
--The boyz were in bigger trouble than usual and the Cat Daddy was angrier than usual, and if I could come home in between practice and church to help clean up for our guests that would be fabulous.
So I did. I walked in the door expecting to find bedlam, but instead found a surprisingly peaceful situation. The boys were very sad because they'd had (among other things) their TV privileges taken away, and the first of several severe talking-to's, and were being made to clean up their toys (heaven forbid). The Cat Daddy was still very worked up and very loud, and had made the basement carpet immaculate.
Being relationally-oriented the first thing I did was sit down and asked the boys what on earth had happened. They--all three of them--in turn told me the whole story. His Highness had gotten into the locked pantry in search of a snack, because we don't feed him enough and he was far too hungry to wait for Daddy to help him find something to eat. The Littler One, despite my having vetoed it 2 hours prior, finagled his brother into, at the very least, turning a blind eye while he scaled the shelves and snagged the medicine. He then took said medicine downstairs where Daddy wouldn't hear him, and outsmarted the not-so-childproof cap so he could take a drink. The Cat Daddy went downstairs a short time later to find the scene and it was all downhill from there. Daddy called Poison Control, determined The Littler One was probably OK (but with instructions to call back if he started puking--a bad thing in this situation), and set out to find the carpet cleaner, the not-finding of which led to the frantic calling and texting of me, and there we were (our carpet cleaner is out on loan, so The Cat Daddy had to borrow the full-size cleaner from our fabulous neighbors).
So I verified that yes, I was most definitely in support of the consequences Daddy enforced, to which His Highness started crying afresh, saying, "But he took away my TV! I need my TV!" And The Littler One got teary-eyed, saying "Daddy 'pank my butt." And I was very sympathetic and gave them hugs, and assured them I was glad everyone was OK and that this was serious and dangerous stuff, hence the serious consequences. Then I went upstairs to clean the kitchen before heading back to church (given the magnitude of the ordeal, and the Cat Daddy's desire to keep tidying, they all stayed home).
Everyone at church was curious and concerned, and then relieved to hear that all was well and no one poisoned themselves. They prayed for us and we all thanked God that it turned out to be a funny story instead of something much more serious, because really it could have gone that way pretty easily.
So in the end we:
--Deduced that since the 4 oz medicine bottle was previously maybe half full, and The Littler One drank maybe a couple swigs of it before spilling the rest, then he likely came nowhere near the 2.5 oz danger zone. Plus he stayed chipper and didn't puke, so that's good.
--Were still as grave as possible when telling the boys why they must never ever EVER get into the medicine, or help each other get into the medicine, or even, for now, work the pantry locks to get harmless stuff like granola bars by themselves.
--Got the house tidier than it's been in a week, and basked in it for 5 minutes before the kids started messing it up again.
All in all, a full and abundant day. Although I think the Cat Daddy could use a Valium...
--We are moving to the DC-area this summer (unless it's Alabama instead, but at this point it's DC), so we are in the process of de-cluttering and trying to make/keep our house looking nice in anticipation of people coming to look at it. Hopefully someone will like it enough to buy it.
--Some folks we know are actually thinking about buying a house, so they made plans to come look at our house after church today, to see if it might be a possibility for them.
--I'm relationally-oriented. Given the demands of managing the household, I can generally accomplish 1-2 tasky-type tasks in a given day.
--The Cat Daddy is task-oriented. Given 1-2 hours and assuming things go smoothly, the Cat Daddy will manage 5-6 tasky-tasks, along with dressing and grooming the children, including styling their hair with product. If things get in any way "sporty," the Cat Daddy will still accomplish all of the above, but will get a little intense.
So, this morning I had to be to church early for music practice. Things were going along swimmingly and we were getting close to the end of practice, when I saw the sound/tech guy flagging down the leader (or so I thought) from the tech area.
"Hey Leader, Sound/Tech Guy is flagging you down."
But the the sound/tech guy gesticulated that no, he was addressing me.
"Skerrib, I am talking to you. I got a text from the Cat Daddy saying to call him ASAP."
To which I replied, "OK I'll call him." Because for the Cat Daddy to text other people in search of me has the potential for urgency. Not certain urgency, mind you, but definitely the potential. I grabbed my phone (which I'd left in my bag) and dialed, and found a very worked up Cat Daddy on the other end. I learned the following, in rapid-fire fashion and in this order:
--The Cat Daddy needed to find the carpet cleaner because...
--The Littler One drank an undetermined amount of Children's Tylenol-Equivalent and spilled the rest on the carpet, and oh-by-the-way how much was in the bottle to begin with because...
--Poison Control told him that the danger point for this particular medicine is 2.5 oz. Also...
--The boyz were in bigger trouble than usual and the Cat Daddy was angrier than usual, and if I could come home in between practice and church to help clean up for our guests that would be fabulous.
So I did. I walked in the door expecting to find bedlam, but instead found a surprisingly peaceful situation. The boys were very sad because they'd had (among other things) their TV privileges taken away, and the first of several severe talking-to's, and were being made to clean up their toys (heaven forbid). The Cat Daddy was still very worked up and very loud, and had made the basement carpet immaculate.
Being relationally-oriented the first thing I did was sit down and asked the boys what on earth had happened. They--all three of them--in turn told me the whole story. His Highness had gotten into the locked pantry in search of a snack, because we don't feed him enough and he was far too hungry to wait for Daddy to help him find something to eat. The Littler One, despite my having vetoed it 2 hours prior, finagled his brother into, at the very least, turning a blind eye while he scaled the shelves and snagged the medicine. He then took said medicine downstairs where Daddy wouldn't hear him, and outsmarted the not-so-childproof cap so he could take a drink. The Cat Daddy went downstairs a short time later to find the scene and it was all downhill from there. Daddy called Poison Control, determined The Littler One was probably OK (but with instructions to call back if he started puking--a bad thing in this situation), and set out to find the carpet cleaner, the not-finding of which led to the frantic calling and texting of me, and there we were (our carpet cleaner is out on loan, so The Cat Daddy had to borrow the full-size cleaner from our fabulous neighbors).
So I verified that yes, I was most definitely in support of the consequences Daddy enforced, to which His Highness started crying afresh, saying, "But he took away my TV! I need my TV!" And The Littler One got teary-eyed, saying "Daddy 'pank my butt." And I was very sympathetic and gave them hugs, and assured them I was glad everyone was OK and that this was serious and dangerous stuff, hence the serious consequences. Then I went upstairs to clean the kitchen before heading back to church (given the magnitude of the ordeal, and the Cat Daddy's desire to keep tidying, they all stayed home).
Everyone at church was curious and concerned, and then relieved to hear that all was well and no one poisoned themselves. They prayed for us and we all thanked God that it turned out to be a funny story instead of something much more serious, because really it could have gone that way pretty easily.
So in the end we:
--Deduced that since the 4 oz medicine bottle was previously maybe half full, and The Littler One drank maybe a couple swigs of it before spilling the rest, then he likely came nowhere near the 2.5 oz danger zone. Plus he stayed chipper and didn't puke, so that's good.
--Were still as grave as possible when telling the boys why they must never ever EVER get into the medicine, or help each other get into the medicine, or even, for now, work the pantry locks to get harmless stuff like granola bars by themselves.
--Got the house tidier than it's been in a week, and basked in it for 5 minutes before the kids started messing it up again.
All in all, a full and abundant day. Although I think the Cat Daddy could use a Valium...
Feb 1, 2012
And Now for Something Completely Different...
I had an epiphany last week.
And just so you know, my epiphanies are not your ordinary epiphanies. I've had maybe, like, 3 of the kind of epiphanies people write home about, when something I've been struggling with becomes clearer, or God gives me some sort of nudge that helps me know what I need to do next, or all of algebra suddenly makes sense (it happened in calculus and it was awesome).
The rest are more along the lines of what happened last week. And last week it involved the hamster dance:
This is a popular song in our family. They play this techno-version often on the radio (KidsPlace Live, baby, yeah), but I learned about the original, slower one years ago. And it has always sounded vaguely familiar to me.
So one day last week I walked into the gym on base to do my 30 minutes of pregnant-lady-paced elliptical machining. The Littler One was with me, so we went to the parent-kid workout room, where they show the Disney Channel. And Robin Hood was just starting (it wasn't in Spanish like this clip is, but wouldn't that have been fantastic and multi-cultural?):
Did you hear it there, that last time thru? Exactly. I always felt they were related, but that has got to be THE 20 seconds or so which went into the 10 seconds or so that make up the Hamster Dance loop. I was pretty sure I wasn't the first to figure it out, and looking it up on YouTube I found there were plenty before me who made the connection. But I would bet that, out of 97% of my friends, family, and acquaintances, I am the first to identify the specific 20 seconds of film that correspond directly to the Hamster Dance. Mostly because out of 97% of my friends, family, and acquaintances, I am likely the only one to bother with noticing that there was even a connection to be made in the first place, but I will take it and be grateful to give that tiny corner of my brain a reason to move onto something else.
It's one of those loose ends in life that you don't necessarily think about. I mean, I knew it was there, but I promise it didn't plague me on a regular basis. And then out of nowhere, BAM! The connection is made, and things get tied up rather neatly.
So there you have it. You're welcome...
And just so you know, my epiphanies are not your ordinary epiphanies. I've had maybe, like, 3 of the kind of epiphanies people write home about, when something I've been struggling with becomes clearer, or God gives me some sort of nudge that helps me know what I need to do next, or all of algebra suddenly makes sense (it happened in calculus and it was awesome).
The rest are more along the lines of what happened last week. And last week it involved the hamster dance:
This is a popular song in our family. They play this techno-version often on the radio (KidsPlace Live, baby, yeah), but I learned about the original, slower one years ago. And it has always sounded vaguely familiar to me.
So one day last week I walked into the gym on base to do my 30 minutes of pregnant-lady-paced elliptical machining. The Littler One was with me, so we went to the parent-kid workout room, where they show the Disney Channel. And Robin Hood was just starting (it wasn't in Spanish like this clip is, but wouldn't that have been fantastic and multi-cultural?):
Did you hear it there, that last time thru? Exactly. I always felt they were related, but that has got to be THE 20 seconds or so which went into the 10 seconds or so that make up the Hamster Dance loop. I was pretty sure I wasn't the first to figure it out, and looking it up on YouTube I found there were plenty before me who made the connection. But I would bet that, out of 97% of my friends, family, and acquaintances, I am the first to identify the specific 20 seconds of film that correspond directly to the Hamster Dance. Mostly because out of 97% of my friends, family, and acquaintances, I am likely the only one to bother with noticing that there was even a connection to be made in the first place, but I will take it and be grateful to give that tiny corner of my brain a reason to move onto something else.
It's one of those loose ends in life that you don't necessarily think about. I mean, I knew it was there, but I promise it didn't plague me on a regular basis. And then out of nowhere, BAM! The connection is made, and things get tied up rather neatly.
So there you have it. You're welcome...
Jan 2, 2012
Happy Friggin' New Year...
So, it's the New Year.
I didn't make any resolutions. I figured giving birth and relocating, all while working my tushy off to preserve personal sanity, will be more than enough challenge for the year.
I'm also very, um, dry lately, as far as humor and overall outlook. I'm not mad, or sad, or ungrateful, or anything like that. At least I don't think so. Just ultra-practical, let's say, when it comes to the emotional state of my world. Like most pregnant ladies, I tear up fairly easily, so maybe I'm subconsciously compensating for wanting to cry at inspirational "Parks & Recreation" episodes or something (Or maybe the Christmas episode was just that inspirational; who knows).
I've compartmentalized myself into three categories: Awesome Skerrib, Regular Skerrib, and Depressed Skerrib. Awesome Skerrib is, by most standards, the awesomest of the three. I almost called this one Medicated Skerrib, but I still have an internal stigma about mentioning the meds, so Awesome Skerrib it is. Awesome Skerrib isn't exactly high-capacity, but is fairly effective at keeping up with her life. She is what some would call Zen--she can roll with the punches and isn't fazed by much. In fact, she could probably stand to be a little more fazed sometimes. She's also pretty cheerful most of the time, and has days where she's almost bouncy with gratitude and happy feelings because she appreciates her life.
Regular Skerrib (ie Unmedicated) is not quite as awesome as Awesome Skerrib, but does alright. She's a little melancholy overall, which isn't bad or detrimental most of the time, it's just her personality. She probably comes across as more aloof, but doesn't mean to. Still grateful and appreciative of life, just less demonstrative about the whole thing. Regular Skerrib can't handle quite as much as Awesome Skerrib; she has to be more careful about monitoring her energy levels because her anxiety is more easily triggered, thereby sucking her energy, which can send her spiraling toward Depressed Skerrib. She has to get clarification more often, especially with regard to social interactions and personal conversations, because it's easy to read things between the lines that aren't there, so she has to make sure, 'cuz otherwise she'll be up half the night worrying about stupid things, which will suck her energy, etc., etc., etc. Basically, Regular Skerrib has to put a little more effort into her life--not that there's anything wrong with that--and consequently needs to be deliberate about also getting rest and down-time. And she's a bit of a sleep-Nazi.
Depressed Skerrib is a sad puddle of goo. She is pretty sure there is an actual cloud over her head, directing those around her to be judgemental, if not directly unkind or at least insensitive. So she's just a tad defensive a lot of the time. She's exhausted all the time, but also gets insomnia a lot, and has a physical feeling of sadness and doom that's connected to the cloud. Most social interaction seriously tires her out. Big groups give her the deer-in-the-headlights look. She has a really hard time keeping up with her life each day, to the point that she has a hard time summoning the gumption for things like getting dressed or preparing meals. There's nothing so horrible going on in her actual circumstances as to induce these feelings, and she knows it, but somehow she can't kick herself out of the rut. Which makes her feel worse. Depressed Skerrib needs help.
These days I'm mostly Regular Skerrib, but as I described above I have to be super-careful about slipping into Depressed Skerrib. Most of my days are fairly decent, and I'm pretty good at recognizing the bad days. Which is important, because those are early-to-bed days, which helps immensely. I go back & forth about wanting to be Awesome Skerrib, but lamenting that Awesome Skerrib is chemically induced (enhanced?), so there's a little ambivalence about that. Then again, we take things like ibuprofen to enhance us when we're in pain, or insulin to enhance us when our pancreas doesn't work right, so isn't keeping one's brain chemicals in balance similar? It's kind of like in the movie "Limitless," where the guy took the super-drug and was almost super-human, but then which was his real self? Was he becoming something false, or just realizing his potential?
And there's also a good bit to be said about the skills and emotional healing I've gained over the years--I'm most definitely able to remain Regular Skerrib way more often than I was 10 years ago. The way I see it is that, for me anyway, the meds clear my head enough so that I've been able to learn how to stay sane better overall. So there's that.
There's also something to be said about the journey of it all. I was talking with the Good Reverend's wife (and STILL wish it could've been a longer convo 'cuz she's fantastic) about how there are a lot of worthy aspects about the highs and lows of "regular" life. Awesome Skerrib is by far the easiest in terms of effort, but there's a richness to Regular Skerrib that Awesome Skerrib just doesn't have (again, not that that's bad; it's just different). Awesome Skerrib sometimes has to "just trust" God's presence more often because she doesn't always feel it, while Regular Skerrib has to lean into God's presence way more, because on the bad days, even with positive self-talk and reasoning and friends to talk her down, the assurance of God being there right next to her and caring about her is very often the only thing that makes it worth the effort.
Unfortunately, Regular Skerrib is often less skilled with thinking up clever ways to end blog posts, and so says lame stuff like "Speaking of sleep-Nazis, it's time to unplug and unwind..."
My apologies for that part. Awesome Skerrib would think of something way more clever...
I didn't make any resolutions. I figured giving birth and relocating, all while working my tushy off to preserve personal sanity, will be more than enough challenge for the year.
I'm also very, um, dry lately, as far as humor and overall outlook. I'm not mad, or sad, or ungrateful, or anything like that. At least I don't think so. Just ultra-practical, let's say, when it comes to the emotional state of my world. Like most pregnant ladies, I tear up fairly easily, so maybe I'm subconsciously compensating for wanting to cry at inspirational "Parks & Recreation" episodes or something (Or maybe the Christmas episode was just that inspirational; who knows).
I've compartmentalized myself into three categories: Awesome Skerrib, Regular Skerrib, and Depressed Skerrib. Awesome Skerrib is, by most standards, the awesomest of the three. I almost called this one Medicated Skerrib, but I still have an internal stigma about mentioning the meds, so Awesome Skerrib it is. Awesome Skerrib isn't exactly high-capacity, but is fairly effective at keeping up with her life. She is what some would call Zen--she can roll with the punches and isn't fazed by much. In fact, she could probably stand to be a little more fazed sometimes. She's also pretty cheerful most of the time, and has days where she's almost bouncy with gratitude and happy feelings because she appreciates her life.
Regular Skerrib (ie Unmedicated) is not quite as awesome as Awesome Skerrib, but does alright. She's a little melancholy overall, which isn't bad or detrimental most of the time, it's just her personality. She probably comes across as more aloof, but doesn't mean to. Still grateful and appreciative of life, just less demonstrative about the whole thing. Regular Skerrib can't handle quite as much as Awesome Skerrib; she has to be more careful about monitoring her energy levels because her anxiety is more easily triggered, thereby sucking her energy, which can send her spiraling toward Depressed Skerrib. She has to get clarification more often, especially with regard to social interactions and personal conversations, because it's easy to read things between the lines that aren't there, so she has to make sure, 'cuz otherwise she'll be up half the night worrying about stupid things, which will suck her energy, etc., etc., etc. Basically, Regular Skerrib has to put a little more effort into her life--not that there's anything wrong with that--and consequently needs to be deliberate about also getting rest and down-time. And she's a bit of a sleep-Nazi.
Depressed Skerrib is a sad puddle of goo. She is pretty sure there is an actual cloud over her head, directing those around her to be judgemental, if not directly unkind or at least insensitive. So she's just a tad defensive a lot of the time. She's exhausted all the time, but also gets insomnia a lot, and has a physical feeling of sadness and doom that's connected to the cloud. Most social interaction seriously tires her out. Big groups give her the deer-in-the-headlights look. She has a really hard time keeping up with her life each day, to the point that she has a hard time summoning the gumption for things like getting dressed or preparing meals. There's nothing so horrible going on in her actual circumstances as to induce these feelings, and she knows it, but somehow she can't kick herself out of the rut. Which makes her feel worse. Depressed Skerrib needs help.
These days I'm mostly Regular Skerrib, but as I described above I have to be super-careful about slipping into Depressed Skerrib. Most of my days are fairly decent, and I'm pretty good at recognizing the bad days. Which is important, because those are early-to-bed days, which helps immensely. I go back & forth about wanting to be Awesome Skerrib, but lamenting that Awesome Skerrib is chemically induced (enhanced?), so there's a little ambivalence about that. Then again, we take things like ibuprofen to enhance us when we're in pain, or insulin to enhance us when our pancreas doesn't work right, so isn't keeping one's brain chemicals in balance similar? It's kind of like in the movie "Limitless," where the guy took the super-drug and was almost super-human, but then which was his real self? Was he becoming something false, or just realizing his potential?
And there's also a good bit to be said about the skills and emotional healing I've gained over the years--I'm most definitely able to remain Regular Skerrib way more often than I was 10 years ago. The way I see it is that, for me anyway, the meds clear my head enough so that I've been able to learn how to stay sane better overall. So there's that.
There's also something to be said about the journey of it all. I was talking with the Good Reverend's wife (and STILL wish it could've been a longer convo 'cuz she's fantastic) about how there are a lot of worthy aspects about the highs and lows of "regular" life. Awesome Skerrib is by far the easiest in terms of effort, but there's a richness to Regular Skerrib that Awesome Skerrib just doesn't have (again, not that that's bad; it's just different). Awesome Skerrib sometimes has to "just trust" God's presence more often because she doesn't always feel it, while Regular Skerrib has to lean into God's presence way more, because on the bad days, even with positive self-talk and reasoning and friends to talk her down, the assurance of God being there right next to her and caring about her is very often the only thing that makes it worth the effort.
Unfortunately, Regular Skerrib is often less skilled with thinking up clever ways to end blog posts, and so says lame stuff like "Speaking of sleep-Nazis, it's time to unplug and unwind..."
My apologies for that part. Awesome Skerrib would think of something way more clever...
Nov 14, 2011
Given the Circumstances...
I have decided I am not a kind wife when it comes to my husband being sick.
There are a lot of factors here, especially with regard to the timing of this particular illness, and I should probably feel at least a little bad, if not about the fact that he is sick, then perhaps about the fact that I feel more sternness than compassion (I told him he was being ridiculous and needed to be sick more quietly).
To begin with, last week was one for the books that detail a mom's most dreaded events in life: at home with the kids and sickness in the house. In a nutshell, the kids got sick, and then I got sick, and then we were all sick-ish for longer than I am accustomed to.
During this time the Cat Daddy was on a 10-day TDY (ie, business trip). It was a big convention of sorts, the culmination of months of hard work from folks around the nation. So they came together to wrap up their efforts. The Cat Daddy was in charge of making sure certain portions came together, and making sure other folks did what they were supposed to, and stuff like that. In the end, the Cat Daddy's wing (big group of people at work) came home with some high honors, and he had a super-duper time of things. A work hard/play harder situation, if you will.
Some (including me) would call it a boondoggle, but everything was on the up & up. Plus, I remember some really cool business trips I got to take in a previous life, so I really don't want to begrudge him a fun work trip. It's just a bit of a slap in the face to be sipping chicken soup (lovingly brought by a friend), having cleaned poop off the carpet for the zillionth time in a week, and be subjected to stories about cool hotels, and casinos during off-time, and whatnot. Pleased for him; bummed out about the timing for me.
Anyhow, time passed, the boys got mostly better, I got marginally better, and the Cat Daddy returned--Yay!! The weekend passed quickly with us painting several rooms in our house (with another loving friend keeping the boys for the weekend), just in time for the Cat Daddy to come down with what I assume is the same crud the boys and I had.
Now, once I discovered/admitted that it was in fact a bug infecting our family (a week or so ago), I canceled and minimized commitments, and we stayed close to home and watched a whole lot of TV. No fun, but minimally invasive, all things considered. Although it has taken longer than I felt it should have, the boys' functions are all very-nearly normal again, and while I have lingering blahs, I'm definitely on the upswing. So I was feeling optimistic-ish about this week. Fresh start, easing back into health, and so on.
The Cat Daddy on the other hand, is quite possibly the epitome of husband-sickness. Where I have accused him of Suck-It-Up Syndrome in other areas of life, when it comes to sickness he lets it all out and then some. And due to the nature of his job, he can't just take a couple days off and get better. He had to report to sick call at the base clinic bright and early this morning. Sick call is where they can make sure folks aren't faking, get all up in their business, and also get them the medical care they need to get better quick and get back to work. The Cat Daddy has driven himself to sick call in the past, and once in the past he came up with a fairly nasty sickness which implied that he probably should not have driven himself to sick call, and I think I probably have some lingering guilt from that...so when he asked me to drive him this morning I agreed.
"This is not fair!!" I said.
But even with sick call it's not quite that simple--he has paperwork to fill out. So we had to stop by the office both before & after sick call. And the doctor gave him anti-nausea meds to help him thru the crud, and then gave him more paperwork ordering him "to quarters" for a couple days to recover. Meaning, he is ordered to stay home and rest.
"I did not get paperwork ordering me to rest!" I said in my head.
He asked me to drive home faster.
I told him to stop talking and go to sleep and be sick.
He is sad I'm mad at him for getting sick. I contend that I'm really not mad at the real and true Cat Daddy. I'm mad at his virus, and I'm mad at his sick-self, who needs to sleep it off and please-stop-moaning-so-I-can-sleep-for-goodness'-sake.
In his defense, he stopped the moaning. I think he'll be on the upswing by tomorrow. Maybe we'll all be on the road to health by the end of the week. I hope. I don't have any boondoggles on the horizon, but I am plotting little pockets of escape for myself in the coming weeks.
I don't think the Caribbean is unreasonable...
There are a lot of factors here, especially with regard to the timing of this particular illness, and I should probably feel at least a little bad, if not about the fact that he is sick, then perhaps about the fact that I feel more sternness than compassion (I told him he was being ridiculous and needed to be sick more quietly).
To begin with, last week was one for the books that detail a mom's most dreaded events in life: at home with the kids and sickness in the house. In a nutshell, the kids got sick, and then I got sick, and then we were all sick-ish for longer than I am accustomed to.
During this time the Cat Daddy was on a 10-day TDY (ie, business trip). It was a big convention of sorts, the culmination of months of hard work from folks around the nation. So they came together to wrap up their efforts. The Cat Daddy was in charge of making sure certain portions came together, and making sure other folks did what they were supposed to, and stuff like that. In the end, the Cat Daddy's wing (big group of people at work) came home with some high honors, and he had a super-duper time of things. A work hard/play harder situation, if you will.
Some (including me) would call it a boondoggle, but everything was on the up & up. Plus, I remember some really cool business trips I got to take in a previous life, so I really don't want to begrudge him a fun work trip. It's just a bit of a slap in the face to be sipping chicken soup (lovingly brought by a friend), having cleaned poop off the carpet for the zillionth time in a week, and be subjected to stories about cool hotels, and casinos during off-time, and whatnot. Pleased for him; bummed out about the timing for me.
Anyhow, time passed, the boys got mostly better, I got marginally better, and the Cat Daddy returned--Yay!! The weekend passed quickly with us painting several rooms in our house (with another loving friend keeping the boys for the weekend), just in time for the Cat Daddy to come down with what I assume is the same crud the boys and I had.
Now, once I discovered/admitted that it was in fact a bug infecting our family (a week or so ago), I canceled and minimized commitments, and we stayed close to home and watched a whole lot of TV. No fun, but minimally invasive, all things considered. Although it has taken longer than I felt it should have, the boys' functions are all very-nearly normal again, and while I have lingering blahs, I'm definitely on the upswing. So I was feeling optimistic-ish about this week. Fresh start, easing back into health, and so on.
The Cat Daddy on the other hand, is quite possibly the epitome of husband-sickness. Where I have accused him of Suck-It-Up Syndrome in other areas of life, when it comes to sickness he lets it all out and then some. And due to the nature of his job, he can't just take a couple days off and get better. He had to report to sick call at the base clinic bright and early this morning. Sick call is where they can make sure folks aren't faking, get all up in their business, and also get them the medical care they need to get better quick and get back to work. The Cat Daddy has driven himself to sick call in the past, and once in the past he came up with a fairly nasty sickness which implied that he probably should not have driven himself to sick call, and I think I probably have some lingering guilt from that...so when he asked me to drive him this morning I agreed.
"This is not fair!!" I said.
But even with sick call it's not quite that simple--he has paperwork to fill out. So we had to stop by the office both before & after sick call. And the doctor gave him anti-nausea meds to help him thru the crud, and then gave him more paperwork ordering him "to quarters" for a couple days to recover. Meaning, he is ordered to stay home and rest.
"I did not get paperwork ordering me to rest!" I said in my head.
He asked me to drive home faster.
I told him to stop talking and go to sleep and be sick.
He is sad I'm mad at him for getting sick. I contend that I'm really not mad at the real and true Cat Daddy. I'm mad at his virus, and I'm mad at his sick-self, who needs to sleep it off and please-stop-moaning-so-I-can-sleep-for-goodness'-sake.
In his defense, he stopped the moaning. I think he'll be on the upswing by tomorrow. Maybe we'll all be on the road to health by the end of the week. I hope. I don't have any boondoggles on the horizon, but I am plotting little pockets of escape for myself in the coming weeks.
I don't think the Caribbean is unreasonable...
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