blown away

Christie, Dorothy, Meg, Lia, Eve, Girlysmack, Robin, Peggy, Adam and Suzanne:

I was so shy after I'd posted that last post. But I'd felt like I'd been giving such a one-sided picture of my experience, all milk and perfume and baby captions. I felt like a phony if I didn't tell more of the truth.

And what a reward. I wept (in a good way!) when each of your responses came in. I have a dear friend who's been sort of so-so about blogs, but she read my post and more especially your responses, and there the beauty of a blog was revealed.

You are all so kind, and your support really comes in like sweet fuel during this bumpy time. I want you to know that I'm deeply taking in everything you've said, and I so appreciate the level of your responses. How comforting to hear your stories, and how touching. My god, how life doles it out sometimes. I won't be shy about seeking help, and if we determine that medication's the ticket, then I won't balk. I have a fantastic therapist that I see, and I'll be talking a mile a minute in there.

I will say that most of the time, I'm on the up and up. It's just that occasionally I step where I think there's floor or ground, and instead I fall into a hole for a while.

I'll also say that it's as though Finn read the post and decided to kick it up about fifty notches for me. Since Sunday night, Finn's started looking at me, and today (Monday) he started truly gazing and smiling at me. Good God. Transcendent, transcendent feeling. Tonight he was snuggled and blanketed in my lap like a sleepy samurai warlord, and my face was just a few inches from his as he was heading into slumber. We were staring into each other's eyes, and I felt like the boundary between us just slipped away the longer we looked. He felt like every being in the world, and the only being, like life itself. That was a hole I fell into with bells on.

How can there not be improvement when sweet beings like you all send such loving energy our way? Your contribution to our well-being is real, and deeply felt. I'm thinking of each of you and wishing to return the favor. I'm willing for you that any pains in your lives lift and blow away. I hope blessings rain down on you, like the ones you sent to rain on me.

then there's the other part

I think that postpartum depression and I are eyeing each other from across the room. I think it's trying to buy me a drink into which it's slipped a terrible roofie. That's the other part, that I haven't so much talked about.

I want to talk about it.

In my post about Finn's birth, I didn't get to the real hard parts. The real hard parts had nothing to do with physical pain. The first, and the worst, was during the second half of my cesarean. The first half - where they were pulling Finn out - was no problem. I was oddly relaxed, sort of bordering on euphoria. When Dave and I first heard his little cry from the other side of the blue curtain, I can't tell you the sweet shock of it. There was really a baby in there, ours, and that was his particular voice we were hearing for the first time. Dave went to go be with the baby, and since they wouldn't let my midwife into the operating room, I was left alone for the part where they put me back together.

That's where it started to get bad. I felt this horrible growing pressure on my chest that crept up to my neck, and it got heavier and heavier until it was all I could do to keep breathing. I tipped my head back to open my airways as far as I could, but it required 100% of my concentration to keep air coming in. The anaesthesiologist came over every couple of minutes to tell me that I was all right, and then he'd go back to chatting with some other man in scrubs. But I was truly scared about my inability to breathe. I felt wrong, like a fish struggling on land.

Dave came over, radiant and thrilled, and asked me if I wanted him to bring Finn over. Until the day I die, it will squeeze my heart terribly that I said no. I was having such a hard time breathing, and I was afraid that it would be so thrilling to see him that I would die on the spot. So the first time I saw Finn was on my friend Morgan's digital camera, when I was exhausted and blissed out of my mind on my dilotid drip in the recovery room. That detail has become unbelievably loathsome to me, seeing him first in that little camera square. And I can't stand how many people saw and held him before I did.

Then I was rolled in to see him in the neonatal ICU three hours later. I could barely stay awake to meet him, my eyes were rolling back in my head. I felt like this useless, grinning rag doll, scarcely related to him. Why is his wasted fourth cousin thrice removed being rolled in to see him? it felt like. Everything was bright and surreal and disappearing before my eyes as I kept falling asleep and dipping into tiny dreams.

The physical recovery from my c-section has been slow and tough, and as a result Dave has been Finn's main caregiver. Finn sleeps on Dave's side of the bed because once I'm reclined (I still can't lie down all the way) I can't get up to a sitting position by myself yet, so I can't respond quickly to his needs. Breastfeeding has been terribly difficult for us - five lactation consultants since his birth, anyone? - which is a wicked big can of worms. I'm pumping my milk most of the time, and having him at the breast when I feel the verve for it. When a feeding goes well, it's glorious. When a feeding goes poorly, it feels primally bad, concentratedly bad. I feel like I have nothing to offer him, that I'm a dud. I'm sobbing, he's sobbing, the atmosphere is crackling with tension.

I resent anyone but Dave who's able to love and enjoy Finn in a full, physical, lighthearted way, because I can't do it yet. And I'm jealous that Finn will gaze at Dave, right in his eyes. Now that he's just beginning to smile socially he's even given Dave some beautiful grins. But Finn looks right past me, or will fix on me neutrally for a few seconds and then move on.

I thought it was tough trying to remain graceful in labor. That was nothing. Trying to remain graceful and positive and loving now is taking more strength than anything ever has in my life. Bitterness is constantly rising in my throat, and I have to endlessly choke it back to bring my baby the clearest, best atmosphere I can muster.

Postpartum something may be brewing, and I find myself often in the fight for light. That's the other part. It's not always like this -I surface frequently, feel peace and joy and hope. But I'm teetering.

get out your lawnchairs...

...for it's a photo parade!

I give you:

1. Lawrence of Ababia



*intermission*




2. The New Rude Gesture




3. Untitled, Because Why Try?




4. Foxotronic Sleeper




5. Again, Why Try?



And in parting, I give you two sides of Finn Rowley:

6. Finny Soprano/Finny Cagney



7. Fluffy Gandhi



P.S. And another thing! Sweet Jesus. I love MS Paint already, but I have just discovered the Free Form Select feature. Ergo, here is Finn on our honeymoon with us two days before he was conceived. Magic!



P.P.S. It's clear that Honeymoon Dave could clairvoyantly see and react to the mind-jello-wiggling adorableness of the phantom Future Finn.

a very happy tina day to you

In college, I had a tradition for a while where I decided that every day was Tina Day and people should make little offerings to me. No offering was considered too small: pennies, empty matchbooks, deformed paperclips, broken pieces of tortilla chips. You just had to hand me a little thing and say Happy Tina Day. And you had to do it every day.

And now it's Mother's Day, a new version of Tina Day. I wonder what Finn is going to get me. He's probably made me a little card. He's probably going to make me some pancakes. He'll probably actually silently dedicate one of his small effortless milky pukes to me. A perfect offering. I'd eat it on toast, it's that unobjectionable.

It's 1:30 in the morning. What am I doing up? Why aren't I sleeping while I can?

Pepsi is why. I had a strategic Pepsi a few hours ago, meant to keep me awake through my traditional evening coma. It didn't take in time, so my head kept threatening to bob into my tacos. But now that it's beyond bedtime, I'm up. I just had a lovely hour and a half phone call with my mother-in-law in Australia.

This is the perfect time for non-sequiturs, this Pepsi-induced quiet awake time.

I love Finn's gums. I love his gummy mouth when he weeps. His mouth, when he weeps in earnest, takes on a Peanuts-style rounded rectangular shape. Finn has a couple of signature weeps that Dave and I find unbearably charming. One of them is, "La! La-a-a-a! La-a!" And the other is, "Nghee! Nghee!" I particularly adore his "La!" weep. I love that he doesn't know that "la" is a syllable usually used for singing. He's just using it. I hope he uses other syllables for weeping that have other connotations already. "Me!" or "You!" or "Bee!" or what have you.

Bee-ee-ee! La-a-a! Yoo-ooo-ou!

I'm starting to understand that Finn is actually my son. Up until now it's been like, my lord, what a beautiful child! I wonder whose he is! He certainly is adorable! Where are his parents? But now, he's starting to feel like....my paisan. He's my blood, my little countryman. When he weeps against the poo or the hunger or the gas, I feel indignant on his behalf. Yeah, you gas! What the fuck? This is my boy, here! You want a piece of me?

His head smells...all right, look, we've all talked about and heard about the smell of babies. But his perfume is remarkable! It's French, I think! It's subtle and elegant. Finn would have been a goner if he were a character in "Perfume", which I think is that novel where the guy with the freakishly keen nose kills pure people to harvest their perfumey essence. Finn would have been this guy's main course. He would have been the coup, the ultimate.

Enough. Let's look at him.








It's 2am now. Closing time. I don't have to go home but I can't stay here. Good night.

mooooooo

Mmmmmoooo.

MMMmmMMMooOOOOOOO!

MMMMMMmmmmMMMmmmmoooOO.


Mmooo.

MMmmooo.

Moooo.

Moo.



Also, mrrraow! Look at Man and Bun, Hot out of Oven. Man is now extremely cold out of oven, but yet still hot.

By the way, that was when Finn was just a baby. He's been here for two weeks now. Now he can kick my ass just with his neck muscles alone.

I hope you didn't get any milk on you during the reading of this post. If you didn't, it's more than I can say for myself.

More later.

P.S. I milkily make out with all of you kind commenters. As I've been recuperating and your comments have been coming in, they have made me weep with all of your sweetness. Salty sweet reading. I thank you many times. XO.

'ow was it, ringo?

'Arrowing.*

*My favorite bit from the movie "Yellow Submarine". Ringo went exploring, you see.

First things first. Finn is here and he is adverb-not-invented-yetly beautiful. He is an almondine elf-egg, a weird little old man wizard, the barest rosebud sketch of a human being. Line for an eye, line for an eye, little fluff mouth falling open, done. When he's lying asleep in my arms, I can't believe we made him. I stare at him and feel reverent and ferocious and unfairly blessed.


My friend Elizabeth, with Finn. She's one of the
key players in this story, along with many others
who will be named and thanked in subsequent posts.

I can't tell the whole story of his birth here, now. Too much. Too tired. I'll just do a sort of line drawing of the event. We'll see how much detail makes it in.

Wednesday, April 19th.

Labor begins early in the morning with persistent lower back pain. I spend the morning sitting on the bed and the couch and the birth ball, frowning and feeling inward. At 2pm I have a spurt where I don't want to look at anyone or speak to anyone. I stare down at my chest and feel weird and quiet, like I'm waiting for a drug to take effect. At 3pm the labor starts taking on a pattern and I feel more outward and talkative. We start timing contractions.

From 5-6-:30pm, things start blurring up and getting more serious. I'm working now. I'm on the birth ball in the living room or standing in the bathroom hanging on to the sink or a towel bar and someone's hand (whose hand varies). I must be getting close.

6:30-7:30. It gets as difficult as I thought it ever might get. I think things are moving quickly. Where is the midwife?? With every contraction, I have to choose anew to dig unprecedentedly deep and find something strong and positive and graceful with which to handle it. Graceful, why, you might ask? Maybe you can not be graceful while giving birth! Well, no. As it happens, for me, the search for grace turned out to be one of most important blades on the Swiss army knife of childbirth. I would have perished out there without it.

7:30-oh let's say 9:30. Assistants arrive, our midwife Felice arrives. Measuring, working. Tub lady arrives to set up tub. Tub is set up. It's dark out. I get to get in the tub. I have a reaction. Tub lady and Felice have never seen this level of enthusiasm for tub. Back labor. Everyone is taking turns squeezing my lower back during a contraction. I urgently grunt out directions, and as the contraction winds down, I attempt to thank the person who was squeezing me while I have a thankful word still floating in me somewhere to be ejected.

9:30-11:00. Don't want to talk about this part much. Everything is slow, then everything gets bad. Last part of this time, a decision has been made that I need to go to the hospital. It is a long, long road to the car. At top speed, I am traveling 20 fph*. Concern, a feeling of grimness is underneath everything, but on top we are all spreading the frosting of equanimity.

*feet per hour.

11pm. Arrive at Swedish. I make my friend Martha stand next to me in triage because she smells like Ammachi, the Indian hugging saint that I love. Sandalwood trumps meconium. The nurses keep bumping my knee pillow, which is inconceivable to me. You can't bump a woman's knee pillow at this point. You'd think a nurse would know better. I am as ugly and messy as I have ever been. It can't get worse. This has to be the worst. I'm to be given Pitocin and

an epidural!****


****these letters can't be sparkly enough

1am. I've been transferred to my labor and delivery room. It's nice. Nice lighting. Lots of wood. I have a standard sound I make when the contractions hit, I know just how to make it. It's low and has a lot of "O" in it. My i.v. is in and the fluid is getting in. Enough gets in. They give me the epidural. I wait. It hits.

The possibility of Dave and I having more than one child is re-opened.

1am-8am. I have an infection and a fever, and Finn's heartbeat is all over the joint. I'm shaking uncontrollably, but I can't feel the contractions, except for in my neck and shoulders. People sleep, leave, come back. Doctors come in and out. The sun rises. I'm not interested in seeing it. I like my sleep mask. There's a tissue with lavender oil on it on my chest. I like it.

8am. Enough has happened and everything is okay enough that we can try to have the baby vaginally. At 7:30, a doctor saw Finn's ear up there. He was trying.

Ah, hell. I can't tell any more, now. It kills me, that he was trying so hard. Maybe I'll tell you later about how we tried it with me pushing, in front of a crowded room full of people, and then they came with a vacuum, and then they said it wouldn't work and rushed me off for a c-section. We were in the hospital until Sunday morning. Finn was in Special Care until Saturday morning.

I for sure can't talk about it, now. I'm still reeling, and my little baby is out in the living room with his dad and grandma and I miss him. I'm going out there. We're out of one set of woods, but we're in another, now. Recovering from a cesarean is hard.

It felt good to take a break and tell this part. Thanks for checking in, everyone. I'll post again as soon as I can.

moonbeam, minutes old

the towel and the feeling, or, NOW, we WAIT

I said something to Dave last night as I was doing my nightly moaning organization of myself into my elaborate system of pillows. One of the things in my bed arsenal is a carefully folded-up hand towel that I put under my waist to align things so that my hip won't attack me in the night. The placing of myself over the hand towel is TOUCHY. The towel is folded in quarters horizontally, and every night I say to myself, "Tomorrow I'm going to sew this thing closed so it'll stay like this." I have been using a towel like this for a month and a half, and tomorrow has never come. So, I refold the towel every night and then get myself propped up on one arm all sideways amongst my pillows, and aim the towel at the place where I think my waist was before all of this happened. Once I've moved the towel up and down my side a few inches and feel satisfied that I've sort of hit the "waist", I gingerly start to lower myself to the mattress. The towel begins to curl and flop. I innerly begin to curse. I grab one end of the towel with the hand at the end of the propping-myself-up arm, and wind my free arm around my back to try to grab the towel from behind my back and pull it straight before I hit the mattress. I am never successful. The towel is lumpy and hurting me. I launch myself back onto my propping-up arm and with the other hand I assess how fucked up the towel fold has become. Do I have to sit up and refold it? Can I sort of just smooth it out beneath me and pull it into place? The towel has usually ended up totally diagonal and I have to strain to reach the back end of it to try my next maneuver. This is where the towel-related moaning starts (some mild pillow-related moaning will have already happened).

Last night, when I reached this stage with the towel, Dave asked if he could help. I agreed, and he grabbed the back end of the towel while I held the other end and tried to both lower myself and direct the towel accurately to its intended place. Having someone else involved in this towel thing is tricky. It's like a one-armed man inviting a blind man to...do something where it would be great if everyone both had two arms and could see. Dave pulled the towel taut but it wasn't touching me so I couldn't tell if it was in the right place and then suddenly some part of my body ached in a minor but annoying way and I said to Dave:

Stop, I'm having a feeling.

I know it's wrong to be all delighted about something that comes out of your own mouth, but I was and I am. I love the idea that "a feeling" is enough for a universal time-out. I imagine people in business suits everywhere stopping on city streets and making the time-out signal whilst looking inward for the source of a little feeling, while the world and traffic respectfully stop and wait for the results.

******

In other news, I went to the midwife on Tuesday, and what do you know? She did strip my membranes after all. I was wrong that she couldn't. She could and she did. When she did it, she said, this might do something or it might do nothing, and if it actually helps we'll never know. Since then, nothing has happened. Or, no, lots has happened - Larraine, Dave's mom, got here from Australia and she is the BEST and having her in the house is THE BEST and makes me want to weep for joy. And the baby seems to be threatening to be backwards. Sunny-side-up. When he moves now, I can feel a little knee coming out the front of my belly. And as I'm sort of on a pre-eclampsia* watch, I've now been told by the midwife to pretty much stay lying on my left side as much as possible. So how I'm organized now is either lying like a queen sideways on my couch or on all fours on a yoga mat trying to wiggle Finn into alignment. And I'm eating protein bar after protein bar, since giant amounts of protein may or may not help prevent pre-eclampsia.

*Pre-eclampsia is a...bad thing that involves overly high blood pressure and headaches and seeing stars and swelling and not getting to have a home birth, and it's a precursor to eclampsia which is a worse thing, a very bad thing, but, thankfully, a very rare thing, whereas pre-eclampsia isn't that rare.

Might I recommend the Promax Chocolate Mint Energy Bar? I will! I do. It's soft, minty and delicious.

************

We had a sketch back when I was in the now-defunct Bald Faced Lie wherein I played a character called "The Puppy", who was the fur-coat, fur-hat wearing head of a bizarre little crime syndicate. At the end of the sketch, we're all gathered around a table where we've been on an important phone call. The Puppy hangs up the phone and says momentously, "Now...................................................we wait." And the lights dim painstakingly slowly, and the sketch ends.

going for the oven mitts

We're going to the midwife tomorrow (today, perhaps, from your perspective - TUESDAY). At that midwife appointment, they're going to...do something to encourage labor to begin.

WHA?? HWHA??

Yes. Last Thursday we had a midwife appointment and she was like, ain't no reason for you not to have this baby sooner rather than later. We're keeping this eye on my blood pressure and on things not developing into preeclampsia, and we got what might be a big baby in there. So, the feeling is, he's cooked. Let's maybe encourage him to emerge from the oven.

I'm for it, I'll tell you. Who is the elephant in the picture? Is it Finn? Am I the elephant? That's a possible yes and a definite goddamn yes. OOF OOF UGH DAVE HELP ME GET OUT OF BED HELP ME UP TO A SITTING POSITION ON THE COUCH OH MY HIP MY FEET MY BELLY.

And then also it's like....hmmm. I think I have to pee. I'm going to get up and OH NO THERE'S NO TIME I MUST RUN FOR IT AAH AAH PANTS DOWN GET THE PANTS DOWN IT'S A RACE AGAINST THE PEE AAH WHO WILL WIN?! Now, miraculously, I have always won. But by a nose, motherfuckers. By a nose. By a nosehair. The pee is looking strong these days.

Also, it's like, here's a plate of eggs and toast. I eat it. Three hours later, nobody from my digestive system has come to retrieve the eggs and toast. They sit there, making me feel creepy. I burp forty times. Nothing is happening.

Also, who is this baby? I keep picturing random babies, because I've never seen a baby of my own. I can't wait to see his actual face. It's like I'm looking at a picture frame that I bought at the store that still has the flimsy model picture in it, standing in for my loved one.

Dave's mama arrives from Australia tomorrow night (tonight....TUESDAY). Hurrah! It's all getting so real.

I wonder what Midwifey will do. She can't strip my membranes because I got a situation where that's not supposed to go down. Will I get acupuncture? Will she give me an herb? A talking-to? Is she going to feed me spicy enchiladas? Is she going to try and have sex with me? Just how are we going to convince this baby to get out of the oven?

WE WILL SEE.



P.S. I send a large shout-out to Miss Bladio Blogio, who took me on a great shopping expedition to Target and Whole Foods yesterday (day before yesterday....SUNDAY), so I didn't have to drive. It was a fine time and she was a honey to do it. I bought all manner of whack shit as I have no idea what I'm doing.

peaceful more added

Thank you, sweet everyone who has sent their good wishes and offers of help. I was really touched by all the kindness that swung my way after that last post. It's a little embarrassing to overtly plump for people to pet you, but man, ask and ye shall receive. You all are just lovely people.

My mom's out of the hospital and safely home, and Dave and I are back at our Pink House. Mom's a little wobbly and nervous, feeling a little like a time bomb, but she should be fine. Thankfully she has a friend staying with her tonight, to make her feel a little more secure. I visited her today and found her clutching My Therapy Buddy!* (It arrived. And it's a lady! I mean, it's a lady's voice. I remembered the buddy sounding more androgynous, and sort of interpreting it to be an effeminate male. But it's all woman. But it's built like a man. An out of shape man. It actually sort of looks like my dad.) Anyway, there she was, hugging the buddy, and she was all, "You can get another one. This one's mine."

*I re-read this and realized that the sequence here made it sound like My Therapy Buddy was the "friend" staying with her. No, she had a real human friend person there. (Sorry, My Therapy Buddy. I should have told you to cover your ears.)

The buddy is remarkably comforting, I have to tell you. We bought it for a joke, but it is really perfectly shaped and squishy in just the right amount and IT FEELS GOOD TO HOLD IT. The hypothesis that 98% of people can be helped by a buddy...I have to say, I believe it. You don't even have to believe in the power of the buddy. IT FEELS GOOD TO HOLD IT. You could have a tiny, shrivelled, vinegary heart, you could be the world's most cynical bastard, and you might be able to deny outwardly that it's doing anything for you, but inside you would be like, Hold me, buddy. Tiens moi. Don't let go.

So the buddy is hers. I feel very good about that. We can order another one. And we're going to.

Our sweet friend Morgan came to our house and worked like a dog for four hours yesterday, helping us clean and organize the space. She was amazing. Blim! Blam! Taking charge! She and Dave toiled away while I lay on my left side feeling guilty. So much progress was made, it was incredible. And besides all of your lovely comments, we got some beautiful, heartfelt offers of help. We feel so supported. There is light at the end of the tunnel.

Thank you, everybody. You all very much added more peaceful to our order.



We won't.

slippage

Let me tell you straight out, this post is written to elicit sympathy. I understand that posting a Hang In There kitty picture for myself was a risky maneuver in that light, but there we go. Love me despite the fact that I've already provided my own kitty.

This last week has been no good. No good. My mom had a sort of collapse last Tuesday, and it turned out that she had a couple of blood clots in her lungs. We had to get her quickly to the hospital, where she's been since and will be for a couple more days. She'll be all right, it's treatable. They're giving her blood thinners and she's stabilizing. But she came close, there, and that was horrible. And even though she's better and will be fine, you know how it is - there's a chapter in a novel I read once, the title of which (the chapter) was "The Prospect of Rescue Undoes You". My mom and I had a fine weep today as we contemplated how close she came to...yeah.

We've been staying most of this last week up at my mom's place with my brother, who has some chronic situations that require support. The bed there is not good for gigantic pregnant mofos who have enough trouble sleeping as it is! And, goddamnit, I am about to pop. No kidding. Trying to be all bustly and efficient for my mom and brother is a physical challenge right now. I can barely freaking walk! I'm having the Braxton Hicks contractions, but where they used to just feel like a sudden curling of my belly into tight armadillo formation, now they're getting painful and not-fuck-around-y. Saw the midwife last Thursday, and I was 60% effaced and a centimeter dilated already. I'm certain that things have advanced since then, because these contractions are, as I said, not fucking around. I'm trying to make peace with them as they hit, because hopefully they're sparing me some time during actual labor, hopefully they're getting the sort of early work done on my body that Dave and I have NOT been getting done on our house. Nice to know that my body isn't a procrastinator, even if my mind and my husband and I surely the hell are. Our house isn't quite ready, and I really suspect that Finn isn't going to sit around and wait for his due date. So that's freaking me out. Trying to juggle my beloved mom and brother and our baby readiness and my aching lump of a body is bringing me down.

And also, I'm the driver in the household, and driving's getting tougher all the time. I'm getting close to giving that shit up until the baby comes. So, waah to that as well!

It's all a bit much, I say. I feel that it's enough to be facing imminent birth and parenthood. Life was an asshole to throw motherly blood clots into our scene.

That's the suckball report. Bring on the pity! Come to the party! I'm totally throwing it!

For those who may be feeling ballsy: don't even think of invoking My Therapy Buddy right now.

oh, everything is going to be MORE than all right

Last night, the best thing in the world happened - something so great, I barely know how to tell you. My heart is so full, so happy. I – I can’t…it’s too…so happy, so happy.



Dave and I were watching American Inventor. Have you watched it? We’d never watched it before. It’s a marvel. Retarded, tragic, hilarious. The cringiest, most wonderful car accident ever. A man comes on who’s given up his whole life – job, house, 26 years – for this game he invented, Bullet Ball. It’s awful, how on fire he is for this game. He’s sweating, nearly weeping. He’s positive that this game will one day be an Olympic event. It’s this little round table game where you bat a little ball back and forth with another person…it’s…no. The judges ask him what he has left of his life. He answers, his eyes blazing with tears, “I HAVE BULLET BALL.” He doesn’t move to the next round. This bizarre 12-year-old boy from Atlanta comes on, he’s accidentally invented an “invisible tear gas”. He’s the roundest, most deadpan, crazy-accented little man you’ve ever seen. The judges are all, oh, hey. You’re a good guy. You’re a good guy. But, no. Later the boy is seen in a montage of weeping losers against a white background. He looks almost completely stoic, but then he sniffles twice, slowly. Hugely. Majestically.

But you want to know about the thing that happened that’s the best thing. That’s what you want to know. I almost don’t want to talk about it. It’s so sacred. I’ll do it, though.

A man came on. A tender, wobbly man. He was holding one of these:



This is My Therapy Buddy.

Dave and I grabbed at each other.

The gentle, traumatized man spoke tremulously to the judges about My Therapy Buddy. By the looks on the judges’ faces, they were not as transported by My Therapy Buddy and his creator as Dave and I were. And then the gentle man pulled one of My Therapy Buddy’s feet (MTB was not wearing his velvet sarong on tv, his spindly legs were bare).

My Therapy Buddy said in a tenderly robotic voice:

Everything is going to be all right.

I hit Dave, Dave hit me, I hit him, he hit me.

The judges turned him down.

NO! NO! NO!

Dave and I were horrified. He walked away clutching the buddy with tragic dignity. The buddy had its long weird arms around him, hugging him. Dave and I instantly had the same frantic thought,

GetontheinternetlookupMyTherapyBuddyGOGOGO!!

And we threw the computer open and got right to it. We were in no way ready to say goodbye to My Therapy Buddy. We needed to see it a little more.

The first item we see on the search page is the My Therapy Buddy online store.

We can buy it??


We barely have to discuss it. My Therapy Buddy is $70. Sold, SOLD, it’s a bargain. We’re moving lightning fast through this transaction, I’m typing our information perfectly at top speed, the whole exchange is practically lubricated by how in favor we are of what is happening.

We’ve done it. We’re thrilled and exhausted. He is ours. She. It is ours. It’s coming to our house.

We go a little more languidly back to the search page and find the whole website. More treasure. This is a holy, holy night. My favorite quote from the website: "98% of the people on this planet can find comfort from a Buddy. " I enjoy imagining the benighted, stonehearted 2% who cannot.

We’re so happy that Finn is going to grow up in a house with My Therapy Buddy, where he will learn:

a. that everything will be all right

&

b. irony.

From our hearts to yours, Dave and I give you

http://www.mytherapybuddy.com/. *

*Be sure to have the sound on.

You are so welcome.

first day of spring & countdown to reality

Spring is my favorite. I'll say it. I've said it. I might say something different come the autumn but shut up. It's spring!



When I was a tiny girl in New York state, we had a next-door neighbor named Mrs. Thomas. One day every spring she would let me and my brother come into her yard and pick daffodils. There were rows and rows and rows of them, a little daffodil farm under a giant weeping willow. I loved how tall the daffodils were compared to me -almost up to my waist. Crazy white and yellow and peach and orange trumpets! And I loved how the scent immediately drove springtime home, drove it right up my nose, the imminence of the Easter Bunny and how gorgeous it was to play outside again. I loved how it felt in the shade of the big tree, cool and warm and perfect. We were allowed to pick as many daffodils as we could carry in our arms on that one day. There was the tiny tinge of sadness as we left her yard and hit the unlovely asphalt of the street on our 20 foot walk home, arms full of blooms, fun part over.

****************

Here comes the boy, now, in just a few weeks. Could be 3 weeks. Could be 7 weeks. Could be anywhere in between. As we get closer to the day, the reality of the situation is pushing its head out more and more. We get these vivid moments, where the reality has this strange new texture to it. I can't get it right while I'm writing this, this isn't one of the moments. But last night I had it in rolling waves.

Sadness!

Goodbye, free girl. I can barely buy into the idea that I'm a woman. I feel so young. But somebody in the house is going to be THE YOUNGEST OF ALL and I will need to be OLD and GOOD and ON TOP OF IT. And also, the nice sadness of admitting that I am an actual woman, and I've always wanted to be one, and how sweet it will be to be old and good and on top of it and loving somebody small. That's the sadness of having a dream sort of come true, hitting the asphalt with my arms full. It will have happened. No more wondering what it will look like.

Permanence!

We're parents, we're parents, we're parents, we're parents, we're still parents, we're still parents, we'll never stop until we're dead, nothing else is so certain and so permanent. This is a string which ties us to our mortality more thoroughly than our marriage can, however exactly right our marriage is.

Terrifying love!

Already I love Dave in a way that aches - that, like our baby, holds our deaths in it. There's no time to appreciate him, I can't drink him in enough in any given moment. And here comes somebody else, who is going to drag this aching love out of me and be horribly central and precious to my life.

Clarity!

Dave and Finn, here they are. They're hired. They are the most extremely essential personnel that will be traveling with me through this life. So, it's you! You and you. Me, you and you. Of course, there are others, lots of other essential personnel, but these two - I will see them just about every day of my life. My life looks, will look - among other things - like their faces.

Fear!

This large, lumpy baby is seriously coming out from between my legs. Seriously. You mean it. In a matter of weeks. And in the meanwhile, he's getting larger, you say. Well. Well, well. And if I try to make a break for it, the baby is coming with me anyway and will come out from in between my legs in Puerto Vallarta or southern Oregon or wherever it is I'm hiding. So, I am, as they say, fucked. Every night I'm online googling "good birth stories", "wonderful first-time births", "idyllic home births". I'm trying to re-establish connections with Ganesha, the excellent Hindu god who is responsible for the placing and removal of obstacles.



Hey, you great big good old elephant head! Remember me? Say, so, what...what do you think about removing some obstacles for this birth here? Hey, um, if you don't have anything else to do, you could remove some obstacles, maybe hook us up with one of those super-smooth births that I've read about? I just, you know, love your work, man, and just....keep us in mind! Oh - Om Gum Ganapatayai Namaha. Yes. Straight up to you.

Like many people, I become a total kiss-ass when I'm in need.

Tomorrow is our last childbirth class. Roll it out, lady. Break out the Ark of the Childbirth Covenant and open that mofo for us. Shine that face-melting light of knowledge right in my face. ANY FINAL TIPS YOU HAVE, I'M LISTENING.



P.S. The Beatles were right that happiness is a warm gun, only the gun is a bra that just came out of the dryer. Hold 'em up, y'old warm horse.

blog nesting

I'm changing my color scheme now because a) I was tired of the Miami preppy theme and b) once I give birth to the bunny, I think I won't want to spend four hours futzing around with my template and the non-dithering color chart. Not now, Finn. Hold up, child. You'll eat soon. I just have to try fifteen or sixteen more looks for the hover-over-the-link color. What do you think of #CCFFOO? Is it...? No, you're right. Too muted. That makes me cry, too. Shhh. Hang on. I'm fixing it.

I call this new color scheme

"Blueberries and the Sea"*.




*YES, THAT'S WHAT I CALL IT.

Some people who have different brands of blogs have a little thing at the bottom that says "current song".

Current song: Styx, Too Much Time on My Hands

Good night.

Edit: All right. For La Ketch, I have altered my beloved Blueberries and the Sea scheme. She wanted it all legible and shit. But that's it.

*Blueberry Lagoon*

stays like it is now, unless I get like 25 comments that are like, I can't read Blueberry Lagoon. And Miami Preppy can never come back. It was making me want to pull off my eyelashes.

more lovely and psychedelic as the months go by

Is everybody here? Right on, right on.



So, I'm dipping into this battered old 1970's copy of Spiritual Midwifery that I borrowed from my childbirth class library. Here's a taste of what I'm learning:

Stretch marks are less likely to happen if you're not uptight.

Oh, yeah? Is that right? Well, then, it appears as though I must have a telephone pole up my ass, because I look like I've been mauled by a tiger. I had no idea it was because I'm so rigid.

Now, here's a nugget of advice to husbands on the care and feeding of pregnant ladies, courtesy of "Stephen":

Be tantric with your lady - be subtle enough in touch with her that when she tries to steer you, you feel it and follow her like a good horse follows a rider. Try to do it with her exactly as she directs on the most subtle planes. If you do that, she'll trust you and get you high. It's a tasty yoga - you have to work at it, but you can do it. It's actually fancier than just dancing by yourself. You feel somebody else and let them direct; and if you let them direct, they'll tell you what to do.

A tasty yoga, indeed!



The book is full of the birth stories of groovy 70's couples who all, all have the same hair. Long, thick, wavy, parted down the middle. The men all have long beards. A quality that all their experiences have in common is

psychedelicness.


This comes up all the time, I tell you. Let's catch a few quotes:

...It kept feeling more psychedelic as the baby grew, and that night I felt very calm and high...

...I remember my mouth hanging open, drooling, and feeling very warm and psychedelic and light-headed....

...Having my baby was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. It was the best psychedelic experience yet......If you decide you want to keep yourself together and get high on the energy of your kid being born and have that agreement with your man and the midwives, it can easily be the most Holy day of your life...

...We had a good time the rest of the morning hours, smooching, joking, and napping. We felt loose, psychedelic, in love...

Now, despite what my stretch marks would have you believe, I'm fairly groovy. On the spectrum from square/mainstreaminess to far out/grooviness, I fall pretty far to the latter. I fully embrace many hippiefied ideas. I was brought up in a relatively unusual family of Eastern philosophy-embracing, vegetarian Theosophists. I have eaten the mushroom, taken the acid, worn the round colorful sunglasses in the style of Meg Ryan as Pamela Courson in The Doors. And we're planning a groovy birth for Finn, with the birth pool and the candles and the breathing and the midwives. But this book makes me feel like...Patricia Heaton*. I mean, I'm enjoying the book, but wow. Wooo.

*the gross Republican who was the wife on Everybody Loves Raymond and now haunts those horrible Albertson's commercials

That said, I am engaging in what might appear from the outside to be some whack shit in trying to bond with Finn. One thing I've been doing to help make sure his head goes down in the right direction, away from breechiness, is staging Concerts Between My Legs. This, a of all, is not something I invented. I heard about it somewhere. It means that I hold the earphones of a Walkman in the general vicinity of my, you know, vicinity, in the hopes that he will float downwards interestedly to get his ears closer to the stage. Tonight some of our selections were "Here Comes the Sun", "Over the Rainbow" and "Follow the Yellow Brick Road". A previous concert consisted of Men at Work's "Down Under" on repeat about eight times. And...there is no b of all.


I chose this version of the yellow brick road to put here because
I like the idea of luring Finn out of the womb not only by telling him
which road to follow, but by insinuating that there will be an appealing
menu once he reaches his destination - one that caters to children.

I leave you with the words of one of these Spiritual Midwifery husbands:

Stay real well-connected with her if she's emotional and don't get upset. Keep your body connection strong and make her feel good. She is going to get more lovely and psychedelic as the months go by and it is a blessing to be in her presence.

Oh, amen, groovy man. I know that as I lie there burping and bitching next to him, Dave feels as I do that it is a blessing to be in my presence.

i love a new blog and who is our secret santa?

No, um. The blog that I love isn't new. My love is new. I've seen this blog linked on many, many other blogs, so it would seem that it's a famous blog. Its name is Fussy.

I feel like I'm like, have you guys listened to this band?? I think they're called The White Stripes*?? You should listen to them! I found them.


************Well, helLO there! Who are you?***********

*This is not Meg White's blog that I'm speaking of, I say to head off confusion. I don't know if Meg White has a blog. I'm going to go ahead and surmise that she doesn't. This is the blog of one Eden Kennedy.

But really, I read a few posts and then I've started from the beginning of the archives and am reading all the way through. Hitting the spot, is what you're doing, you famous blog that I'm the first to discover.

Um. Anything else?

Yes. I have to sleep on my left side, and what's new is that Finn sticks some part of himself out of that side at some point in the night, so it's like I'm sleeping on a random rock. It is so comfortable. Also, when he moves a lot I'm like, JEEZ YOU'RE WOW WHAT ARE YOU DOING? and when he's having a slow mover day I'm like, HEY, WHATSAMATTER? HEY, MOVE AROUND SOME MORE!

I fear and expect that this will carry over into parenthood.

Wait - and also, ALSO...a mystery person sent us this beautiful Maya Wrap sling for the baby, and we don't know who it was!! It came with no note!

It looks like this:



Was it you? If you're out there, tell us, so we can aim our gratitude in the right direction. Right now, our gratitude's swinging around like an out-of-control garden hose. It's forceful, but, um, the right target is...not getting watered.

Dear somebody, we love it.

P.S. Mystery solved! The recipient was outed when more treats arrived from her in the mail. Now we know what we have to do.

yowling won't help

Listen, my friends, I have to ask you guys to keep little Sam in your thoughts again. He’s in surgery this morning, starting at 7:30EST, and they say the surgery will last 5-6 hours. So, rock it out there, doctors, and go, little Sammy. May it all go so well.

****************

Dave and Morgan and I saw Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story yesterday. It’s...go. Go. Go see it. There’s a part – no. No, I’m not going to say. I’ll just say that there are a couple of parts where Dave and I were laughing so hard and so long, long after everyone else in the audience had stopped laughing, so hard it seemed like we both might give birth on the spot. Weeping, hitting each other. I want to tell you so badly what the funny part was but I don’t want to ruin it for you. And really, the funny part...the whole damn movie is the funny part.

I’ll just tell you that this guy



was responsible for the part where Dave and I were hitting each other.

He played Doctor Slop.

Mmmph.

********

In other fabulous news, I LIKE COFFEE AGAIN!! For seven fucked-up, perplexing months, pregnancy has rendered coffee foul in my nose and mouth. But today I brought Dave a cup of coffee in the bathtub, and I had a sip of it since it smelled good, and it was yummy! So we were at Larry's Market today and went to the Peet's coffee stand and I got a cup of delicious decaf coffee and my favorite coffee girl was there whom I adore and haven't seen since this post. So not only did I get a cup of sweet and creamy coffee, the sweetie-pie girl was there for the big moment and celebrated with me in that charming, groovy way she has. I for sure have a crush on her and I have a crush on goddamned coffee, too.

See you in the morning, my prodigal beverage.



**********

So we have our…which one?…our fourth childbirth class tonight.

In our second class, everyone who sucked in the first class stopped sucking and became pleasant. Also, we supplied the snacks and won everyone over with German chocolate cake and potato salad. Also in the second class, we did this exercise where we pick a number between 0 and 100, representing a pain scale where 0 is none and 100 is the amount of pain you feel right before you pass out. The women were supposed to guess for ourselves what the number would be at the most difficult part of our labor, and the men were guessing for their partners. I guessed 75, Dave guessed 80 for me. Then the teacher led us through this thing where we would imagine that we were in labor, and 50% of the way to that number we’d chosen, and we were supposed to imagine what we’d be doing for ourselves to cope at that point. Then the number went up to 75% of the number we’d picked, same question, and then 96%, and then 110%. At 50% I ventured that I’d be trying to go limp and relax every part of my body. At 75% I thought that I’d be doing the same thing as at 50%, but also seriously praying. At 96% I thought I’d be looking to the midwives for ideas. At 110% I drew a blank, and the idea started getting funny to me. Like, stop it! 100% was all I was considering! Anyway, the point of all this was for us to know that even though none of us had done this before, we have ideas and resources available to us. It was good.

And then she was talking about how during transition (which - if you haven’t given birth or aren’t a crazy pregnant person who’s boning up on the info like her life depended on it - is the point where the cervix is finishing dilating all the way, and the contractions are super strong and right on top of each other) a lot of women think they’re dying.

Yeah, the word “dying” came into it. And I was like SHUTUPDON’TSAYIT. Because that’s been the fear that I haven’t wanted to look at – the fear that I’d die, or be in such a horrible place that I’d think that was what was happening. But then once she hung it out there and we got to sit with it a minute, I was glad it came up. That’s a good fear to look in the face. That’s not something I would want to be surprised with while in the big moment. But it really called that fear right out into the open, and for the next few days I was really sitting in it, and I started losing confidence in my ability to do this.

Which was good! Because then I could deal with that. I got a copy of the book Birthing from Within, which is what her class is based on, and devoured it quickly. Great book! Among other things, it has these art exercises you can do to find out what sort of ideas you’re harboring around pregnancy and birth and parenthood. Art exercises and I are friends. We get along well. I find them fruity-fruity-fruitful*, always. So I drew some pictures about pregnancy, and then drew a picture of my biggest fear for childbirth.

*Oh, no, I'm Ned Flanders.

I’d put it out here for you, but it’s huge and I don’t have a scanner, and if I did, I wouldn’t have that big a scanner. So, I’ll just describe it to you. In the drawing, I’m kneeling on the floor with blood gushing out everywhere, and my sides are jaggedy instead of round, with big scary bands of red circling them. I have a red sort of seeing-stars-Saturn-orbit-I’ve-gone-mad-pain-crown around my head. My body’s surrounded by this black membrane that prevents me from being able to see or hear what anyone in the room is saying to me, and my little pale green soul is leaving my body through my head. I’m dying. The people in the room are drawn vaguely, but they’re crying and calling 911 and rummaging through emergency equipment.

Oof. It was sad, scary and a big release to draw this. Then the next task was to draw this fear being transformed in some way – either how I’d cope if it came to pass, or what could happen to prevent it. I drew myself with the red pain bands, but with no big black membrane. I drew my eyes and ears enormously large, so I’d still be in contact with all the reassuring people in the room, and I drew my hands very large and emphasized, with Dave holding them.

Felt better. And then we had a good visit with one of our midwives, and I talked about my fears with her, and she was fabulous. She said we should bring the drawings in and we can talk about them. (I can’t help but imagine what our old suckball OB/GYN* would have done if I’d brought these fears in or, heavens forfend, mentioned a large crayon drawing I’d done to cope. She would have laughed us out of the room.) She talked about what’s happening for her when the ladies are in transition, and how she could help, and what emergencies could be and how we’d deal with them. She was a fairy fucking princess!

Then last Tuesday we had our third birth class, where we learned that the uterus is a blue striped knit bag with an end like a turtleneck. There was a rag doll baby and a skeleton pelvis, and the rag doll baby came right out of the turtleneck and worked himself through the skeleton pelvis with no problem, just like Finn will do. The whole thing will take like ten minutes. I’m totally not scared anymore. No, though, we learned a lot about what exactly is going down during birth, and what the chemical processes are in the body, and the whole thing was pretty reassuring, actually.

And then at the end of class, the teacher said she’d been thinking about something I’d asked during the first couple of classes. I’d asked how athletic a person needs to be to have a natural childbirth, and I’d alluded to some worry about having enough physical strength for this. So she said that the body is built for this, and you don’t have to be good enough, or an athlete, that women through the ages have given birth naturally and they didn’t eat tofu and do yoga. Even a couch potato can do this. (And lords and ladies, I am all kinds of potato.) I was really touched that she said this, and that she’d been thinking about it, and it made me cry. Something inside really let go and understood that I have it in me to do this. I have a lot going for me to make me a good candidate for natural childbirth. I was very grateful to her.

*If you do see Tristram Shandy, imagine that Dr. Slop is the young, white, 18th century, wasted male version of our old OB/GYN. And don’t for the love of Pete let there be an “if” about you going to see it. Just go. Go.



Wow, who put a goddamn nickel in me?! Such a long post. If you’re still reading, and you’re a woman, I think that you’re a good candidate for natural childbirth. You got endurance.

edit: And if you're a man*, I think that you could easily pass a golf ball through your penis. You're strong!

*Thanks, Adam, for alerting me to the hole in my post.

update and some hot hot jokes

Well, it looks like the little man I told you about was born, and his surgery will be next week.

Here's a link to Snazzykat's blog entry telling about it.

In other linkiness, please visit John Moe's blog and read the hilarious jokes his son Charlie has made. Charlie is a genius. Charlie is a GENIUS.

I tell you now that I will tell you more about childbirth class, I promise, I promise that I will. But today I am going to stay in bed and read novels, eat mini-croissants and watch my son's butt travel back and forth across my enormous belly.

send the good wishes to this family

Hey, everyone.

Laura at KoVixen posted about this family's situation, and I just want to invite anybody out there to send the best vibes and prayers to this family between now and later this week.

Snazzykat is the mama's blog, and their little boy Sam is going to be brought into the world on Wednesday or Thursday, only to be sent right the hell into open heart surgery. I can't imagine everything they must be feeling, but I'm going to be willing them

STRENGTH

PEACE

& A PERFECT OUTCOME.

Please join me, friends of the Monkey, yes?

More about childbirth class later, complete with no complaining.

baby school, part one

We’re taking a childbirth class. We’ve had two sessions as of now. Here are my thoughts so far:

Session One

*When you walk into a room full of new people, who are all equally unfamiliar to each other, do you not smile at the other people? Don’t you make a little contact, like, hey, I see you, person…? It looks like we’ll be in this class together. See, I do. And most people give you a little something back, a little smile or a hello. But one lady didn’t. She left me hanging, a couple of times. And when that happens I get all sniffy inside, like, are we going to have a problem?

*We all go around and say our names and when our baby’s coming and where we’re having it and who’s our caregiver, and also we’re supposed to mention a non-baby-related passion of ours. Except for me and Dave, this is a room full of snowboarding gardeners. Like, to a one.

*….Oh, yeah. It looks like we are going to have a problem. When we went around and talked about ourselves, I said that we were going to have the baby at home. What I did NOT say was anything remotely to the effect of, “And anyone who doesn’t is a fucking SUCKER. Home births are for champions, hospitals are for PUSSIES, pussies!” A little later, Miss No-Smile-For-You is talking about what she wants for her birth, and she looks right at me with this dirty look and says, “…Home birth is right for SOME PEOPLE but not EVERYONE is going to want to do it that way.” Aw, snap. She told me!

*Break time is awkward! I can’t seem to smoothly get into a conversation with anybody except Dave. I alternate between hiding my face in the baby photos on the wall, and tentatively trying to open out my body language so as to welcome conversation. Nothing happens. First day of school sucks!

*The teacher, though, is great. More about her later.

*Towards the end of class, she leads us in a relaxation exercise and guided visualization. The thing is, as I’m one of the two farthest-along women in the class, getting into a comfortable position isn’t something that I can pull off very quickly. So by the time the relaxation part has started, I’m in this totally awkward whackjobber position that I just end up going with:


In the red circle it says, "My shoulder is above my ear."


I figure I’m going to miss the whole thing if I keep trying to get comfortable. The visualization part is great. I always thought the womb was this pitch-dark scene! Apparently not! Depending on how bright the room/the day is, there’s quite a rosy glow going on in there! Finn can see the shadow of our hands on my belly and whatnot! This detail makes me unaccountably delighted.

I’ll tell you about the second class later. The second class rocked it, and was also terrifying!

tepid whale spa

Tonight, I took a bath for the first time since the beginning of my pregnancy. Our house was all clean and shiny, and I'd just scrubbed the tub, and I thought that I would take advantage of the rare cuteness of the bathroom scene.

I got the candles all going, I dimmed the dimmer, I was psyched.

I like to sit in the tub while it fills. That's how I roll at bathtime, homey. So I sat there, heavy and wiiiiide, while it filled up.

I didn't make the water too warm, since I've heard that an overly hot bath can bring on labor. But that was going to be allright! Warm would be good enough! I was just so ready for my belly to get floating. That water was going to sing to me about my leaden boobs and belly, they ain't heavy.....they're my brother.....

Floating. Mmm-hmmm.

I think my belly could have floated if my bathtub were three or four feet deep. Instead, my belly loomed over the tub like the Matterhorn, like a big fleshy Baked Alaska. Boobs, belly, nothing. Low tide, motherfuckers. Low tide.

And night was going to be falling any minute on that big, flesh beach, night and cold.

Plus also, the bath water just never got all that warm to begin with. It just wasn't in the mood. It was like, this is all I got. The warmth is away warming something else. Don't ask me what. It ain't here, is all you need to know.

I started scooping the lukewarm water frantically with my hands across the giant flesh foothills, up the mountain. Not relaxing, and also futile. Dave brought me a mug so I could pour the water a little more efficiently. No, no, not enough. He brought me a big hand towel to drape across myself, to spread the "warm" water across the whole scene. I dropped mugfuls of water on to my big soaking terrycloth landscape, to keep the "warmth" in. But wherever the water hit, it just called attention to how cold the towel had already gotten in that particular place.

I stuck it out in my wilted spa experience for many more minutes past the point where all hope had been lost already, because I knew I would need airlifting out of there. But then eventually I called the chopper I married, and he hoisted me free.

Suckball bathball whale belly spa time.