tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27063899747578635922024-03-19T04:05:32.822-04:00the OliRue baby blogdarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-73866185976263738342017-02-12T20:56:00.000-05:002017-02-12T20:56:57.289-05:00Lasts and FirstsThis morning, I woke up and heard the baby. I picked him up and started to nurse him for the very last time. It felt strange to know that we are done with this phase, and even stranger that barring a whole string of surprises, I will never nurse another baby.<br />
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And yet here we are.<br />
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Later, I got on an airplane for a business trip -- the first business trip I've been on for years without my husband and babies in tow. It is strangely quiet and surreal without them. I don't know if I can get used to it, although a few hours of blissful, solo sleep will help.darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-80746554220859643462017-02-03T23:25:00.001-05:002017-02-06T11:42:25.344-05:00The Second BabyIt was about this time last year - about 11 pm - that I realized that the contractions were finally getting stronger. I had been having them sporadically for weeks - through the blizzard! - but after a long day of work, 36 hours before my scheduled C-section, I was in actual labor.<br />
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I woke up my husband, we grabbed our bags and the kid - after all, my mother-in-law wasn't driving up until the morning- and got in the newly acquired minivan. We drove in to the city, to my office, so I could get my computer. After all, my labor barely progressed the last time, so I had plenty of time.<br />
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We got to the hospital, got checked in, and waited. They were getting me ready for a C-section - next, after the doctor finished another surgery. I was at 3 centimeters. My daughter, then 3 (and a half!) held my hand during the bad contractions, telling me it was all going to be okay. My friend came to sit with her. It was about 2 am.<br />
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They gave me an epidural. It worked for a little while. But then, like last time, it stopped working. They prepped me for surgery. And then we waited. And waited.<br />
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Just after 5:30, they wheeled me in to the OR. They took one look at me and told me nevermind. I was ready to push. I said, "I can't do this." I was unprepared. I spent the entire pregnancy planning the easy non-traumatic birth I had been denied the first time, and they were taking it away from me.<br />
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They wheeled me into L&D. And, apparently, I could do it, just like generations of women have for all of history.<br />
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It all happened so fast: the baby was in my arms by 6:40. My handsome, healthy son was an unplanned VBAC. I should always remember that the universe just laughs while I'm busy making plans.<br />
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I was up walking within hours instead of days. My milk came in and I nursed. (Heck, I'm still nursing this hungry baby.). He stayed next to me the entire time, We were home in 2 days.<br />
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This baby. My second baby. My last baby. My son.<br />
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On the eve of his first birthday, he is about 21 pounds - so much bigger than his sister! He has the goofiest six-toothed smile and a contagious laugh. He has a sparkle in his big brown eyes that warns me when he is up to no good. He loves his dad, worships his sister, and makes friends wherever he goes.<br />
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Mostly, though, he is mine. And he doesn't know it yet, but he has healed me in so many ways. <br />
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<br />darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-26040712560261689532016-07-04T17:16:00.002-04:002017-02-03T23:35:18.952-05:00This time last year...In June of last year, I found out I was pregnant again after <a href="http://mostboringblogever.blogspot.com/2015/04/schrodingers-baby.html" target="_blank">the miscarriage</a>. We were excited again, but apprehensive.<br />
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Then, on the third of July, I started bleeding again, just shy of ten weeks, just like the last time. I called the doctor, and she said that there was not much she could do. We'd have to wait and see through the long weekend. </div>
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I pretty much cried for two days. I came as close to praying as I ever have. And then, we went for our ultrasound. </div>
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The baby <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">was healthy and perfect, despite the bleeding.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">And now he's here, my handsome, happy boy. </span></div>
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darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-25983931439323775942016-04-16T23:58:00.001-04:002016-04-17T00:01:33.178-04:00Kid versus the alarmSince the baby came along 10 weeks ago, everyone has been more tired than usual. (Go figure.) <div><br></div><div>It has affected my daughter in a couple of ways. First of all, we have been more permissive about bedtime. I mean, when you are exhausted from dealing with a newborn, the last thing you want to do is fight with a threenager about her bedtime. Second, when I get up early to feed her brother, I let her sleep in. And third, I'm on maternity leave, so unless there's an early morning appointment, there is not a lot of urgency in my schedule. </div><div><br></div><div>When you combine these things with the time change, the abandonment of all naps, and everything else, my former early riser is now waking up at 9 am or later, and going to sleep at 9:30 or sometimes even 10. It's plenty of sleep -11 hours - but it needs to be shifted back a few hours, particularly as I go back to work soon. </div><div><br></div><div>So, my husband and I came up with a plan. We would get her an alarm clock, figuring that she could use it now that she is starting to tell time, and also, it would wake her up. I wanted to buy her a kid's clock, but my husband really liked a pink-and-white old fashioned dual-bell alarm clock. I went along with it. </div><div><br></div><div>We ordered the clock and it arrived yesterday. The kid was in love: she played with it, learned how to switch it off, and proudly put it near her bed. It was Friday night, so I set the alarm to wake her with plenty of time to get ready for her Saturday morning gymnastics class. </div><div><br></div><div>In the morning, I woke up and started feeding the baby. I looked at my clock and realized that the alarm was about to go off. All of a sudden, I hear the bell, both through the walls and the baby monitor, followed closely by a blood-curdling scream. Then "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY! I am SCARED! It's too loud! MAKE IT STOP! AAAAAAAAAAAAH!"</div><div><br></div><div>I ran in there with the baby still on my boob, half laughing. I turned off the alarm and calmed my daughter down. </div><div><br></div><div>Tonight, she made me take the alarm clock out of her room. I promised her that it was off, but she doesn't trust me anymore. </div>darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-10389190370344721552015-11-07T16:44:00.000-05:002015-11-07T16:44:00.279-05:00Appellate Jurisdiction<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
The other day, the kiddo was watching TV (Disney Junior) and saw something she wanted on a commercial -- I am not even sure what it was, but I can guarantee that she already has something similar, in the piles of toys that have eaten the family room. Whatever it was, she told me she wanted it, and I said, "Do you have money to pay for it?" She said, "No, but you do. Buy it for me."</div>
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I stuck to my guns and said no. I don't remember exactly what she said after that, but the gist of it was that she did not believe me and wanted to appeal my decision to a higher authority. I told her she had two choices: Santa Claus or Grandpa. </div>
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Of course, the smart kid says, "I want to talk to Grandpa's face!"</div>
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On the one hand, I think it's great that she wants to talk to my dad. On the other hand, he will probably buy her what he wants. He used to be really good at saying no, but with the grandkids, seems to lack the same resolve.</div>
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Now I just have to teach a 75 year old how to use Skype.</div>
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darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-70668432395039693512015-11-06T17:55:00.000-05:002015-11-06T18:12:57.990-05:00The Pre-Halloween Halloween<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
The week before Halloween, we had gotten a notice from school that they would be having a Halloween/Fall Festival on October 31. Then the kiddo -- who is so not a baby anymore -- was out of school for a few days with a little cold and a low fever. She went home Tuesday afternoon when it started -- and because we've now reached that parenting point that having to drop everything to go get her in the middle of the day is more disruptive than just keeping her home in the first place -- she didn't go back to school until Friday morning, October 30.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Costume 1</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 19.32px;">Apparently, while she was out, the school posted flyers everywhere that they were going to have a Halloween parade on Friday morning, in addition to the festival the next afternoon. </span><span style="line-height: 19.32px;">So, without advance notice that there was going to be a parade that day, I brought a kid to school without a costume. I should have assumed that there'd be something, like every other school everywhere, except the ones that think Halloween is evil -- but I wrongly believed that the reason they gave us notice about the Saturday event was to keep us from sending kids in costume on Friday. Oops.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Costume 2</td></tr>
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When we got to the threes room, almost all of the other girls in the three<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">s class were dressed as princesses. (One was Spidergirl, and I give her mad props for going against the relentless tide.) Only my kid and one other -- her friend Melanie -- did not have a costume at all. The other princesses all gave me a hard time because my kid did not have a princess dress -- it seems that even preschoolers hold their friends' moms to very high standards. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Costume 3</td></tr>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">The two costume-less girls were so sad when I left -- the other kids were sitting in the circle for story time, and the two of them were sitting outside the circle together, with the most dejected looks on their faces. </span><span style="line-height: 19.32px;">I got in the car and started driving to work, but then I felt really guilty. So, I turned around, drove to the house, grabbed two princess dresses from the dress-up bin, and brought them to the school. Sleeping Beauty and Rapunzel were very happy princesses, the teachers think that I am the best ever -- and I was very late to work.</span></div>
darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-22428688174680344522015-04-15T16:15:00.000-04:002015-04-15T16:15:00.188-04:00Two ... and a halfTwo-and-a-half is a complicated age.<br />
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Two-and-a-half means constant motion, constant dialogue, constant arguments. She has her own opinion about everything, and she cannot be dissuaded. She will argue to the death that something is pink even though everyone else says that it is red. Our conversations go something like this:<br />
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"Here you go, Mommy. Fix it please."<br />"Why did you put the little blue lizard in the kaleidoscope?"<br />"IT'S NOT A LIZARD! IT'S A FROG!"</blockquote>
For the record, it is blue and has a tail -- it is certainly not a frog. I still think it is a lizard, though I could be convinced that it is a newt.<br />
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She is a picky eater. She is bossy. She throws a temper tantrum at the drop of a hat.<br />
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She is energetic. She is funny. She is sweet, when she wants to be.<br />
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She is the best thing ever.<br />
<br />darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-53957404726202743582014-10-15T22:15:00.000-04:002014-10-17T22:30:22.885-04:00Her Grandmother's Granddaughter<br>
Mom,<br>
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How I wish you could have met her. She reminds me so much of you -- she has blue eyes like yours, and her laugh is infectious. Her favorite color is pink. You would have seen the irony in that.<br>
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She loves to sing. We sing good morning to each other and we make up silly songs. Sometimes we sing the Frozen soundtrack at the top of our lungs in the car.<br>
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She loves to cuddle with me. In the evening, before bedtime, she curls up next to me on the couch. She talks a lot now. Sometimes she tells me about her day, or about what we are watching on TV.<br>
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We like to read books together. She likes to point at the pictures and tell me what she sees. Sometimes she asks what the word is, and then she repeats it in the cutest little tentative voice. It feels like she is learning 100 words a day.<br>
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When she wakes up too early, I take her in the big bed with me for a cuddle. I am instantly transported back, 30-plus years and a couple hundred miles, to the big bed in the house in New Jersey. I can still feel how much I was loved. If nothing else, I hope to pass that on.<br>
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We miss you every day, but especially today. Happy birthday.<br>
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(also posted at <a href="http://mostboringblogever.blogspot.com/2014/10/her-grandmothers-grandaughter_15.html" target="_blank">blah blah blog</a>)darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-91247359106078186582014-08-04T17:35:00.000-04:002014-08-04T17:35:00.211-04:00And this, too.There are one or two amazing things I forgot to write about in <a href="http://oliruebaby.blogspot.com/2014/08/two.html" target="_blank">my earlier post</a>. <br />
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A few days ago, she got a scratch on her leg, and I told her that I would kiss her boo-boo all better. She loves that. Now she asks for me to kiss her boo-boo every day, even though you can barely see anything. And then, this weekend, I had a scratch on my chin. She pointed to it, said, "Mommy boo-boo. Kiss?" And then she gave me the biggest, wettest kiss.<br />
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In our new family room, we have a blue striped throw blanket. Every evening, when she starts to get tired, she brings me the blanket and says "Baby." That means that she wants me to wrap her up in the blanket like a little swaddled baby and cuddle with her.<br />
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I love these things so much. I hope they never end.darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-49891143106823574542014-08-04T11:11:00.000-04:002014-08-04T17:30:44.462-04:00TwoIt's been a long time since I've written. So long that the baby is not a baby anymore -- she turned two last month. <br />
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At two, she is a <i>bona fide</i> toddler. She runs and she jumps and she climbs and she talks and she squeals and she laughs and she throws the most ridiculous temper tantrums.<br />
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A few weeks ago, we were in a chain restaurant near our new house -- yes, a house! in the suburbs! -- and after a string of me telling her to stop doing things -- no climbing, no squirming, no throwing food, no kicking mommy -- she wrote me a song. "Mommy, no!" is destined to be a hit, someday.<br />
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She knows what she likes and what she doesn't like. She loves matchbox cars, peeling the paper off of her crayons, anything from Frozen. We were in Walmart right before her birthday, and she saw a whole display of Elsa dolls. I tried to walk past them, but she is too quick. "Oooh, Mommy!" she squealed. "Let it gooooooo!"<br />
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She now has one of those dolls. How do you say no to that?<br />
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We go to gymnastics every Saturday. She loves to tumble, to climb on things, to swing from bars and rings.<br />
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This child has almost no fear. A few weeks ago, I would have told you that she has no fear, but a few tumbles down the stairs have changed that. She is now averse to the stairs. She stands at the landing and cries, "Mommy, carry!" It doesn't matter how full my arms are -- or how empty Daddy's arms are -- she only wants me to carry her. No amount of scooting or crawling or handholding will do. Only carrying, and only Mommy.<br />
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I'm sure I will miss this when she is a teenager and hates me to the core of my being.<br />
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This weekend, we went to the grocery store. While we were waiting in a long checkout line, she lost it. Not even stickers from the cashier would make it better. So, I took her out to carry her, her diaper bag, and, two heavy bags of groceries. <br />
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Finally, we made it to the car -- on the second level of the parking garage, of course. I had to put her down to find the keys. I stood her up between my legs and told her to put her hand on the car. Instead, she ran.<br />
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She only got a few steps away before I caught her. When I did, she gave me this look -- you know the look, the look you give someone when you are taunting them, when you are waiting for a reaction. In that moment, I could see the future teenager that is going to challenge me on everything. <br />
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I was so scared and angry; I gave her a whole speech about running away from Mommy in a place where there were cars, and she could have gotten hurt, and NEVER DO THAT AGAIN. She laughed. I told her that I was so angry with her that we couldn't listen to Frozen in the car for the rest of the day. Her reaction changed. "No, Mommy, no! Let it go!"<br />
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Indeed.darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-87379306742303436422013-10-26T20:25:00.003-04:002014-01-10T15:40:19.787-05:00Post-Vacation Realization<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">This weekend, I finally figured out the one thing I really didn't understand before having kids. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Before, at the end of a long day of work, I could relax in the evening (in my quiet, clean house). And if that wasn't enough, there was always the weekend to recharge. And if THAT wasn't enough, there was always a three-day-weekend or vacation to look forward to. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Now, my weekends are lots of toddler-wrangling surrounded by piles of laundry and broken up by errand-running. And today, at the end of a long weekend mini-vacation just a short drive away, I am just as tired, if not more so, than at the beginning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">So that leads to my new-found understanding. It's not the sleep deprivation that you have when your kid is a newborn that is the killer. (That ends, thank goodness.) It's that, with kids, there is no real "down time" to relax and recharge. Maybe ever. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">This is not really a complaint: I wouldn't trade my kid for the cleanest, quietest house or all the fancy spa vacations in the world. But sometimes, I wish I could have it both ways. </span>darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-61195489249188953062013-07-11T21:53:00.000-04:002014-01-10T15:51:57.363-05:00The Truth About Having A BabyI read so many of blogs and Facebook posts about pregnancies, birth stories, and the early days with babies. Everyone seems to have had such lovely experiences. I think that's why I never wrote anything of substance about mine: other than the outcome -- my delightful daughter -- my experiences were not pleasant (understatement of the century). I had a challenging pregnancy; I had a long, painful, and traumatic childbirth experience, the high point of which was the surgical intervention; my first few weeks with my daughter were painful because of complications from surgery and panicked because of breastfeeding difficulties. None of it was pretty, and almost a year after the baby's birth, I am still traumatized.<br />
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Don't read any further if you're squeamish.<br />
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I want to relate to the people who posed for glowing maternity pictures, in adorable outfits, with their husbands' hands on their cute large-but-not-gigantic abdomens. Then I remember what I looked like, with blotchy skin, feet that stopped fitting into shoes at week 25, and a belly so large that I couldn't even fit into maternity pants at the end.<br />
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The best way to explain how uncomfortably huge I got is through this vignette: at 33 weeks, I had to be on an airplane. I tried to put the tray table down and it didn't fit. I had to ask the person in front of me to refrain from reclining their seat back. Humiliating. <br />
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But that was at 33 weeks. My watermelon belly kept getting bigger and bigger. But wait! It wasn't just a watermelon - it was a watermelon with an angry, violent monkey trapped inside.<br />
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There were the colds that didn't stop, repeat sinus infections and UTIs. Eczema on my legs, feet, and hands. Muscle cramps and spasms. Joint pain. Early in my second trimester, I had to pack up boxes in my office, which caused back and hip pain for weeks afterward; it didn't really go away until after I had the baby. I had reflux so bad that I had a hard time sleeping, but that when I did, my nasal congestion made me snore so loudly that my husband couldn't sleep either.<br />
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Then my husband came down with shingles, giving me the chicken pox. Of course, that was right before he had to go out of town for five weeks of my third trimester, and I had to go to childbirth class by myself. I was so jealous of all of the other women in that class, with their boyfriends or husbands sitting next to them, holding their hands, practicing their breathing techniques. I cried after every class.<br />
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I remember being afraid all the time. At the beginning, I was afraid because we were over 35. And then I had a thyroid disorder diagnosed, so I got to worry about that, too. Then the aforementioned chicken pox, and the worry about complications from the disease or the antiviral medicine that they gave to me.<br />
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Oh, and the same week that I came down with the chicken pox? My grandmother fell and broke her shoulder for the second time in three years. I found out about that the day of my glucose test, which, of course, I failed. Then I couldn't get re-screened until after the chicken pox virus had cleared up, so I spent two weeks worrying more than usual about gestational diabetes. I was lucky though: the first test wound up being a false positive.<br />
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Thanks to all of that -- my advanced age and the medical scares -- I got to have weekly follow up appointments with fetal medicine specialists, where they did ultrasounds. They kept telling me how big my baby was, which made me even more nervous. Late in the pregnancy -- at the end of my husband's five weeks out of town -- those bonus ultrasounds started indicating that my amniotic fluid levels were low, which scared the crap out of me.<br />
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A few weeks later, my fluid levels returned to normal. Then, just when it looked like I was in the clear, after I hit 36 weeks and had started to have contractions and dilate, I caught a stomach bug that had me throwing up for days -- and ultimately stopped the progress of my labor. That was the week of the derecho, where there were widespread power outages, temperatures over 100 degrees, and limited air conditioning just about everywhere. In July.<br />
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I absolutely hated being pregnant. I hated it so much that I am skeptical of anyone that says otherwise. But no matter how bad pregnancy was, childbirth was far worse. The problem is that by the time you get to it, you are so fed up that you just want the pregnancy to be over, at any price.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Less than 48 hours before labor AND AT WORK!</td></tr>
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One year ago today, there I was, giant, uncomfortable, AND AT WORK -- on my due date. Earlier that week, I practically begged the doctor to schedule an induction for the next week, and I was just starting to schedule everything around the induction date. Three work days left.<br />
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And then, out of nowhere, my water breaks. No signs of labor, no contractions. Just sticky fluid trickling down my leg, approximately two hours after my husband had begged me to stay home that day, and approximately 90 minutes after he dropped me off, against his better judgment.<br />
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Why did he drop me off? Well, first and foremost, he didn't want to argue with a crazy pregnant lady with cabin fever. Second, his attempt to bribe me with bagels and lox didn't work. And last, well, YOU try taking the subway in July when you're 40 weeks pregnant. <br />
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The indignity of it all. Having to call my husband and sheepishly ask him to pick me up after I forced him to take me to work. Having to wrap myself in a pashmina, so no one in my office could tell I was leaking amniotic fluid all over the place. Having to go to the doctor's office so that they could examine me, to tell me what I already knew.<br />
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Here's another funny vignette: When we got to the doctor's office, the receptionist told me to sit down. I looked at the chair, I looked at the soggy shawl around my waist, looked at the puddle starting to form on the floor around my filthy flip flops, and I said, "No, I don't think that's a very good idea."<br />
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A second funny aside: My husband had been begging me to throw out those filthy flip flops for several weeks, especially after I bought a new pair. But I (smartly, it turned out) told him I wasn't going to wear the new ones, or anything else for that matter, just in case my water broke and ruined my shoes. I finally let my husband throw out the godawful disgusting flip flops when we got to labor and delivery. He also had to throw out that pashmina.<br />
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That actually brings us back to the doctor's office. Over an hour after my water broke, the doctor finally examines me, confirms what we already knew, and calls for a wheelchair to take me over to the hospital, which, thankfully, is next door. It still took twenty minutes to get a wheelchair, and when I get up off of the exam table to get into the wheelchair, a literal gush of amniotic fluid goes everywhere. I am so mortified.<br />
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But they get me to the hospital, get me admitted -- which took way longer than it should have, considering I had completed the pre-admission paperwork weeks earlier -- and get me settled in a room by mid-afternoon.<br />
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I was emailing work from the hospital bed.<br />
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The next few hours go by as they're hooking me up to IVs and monitors ... and I am still not having contractions. Until the pitocin. YOWZA.<br />
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What I remember next is a blur. I remember the good doctor coming to check on me occasionally, and the nurses coming into the room pretty regularly. I remember my husband falling asleep on the futon while we were watching Jeopardy. And then I remember searing pain. But the contractions weren't long or regular enough, so they kept giving me more pitocin, which meant more pain. Finally, sometime during the evening, after my husband had been sleeping for some time, I begged for an epidural. My husband woke up for a few minutes to help me get into position for them to insert the needle. And then, after the epidural, we both fell asleep.<br />
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Except my sleep didn't last for long. I kept having very painful contractions, which the epidural was supposed to relieve, but apparently, the epidural only numbed me on one side. So they decided to give me a second one, which still didn't work right. And, you know, it's a hospital, so every time you finally manage to fall asleep, someone comes in to check on you and wakes you up.<br />
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At 6 am, the good doctor went home, replaced by the bad doctor, who checked on me exactly once, at the beginning of his shift, before disappearing for the rest of the morning. He did, however, manage to tell me, 18 hours after my water broke, that I was close to having the baby -- seven centimeters. Of course, that was what the nurse had said several hours before. I started crying like I had never cried before. He had the nurse turn up the pitocin.<br />
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I started having the shakes. I kept asking for the doctor -- because even a bad doctor is better than no doctor. Eventually I started crying. Not the humorous yelling-at-your-husband-mixed-with-tears that they show in the movies or on tv, but the crying of someone who is in agonizing pain and is being ignored by the entire medical staff of the hospital. Uncontrollable sobbing. I cried for several hours.<br />
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Having read all the books and attended all the childbirth classes, I knew that if your labor has not progressed to a certain point within 24 hours after your water breaks, you are at higher risk for infection. So, 24 hours after my water broke, I got a nurse in my room and begged for a c-section. Except the nurse fought me on it: no one in the hospital even knew that it had been 24 hours, because no one had bothered to write on the chart that my water had broken before I was admitted. They called in the back-up doctor to try to calm me down, but coincidentally, she happened to be the doctor that had examined me in the office the day before. She scheduled me for the c-section.<br />
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Even after that, it took them a few hours to get me in to the operating room. I was on a lot of drugs. They had to strap me down to the table extra
tightly in pre-op, because, by that time, I was having convulsions. But finally, over 26 hours after my water broke, there was a baby.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This baby.</td></tr>
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My husband took care of her while they put my innards back where they belonged and patched me up. A few minutes later, we were in recovery, and she was squirming around on my chest trying to breastfeed. The three of us were finally together and everything was calm.<br />
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Sadly, that was the best breastfeeding experience we ever had.<br />
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I was so calm that I sent an email to work from the recovery room. I still can't believe I did it.<br />
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Much of the hospital stay was a blur of trying to sleep, trying to feed the baby, and trying to get up and move around. I was in a lot of pain. I wish I had paid more attention to that, because I thought it was normal.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day one.</td></tr>
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At some point, when the baby was about a day old, the nurses came in and told us that the pediatrician insisted that we give her formula, because she had not yet urinated, and they were worried about her kidney and bladder function. So after a little debate and a lot of tears, we gave her the bottle, which she gulped down like a pro. Fifteen minutes later the nurses were back to tell us that they were just kidding, someone had forgotten to write down in her chart that she had a wet diaper while we were still in the recovery room. So the baby was just fine, but thanks to that bottle, the breastfeeding quickly started to go to hell.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwN2EGtXvyOEI0OTvpNfWtXJMXb6Kvn7in2gmT2JsjYYygJ4dE4SA1WYqhB2zW6hDY5WAINHSzTu263X_fHDRXIMKHcg9R_jWhK1-KYk1L6GW0z7qL2rnin3PhipzQkTJq9ViVoYMEh4Ca/s1600/photo+(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwN2EGtXvyOEI0OTvpNfWtXJMXb6Kvn7in2gmT2JsjYYygJ4dE4SA1WYqhB2zW6hDY5WAINHSzTu263X_fHDRXIMKHcg9R_jWhK1-KYk1L6GW0z7qL2rnin3PhipzQkTJq9ViVoYMEh4Ca/s1600/photo+(4).JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiny cuddly monkey baby!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Oh, and that was strike two on the hospital's record keeping. Way to go, folks.<br />
<br />
The baby did okay in the hospital, but we were nursing a lot, and OMIGOD HOLY HELL IT HURT. I called in a lactation consultant, who told me that we were doing everything right. I used their fancy hospital pump, and....nothing. But I was determined to breastfeed the kiddo, so I shoved my boob in her mouth every time she cried.<br />
<br />
She cried a lot.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEingoEBaDOKgSdu-Qkzf6ye879jO9VQlF7dqhrLa5wggAn4h3mBJG1XKSDJXoOe368clr4dzoZNWz6rbHfySqzY1tWvdYMqR6XnysAifvTYAkMlLgKPNuFTa7ugaxsI9bb9_lrCejMdygMs/s1600/photo%25287%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEingoEBaDOKgSdu-Qkzf6ye879jO9VQlF7dqhrLa5wggAn4h3mBJG1XKSDJXoOe368clr4dzoZNWz6rbHfySqzY1tWvdYMqR6XnysAifvTYAkMlLgKPNuFTa7ugaxsI9bb9_lrCejMdygMs/s1600/photo%25287%2529.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not crying...for now.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My husband's mother came up the day before we went home. Then my husband's brother, his girlfriend, and their three kids came the day after we got home. We were 9 people in a two-bedroom condo. Oh, and one of the toilets wasn't working right.<br />
<br />
And we were home for about 5 minutes before the baby peed all over our bed. Laundry time!<br />
<br />
Then the second toilet started leaking into our neighbor's ceiling. Surprise plumbing emergency!<br />
<br />
Through all this, I pretty much ate next to nothing, slept next to never, and kept the baby attached to my boobs almost all the time. By that weekend, the family had left, and my best friend had come in, and I spent the entire visit feeding the baby every 90 minutes. My nipples were bleeding.<br />
<br />
I thought she was just a hungry kid. But when we went to the doctor, she was losing weight. We started to give her some formula to supplement. She still wasn't gaining her weight back.<br />
<br />
She cried a lot. I cried, a lot.<br />
<br />
Lactation consultants. Bonus doctors appointments for both of us, because she wasn't gaining weight and my incision wasn't healing properly. Extra crying. <br />
<br />
Finally, one of the lactation consultants said the most wonderful thing to me. "The first rule of breastfeeding is FEED THE BABY. Do whatever you need to do to get the baby fed. This includes formula."<br />
<br />
It was like a lightbulb went on: we would supplement more until I could produce more milk.<br />
<br />
But, alas, it was a flickering lightbulb in an insane asylum.<br />
<br />
I was bound and determined to produce more milk. I bought every book ever about breastfeeding, rented a hospital pump, and spent hundreds of dollars on herbal supplements and teas. Nothing really worked -- my production was extraordinarily low.<br />
<br />
I was out of my fucking mind. At one of the doctor's visits to check my incision -- which kept opening back up -- I begged the doctor to put me on a prescription medicine that, as a side effect, might increase my milk production.<br />
<br />
Thank god she refused. She told me not to worry, we live in a country with clean water and healthy formula.<br />
<br />
I cried on the way home, angry that she didn't give me the drugs. I was still out of my fucking mind.<br />
<br />
I broke down in the pediatrician's office. The pediatrician confessed that she gave her kids formula. It didn't really sink in. I fought as hard as I could to get my milk production up. Nada. No matter what I did, we wound up having to supplement with formula. And to me, that was failure. <br />
<br />
When my daughter was 12 weeks old, I went back to work -- my incision still not entirely healed -- and my production dropped even lower. I tried to pump more. Then, the baby started rejecting me: the only times she would nurse was when she was too tired to fight -- first thing in the morning, last thing before bedtime, in the middle of the night. On top of everything else, it hurt my feelings.<br />
<br />
I honestly don't know when I finally realized that I was being crazy. I think it was a gradual understanding. I do know that, eventually, we got down to just one nursing session each day, first thing in the morning, and that lasted until she got her first tooth at 8 months old -- and bit me with it. (Ouch!) In retrospect, I can't believe I forced the issue for as long as I did.<br />
<br />
Through it all, my husband was incredible: patient, kind, realistic, supportive. He kept me from crossing the line to full-on crazy countless times.<br />
<br />
Now, as I type this, the baby is on the cusp of her first birthday, and
people are starting to ask us if we're going to have another. If I were
a smarter person, I would think about this story and say no,
definitively. But I keep thinking that my daughter deserves a sibling.
And I keep thinking that knowing what I know now, maybe I can do it
"right" this time. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeB8gqEk7kR8r2ce1tL0Ru45ut8F5S8BJNIBkS5wu6tCyk0vQL5apUpHsUEiosLPZDOku4fd1Ba_Fc_1K9RSOEglUgtVHpmBDVYgRQ_E49653df6SZCng0FwnGkmrRH9m93ai3My07rqK4/s1600/photo%25286%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeB8gqEk7kR8r2ce1tL0Ru45ut8F5S8BJNIBkS5wu6tCyk0vQL5apUpHsUEiosLPZDOku4fd1Ba_Fc_1K9RSOEglUgtVHpmBDVYgRQ_E49653df6SZCng0FwnGkmrRH9m93ai3My07rqK4/s1600/photo%25286%2529.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birthday cupcake!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
But that might be the crazy talking. darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-72616041756708155122013-05-12T21:42:00.000-04:002013-05-12T21:42:12.873-04:00Mother's DayI woke up at 6:15 this morning to the sound of the monitor. It wasn't
a full-fledged cry, and it wasn't one of the whimpers that mean that
she's not fully awake yet; it was somewhere in between. It gave me
enough time to run to the bathroom and get her bottle warmed before I
got her.<br />
<br />
When I got in the room, she was standing up in
her crib, supported by one hand on the toy piano we have suspended from
the footboard. She was, as always, happy to see me. And despite my lack
of sleep -- she had awoken, briefly, at midnight, and her dad's alarm
went off at 3 am -- I was beyond happy to see her.<br />
<br />
Diaper,
bottle, playtime on the floor, breakfast, another diaper, more
playtime, another bottle, snuggles, and a nap: a morning just like every
other weekend morning.<br />
<br />
This was my mother's day; my first one as a mom. It was also the first one in a very long time that hasn't been
overwhelmingly tinged with sadness and loss. I still miss my mother
terribly, but I have so much more now than I ever did before. I am so very lucky.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSfbC3eE2rYpiq9pFdZFSgZqwHW0RUenVrFtlxqyrOFDx3VnuEs5rSVk310WTkl426Ud8BgLNHr93d5WQAdOLDKMSiSYqo5SBB6m16KBXnoLYJNCn2NkZXzLQhQ6A-8D7O9hQgkj5BfJ4Q/s1600/248018_10200911005434567_802464184_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSfbC3eE2rYpiq9pFdZFSgZqwHW0RUenVrFtlxqyrOFDx3VnuEs5rSVk310WTkl426Ud8BgLNHr93d5WQAdOLDKMSiSYqo5SBB6m16KBXnoLYJNCn2NkZXzLQhQ6A-8D7O9hQgkj5BfJ4Q/s320/248018_10200911005434567_802464184_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Practicing her pouty face.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-86349296489143975102013-03-12T20:58:00.000-04:002013-03-12T21:02:21.766-04:00At Eight MonthsMy daughter is eight months old today.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAC2et8-Pd4fZ9FLFBggivft0JsjotxkR7h5chZxz6eEqSjgWv6VzFbGpjHW0SEDimqxFl3xxaNmZPDt0Irh6yCiS_bW6Kh7_2vHf03oU-mtOzCL8YWiwEOceHvmjCXpU5jRHg71I6SqO6/s1600/625421_10200533160308675_1173079300_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAC2et8-Pd4fZ9FLFBggivft0JsjotxkR7h5chZxz6eEqSjgWv6VzFbGpjHW0SEDimqxFl3xxaNmZPDt0Irh6yCiS_bW6Kh7_2vHf03oU-mtOzCL8YWiwEOceHvmjCXpU5jRHg71I6SqO6/s320/625421_10200533160308675_1173079300_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flower Girl.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
She gives sloppy open mouth kisses when she feels like it, and has been known to applaud the weather forecast. She giggles when you do something unexpected, like blow raspberries on her belly. She pinches me and pulls my hair, a lot, usually when I am feeding her. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She holds on to me so tightly when I pick her up when she's crying in the middle of the night, and first thing in the morning too. She pushes me away when she wants to play with her toys. She likes the toys with the flashing lights, or the ones that make noise or play music, more so when someone close by is sleeping.<br />
<br />
She likes to roll over mid-diaper change and wave her little butt in the air. I know I shouldn't laugh, but I do anyway. She calls me "Da Da," even though I keep telling her that my name is "Mama." I know that, eventually, she'll get it right.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She can crawl or roll from one end of the house to the other in seconds. She likes to climb on me, and now she uses my limbs, or whatever else she can find, to pull herself up to standing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She is a force of nature, this baby. She is exhausting and exhilarating. And I have never loved anything or anyone as fiercely.</div>
</div>
darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-57347155351711778022013-02-16T11:06:00.000-05:002014-01-10T15:40:00.828-05:00WittlebeeThis week, we received our first <a href="http://wittlebee.com/" target="_blank">Wittlebee</a> box: a really cute three piece purple set, grey sweatpants, a threadless t-shirt, and an orange hooded sweatshirt.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTrftY8dflxp1i9AlPMrEBFZ_JmkMnQPKJMZ7GNDWgJgiCC1_W_60-XxHc9Y5CsbvLRyBncs2OUmhD8SEYKAwM8UykeWpSptWMY5L3i7irqgVx6Ws4KK7aLwMzJ_kXmuUWXJvJQtUCjQaa/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTrftY8dflxp1i9AlPMrEBFZ_JmkMnQPKJMZ7GNDWgJgiCC1_W_60-XxHc9Y5CsbvLRyBncs2OUmhD8SEYKAwM8UykeWpSptWMY5L3i7irqgVx6Ws4KK7aLwMzJ_kXmuUWXJvJQtUCjQaa/s400/photo.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
We can't wait to see what they send next month!<br />
<br />
If you are interested in having cute kid's clothes sent to you without having to shop or even think about it, you should check it out. And if you use my <a href="http://curebit.com/x/VJG83" target="_blank">link</a>, you save $10.darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-76926776007646503462013-02-07T22:27:00.000-05:002013-03-12T20:52:45.243-04:00Six MonthsThis is a little late, since she'll be seven months on Tuesday. But let's just say that so far, six months is the best.
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2AduBJEfSNGPFU1f1dL3DDe_6thTjrWg8cyxBiGe9Sy6HQRNxuUxN9h7yEnwIDZX3kvkZ0PuFnfxYtlOkKuhFw4ZFgWKbk6ggQ5yy4gWG2-DdyYYbDvPQFJQ6vZUMympYH9aLZpigSboK/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2AduBJEfSNGPFU1f1dL3DDe_6thTjrWg8cyxBiGe9Sy6HQRNxuUxN9h7yEnwIDZX3kvkZ0PuFnfxYtlOkKuhFw4ZFgWKbk6ggQ5yy4gWG2-DdyYYbDvPQFJQ6vZUMympYH9aLZpigSboK/s400/photo.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello, Kitty.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-41232360945004785132013-01-04T12:21:00.000-05:002013-01-04T13:01:45.959-05:00Dear Leo's MomI saw you crying when you dropped Leo off at daycare for the first time today. I wanted to hug you, to tell you that it's okay, that it gets better. But the truth is that I don't know if it does. We just learn to hide it better so that we can get done what needs to get done, and so that our babies don't know that we're really a wreck inside.<br />
<br />
It's not like the daycare isn't a good place. It is. They've been taking excellent care of my daughter for the past two months. She is happy and well-cared for, and really, what more could I ask? Still, if I didn't have to work, I'd be staying at home with her, soaking up all the cuddles and delighting in watching her figure out this crazy, extraordinary world. But that's not currently in the budget.<br />
<br />
You are lucky, in some respects: Leo is over 4 months old and today is the first day that you dropped him off. I had to go back to work when my baby was just 12 weeks old, still a newborn. And, like you, I cried.<br />
<br />
I cried after every babysitter interview. When we finally found someone, and I left her the first time, just for two hours as a transition, I cried the entire time. Then, when I went back to work full-time, I cried in the car for a week. Some days, I cried in my office, and in the evening after I put her to sleep. And then, three weeks later, when she started at the daycare? I went through the whole process all over again.<br />
<br />
I cried because I felt like such a bad mommy. But now I know, I am not a bad mommy: I am doing what I need to do to take care of my family to the best of my ability. Bad mommies are the ones that don't make sacrifices to take care of their families; mommies that always put their own wants and desires first.<br />
<br />
You are not a bad mommy.<br />
<br />
It gets easier. I promise.darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-13012593463167003462012-11-19T12:43:00.000-05:002012-11-20T13:20:41.697-05:00"Sleeps like a baby." Yeah, right.<br />
<span style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px;">I left work early on Friday to take the baby to the pediatrician for her four-month well-baby visit. She got shots, and we both seem to be handling it better now. She only screamed for a minute before falling asleep, and this time, I only got a little teary-eyed. Then we came home and she had her first rice cereal.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; padding: 0px;">
Of course, she was fussy and sick all weekend. On Saturday, she barfed so much that I think we set a record in the number of outfit changes in a single day -- hers AND mine. Sometimes it seems like she holds it in until I'm the one holding her, and then she lets go. She almost always smiles after she barfs on me, particularly if I've just showered. </div>
<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; padding: 0px;">
She loves to pull my hair. I got a haircut yesterday, and when she saw me, she cried. It was like I threw out her favorite toy.</div>
<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px;">This week, she decided that she hates sleeping in her crib. She waits for me to fall asleep and then cries, inconsolably, until I take her into bed with me, which means that I'm sleeping in the guest bed about 75% of the time, so L can sleep. Then she will only sleep ON me. Of course, on L's days off, when he goes in to console her, she seems to go right back to sleep. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRFZ6f7LVFRmx3lEsKlPBdanIrbUuHyTgISxM6uVGh9hQAGLTNMVb1JTa_FI5yZMvZ9AXw1A5IuLZyLcBO7iEaXQwj64dYFJ1VKgG9oNPg9-XVqRGB1wrje7pSerss6Ry51BU9IzlnVw_a/s1600/photo+(21).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRFZ6f7LVFRmx3lEsKlPBdanIrbUuHyTgISxM6uVGh9hQAGLTNMVb1JTa_FI5yZMvZ9AXw1A5IuLZyLcBO7iEaXQwj64dYFJ1VKgG9oNPg9-XVqRGB1wrje7pSerss6Ry51BU9IzlnVw_a/s400/photo+(21).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sleeping like a baby. When it suits her.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px;">She is SO good at daycare, all smiles and sunshine. The teachers love her to pieces: we walk in, and they all can't wait to snuggle with my baby. But they think that I'm a disaster. Today, when I took her in -- late, because she woke up at 5:30 and then fell asleep when I was trying to get us out the door -- all of the teachers were super concerned because she has a big cut on her cheek. Of course, they weren't around during the hysterical crying fit where she clawed her face. </span><br />
<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; padding: 0px;">
The worst was Friday, when they called me to ask me whether it was okay to wake her up, because she slept for over 2 hours. Of course she sleeps there -- BECAUSE SHE WON'T SLEEP AT NIGHT, IN HER CRIB.</div>
<br />darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-67276229063393396812012-10-15T12:02:00.003-04:002013-07-12T09:50:43.793-04:00Three MonthsThe first three months went by in a whirlwind.<br />
<br />
One minute it was my due date, and it seemed like I had been pregnant forever, not just 40 weeks. There I was, planning my induction for the next week, and heading into the office because I would go stir-crazy at home, waiting ... and seemingly out of nowhere, my water broke, and I was headed to the hospital to have the baby. Then, the long, long, LONG unproductive labor, followed by the c-section, and then -- the best part -- getting to meet our new little person for the very first time.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwF0aA7iUJiJfOSRXV-0DC3AszE-XGNT9ByiBwd8qbwGW_yKjG7-bZMQAodZaY5la0_zNafXTCZn3PYZIsGcaZxPVM6ZX95QQHWASdLOVhbLi7eSiOATA6qkm6NZQT7VHMgI96winXw054/s1600/0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwF0aA7iUJiJfOSRXV-0DC3AszE-XGNT9ByiBwd8qbwGW_yKjG7-bZMQAodZaY5la0_zNafXTCZn3PYZIsGcaZxPVM6ZX95QQHWASdLOVhbLi7eSiOATA6qkm6NZQT7VHMgI96winXw054/s320/0.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Since then, it seems like time has sped up.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKU39sCqGYIvF6NZWAFLbeNkgfMG13t8StzBcbCAsNSeMQiTr_KyodK9TmkEijeSHAlpQXaDOJ-1gTAPoyYPmueutTejaYDUx_3wI1beyJMwrYogpnxy6ExX2yG3Lg-IjgxopRx7wWvqV/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKU39sCqGYIvF6NZWAFLbeNkgfMG13t8StzBcbCAsNSeMQiTr_KyodK9TmkEijeSHAlpQXaDOJ-1gTAPoyYPmueutTejaYDUx_3wI1beyJMwrYogpnxy6ExX2yG3Lg-IjgxopRx7wWvqV/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One Month.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Every millisecond seems to go by more quickly than the previous one.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFqCKj8rMiDyB-sILpkhrj9F-RALx0icSmIbwwic-M77AiGlWNzDjvz_NVndWnTnmSf5g-7RO6hlJ9S_eOMSi5o0upW1PZqKStpldbPrHJSj3ZoCiYRdWvtw7bix9RLzoD_yZgGMZa6ndd/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFqCKj8rMiDyB-sILpkhrj9F-RALx0icSmIbwwic-M77AiGlWNzDjvz_NVndWnTnmSf5g-7RO6hlJ9S_eOMSi5o0upW1PZqKStpldbPrHJSj3ZoCiYRdWvtw7bix9RLzoD_yZgGMZa6ndd/s320/2.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two Months.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
My once-teeny-tiny little newborn is now a sweet, wonderful, three month old
girl. She holds her head up by herself; she plays with toys; she
giggles, squeals and coos in an attempt to communicate. Sometimes I am
scared to blink, for fear that I will miss the next great achievement.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL9Ocm057Yj3TmnK7CvOnzy2WlPoPfx6vE652ybu3QNXC4dzKjGA8ahU6_gsisv13fA0C3zVrvVXBMTdziwUx0ACjHClbkzxJXBNf2aerzuZb_vibg0mDnnhGWOOSUY58ltrD3b9ZCrDTl/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL9Ocm057Yj3TmnK7CvOnzy2WlPoPfx6vE652ybu3QNXC4dzKjGA8ahU6_gsisv13fA0C3zVrvVXBMTdziwUx0ACjHClbkzxJXBNf2aerzuZb_vibg0mDnnhGWOOSUY58ltrD3b9ZCrDTl/s320/3.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three Months.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-13533059905299007932012-07-04T08:06:00.001-04:002012-10-15T12:06:44.684-04:00Week 40We've made it in to our 40th week, and all is relatively well. I am ready for the pregnancy to be over (and the parenting to begin); the baby seems to be quite comfortable staying where she is. L says that she gets the stubbornness from my side of the family.<br />
<br />
At the doctor this week, we picked out an induction date, just in case the baby doesn't budge. I'm glad there's an end in sight, but I really thought that things would get going on their own. <br />
<br />
Honestly, I have to admit that I'm a little bummed that there's no sign of the baby yet today. I mean, how perfect would it be for a mom born on one all-American holiday (Thanksgiving Day) to have a daughter born on the other (Independence Day)? Then again, my sister was born on Christmas, and while my nephew was due around Easter, he wasn't born that day either. Maybe I should stop looking for patterns in these things....<br />
<br />
darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-51198975666726586062012-05-15T19:07:00.000-04:002012-10-15T11:47:50.744-04:00Almost-Mother's DayIt's been a long time since I really celebrated Mother's Day. For the past four years without my mom it's been hard -- <a href="http://mostboringblogever.blogspot.com/2010/05/thoughts-on-mothers-day.html" target="_blank">a reminder of what I've lost</a>. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVWDAuTYXpyCUTC3rdaABan8IAgzrMTMxDgMaGhoNZNVd4GGrViaQi9khCjmcjX_Uuzn9871W7l1zlKOKLqL3IqEBq7ai8TTJzBSERpuGer8IxXjZCcOwI0ArEFoECsezybUSDnxbdAUJw/s1600/408125_3205173045396_1148243673_3281187_2140332084_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVWDAuTYXpyCUTC3rdaABan8IAgzrMTMxDgMaGhoNZNVd4GGrViaQi9khCjmcjX_Uuzn9871W7l1zlKOKLqL3IqEBq7ai8TTJzBSERpuGer8IxXjZCcOwI0ArEFoECsezybUSDnxbdAUJw/s320/408125_3205173045396_1148243673_3281187_2140332084_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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But this year was the start of something new for me, my identity as a mother and not just as a daughter and granddaughter. Even though the baby is not-quite-here yet, I am already her mommy, and she is already my child, my daughter. There's just so much to look forward to in that. <br />
<br />
L sent me lovely flowers, and informed me via text message that the baby helped pick them out. I'm not quite sure how that works, since I'm fairly certain that the only one she communicates with is me, and it's through kicks and punches. <br />
<br />
<br />
Over the past few months, with the pregnancy, my mother has been back in my dreams, a lot. I mostly just remember bits and pieces of them, but I have a vivid recollection of one dream from a few nights ago. Mom and I were arguing about the baby's name, and who to name the baby after, and the argument escalated until it ended with me telling her that she couldn't tell me what to name the baby, because she was dead and I had to name the baby after her. <br />
<br />
Sometimes I wish I just had sex dreams like everyone else.darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-10256001565553542812012-04-27T17:07:00.002-04:002012-04-27T17:09:15.571-04:0035 Days of SolitudeAnd so, with <a href="http://oliruebaby.blogspot.com/2012/04/pox-part-ii.html" target="_blank">the chicken pox</a> mostly behind us, on Sunday, L left for a five-week work training program in Little Rock, Arkansas. When we first found out that this class was possible, it freaked me out a bit. I mean, he was going to leave me alone for the end of the seventh month and most of the eighth. But the alternatives were worse -- I don't think I could handle being left alone with a newborn.<br />
<br />
And so, here we are. I'm hoping to use the alone time to get stuff done in the house, but let's face it -- I don't have the energy to do a lot right now, and I'm slow as molasses.darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-23221406194513975682012-04-22T10:40:00.000-04:002012-04-22T16:49:33.848-04:00The Pox, Part IIAfter L came down with <a href="http://oliruebaby.blogspot.com/2012/04/pox.html" target="_blank">the pox</a>, two weeks went by . . . and nothing. I thought I was out of the woods.<br />
<br />
And then, late last Friday night, or early Saturday morning, depending on how you define those things, I had a dream that I had the chicken pox. In the dream, I was itchy and covered in spots. I woke up that morning to find a handful of red spots -- one on each arm, a few on my abdomen and chest, a few more on my back. Most of them were hard to see, but the one on my right forearm was clear: pink, asymmetrical, and with a blister of clear fluid starting to form on the top.<br />
<br />
Chicken pox.<br />
<br />
After a few moments of panic, I called the OB/GYN's office to find out what to do. When she called me back, she managed to calm me down, telling me that at 28 weeks pregnant, the risk to the baby was minimal. She also told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was not to go to their office -- or to my childbirth class on Monday night and my ultrasound on Wednesday -- because I did not need to expose a whole bunch of pregnant ladies and infants to the pox. Instead, she sent me to my primary care doctor, who had not seen a case of chicken pox in a very long time -- let alone in a pregnant 36-year-old. One of the other doctors in the practice had advised that antiviral medicine was not only safe, but recommended, for pregnant women with the chicken pox, and so, after a little bit of research, she sent me on my way, prescription in hand, and warned me to be very careful of any potential complications such as infected blisters or symptoms of pneumonia.<br />
<br />
I spent the week taking the medicine, avoiding interaction with people, trying not to be itchy and uncomfortable, and making sure I did not get any sicker. Some things worked better than others. For example:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I learned that oatmeal baths are great, if a little weird and slippery. </li>
<li>I learned that the worst part of telecommuting is the lack of human interaction. Every time the phone rang or I got an email, I was very excited. </li>
<li>I learned that avoiding contact with other people is harder than it seems. First, when I tried to sneak into the pharmacy at an off time to pick up my prescription, there was the woman with two small kids that, no matter how hard I tried to avoid, kept following me and wheeling her kids up right next to me. (Hope they've been vaccinated!) And then, on Monday, not only did the cleaning lady show up (after I had left a voicemail to cancel the appointment), but the condo manager brought two workmen in to check our air-conditioning. </li>
<li>Most of all, I learned that the baby is pretty resilient. She seems just fine, kicking away, as if nothing happened. </li>
</ul>
Anyway, as I type this, the blisters have either healed or dried up, so I am no longer contagious. Back to business as usual tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
POSTSCRIPT: <span id="yui_3_2_0_1_1335126724614132">I am very lucky that this case
of chicken pox was so mild, and that I got it at this stage of the pregnancy, rather than (1) early in the pregnancy, when it is higher risk to the baby, or (2) very late in the pregnancy, when there was more risk that I would go into labor and then the baby would contract it. But more than that: according to WebMD, the Mayo Clinic, and a whole bunch of other sources, the odds of having a severe case of chicken pox increase incrementally in
adulthood, and then, as many as 20% of pregnant women with the chicken
pox get pneumonia as a complication -- and as many as 1/3 of people with varicella pneumonia die. So,
right now, I am especially thankful that I have good health insurance, doctors
that answer my calls on Saturdays, and quick, easy, and cheap access to
antiviral medicines. I wish everyone else could be so lucky. </span>darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-78623408010153455652012-04-03T22:50:00.001-04:002012-04-04T18:52:18.721-04:00The PoxThe past few days have sucked in the OliRue household. <br />
<br />
L, out of nowhere, came down with a case of shingles -- which, if you don't know, is essentially a limited -- but extra painful -- reemergence of the chicken pox. And, of course, I have never had the chicken pox, and it's super-double-plus ungood to get it while you're pregnant.<br />
<br />
I feel horribly for my husband. Not only is he uncomfortable and in pain, but we're sleeping in separate rooms so that he doesn't infect me and the baby. (We have walkie-talkies, but they really only serve to pick up taxicab radios.)<br />
<br />
There is, however, a little bit of situational irony in the whole thing, courtesy of my neurotic mother. <br />
<br />
For some reason, my mother was obsessed with making sure I had the chicken pox. My siblings both had it, and I didn't catch it. Then, whenever neighbors or cousins or friends or friends-of-friends -- or the kids of people she kind of knew -- came down with it, she would take me over to their houses to catch it.<br />
<br />
It never worked.<br />
<br />
When I was in high school, I had friends that came down with it a second time. When I was in college, my roommate and one of my suitemates had it. Still, I never caught it.<br />
<br />
For years, whenever I would plan anything significant, or whenever I had any major event on the horizon, my mother would always qualify it with " . . . unless you wind up getting the chicken pox."<br />
<br />
Eventually, I just assumed I was immune. My working theory was that I had it when I was very little, and my mom -- busy with two other small kids -- thought it was just a rash. But when I first got pregnant, the doctor ran my bloodwork and told me that I was not immune, but then said that it wasn't really anything to worry about nowadays -- the majority of kids are immunized, and most adults have already had it. Then she said that she'd arrange for me to get immunized after I have the baby.<br />
<br />
And so, of course, we're here, hoping I don't catch the goddamn chicken pox from my husband, in the last week of my second trimester.<br />
<br />
Fingers crossed.darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2706389974757863592.post-14872245735546125402012-03-19T21:30:00.002-04:002012-03-20T12:45:41.873-04:00Pregnancy and Public TransitI've been living in the greater DC metropolitan area for almost 12 years now, and I've never lived further than a few blocks from the Metro. I've never wanted to live further away. I love the Metro. I love the idea of public transportation. I love the convenience. I love not having to sit in traffic or pay a small fortune to park my car. I love being able to sit down with a book and relax. I never thought anything could change my mind -- not delays, not broken air conditioning, not even annoying springtime Cherry Blossom tourists.<br />
<br />
Except now, being pregnant on public transportation is making me reconsider. I hate Metro. I hate that there's always a delay, or a broken escalator, or malfunctioning air or heat. And I hate the crowds. I hate the fact that, in the morning, I can't get a seat because of all the perfectly healthy young men that don't look up from their book or newspaper or iPad to notice an uncomfortable pregnant lady trying to hold on while the train lurches. I hate the rushing people in the evening, particularly the older men that push me out of the way, in fear that the slow pregnant lady will keep them from getting a seat. I hate the looks from the younger women when I sit or stand near them, as if being pregnant was a contagion.<br />
<br />
For years, I've politely offered my seat to visibly pregnant women on crowded trains, thinking that one day, the gesture would be reciprocated. But no, not once. In fact, a few weeks ago, I gave up my seat to a young girl who was significantly more pregnant -- and noticeably more uncomfortable -- than I, while hordes of apparently young, healthy commuters either ignored us, or worse, looked on.<br />
<br />
Then again, maybe it's not the Metro: maybe it's people. Maybe having this baby is making me notice what assholes people are.darahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12523353095030819242noreply@blogger.com0