Two days, two months; oh well. I have so much to feel guilty for; I won't add this blog to the list.
Merry Christmas! It's a bit chilly outside, but my snow peas and mustards are doing great. Even the broccoli appears to be growing. Sweet potato vines, alas, do not hold up well to the brisk wind that passes for autumn here in Houston. Drought? They thrived. But heavens, not a temp under 80!
I woke early and made a pan of cinnamon rolls and two loaves of fresh bread for Christmas breakfast. While waiting for the rolls to rise, I washed and put away the dishes from last night's dinner and washed this morning's bread dishes. I have no idea what to cook to go with the cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Eggs and sausage, I guess. I'd rather have nothing at all but the cinnamon rolls, but if I don't have at least a little protein with the junk, I might as well plan to lay in bed and lose the whole day.
I have a huge ham sitting on the stovetop waiting to be stuffed into the oven for late Christmas luncheon. Mark requested asparagus to go with Formal Christmas Dinner, and Burgundy wanted green bean casserole and macaroni and cheese. I have a great recipe from my friend Tiff for mac & cheese, so those four meager things will comprise our family meal.
The rolls are risen, as is Holden, whose cranky whine of indignation has alerted me to the unacceptably milkless condition of his nearly one-year-old existence. Even though I'd rather blog about Burgundy's wonderful Sweet 16 party, I'll go turn on the oven, cook breakfast, and feed the baby. Such is life, and it is good.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Baby Symphony
It has taken me weeks of thinking and planning to bring myself back here. Holden learned to say Mama, Dada, Teeteetee (Sissy), sprouted 4 teeth, began imitating his Grandmother's cough and laughing like a loon. At each milestone, I thought of how I'd immortalize it, what I'd say to preserve the moment forever on the Internet. My days are filled with loads of diaper wash and hours of errands in the car, and one minute, hour and day bleeds into the next until the moment is gone, and I indulge in the wistful self-flagellation of my Baptist upbringing without ever actually doing anything to fix it.
This morning Mark let me sleep an extra hour, Holden snuggled softly against me, for once not demanding my breast in his sleep. At 8:30, I dragged myself into consciousness, and as we said goodbye to Daddy, I heard the wind howling around the house. There's a blissful chill outside today, and by blissful chill, I mean that with the wind, it might be in the low 70s out here. So I made myself a mocha, and I'm sitting on the swing, sipping the dregs and watching my sweet son, my boy-no-longer-an-infant, play in the flower garden at creating a scale model of the Desolation of Armageddon.
He's standing with help from furniture, knees, the dog, and hapless vegetation doomed to wilt under his weight. He surfs from edge to handhold to couch and back, and just today I think he mastered the art of squatting and standing up in one motion, using only the pole of the swing to keep his one-handed balance. A couple of days ago, He began sitting upright on his knees, realizing that it was a faster route to standing up than sitting on his butt.
He touches new things with only his index finger, eyebrows furrowed and lower lip sucked into his mouth until he decides he needs the additional experience of tasting and gumming the object. I try to keep the house clean, but Saturday I swear to God I found a man's toenail clipping in his mouth.
Burgundy loves school, and a good thing, because it's her whole life right now. Her first nine weeks' grades are finalized, and she has 4 As (100, 99, 99 and 90) and 3 Bs (86, 85, and 82). She's taking six out of 7 classes at the college level; I'm very impressed with her drive.
She's learning that life is full of setbacks and people who just don't care about your story. I guess I'm learning that, too. It's so difficult to see people treating your child unfairly or even with fair disregard. In my world, she'll never be just another kid with a late paper and a good story. It's vitally important though, so when she made the decision not to extend an appeal against what I thought was an unfair penalty, I honored it.
I want more than anything to storm the front office of the school with a broomstick in one arm and a baby in the other, hair wild and reeking of baby poop and sour milk and demand that they adjust the grade. Or. Else. It's her decision though, and if I'm honest, it's probably the right one. She has to work with this teacher the rest of the year, and the teacher did not count off as much as she could have.
My house is a mess. I have about 7/8 of a warp wound for a weaving project. There's a bright, clean patch on the library rug where the dog took a dump. Mark shampooed the carpet. Just that spot. I hesitate to do more than giggle about it because if I'd had to do it, Mark eventually would have had to clean up both vomit and dog crap.
Holden pulls every object off of every surface he can reach, and I must be on constant, high alert for his ginger exploration of sundry electrical plugs with his baby index finger. So far, there has been very little oral exploration. He did manage to get enough slobber in the end of my MacBook plug that I had to buy a new one.
I volunteer with Burgundy's Class of 2013 Booster Club. We're raising funds to throw the kids the best Project Graduation party ever. As of right now, I haven't done nearly enough, but I'm working on a fundraiser next week (we're selling BBQ sandwiches at lunch), and I have several thank you notes to write on behalf of the elected board.
I have gone so far as to reserve the venue for Burgundy's sweet 16. We're having a masquerade ball, and I found a banquet hall that seats 300 (no, she's not inviting even half that many) for $150 on a weeknight. Her birthday is December 18, so we're holding the ball on Monday, December 19. First day of Christmas break. I'm really looking forward to this; I think it will be awesome.
I've enjoyed writing; alas, my list of things to do is long and detailed, and I am having my hair cut in less than an hour. My son is exploring the detritus in the cracks of our sidewalk, and I really should eat something besides chocolate and milk for breakfast. Until next time (and praying that will be tomorrow).
This morning Mark let me sleep an extra hour, Holden snuggled softly against me, for once not demanding my breast in his sleep. At 8:30, I dragged myself into consciousness, and as we said goodbye to Daddy, I heard the wind howling around the house. There's a blissful chill outside today, and by blissful chill, I mean that with the wind, it might be in the low 70s out here. So I made myself a mocha, and I'm sitting on the swing, sipping the dregs and watching my sweet son, my boy-no-longer-an-infant, play in the flower garden at creating a scale model of the Desolation of Armageddon.
He touches new things with only his index finger, eyebrows furrowed and lower lip sucked into his mouth until he decides he needs the additional experience of tasting and gumming the object. I try to keep the house clean, but Saturday I swear to God I found a man's toenail clipping in his mouth.
Burgundy loves school, and a good thing, because it's her whole life right now. Her first nine weeks' grades are finalized, and she has 4 As (100, 99, 99 and 90) and 3 Bs (86, 85, and 82). She's taking six out of 7 classes at the college level; I'm very impressed with her drive.
She's learning that life is full of setbacks and people who just don't care about your story. I guess I'm learning that, too. It's so difficult to see people treating your child unfairly or even with fair disregard. In my world, she'll never be just another kid with a late paper and a good story. It's vitally important though, so when she made the decision not to extend an appeal against what I thought was an unfair penalty, I honored it.
I want more than anything to storm the front office of the school with a broomstick in one arm and a baby in the other, hair wild and reeking of baby poop and sour milk and demand that they adjust the grade. Or. Else. It's her decision though, and if I'm honest, it's probably the right one. She has to work with this teacher the rest of the year, and the teacher did not count off as much as she could have.
My house is a mess. I have about 7/8 of a warp wound for a weaving project. There's a bright, clean patch on the library rug where the dog took a dump. Mark shampooed the carpet. Just that spot. I hesitate to do more than giggle about it because if I'd had to do it, Mark eventually would have had to clean up both vomit and dog crap.
Holden pulls every object off of every surface he can reach, and I must be on constant, high alert for his ginger exploration of sundry electrical plugs with his baby index finger. So far, there has been very little oral exploration. He did manage to get enough slobber in the end of my MacBook plug that I had to buy a new one.
I volunteer with Burgundy's Class of 2013 Booster Club. We're raising funds to throw the kids the best Project Graduation party ever. As of right now, I haven't done nearly enough, but I'm working on a fundraiser next week (we're selling BBQ sandwiches at lunch), and I have several thank you notes to write on behalf of the elected board.
I have gone so far as to reserve the venue for Burgundy's sweet 16. We're having a masquerade ball, and I found a banquet hall that seats 300 (no, she's not inviting even half that many) for $150 on a weeknight. Her birthday is December 18, so we're holding the ball on Monday, December 19. First day of Christmas break. I'm really looking forward to this; I think it will be awesome.
I've enjoyed writing; alas, my list of things to do is long and detailed, and I am having my hair cut in less than an hour. My son is exploring the detritus in the cracks of our sidewalk, and I really should eat something besides chocolate and milk for breakfast. Until next time (and praying that will be tomorrow).
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
What Now
I'm overwhelmed; I'm not ashamed to say so. I begin to fear that I will not get even half of what's important done, much less everything. This sense, I'm certain, is exacerbated by the fact that I spend a goodly portion of my day killing zombies with watermelons, cabbages, corn, and peas playing video games one particular video game on my cell phone.
Holden is sitting up with very little assistance. That is, I have to sit him up and make sure he has something to lean against, but he's practicing holding himself upright. Even now, he's sitting beside me on the couch, munching on his sock monkey, and he's been doing so for a good ten minutes.
Burgundy is home this week, and we put the kibosh on most all social stuff so that she and I could get to work on her academic stuff, cleaning the house, and preparing for her mission trip next week with the U.M. A.R.M.Y. She spent this morning updating her online resume and choosing which scholarship she wants to apply for this week. We're going to apply for one, no matter how small, every week until school starts. After that, we'll re-evaluate.
I'm finally pulling together Holden's birth announcement, and I want to mail it before his six-month birthday. So I have . . . less than two weeks. Holy crap.
We have let him taste several solid foods over the last couple of weeks. Banana was the most rousing failure. He continues to blanch and shudder for several minutes after every taste. Oddly, the most successful so far has been a lemon wedge. He lunges for the wedge when we eat out, and he cries when he drops it. I think it feels good on his (as-yet unrevealed) teeth, but that doesn't explain his indifference toward oranges and lime.
Right now, I have tons more work to do, and so little time left! Just wanted to pop in and say I'm still alive!
Burgundy is home this week, and we put the kibosh on most all social stuff so that she and I could get to work on her academic stuff, cleaning the house, and preparing for her mission trip next week with the U.M. A.R.M.Y. She spent this morning updating her online resume and choosing which scholarship she wants to apply for this week. We're going to apply for one, no matter how small, every week until school starts. After that, we'll re-evaluate.
I'm finally pulling together Holden's birth announcement, and I want to mail it before his six-month birthday. So I have . . . less than two weeks. Holy crap.
We have let him taste several solid foods over the last couple of weeks. Banana was the most rousing failure. He continues to blanch and shudder for several minutes after every taste. Oddly, the most successful so far has been a lemon wedge. He lunges for the wedge when we eat out, and he cries when he drops it. I think it feels good on his (as-yet unrevealed) teeth, but that doesn't explain his indifference toward oranges and lime.
Right now, I have tons more work to do, and so little time left! Just wanted to pop in and say I'm still alive!
Monday, May 16, 2011
Monday is Half-Hour Housework Day!
But I haven't started yet. I feel like I always will be behind, and even though I know the best way to defeat that feeling is to just do something - anything - I have trouble making myself follow through. I've had a productive day, though. Before leaving the house this morning, I folded and put away a load of diapers and a load of towels. I put another load of diapers in the machine to pre-rinse, and early this morning, I had already done a load of dishes and made breakfast.
Around mid-morning, I went to have bloodwork drawn to see if I'm anemic. It would explain a lot of the symptoms I've had lately. I can't seem to recover from a low-grade cough and sore throat (could be allergies). I'm exhausted all the time. My period was over a week late (so glad I wasn't pregnant). And so on. If I were a better housewife, I would have bought a liver at the farmer's market on Saturday and prepared it for myself and my husband. In some fancy french way. Alas, I'm not, so I didn't.
I don't know why I'm so put off by the idea of preparing and eating organ meats. Let's think about it from an emotionless standpoint. Why am I willing to eat a cow's buttcheek or shoulder, a pig's cured belly, or a chicken's chest muscles, but I'm not willing to eat a piece of liver? Or heart? These are supposed to be some of the healthiest meats I could eat, especially while breastfeeding. Why so hesitant? Cow's ass vs. cow's liver: Why is the liver the unappetizing option?
And before you say it tastes funny, I have the power of Julia Child in my kitchen. I have faith that her many menus for preparing liver will provide me with a delicious option. In fact, I know for certain I am inhibited by squeamishness, not flavor: Last month, my lovely sister-in-law insisted that I try barbacoa (basically a cooked cow's head). I did so under duress, making clear that I did not want to. And once I did, I had to admit that I could not tell the difference between it and other shredded, marinated cow meats in a tortilla. It tasted great. And one still can not pay me to buy barbacoa on my own, much less to consider cooking it. Sorry. Still too squeamish. So yeah, I should buy and cook a liver. It's still a long way from cow head, but not too far away from cow butt.
So yeah, I had my blood drawn, then I ate breakfast and returned a book. I came home again and put the diapers on a wash cycle after laying Holden down to sleep. I still need to make my bed, wipe down the toilets, spend 2 minutes on a crap magnet, and do my weekly bit of half-assed housework. It's half-assed because the point is not to be thorough. The point to the floors vacuumed, bathrooms scrubbed, and kitchen floor cleaned in one half-hour sweep. Efficiency of completeness.
After that, I want to spend 10 minutes throwing away trash in the living room and 10 minutes putting away clutter in the same room. And then I'm going to use that room as a staging area for the garage sale I plan to have this weekend. Finally, my goal is to put up one craigslist ad per day for stuff in our home that we're not using. Each add takes me about 20 minutes including taking and uploading photos, so one a day is kinda ambitious. So yeah, today's checklist:
I'll update as I get stuff done, I guess. Tomorrow, my MIL will come over to watch the baby, so I need to plan this evening what I want to accomplish with her here. I slept last week. Don't want to "waste" that time again by resting. Jeez, what am I, a new mom?
Update at 1:45 PM: I finished the half-hour of housework with 2 minutes to spare just as the baby started to cry. I cussed all the way through it, but it's done, and that's a first since Holden's birth. Now I just have to repeat that every week.
Update at 6:51 PM: Holy cow! I've done everything on my list except folding jeans and calling Samsung, and I even made dinner! I'm sore all over, though. My back is killing me! I hate PMS.
Around mid-morning, I went to have bloodwork drawn to see if I'm anemic. It would explain a lot of the symptoms I've had lately. I can't seem to recover from a low-grade cough and sore throat (could be allergies). I'm exhausted all the time. My period was over a week late (so glad I wasn't pregnant). And so on. If I were a better housewife, I would have bought a liver at the farmer's market on Saturday and prepared it for myself and my husband. In some fancy french way. Alas, I'm not, so I didn't.
I don't know why I'm so put off by the idea of preparing and eating organ meats. Let's think about it from an emotionless standpoint. Why am I willing to eat a cow's buttcheek or shoulder, a pig's cured belly, or a chicken's chest muscles, but I'm not willing to eat a piece of liver? Or heart? These are supposed to be some of the healthiest meats I could eat, especially while breastfeeding. Why so hesitant? Cow's ass vs. cow's liver: Why is the liver the unappetizing option?
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| Photo courtesy of foodpeoplewant.com |
So yeah, I had my blood drawn, then I ate breakfast and returned a book. I came home again and put the diapers on a wash cycle after laying Holden down to sleep. I still need to make my bed, wipe down the toilets, spend 2 minutes on a crap magnet, and do my weekly bit of half-assed housework. It's half-assed because the point is not to be thorough. The point to the floors vacuumed, bathrooms scrubbed, and kitchen floor cleaned in one half-hour sweep. Efficiency of completeness.
After that, I want to spend 10 minutes throwing away trash in the living room and 10 minutes putting away clutter in the same room. And then I'm going to use that room as a staging area for the garage sale I plan to have this weekend. Finally, my goal is to put up one craigslist ad per day for stuff in our home that we're not using. Each add takes me about 20 minutes including taking and uploading photos, so one a day is kinda ambitious. So yeah, today's checklist:
Get bloodwork doneReturn book to BordersFold diapers (yesterday's load)Fold towels (yesterday's load)Wash diapersDry diapersWash blue jeansFold and put away diapersDry blue jeans- Fold and put away blue jeans
Call dentist about refundPut notes about dentist call in Evernote- Call Samsung about phone repair
- Put notes about Samsung call in Evernote
Check for Burgundy's Science National Honor Society paperworkDeliver Science NHS paperwork to school if necessaryNot necessary, as it turns out. Due next Friday.Morning Routine:Make bed, potty pass,2 minutes crap-magnet,sort mail, 1 load laundry, 1 load dishesHousework Half hour10 minutes pick-up10 minutes trash toss
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| I'm so pleased with how well my work paid off in the living room today! |
Update at 1:45 PM: I finished the half-hour of housework with 2 minutes to spare just as the baby started to cry. I cussed all the way through it, but it's done, and that's a first since Holden's birth. Now I just have to repeat that every week.
Update at 6:51 PM: Holy cow! I've done everything on my list except folding jeans and calling Samsung, and I even made dinner! I'm sore all over, though. My back is killing me! I hate PMS.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
An Update from San Antonio
Burgundy, Holden and I are in San Antonio, visiting the most awesome sister-in-law and brother in the universe. We drove over here Wednesday evening, and we're leaving Sunday.
Burgundy spent the first part of spring break at our church doing UM Army. This was her first time to participate in an actual UM Army event; last year, she attended "boot camp" in the summer, which is intended to prepare youth who are too young to participate at the full event. UM ARMY stands for United Methodist Action Reach-out Mission by Youth. Young people from churches all gather at one church, organize into teams, and go out into the community to perform work for people who need it. This week, Burgundy's team tore out and replaced the subfloor and floor in a wheelchair-bound man's bathroom and repaired the floor in his kitchen. They also patched his siding, leveled his stove, and hauled off a broken refrigerator. Other groups, painted, built wheelchair ramps, repaired rooves, and served people in our community in many other ways.
Holden will be 12 weeks old in just four more days. At last measure (9 days ago), he was 14 pounds, 12 ounces. He currently wears size 3-6 months clothes. In short, my son is huge. He tries to talk to us now, cooing and gurgling and occasionally squealing. He smiles often and beautifully now, and when he does, it lights up my world.
Today, he started trying to use his abdominal muscles to pull himself into a sitting position from a semi-reclining one. When he was 3 weeks, 2 days old, he lunged at me from Mark's lap. The last month has seen copious drooling, and he spits up at least once now after every meal. He still doesn't care for car seats or long car rides, but 3 days ago I bathed him, and he appeared to enjoy it. He even smiled at me a few times.
Everyone tells me that he looks like me. I think he must, because the only features that I can really identify as Mark's are his eyes. They are large and rich and beautiful; however, he even inherited my slight slant to his eyes. He hair remains mostly blond, but sometimes in the sunlight I think I see a glint of red. I want a "ginger" so desparately. But I'll love him even if he's blond.
Burgundy competed in science fair again this year with wondrous results. She placed 4th in her school for health and medicine, and she placed 2nd in the district; she'll go to the Houston-wide science fair in April now.
She made a 190 on her PSAT this year, which as a Sophomore qualified her for an invitation to an exclusive and very effective prep course for the exam. The PSAT/National Merit Scholar classification is the pivot point for a number of scholarships.
Right now, I still have a chance of sleeping tonight, so I'm signing off.
Burgundy spent the first part of spring break at our church doing UM Army. This was her first time to participate in an actual UM Army event; last year, she attended "boot camp" in the summer, which is intended to prepare youth who are too young to participate at the full event. UM ARMY stands for United Methodist Action Reach-out Mission by Youth. Young people from churches all gather at one church, organize into teams, and go out into the community to perform work for people who need it. This week, Burgundy's team tore out and replaced the subfloor and floor in a wheelchair-bound man's bathroom and repaired the floor in his kitchen. They also patched his siding, leveled his stove, and hauled off a broken refrigerator. Other groups, painted, built wheelchair ramps, repaired rooves, and served people in our community in many other ways.
Holden will be 12 weeks old in just four more days. At last measure (9 days ago), he was 14 pounds, 12 ounces. He currently wears size 3-6 months clothes. In short, my son is huge. He tries to talk to us now, cooing and gurgling and occasionally squealing. He smiles often and beautifully now, and when he does, it lights up my world.
Today, he started trying to use his abdominal muscles to pull himself into a sitting position from a semi-reclining one. When he was 3 weeks, 2 days old, he lunged at me from Mark's lap. The last month has seen copious drooling, and he spits up at least once now after every meal. He still doesn't care for car seats or long car rides, but 3 days ago I bathed him, and he appeared to enjoy it. He even smiled at me a few times.
Everyone tells me that he looks like me. I think he must, because the only features that I can really identify as Mark's are his eyes. They are large and rich and beautiful; however, he even inherited my slight slant to his eyes. He hair remains mostly blond, but sometimes in the sunlight I think I see a glint of red. I want a "ginger" so desparately. But I'll love him even if he's blond.
Burgundy competed in science fair again this year with wondrous results. She placed 4th in her school for health and medicine, and she placed 2nd in the district; she'll go to the Houston-wide science fair in April now.
She made a 190 on her PSAT this year, which as a Sophomore qualified her for an invitation to an exclusive and very effective prep course for the exam. The PSAT/National Merit Scholar classification is the pivot point for a number of scholarships.
Right now, I still have a chance of sleeping tonight, so I'm signing off.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
I Had A Lot To Think About
To give fair warning, the birth was not easy and was not what I expected. I would do it again in a heartbeat, but this story is not sprinkled falsely with fairy farts and hippy flowers and the Untold Joys of Squooshing a Butterball Turkey Baby out of My Nether Bits. That's Burgundy's birth story, which I've yet to write in 15 stinking years. Not traumatic enough, I guess.
Ultimately, I decided on a plan of increasing aggression against the wee parasite. I would wake Tuesday morning, go for an ultrasound and run a couple of errands. Then we would have Christmas lunch with Mark's parents, keeping it to a reasonably short visit. When we came home, I planned to take black and blue cohosh tincture and have Mark massage my uterus with castor oil. I really didn't want to drink that stuff.
My Wise Woman Herbal for the Childbearing Year assured me that these steps all were efficacious in starting labor assuming the baby was ready. The same book recommended ingesting the castor oil only after taking these steps; I happily complied. I decided that if labor did not begin Tuesday night, then Wednesday morning would find me in the kitchen, gagging down castor oil.
I went to bed Monday night with the plan fixed in my mind, relieved finally to have resolved on a course of action.
Tuesday morning I woke at 8:30 and went to the bathroom. When I wiped, I came away with traces of my mucous plug, and when I stood, I had a contraction. I lay back down and snuggled against Mark, telling him what had happened. Five minutes later, I had another contraction. Mark and I decided to go ahead with our errands for the day, and after several more contractions came in rhythm, I texted Jackie, our midwife, to tell her what was happening. We cancelled the ultrasound.
I have no idea why I thought it was so important, but over the course of the morning, I insisted that we go shopping. We went to Michael's for green beads, and when we couldn't find the right shade of green there, we went to Hobby Lobby. I suppose I thought that I might knit so much after the baby came that I would run out of the beads. We went to a local yarn store for a purse to give Mark's mom for Christmas, and we went to Kroger for carrots and broccoli, because I knew I could not live without them while laboring. I continued to have contractions throughout the shopping, terrifying the store clients, thrilling the store staff and doubtless puzzling my poor family beyond repair.
We made it home sometime between 12:30 and 1PM. Mark began setting up the birth pool in the living room, and I sat in the swing in the front yard to call Jackie. I told her the status and said that the contractions were getting intense enough that I couldn't laugh or talk through them. She said she would be on her way after making a couple of stops.
Meanwhile, Mark discovered the vagaries of indoor birth pools and their total lack of instruction on assembly. Once he finally got it assembled (amid my protests of, "I WANT TO BE IN THE WATER NOW. MAKE IT WORK."), he ran the water hose from the hot water heater relief valve to the pool and began filling it up. With cold water. We never have figured that one out. How do you get cold water out of a hot water heater?
While we worked this conundrum, the midwife's assistant, Camellia, arrived with instant calm. She chatted with me between contractions, encouraged me through the hard ones, and swapped stories with me about mutual friends; turns out, she'd heard Burgundy's birth story from Tracey years ago; she was thrilled to make the connection. It was pretty clear I wasn't having the baby anytime soon, so at Camellia's suggestion, Mark ran to Home Depot while I sat in the pool of tepid water, having Burgundy pour pitchers of hot water all around me during contractions.
After a couple of contractions, I discovered that looking right at someone and holding eye contact throughout a contraction really helped me to get through it. When Mark returned, I gave Burgundy the job of sitting across from me through every contraction and looking into my eyes.
Burgundy brought her own phenomenal energy to the birth. She stayed remarkably calm and collected throughout. As she sat across from me through each contraction, every time I began saying, "Nooo, nooo, nooo, nooo, no," or shaking my head, Burgundy would very firmly nod her head yes while pursing her lips to remind me how to breathe.
With the pool filled up with hot water and Jackie present, labor continued to do its job. I remember needing to pee so, so badly, but I simply could not do it. At one point I sat on the toilet in the bathroom, looked at Jackie, and said, "I don't want to do this. I don't want to! I already have a kid; I've done this already, and I don't want to do it again!" I don't know what she thought, but she just smiled and said, "Well, it's coming, and you can't stop it now." Camellia chose that moment to compliment my well-shaped, nursing-ready nipples. I have no idea why that helped, but there you have it. Existential crisis? Grab it by the boobs.
I labored in the pool; I labored in the bed. I knelt, squatted, sat, stood, floated and leaned through the contractions. At one point, Mark had to hold my leg in the air, pushing back against my foot while I used him for leverage. Eventually, Jackie asked if she could check me, and she discovered that I had a little cervical lip. She tried pushing it back, and I hollered like an angry cat on Halloween. She gave me a choice. I could let her try pushing it back during a contraction, or I could try breathing through a few contractions to let it move back on its own. I chose the latter.
I had called Tracey at some point while laboring in the bedroom, and she remained on the phone, praying and breathing with me through the contractions. About every third contraction, I would become completely overwhelmed and simply scream. Those contractions frightened me; I'd had nothing like them when in labor with Burgundy. Eventually even Tracey's prayers over the phone were too much of a distraction, so we hung up.
After several contractions, Jackie checked me again, but I still had the lip. She and Camellia agreed that breaking my bag of waters would hasten the birth. I asked Jackie if I would be angry with her tomorrow. She paused, then said, "I don't think so." I told her to break it. I had gone from, "I don't want this," to "Get it out; I don't care what it takes."
She said she had to go to the car for her amniohook, and I told her I had a wide range of crochet hooks in all colors and sizes in the next room. She declined to use them. I moaned, panted, and chanted through another contraction, and Jackie returned with the hook, breaking my bag of waters just as the next contraction began.
Reclining into Mark's arms, I relaxed a little as I felt the warm rush of water between my legs, and then a steamroller flattened my last hopes for a dignified birth as a contraction like none I had ever felt before took over my entire body. Instinctively, I curled myself forward and felt myself strangling on a scream of horror as I lost control of myself. I could not will myself to breathe, much less to relax, open, or allow my child to be born gently into an open flower or whatever other hippy nonsense I thought would happen. I found myself on my hands and knees, writhing in agony, screaming into poor Jackie's face. Through it all, I had to pee so badly that I could feel myself NOT-PEEING through the pain of the contraction.
This contraction started with a feeling like something had grabbed my uterus and was trying to wad it like aluminum foil into the smallest possible ball. It spread out from there around my back in bands, making me want to buck against it even though the very action made the crumpling feelings in my uterus even worse. Lightning pains shot down both legs, and my chest felt compressed as though Mark and Burgundy together sat on it.
As it passed, I turned to face Mark. Yes, the poor man watched that contraction from behind. He might never again desire my intimacy. Before I could catch my breath and recover, the next one hit. I felt like a cat being stretched by its limbs and tail; I felt I could come apart at any moment. I briefly saw a visual of the dead wife in The Last King of Scotland, feeling I could easily end up torn limb from limb and sewn back together askance as a warning to all women. I never caught my breath; I remember seeing Mark's face crawling in pain as I grabbed a handful of his stomach flesh in each hand to anchor myself against the screams I couldn't stop.
The contraction passed, and I felt ashamed of the screams. I wanted to take them back, apologize, pull myself together and behave like the grown-ass woman I was. I had birthed Burgundy with dignity and not much trouble as a naïve, broke, and idealistic 20-year-old. Surely as an adult I could do the same? I hardly registered the thought before the next contraction ripped another scream from my throat.
Mark's face kept its rigid, wide-eyed, flared-nostril expression through however many more contractions passed. I mauled his flesh, screamed in his face like a braying donkey. I said I couldn't do it; I didn't want to do it.
Jackie said "He's coming; he's close now," and I asked how long. "Maybe 10 more minutes."
I did the math on the contraction spacing and said, "Okay, so that's four more contractions? I can do this four more times."
After that, I managed to get behind the contractions. I pushed with the next few and each time felt myself blacking out. I told Mark not to let me drown. Jackie told me not to push so hard, and I told her that I didn't have a choice. Then another extreme contraction hit, and through my screams, I told them I thought I would rip open. I could feel myself holding the baby inside of me, clenching my whole bottom shut, trying to protect myself from pain, from the baby, from motherhood itself. The contraction eased, and somehow we managed to get one of my legs up so that my right knee and left foot supported me, and my left knee pointed out and away from my body. Jackie used the Doppler to check the baby's heartrate again; it remained in the 150's.
Another contraction, another push, and between screams I begged Mark not to let me drown. Then through the haze, I heard Jackie's voice: "Melissa, listen to me. You need to do exactly what I tell you to do." I felt argument building inside me; wasn't I already doing everything I could? But I had nothing left to give it a voice. Without a pause, I heard Jackie say, "This is a matter of life and death. You have to get this baby out now."*
I don't know what I said or if I said anything. At that point, I decided that if I had to be ripped open, I would survive it. I remember thinking that I would have to tear him out of myself because I couldn't relax my bottom enough to let him out. So I curled my husband's flesh into my fists, closed my eyes on his face, and I bore down on the baby's body with all the strength in my own, refusing even to grunt until I felt myself blacking out. I stopped, gulped air, and hearing calls of, "Great job, again, again," I closed everyone out again, bore down again, and moved the little body down, out, and away.
I felt him come free in a rush of limbs. Whatever happened next, I found myself reclining next to Mark, back against the pool, with a blue, limp little boy on my chest, snuggling into my breast, the midwives rubbing his feet, his back, his chest, and encouraging me to do the same. I talked to him and rubbed his glorious little chest. "Oh, you're beautiful!" I said, "I'm so glad you're finally here, baby; stay with us now."
Jackie set her stethoscope on his bulging, fat chest, and she heard his strong, big, heart pounding him into existence, insisting on life, forcing his lungs into a long, lusty scream. He began to wail, and I noticed huge, bulbous cheeks; thick, fatty eyebrows, and little white flecks of calcium deposits all over a sweet baby face. His head of peach fuzz looked blond, and his lower lip folded far under his upper lip. When he pinched his face to scream, his eyes disappeared into a fold between his brows and cheeks, a fold that extended across his nose.
His heart rate slowed again, and his noises died down, and we discovered his cord was compressed under his leg. Once freed, his heart raced to catch up, and our son yelled with all the rage of a happy man evicted from his warm, cozy home. Happily, we have milk, the warm flesh of family's embrace, and all the love the world can offer to make up for it.
Much later, after we'd left the pool and dried off, snuggled into our bed together, let Burgundy hold and play with him (Mark has video), nursed and bonded, the midwives and Mark all announced their guesses for birth weight. Camellia guessed, "Well north of nine pounds." Jackie guessed he would be, "Just under nine pounds." Mark looked up from his son and said only, "Nine Two."
Jackie set up her hanging scale, laid him in the sling, and weighed him. She grinned at Mark, "Nine pounds, two ounces." Mark grinned back. He was 22 inches long, and his head was 14.5 inches around (as were his chest and abdomen; what a little rock).
We ultimately decided to stick with the name we'd chosen for him, and our son, Holden Elijah, is grunting and squirming in his bouncer next to me as I type. Yesterday marked two weeks of life, and at the birth center for our two-week checkup, he weighed in at ten pounds, five ounces. Currently he's growling and grunting at his wee left fist, which he insists should produce milk. He continues to try to eat it in defiance of evidence to the contrary. A left-handed fantasist. He'll fit in great here.
* I wanted to write this story entirely from my perspective, but for the sake of those wondering what in the world happened, it was this: The cord was wrapped twice around the baby's neck. It was too tight to pull it over his head, which would be the normal procedure, so I believe Jackie planned to clamp and cut it after I finished delivering the head. When I pushed the head the rest of the way out, though, the cord cinched up like a noose, making clamping impossible as well. That was when Jackie told me that I had to get the baby out now. I pushed the baby out in two pushes that were, I think, between contractions. Jackie flipped the baby as he came out and freed him from his cord, which she then left intact to give him support while we helped him start breathing.
Ultimately, I decided on a plan of increasing aggression against the wee parasite. I would wake Tuesday morning, go for an ultrasound and run a couple of errands. Then we would have Christmas lunch with Mark's parents, keeping it to a reasonably short visit. When we came home, I planned to take black and blue cohosh tincture and have Mark massage my uterus with castor oil. I really didn't want to drink that stuff.
My Wise Woman Herbal for the Childbearing Year assured me that these steps all were efficacious in starting labor assuming the baby was ready. The same book recommended ingesting the castor oil only after taking these steps; I happily complied. I decided that if labor did not begin Tuesday night, then Wednesday morning would find me in the kitchen, gagging down castor oil.
I went to bed Monday night with the plan fixed in my mind, relieved finally to have resolved on a course of action.
Tuesday morning I woke at 8:30 and went to the bathroom. When I wiped, I came away with traces of my mucous plug, and when I stood, I had a contraction. I lay back down and snuggled against Mark, telling him what had happened. Five minutes later, I had another contraction. Mark and I decided to go ahead with our errands for the day, and after several more contractions came in rhythm, I texted Jackie, our midwife, to tell her what was happening. We cancelled the ultrasound.
I have no idea why I thought it was so important, but over the course of the morning, I insisted that we go shopping. We went to Michael's for green beads, and when we couldn't find the right shade of green there, we went to Hobby Lobby. I suppose I thought that I might knit so much after the baby came that I would run out of the beads. We went to a local yarn store for a purse to give Mark's mom for Christmas, and we went to Kroger for carrots and broccoli, because I knew I could not live without them while laboring. I continued to have contractions throughout the shopping, terrifying the store clients, thrilling the store staff and doubtless puzzling my poor family beyond repair.
We made it home sometime between 12:30 and 1PM. Mark began setting up the birth pool in the living room, and I sat in the swing in the front yard to call Jackie. I told her the status and said that the contractions were getting intense enough that I couldn't laugh or talk through them. She said she would be on her way after making a couple of stops.
Meanwhile, Mark discovered the vagaries of indoor birth pools and their total lack of instruction on assembly. Once he finally got it assembled (amid my protests of, "I WANT TO BE IN THE WATER NOW. MAKE IT WORK."), he ran the water hose from the hot water heater relief valve to the pool and began filling it up. With cold water. We never have figured that one out. How do you get cold water out of a hot water heater?
While we worked this conundrum, the midwife's assistant, Camellia, arrived with instant calm. She chatted with me between contractions, encouraged me through the hard ones, and swapped stories with me about mutual friends; turns out, she'd heard Burgundy's birth story from Tracey years ago; she was thrilled to make the connection. It was pretty clear I wasn't having the baby anytime soon, so at Camellia's suggestion, Mark ran to Home Depot while I sat in the pool of tepid water, having Burgundy pour pitchers of hot water all around me during contractions.
After a couple of contractions, I discovered that looking right at someone and holding eye contact throughout a contraction really helped me to get through it. When Mark returned, I gave Burgundy the job of sitting across from me through every contraction and looking into my eyes.
Burgundy brought her own phenomenal energy to the birth. She stayed remarkably calm and collected throughout. As she sat across from me through each contraction, every time I began saying, "Nooo, nooo, nooo, nooo, no," or shaking my head, Burgundy would very firmly nod her head yes while pursing her lips to remind me how to breathe.
With the pool filled up with hot water and Jackie present, labor continued to do its job. I remember needing to pee so, so badly, but I simply could not do it. At one point I sat on the toilet in the bathroom, looked at Jackie, and said, "I don't want to do this. I don't want to! I already have a kid; I've done this already, and I don't want to do it again!" I don't know what she thought, but she just smiled and said, "Well, it's coming, and you can't stop it now." Camellia chose that moment to compliment my well-shaped, nursing-ready nipples. I have no idea why that helped, but there you have it. Existential crisis? Grab it by the boobs.
I labored in the pool; I labored in the bed. I knelt, squatted, sat, stood, floated and leaned through the contractions. At one point, Mark had to hold my leg in the air, pushing back against my foot while I used him for leverage. Eventually, Jackie asked if she could check me, and she discovered that I had a little cervical lip. She tried pushing it back, and I hollered like an angry cat on Halloween. She gave me a choice. I could let her try pushing it back during a contraction, or I could try breathing through a few contractions to let it move back on its own. I chose the latter.
I had called Tracey at some point while laboring in the bedroom, and she remained on the phone, praying and breathing with me through the contractions. About every third contraction, I would become completely overwhelmed and simply scream. Those contractions frightened me; I'd had nothing like them when in labor with Burgundy. Eventually even Tracey's prayers over the phone were too much of a distraction, so we hung up.
After several contractions, Jackie checked me again, but I still had the lip. She and Camellia agreed that breaking my bag of waters would hasten the birth. I asked Jackie if I would be angry with her tomorrow. She paused, then said, "I don't think so." I told her to break it. I had gone from, "I don't want this," to "Get it out; I don't care what it takes."
She said she had to go to the car for her amniohook, and I told her I had a wide range of crochet hooks in all colors and sizes in the next room. She declined to use them. I moaned, panted, and chanted through another contraction, and Jackie returned with the hook, breaking my bag of waters just as the next contraction began.
Reclining into Mark's arms, I relaxed a little as I felt the warm rush of water between my legs, and then a steamroller flattened my last hopes for a dignified birth as a contraction like none I had ever felt before took over my entire body. Instinctively, I curled myself forward and felt myself strangling on a scream of horror as I lost control of myself. I could not will myself to breathe, much less to relax, open, or allow my child to be born gently into an open flower or whatever other hippy nonsense I thought would happen. I found myself on my hands and knees, writhing in agony, screaming into poor Jackie's face. Through it all, I had to pee so badly that I could feel myself NOT-PEEING through the pain of the contraction.
This contraction started with a feeling like something had grabbed my uterus and was trying to wad it like aluminum foil into the smallest possible ball. It spread out from there around my back in bands, making me want to buck against it even though the very action made the crumpling feelings in my uterus even worse. Lightning pains shot down both legs, and my chest felt compressed as though Mark and Burgundy together sat on it.
As it passed, I turned to face Mark. Yes, the poor man watched that contraction from behind. He might never again desire my intimacy. Before I could catch my breath and recover, the next one hit. I felt like a cat being stretched by its limbs and tail; I felt I could come apart at any moment. I briefly saw a visual of the dead wife in The Last King of Scotland, feeling I could easily end up torn limb from limb and sewn back together askance as a warning to all women. I never caught my breath; I remember seeing Mark's face crawling in pain as I grabbed a handful of his stomach flesh in each hand to anchor myself against the screams I couldn't stop.
The contraction passed, and I felt ashamed of the screams. I wanted to take them back, apologize, pull myself together and behave like the grown-ass woman I was. I had birthed Burgundy with dignity and not much trouble as a naïve, broke, and idealistic 20-year-old. Surely as an adult I could do the same? I hardly registered the thought before the next contraction ripped another scream from my throat.
Mark's face kept its rigid, wide-eyed, flared-nostril expression through however many more contractions passed. I mauled his flesh, screamed in his face like a braying donkey. I said I couldn't do it; I didn't want to do it.
Jackie said "He's coming; he's close now," and I asked how long. "Maybe 10 more minutes."
I did the math on the contraction spacing and said, "Okay, so that's four more contractions? I can do this four more times."
After that, I managed to get behind the contractions. I pushed with the next few and each time felt myself blacking out. I told Mark not to let me drown. Jackie told me not to push so hard, and I told her that I didn't have a choice. Then another extreme contraction hit, and through my screams, I told them I thought I would rip open. I could feel myself holding the baby inside of me, clenching my whole bottom shut, trying to protect myself from pain, from the baby, from motherhood itself. The contraction eased, and somehow we managed to get one of my legs up so that my right knee and left foot supported me, and my left knee pointed out and away from my body. Jackie used the Doppler to check the baby's heartrate again; it remained in the 150's.
Another contraction, another push, and between screams I begged Mark not to let me drown. Then through the haze, I heard Jackie's voice: "Melissa, listen to me. You need to do exactly what I tell you to do." I felt argument building inside me; wasn't I already doing everything I could? But I had nothing left to give it a voice. Without a pause, I heard Jackie say, "This is a matter of life and death. You have to get this baby out now."*
I don't know what I said or if I said anything. At that point, I decided that if I had to be ripped open, I would survive it. I remember thinking that I would have to tear him out of myself because I couldn't relax my bottom enough to let him out. So I curled my husband's flesh into my fists, closed my eyes on his face, and I bore down on the baby's body with all the strength in my own, refusing even to grunt until I felt myself blacking out. I stopped, gulped air, and hearing calls of, "Great job, again, again," I closed everyone out again, bore down again, and moved the little body down, out, and away.
His heart rate slowed again, and his noises died down, and we discovered his cord was compressed under his leg. Once freed, his heart raced to catch up, and our son yelled with all the rage of a happy man evicted from his warm, cozy home. Happily, we have milk, the warm flesh of family's embrace, and all the love the world can offer to make up for it.
Much later, after we'd left the pool and dried off, snuggled into our bed together, let Burgundy hold and play with him (Mark has video), nursed and bonded, the midwives and Mark all announced their guesses for birth weight. Camellia guessed, "Well north of nine pounds." Jackie guessed he would be, "Just under nine pounds." Mark looked up from his son and said only, "Nine Two."
Jackie set up her hanging scale, laid him in the sling, and weighed him. She grinned at Mark, "Nine pounds, two ounces." Mark grinned back. He was 22 inches long, and his head was 14.5 inches around (as were his chest and abdomen; what a little rock).
* I wanted to write this story entirely from my perspective, but for the sake of those wondering what in the world happened, it was this: The cord was wrapped twice around the baby's neck. It was too tight to pull it over his head, which would be the normal procedure, so I believe Jackie planned to clamp and cut it after I finished delivering the head. When I pushed the head the rest of the way out, though, the cord cinched up like a noose, making clamping impossible as well. That was when Jackie told me that I had to get the baby out now. I pushed the baby out in two pushes that were, I think, between contractions. Jackie flipped the baby as he came out and freed him from his cord, which she then left intact to give him support while we helped him start breathing.
Monday, December 27, 2010
I'll Think About It Tomorrow
Oh, Scarlett.
I didn't take the castor oil yesterday. The more I thought about it, the more I figured, "Hey, if God wanted to give me the opportunity to hang with friends and watch Dr. Who yesterday, who am I to turn my nose up at it?" So I called the midwife (Jackie), chatted with her for a few minutes, and we decided I'd wait one more day.
Last night on the way home from Dr. Who, we stopped at Walgreens and bought the castor oil. This morning I texted Jackie as follows: "Good morning! I have 1 errand to run. After that, I can have an ultrasound, castor oil, patience, or some combo of the three. Guide me, o wise and gentle one."
I just knew I would hear that we should have an ultrasound followed by castor oil. Instead, she told me somebody cut in line in front of me and is in labor now; no castor oil! Tomorrow I'll go in for a biophysical profile if I haven't yet had the baby. I won't have the baby because he's too darn comfortable. Why should he come out? Jeez-o-Pete.
Mark just came home with eggs, bacon, and other yum-yums, so I suppose I should go cook and eat a late-ish breakfast. Wake Burgundy, run a couple of errands. Straighten the house and do laundry.
Buh. I'd rather be coping with contractions.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Red Raspberry Leaf Tea
At 6:30 AM the day after Christmas, the whole family sleeps. I would sleep, too, but I can only lay down for about half an hour to an hour at a time. Of course, I can only lay on my side, and it causes a horrible burning feeling down the sides of my legs. Naturally, I can't sleep through the burn, and I found myself squatting on the floor next to the bed, composing the first lines of this post in my head while I waited for the burn to stop. "Why not?" I thought. I haven't actively avoided the blog; I've only been lazy.
By the way: I think making teenage girls watch labor is not the best form of birth control. They should have to watch a heavily pregnant woman get out of bed. First, I use my husband's formerly sleeping form as a kind of wedge to keep from falling onto my back. If I end up on my back, I lay there like an oversized, upended bug, all my limbs waving at the air in futility. So I start with a funny backwards shimmy that lets me roll onto Mark. Then, I use my hands to fling the covers off myself with as much force as possible. This must be done with force. If I fling them away but they don't completely clear my [useless and constantly pained] legs, I will be trapped. Mark will have to get out of bed to rescue me, I'll fall on my back in the process, and we'll be back to the Palmetto Bug Pose. Once free of the covers, I use my legs to kind of bicycle the large pillow I have to use for my lower body out of the way.
All the foregoing only clears the obstacles; still I must somehow get my body out of the bed. Please understand, I am not a giant fatty. I've only gained 14 pounds since the day I found out I was pregnant. My face, arms, butt, thighs, everything is smaller than it was the day I got pregnant. Unfortunately, I'm carrying Hercules the Mighty in my uterus, and nothing works right.
From here, I have to wriggle and squirm for several minutes until I'm close enough to the edge of the bed to fall out of it. Sometimes, like this morning, I can slither off face up so I land in a kind of stable squat. Other times, earlier in the night, I just have to roll off and pray. Sometimes, when my bladder is really full, I give up and say, "Mark, I really need to pee." And he gets out of bed and helps me stand and makes sure that I'm over the tile before falling back in bed. Can't have urine in the carpet.
I lurched into the kitchen and turned the heat on under the tea kettle. Tea is so boring. It's bland; it doesn't bring any kick. I insist on using a real teacup and saucer if I'm to punish myself with tea. And today, I will punish myself with tea. Red raspberry leaf tea. I don't hate it, but I wouldn't notice if it never appeared in my life again either.
I gathered my cup and saucer, my spoon, a little brown sugar, and the tea. The tea almost has finished steeping, and I'll drink it. Bitterly.
Honestly, I wonder why I bother with the tea. It's good for the uterus. It's good for the pregnancy. Blah blah blah. Thing is, I'm going to be pregnant forever. The baby will keep growing past his anticipated 8.5-9 pounds (as of the 23rd), and my cervix will hold firm. I will walk 5,000 miles (and I will walk 500 more), and he will stay put. He's comfortable in there, curled up like a gargantuan elf, kicking me when he's hungry (or when I've just eaten), punching my bladder for fun, sucking his thumb and enduring the hiccups like a proper boy. Red raspberry leaf tea will not coax him out. And it's boring. Why bother?
I think I'm a bit of a spoiled child. Laundry bores me too, and no matter how many loads of laundry I process, still more will be required. Talk about why bother. I just started the washer on the third hot cycle to prepare the cloth diapers that Dad and Gail, his wonderful wife, sent me. I'm excited about diapers (for now), and still my Little Voice is whining and throwing a temper fit. "Isn't there something more exciting to do? I wanna surf the web! I wanna knit! I wanna go into labor! I wanna do something FUN!" GAH. Blah blah blah! Shut! UP!
Even when I'm doing things I like, I'm whining on the inside. Like knitting. I made Burgundy a really awesome pair of knee socks with a matching beaded cowl. It's gorgeous and presented a real and legitimate challenge to my knitting prowess. I know it's bragging, but I'm a pretty good knitter. Most projects get boring fast. This one took almost an entire sock to bore me! I think I had six pattern repeats done before I memorized it enough to go mobile without a copy of the pattern. And boy once I hit that? Whining non-stop. "This is boring. This is stupid. I want to be finished with this project. They're not gonna fit anyway. I wanna go play! I wanna bake! I wanna do laundry! I wanna go into labor!"
I swear to God, I'm never going to have this baby because I am FOUR YEARS OLD. No four-year-old should parent a child. So God in his infinite wisdom has decreed that I will never go into labor. I'm doomed to sleep in 2-hour fits tapering to 30-minute dozes, to waddle and lurch from bed to bathroom to kitchen to laundry room, to whine and moan and sulk for the rest of my born days.
And that is why I got up and opened the blog. Turned the heat on the kettle and set out the damn teacup. Turned the washer on for the third cycle of clean diapers and started to type. I found my big girl panties, and I'm wearing them [yes, Little Man, I know you're in there; thank you for that lovely punch. I'll go put on a clean pair of big girl panties now]. I know this post is the longest, whiniest rant in all of history, but I'm banishing the whiner, too. She has to shut up or have a different conversation.
I'm 41 weeks. Women all over the world are wrinkling their brows and saying, "What? Only one week overdue? I went two weeks over! My Aunt Sally's cousin, Billy Bob, got some poor girl pregnant, and she went four weeks over!" Well, more power to Billy Bob's girlfriend and to you. I have had enough. This little man is coming out; I plan to serve the eviction notice in just a little while in a form that only a gestating baby will understand. Castor Oil.
The midwife said not to take it in the afternoon and not to take it before noon Christmas Day (she had family in town), and as an act of love only (simple obedience could not have induced me to wait), I waited. As soon as my family arises from their gilded sleep (grumble grumble), I am off to Walgreens.
I know it will be nasty. I don't care.
I know I will miss visiting with my friend from North Caroline, who's here for one day. I don't care.
I know I will miss the Doctor Who Christmas Special over at my friend Christi's place tonight.I don't care. Uh, yes I do. I care about the Doctor and one last hoorah with my knitting friends. If it was earlier in the day, I might care enough to wait on the castor oil, but it isn't, and I don't.
I made cinnamon rolls and bread yesterday. Neighbors brought veggie and meat/cheese snack trays and a plate of cookies and fudge (I'm borderline gestational diabetic, so I really can't eat that stuff). I made gift bags and mailed them for all our close family (I made marshmallows. You should have heard the four-year-old whining on that project), and I have a few undelivered under the tree; those people will want to come see the baby anyway. My kitchen floor is clean (thanks to the awesome teenager), the living room and library are passable; in short, it's time. So I'm going to shower and wake my husband, and we're going to buy some castor oil. Wish me luck.
By the way: I think making teenage girls watch labor is not the best form of birth control. They should have to watch a heavily pregnant woman get out of bed. First, I use my husband's formerly sleeping form as a kind of wedge to keep from falling onto my back. If I end up on my back, I lay there like an oversized, upended bug, all my limbs waving at the air in futility. So I start with a funny backwards shimmy that lets me roll onto Mark. Then, I use my hands to fling the covers off myself with as much force as possible. This must be done with force. If I fling them away but they don't completely clear my [useless and constantly pained] legs, I will be trapped. Mark will have to get out of bed to rescue me, I'll fall on my back in the process, and we'll be back to the Palmetto Bug Pose. Once free of the covers, I use my legs to kind of bicycle the large pillow I have to use for my lower body out of the way.
All the foregoing only clears the obstacles; still I must somehow get my body out of the bed. Please understand, I am not a giant fatty. I've only gained 14 pounds since the day I found out I was pregnant. My face, arms, butt, thighs, everything is smaller than it was the day I got pregnant. Unfortunately, I'm carrying Hercules the Mighty in my uterus, and nothing works right.
From here, I have to wriggle and squirm for several minutes until I'm close enough to the edge of the bed to fall out of it. Sometimes, like this morning, I can slither off face up so I land in a kind of stable squat. Other times, earlier in the night, I just have to roll off and pray. Sometimes, when my bladder is really full, I give up and say, "Mark, I really need to pee." And he gets out of bed and helps me stand and makes sure that I'm over the tile before falling back in bed. Can't have urine in the carpet.
I lurched into the kitchen and turned the heat on under the tea kettle. Tea is so boring. It's bland; it doesn't bring any kick. I insist on using a real teacup and saucer if I'm to punish myself with tea. And today, I will punish myself with tea. Red raspberry leaf tea. I don't hate it, but I wouldn't notice if it never appeared in my life again either.
I gathered my cup and saucer, my spoon, a little brown sugar, and the tea. The tea almost has finished steeping, and I'll drink it. Bitterly.
Honestly, I wonder why I bother with the tea. It's good for the uterus. It's good for the pregnancy. Blah blah blah. Thing is, I'm going to be pregnant forever. The baby will keep growing past his anticipated 8.5-9 pounds (as of the 23rd), and my cervix will hold firm. I will walk 5,000 miles (and I will walk 500 more), and he will stay put. He's comfortable in there, curled up like a gargantuan elf, kicking me when he's hungry (or when I've just eaten), punching my bladder for fun, sucking his thumb and enduring the hiccups like a proper boy. Red raspberry leaf tea will not coax him out. And it's boring. Why bother?
I think I'm a bit of a spoiled child. Laundry bores me too, and no matter how many loads of laundry I process, still more will be required. Talk about why bother. I just started the washer on the third hot cycle to prepare the cloth diapers that Dad and Gail, his wonderful wife, sent me. I'm excited about diapers (for now), and still my Little Voice is whining and throwing a temper fit. "Isn't there something more exciting to do? I wanna surf the web! I wanna knit! I wanna go into labor! I wanna do something FUN!" GAH. Blah blah blah! Shut! UP!
Even when I'm doing things I like, I'm whining on the inside. Like knitting. I made Burgundy a really awesome pair of knee socks with a matching beaded cowl. It's gorgeous and presented a real and legitimate challenge to my knitting prowess. I know it's bragging, but I'm a pretty good knitter. Most projects get boring fast. This one took almost an entire sock to bore me! I think I had six pattern repeats done before I memorized it enough to go mobile without a copy of the pattern. And boy once I hit that? Whining non-stop. "This is boring. This is stupid. I want to be finished with this project. They're not gonna fit anyway. I wanna go play! I wanna bake! I wanna do laundry! I wanna go into labor!"
I swear to God, I'm never going to have this baby because I am FOUR YEARS OLD. No four-year-old should parent a child. So God in his infinite wisdom has decreed that I will never go into labor. I'm doomed to sleep in 2-hour fits tapering to 30-minute dozes, to waddle and lurch from bed to bathroom to kitchen to laundry room, to whine and moan and sulk for the rest of my born days.
And that is why I got up and opened the blog. Turned the heat on the kettle and set out the damn teacup. Turned the washer on for the third cycle of clean diapers and started to type. I found my big girl panties, and I'm wearing them [yes, Little Man, I know you're in there; thank you for that lovely punch. I'll go put on a clean pair of big girl panties now]. I know this post is the longest, whiniest rant in all of history, but I'm banishing the whiner, too. She has to shut up or have a different conversation.
I'm 41 weeks. Women all over the world are wrinkling their brows and saying, "What? Only one week overdue? I went two weeks over! My Aunt Sally's cousin, Billy Bob, got some poor girl pregnant, and she went four weeks over!" Well, more power to Billy Bob's girlfriend and to you. I have had enough. This little man is coming out; I plan to serve the eviction notice in just a little while in a form that only a gestating baby will understand. Castor Oil.
The midwife said not to take it in the afternoon and not to take it before noon Christmas Day (she had family in town), and as an act of love only (simple obedience could not have induced me to wait), I waited. As soon as my family arises from their gilded sleep (grumble grumble), I am off to Walgreens.
I know it will be nasty. I don't care.
I know I will miss visiting with my friend from North Caroline, who's here for one day. I don't care.
I know I will miss the Doctor Who Christmas Special over at my friend Christi's place tonight.
I made cinnamon rolls and bread yesterday. Neighbors brought veggie and meat/cheese snack trays and a plate of cookies and fudge (I'm borderline gestational diabetic, so I really can't eat that stuff). I made gift bags and mailed them for all our close family (I made marshmallows. You should have heard the four-year-old whining on that project), and I have a few undelivered under the tree; those people will want to come see the baby anyway. My kitchen floor is clean (thanks to the awesome teenager), the living room and library are passable; in short, it's time. So I'm going to shower and wake my husband, and we're going to buy some castor oil. Wish me luck.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
I realized recently that one of the reasons I haven't posted is that I'm worried about taking the time to write a post. So I put it off, then spend easily twice as much time surfing Ravelry as I would have spent typing a post. That's just dumb.
I had a great midwife appointment yesterday. I'm still not gaining much weight; I've had a total gain of 12 pounds in 28 weeks. However, the baby is still growing by leaps and bounds, and I'm right where I should be in terms of size. Meanwhile, I've noticed and others have commented that my face seems to be thinning out. I think my double chin is a little less pronounced. For now, I'm not going to worry about the gain (or lack of it). I'm certainly eating whatever I want; I ate a whole pint of Ben & Jerry's the other day in one sitting. Mind, that's no model of dietary intake there, but I offer it as evidence that this is my body's doing, not my will's. I'm not dieting. I promise.
At the appointment, I was able to hold a model that's about the size of The Parasite and weighted to mimick his density. All curled up, the little doll fit neatly in my two hands, and Jackie held him against my belly in the position we believe he's taken now (head-down, left-side and facing my spine. Textbook). I had to fight the urge to cradle the doll and coo at it; I'll save it for wee Parry.
New drama at Burgundy's school with band. There's continued drama with the bullies; Burgundy elevated the issue to the Assistant Principal. Then Burgundy re-twisted her ankle at the game Thursday night, and Saturday morning, the directors put someone else in the show to march for her. On the same day, the doctor told her she could march again. Monday, she told Band Director #3 (there are 3 total; I'm labeling by rank) that she'd been cleared to march, but she knew she'd been replaced in the show. She asked him what she should do? BD#3 told her he wanted her to do something in the show, and he'd tell her at practice.
At practice, she was instructed to sit down and watch. About halfway through the three-hour practice, she got up to help the sound guy. BD#1 yelled at her to sit down because he didn't want her to hurt herself. After practice, confused between BD#3's affirmation that she should help and BD#1's insistence that she sit out, she went to the directors again and asked them what they needed from her. BD#2 replied that they wanted her to march. Burgundy implied that this was said with condescension and the intention of humiliating. Neither BD#1 nor BD#3 bothered to point out that she'd been instructed by both of them specifically not to march.
Burgundy came home, and we talked it over. I concluded that the three BDs must not be communicating clearly and told her that she needed to ask them where they wanted her to serve them and the band. She did so after class yesterday in their office, and when she did, BD#1 yelled at her, told her she was sending mixed signals, and she needed to decide what she was going to do.
Burgundy went straight to the AP's office and called me sobbing. I went straight to the school and had a good long chat with the AP. This afternoon we have a meeting with BD#1 at 1:45, and we'll decide what to do from there.
Well, I've said you can tune back in, but I have nothing more to write.
I had a great midwife appointment yesterday. I'm still not gaining much weight; I've had a total gain of 12 pounds in 28 weeks. However, the baby is still growing by leaps and bounds, and I'm right where I should be in terms of size. Meanwhile, I've noticed and others have commented that my face seems to be thinning out. I think my double chin is a little less pronounced. For now, I'm not going to worry about the gain (or lack of it). I'm certainly eating whatever I want; I ate a whole pint of Ben & Jerry's the other day in one sitting. Mind, that's no model of dietary intake there, but I offer it as evidence that this is my body's doing, not my will's. I'm not dieting. I promise.
At the appointment, I was able to hold a model that's about the size of The Parasite and weighted to mimick his density. All curled up, the little doll fit neatly in my two hands, and Jackie held him against my belly in the position we believe he's taken now (head-down, left-side and facing my spine. Textbook). I had to fight the urge to cradle the doll and coo at it; I'll save it for wee Parry.
High School Drama; Feel Free to Skip
New drama at Burgundy's school with band. There's continued drama with the bullies; Burgundy elevated the issue to the Assistant Principal. Then Burgundy re-twisted her ankle at the game Thursday night, and Saturday morning, the directors put someone else in the show to march for her. On the same day, the doctor told her she could march again. Monday, she told Band Director #3 (there are 3 total; I'm labeling by rank) that she'd been cleared to march, but she knew she'd been replaced in the show. She asked him what she should do? BD#3 told her he wanted her to do something in the show, and he'd tell her at practice.
At practice, she was instructed to sit down and watch. About halfway through the three-hour practice, she got up to help the sound guy. BD#1 yelled at her to sit down because he didn't want her to hurt herself. After practice, confused between BD#3's affirmation that she should help and BD#1's insistence that she sit out, she went to the directors again and asked them what they needed from her. BD#2 replied that they wanted her to march. Burgundy implied that this was said with condescension and the intention of humiliating. Neither BD#1 nor BD#3 bothered to point out that she'd been instructed by both of them specifically not to march.
Burgundy came home, and we talked it over. I concluded that the three BDs must not be communicating clearly and told her that she needed to ask them where they wanted her to serve them and the band. She did so after class yesterday in their office, and when she did, BD#1 yelled at her, told her she was sending mixed signals, and she needed to decide what she was going to do.
Burgundy went straight to the AP's office and called me sobbing. I went straight to the school and had a good long chat with the AP. This afternoon we have a meeting with BD#1 at 1:45, and we'll decide what to do from there.
High School Drama Concluded; Feel Free to Tune Back In
Well, I've said you can tune back in, but I have nothing more to write.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
We had another appointment with the midwife Tuesday. I really appreciate how much she puts me at ease. I've had a very hard time communicating to anyone how much pain I'm having. The only person who seemed to "get it" was my friend Camille. While working on my trigger points, she said, "Melissa, your sensitivity levels are up there with those of a fibromyalgia patient." So when Jackie told me that her second was like this and described the pain as being, "like the bones of your pelvis are rubbing together," it really helped me to be confident that this pain, awful as it seems, is not the harbinger of doom that I fear. She even said out loud what I'd said to Mark just a couple of nights before: "The pain was so awful that I was afraid I wouldn't be able to handle the birth." And then she reassured me, "but the birth was just fine. We were fine."
I bought a maternity support belt while there, and I'm surprised by how much it helps. Not much for the fashion statement, but I can walk without wincing now.
Our baby boy is 25 weeks old now. I try to imagine his little fingernails, his eyelids fluttering open for the first time, and the fat beginning to fill out his skin. I wonder whether his lips will be shapely, like mine, or round like Mark's. Either way, they'll be full. Mark and I both have big lips. He spends the morning stretching and rolling, and the best I can figure, trying to divebomb my cervix. I feel a ridiculous amount of movement extremely low in my pelvis. It's like he keeps his hands over his head and bounces on them.
As far as I know, I have only three weeks of employment remaining. My company continues to hunt out work for me; I can only pray we are able to find it successfully. Mark's employment has not come through yet; however, he fully expects that it will. So we continue to hold.
We had a death in the family this week. My father's wife, Gail, is a delightful lady who really has worked hard to have a loving, real relationship with her adult stepchildren. We're so lucky that Dad married such an open, ingratiating, loving woman. Unfortunately, her stepfather, Albert, passed away this week. He had Alzheimers and had been living with Gail and my father for the past couple of years. Dad said that Albert had just come home from visiting his children in Dallas for his birthday. He'd been to see the rodeo and spent time with his great-grandkids. Dad said that when he came home, he was sitting at the dinner table talking about going back to Houston and getting back to work.
Suddenly he went catatonic and unresponsive at the table. They called for an ambulance. Dad said that Albert revived once, briefly, and Gail was able to say goodbye to him. Then he went out again as the ambulance arrived. A scan revealed massive hemmorhaging on both sides of his brain; they pulled life support that night, and he passed within about 10 minutes.
I did not know Albert very well at all. Gail and Dad have been married about twelve years now, and it's possible Albert already had Alzheimers when I met him. He was a sweet old man for all the exposure I had to him, and my heart goes out to Gail, who is occupying her mind and heart with funeral arrangements, schedules, lodging for family members who are traveling to Houston for the funeral, and so on. I hope she's able to cope well when the chaos and business of the funeral and burial have passed and she's left with time and quiet on the long drive back to Mississippi.
Pray for her, if you think about it. I think Dad will be fine. Ultimately, Gail will be, too. But my heart goes out to her.
I bought a maternity support belt while there, and I'm surprised by how much it helps. Not much for the fashion statement, but I can walk without wincing now.
Our baby boy is 25 weeks old now. I try to imagine his little fingernails, his eyelids fluttering open for the first time, and the fat beginning to fill out his skin. I wonder whether his lips will be shapely, like mine, or round like Mark's. Either way, they'll be full. Mark and I both have big lips. He spends the morning stretching and rolling, and the best I can figure, trying to divebomb my cervix. I feel a ridiculous amount of movement extremely low in my pelvis. It's like he keeps his hands over his head and bounces on them.
As far as I know, I have only three weeks of employment remaining. My company continues to hunt out work for me; I can only pray we are able to find it successfully. Mark's employment has not come through yet; however, he fully expects that it will. So we continue to hold.
We had a death in the family this week. My father's wife, Gail, is a delightful lady who really has worked hard to have a loving, real relationship with her adult stepchildren. We're so lucky that Dad married such an open, ingratiating, loving woman. Unfortunately, her stepfather, Albert, passed away this week. He had Alzheimers and had been living with Gail and my father for the past couple of years. Dad said that Albert had just come home from visiting his children in Dallas for his birthday. He'd been to see the rodeo and spent time with his great-grandkids. Dad said that when he came home, he was sitting at the dinner table talking about going back to Houston and getting back to work.
Suddenly he went catatonic and unresponsive at the table. They called for an ambulance. Dad said that Albert revived once, briefly, and Gail was able to say goodbye to him. Then he went out again as the ambulance arrived. A scan revealed massive hemmorhaging on both sides of his brain; they pulled life support that night, and he passed within about 10 minutes.
I did not know Albert very well at all. Gail and Dad have been married about twelve years now, and it's possible Albert already had Alzheimers when I met him. He was a sweet old man for all the exposure I had to him, and my heart goes out to Gail, who is occupying her mind and heart with funeral arrangements, schedules, lodging for family members who are traveling to Houston for the funeral, and so on. I hope she's able to cope well when the chaos and business of the funeral and burial have passed and she's left with time and quiet on the long drive back to Mississippi.
Pray for her, if you think about it. I think Dad will be fine. Ultimately, Gail will be, too. But my heart goes out to her.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Day 04 – What you ate today, in great detail
or, How I Confirmed I'm Still Rebelling After All This Time.
I finally summoned the strength and courage to return to theDen of Iniquity kitchen. The blueberry jam sessions and subsequent jelly sessions went a long way toward boosting my confidence that I can, in fact, handle cooking while pregnant. At least this trimester. Then I also washed, par-boiled, and froze 20 bags of pink-eyed, purple-hull peas. And I want to make and can many pints of the base for butternut squash soup.
I clambered into bed Sunday night with a glimmer of a plan to make breakfast for Burgundy on her first day of school. Let me explain something to the world about having an independent, easy-going, joy-filled teenager. Sometimes, it's too easy. I have never, ever been the get-up-and-make-breakfast mom. Ever. And she has never complained. Just asked me to buy another box of cereal.
Monday morning the alarm went off at 5:30, and I clambered out of the bed, caught a quick shower, and made my way to the kitchen. I threw five strips of bacon into one of my skillets and two slices of bread into the decrepit little toaster I've had for at least a decade. While I waited for the bacon sizzle to start, I found a pancake recipe online and started mixing the batter.
Halfway through the batter, I flipped the bacon and set aside the last three eggs in the refrigerator to be fried and scrambled. I added the melted butter to the batter, beat it in with a fork, the thick sludge oozing around the fork while I smashed flour lumps against the side of the bowl until I had a nice, consistent goop.
I flipped the bacon again and gathered my salt and pepper. I folded a paper towel in half and scooped the bacon into it, setting it onto a plate on the opposite counter and hoping enough grease would drain to assuage my guilt. I cracked the first egg into the still-spattering bacon grease and quickly sprinkled a smidge of salt over the top. I ground a little pepper over that and let it fry while I washed out the eggshell and threw it into the oatmeal box I converted into a holder for eggshells (Mark likes to spread them in the garden).
I flipped the egg, grabbed another paper towel and folded it, then slipped the egg onto it and laid it next to the bacon to drain. I did the same for the second egg and breathed a little easier knowing I still had 30 minutes to clean the skillet of bacon grease, melt some butter, and scramble an egg for my vegetarian daughter's breakfast.
While the second egg fried on side one, I broke the third egg into a bowl, added salt and pepper, and I beat it frenetically. I hate half-beaten scrambled eggs. Gross. Flipped the second egg, whipped the pancake batter, set egg number 2 to drain with number 1 and the bacon, and poured the bacon grease into a dirty pot to cool for the trash. Used yet another paper towel to wipe out the skillet, threw in a dollop of butter, and after a final quick thrashing, poured in the final egg. It took about 32 seconds to cook.
After that I spent what felt like hours at the tedious task of pouring, flipping, and scooping out pancakes. By 6:15, we all were seated at the kitchen table for one of our few real breakfast meals ever as a family. I said a prayer, and we dove into our food with the reckless abandon of a family that eats out too often.
The pancakes lasted through Tuesday, and I made more bacon and eggs to go with them.
Oh, the quiche. I don't know how to tell you what a lovely, wonderful cook and writer is Julia Child. Her quiche "base" recipe is so perfectly simple and elegant; it cooks perfectly every single time I've ever made it. Tuesday evening I also undertook to make her pie crust for the first time. If it's possible, I didn't keep it cold enough. Next time I will freeze the butter, flour and shortening for a little while before I make it, and I'll use ice water instead of just the cold refrigerator water. I had a hard time getting the dough rolled out to a consistent, thin thickness. Anyway, the quiche rose high and serene from the gorgeous pie crust, standing like a tower of princess eggs over her realm. We ate half for dinner Tuesday night, and I forbade Mark to touch it again before morning, when we shared the remainders for breakfast with bacon and toast liberally smeared with butter and homemade blueberry jelly.
Inspired by my incredibly repeatable success with her quiche recipe, I decided to try her recipe for fish poached in white wine and baked in a sauce mornay made with swiss cheese. I served it with bow-tie pasta served with very slightly wilted spinach all mixed up with the liberal amount of leftover sauce mornay from the fish.
Today I served breakfast for the fourth day in a row, bacon, eggs and toast - an English muffin each for me and Burgundy - and Burgundy tentatively remarked that she felt so much better at school for having eaten a good breakfast. Normally I will take a grateful, loving remark like that and turn it into a reason to beat myself up for the 14 years of breakfast opportunities lost. Not today, though. Today I will use it to say, "Well done, Mel. You're a good mom Right Now." Even though I employ random capitalization for emphasis, unnecessarily provoking the wrath of the Minor God of Anal Grammarians.
Tonight the main dish is spaghetti and meatballs so I can focus on doing something evil and delicious with the box of fresh brussels sprouts in my refrigerator. I'm pretty sure it will involve the last of the white wine from yesterday's adventure, some garlic, and a number of fresh herbs from Mark's garden. I feel such delight and joy to be back in the kitchen.
So you wonder what this has to do me being rebellious? It's this: I took one look at today's topic and thought, "What? Food. That's dumb. I don't want to write about what I ate. I want to write about what I've been doing in the kitchen." *headdesk*
I finally summoned the strength and courage to return to the
I clambered into bed Sunday night with a glimmer of a plan to make breakfast for Burgundy on her first day of school. Let me explain something to the world about having an independent, easy-going, joy-filled teenager. Sometimes, it's too easy. I have never, ever been the get-up-and-make-breakfast mom. Ever. And she has never complained. Just asked me to buy another box of cereal.
Monday morning the alarm went off at 5:30, and I clambered out of the bed, caught a quick shower, and made my way to the kitchen. I threw five strips of bacon into one of my skillets and two slices of bread into the decrepit little toaster I've had for at least a decade. While I waited for the bacon sizzle to start, I found a pancake recipe online and started mixing the batter.
Halfway through the batter, I flipped the bacon and set aside the last three eggs in the refrigerator to be fried and scrambled. I added the melted butter to the batter, beat it in with a fork, the thick sludge oozing around the fork while I smashed flour lumps against the side of the bowl until I had a nice, consistent goop.
I flipped the bacon again and gathered my salt and pepper. I folded a paper towel in half and scooped the bacon into it, setting it onto a plate on the opposite counter and hoping enough grease would drain to assuage my guilt. I cracked the first egg into the still-spattering bacon grease and quickly sprinkled a smidge of salt over the top. I ground a little pepper over that and let it fry while I washed out the eggshell and threw it into the oatmeal box I converted into a holder for eggshells (Mark likes to spread them in the garden).
I flipped the egg, grabbed another paper towel and folded it, then slipped the egg onto it and laid it next to the bacon to drain. I did the same for the second egg and breathed a little easier knowing I still had 30 minutes to clean the skillet of bacon grease, melt some butter, and scramble an egg for my vegetarian daughter's breakfast.
While the second egg fried on side one, I broke the third egg into a bowl, added salt and pepper, and I beat it frenetically. I hate half-beaten scrambled eggs. Gross. Flipped the second egg, whipped the pancake batter, set egg number 2 to drain with number 1 and the bacon, and poured the bacon grease into a dirty pot to cool for the trash. Used yet another paper towel to wipe out the skillet, threw in a dollop of butter, and after a final quick thrashing, poured in the final egg. It took about 32 seconds to cook.
After that I spent what felt like hours at the tedious task of pouring, flipping, and scooping out pancakes. By 6:15, we all were seated at the kitchen table for one of our few real breakfast meals ever as a family. I said a prayer, and we dove into our food with the reckless abandon of a family that eats out too often.
The pancakes lasted through Tuesday, and I made more bacon and eggs to go with them.
 |
| Please excuse the crappy, cell-phone quality photo. I wanted to eat, not take photos, so this was my compromise. |
Inspired by my incredibly repeatable success with her quiche recipe, I decided to try her recipe for fish poached in white wine and baked in a sauce mornay made with swiss cheese. I served it with bow-tie pasta served with very slightly wilted spinach all mixed up with the liberal amount of leftover sauce mornay from the fish.
Today I served breakfast for the fourth day in a row, bacon, eggs and toast - an English muffin each for me and Burgundy - and Burgundy tentatively remarked that she felt so much better at school for having eaten a good breakfast. Normally I will take a grateful, loving remark like that and turn it into a reason to beat myself up for the 14 years of breakfast opportunities lost. Not today, though. Today I will use it to say, "Well done, Mel. You're a good mom Right Now." Even though I employ random capitalization for emphasis, unnecessarily provoking the wrath of the Minor God of Anal Grammarians.
Tonight the main dish is spaghetti and meatballs so I can focus on doing something evil and delicious with the box of fresh brussels sprouts in my refrigerator. I'm pretty sure it will involve the last of the white wine from yesterday's adventure, some garlic, and a number of fresh herbs from Mark's garden. I feel such delight and joy to be back in the kitchen.
So you wonder what this has to do me being rebellious? It's this: I took one look at today's topic and thought, "What? Food. That's dumb. I don't want to write about what I ate. I want to write about what I've been doing in the kitchen." *headdesk*
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Day 03 – Your parents, in great detail
Is anything ever just about one's parents? I could tell stories about my grandparents that would tell you more about my mother than anything I ever wrote about her. I'll take the bait though, and we'll see what I come up with.
Mama
I think no relationship is so complex, contradictory or bizarre as a girl's relationship to her mom.
Mom has brown hair, curly and short, and she suffers from terminal self-loathing. No matter where she is or how she's doing, she knows she could improve something. She could exercise more. Make the house prettier. Cook better. Look better. Be better. I think sometimes that keeps her from being just as awesome as she already is. At the same time, I understand through my own experience that it's the same drive that allows her to be brutally honest with herself, to take responsibility for her failings, and to be deeply connected to the people she loves.
Mom has brown eyes, I think. But now that I try to conjure her image in my mind, I can't see her eyes. Maybe they're kind of green? I know that they're striking and clear. She's dark-complected, almost olive-skinned, and I always envied her easy, crispy tans. I go from milk-white to lobster in half the time she turns native brown.
Mama loves me. She taught me to sew, to crochet, and to write. I remember picking vegetables with her as a very little girl. Okra, purple-hull peas, corn and butterbeans. We picked them every year. She taught me not to fear the fat, happy caterpillars we found hiding in the corn husks. She canned spaghetti sauce, cut-off, creamed and froze corn, and for some unholy reason cooked a lot of summer squash. To this day, the smell of summer squash turns my stomach. No amount of butter can render it edible. That stuff is nasty. Word to my mother: NAS. TEE.
I remember baking bread with her. Drinking buttermilk for the first time at her urging. Learning to make perfect southern biscuits (the secret is lard and buttermilk). Once I spilled hot coffee down my 9-year-old chest. I remember the skin peeling up. Mama raced me to Mrs. Janice's house. I don't remember how we treated it, just that Mama let me cry and held me.
I hate this entry. It's boring ME.
Mama
I think no relationship is so complex, contradictory or bizarre as a girl's relationship to her mom.
Mom has brown hair, curly and short, and she suffers from terminal self-loathing. No matter where she is or how she's doing, she knows she could improve something. She could exercise more. Make the house prettier. Cook better. Look better. Be better. I think sometimes that keeps her from being just as awesome as she already is. At the same time, I understand through my own experience that it's the same drive that allows her to be brutally honest with herself, to take responsibility for her failings, and to be deeply connected to the people she loves.
Mom has brown eyes, I think. But now that I try to conjure her image in my mind, I can't see her eyes. Maybe they're kind of green? I know that they're striking and clear. She's dark-complected, almost olive-skinned, and I always envied her easy, crispy tans. I go from milk-white to lobster in half the time she turns native brown.
Mama loves me. She taught me to sew, to crochet, and to write. I remember picking vegetables with her as a very little girl. Okra, purple-hull peas, corn and butterbeans. We picked them every year. She taught me not to fear the fat, happy caterpillars we found hiding in the corn husks. She canned spaghetti sauce, cut-off, creamed and froze corn, and for some unholy reason cooked a lot of summer squash. To this day, the smell of summer squash turns my stomach. No amount of butter can render it edible. That stuff is nasty. Word to my mother: NAS. TEE.
I remember baking bread with her. Drinking buttermilk for the first time at her urging. Learning to make perfect southern biscuits (the secret is lard and buttermilk). Once I spilled hot coffee down my 9-year-old chest. I remember the skin peeling up. Mama raced me to Mrs. Janice's house. I don't remember how we treated it, just that Mama let me cry and held me.
I hate this entry. It's boring ME.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Whoa!
I just finished watching The Godfather with Mark and Burgundy. Somehow, I made it 35 years without ever watching this amazing movie.
I think the biggest surprise is the rating. It's rated R, but if this movie came out now, it would be PG-13 at most, and that because of one scene featuring breasts. After the couple is married. Criminy. You can see that in a strip bar on a PG-rated film now.
Anyway, it was an awesome movie. We all really enjoyed it.
I think the biggest surprise is the rating. It's rated R, but if this movie came out now, it would be PG-13 at most, and that because of one scene featuring breasts. After the couple is married. Criminy. You can see that in a strip bar on a PG-rated film now.
Anyway, it was an awesome movie. We all really enjoyed it.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Day 1: Introduction
Okay, seriously? I have to introduce myself?
What if I just take this meme and say, "The topic for today looks lame and silly. It isn't worth the effort. Instead, I'll write about the impact of flatulence in weather patterns over the US and the relationship of said flatulence to fast food consumption rates." I think that's what I'll do. Today, I'll introduce my family.
Me!
I'm 35, currently working for NASA's Constellation Program on the Mission Operations Project and trying hard to go home. At the same time I want desparately to be at home most of the time to serve my family, I also feel a bit conflicted about keeping my identity (I am competent. I am sane.) and continuing to participate with rational adults. I'm contemplating a couple of different ministry/volunteer options that I might work through our church, and I'm planning to teach Generation Change to our youth in the fall semester. Generation Change is the youth/teen-targeted version of Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University.
I'm 5 months pregnant now, and I still haven't quite gotten my head around the idea. It's been a difficult one so far, and while I'm thrilled to have a baby, I am less-than-jazzed about this particular pregnancy experience. I do not feel like a goddess-earth-mother-bringer-of-life. I feel like a nauseated, overheated, fat, old, wet dog who, if kicked one. more. time. will hork everything from her toenails upward onto your favorite carpet.
I have not been eating well because it matters not how well or badly I eat, I still feel like microwaved cat crap. I think I need to stop eating out of the trash can, though, because the indigestion and nausea have continued to improve in spite of the garbage I'm eating. I bet if I just ate reasonably healthy food, I'd feel even better now. Not a month ago, though.
Mark
My beloved husband. How do I describe him? Imagine Ichabod Crane. Now imagine young Ichabod with bizarre, lustrous corkscrew curls falling around his face like the most adorable little (six-foot tall string-bean) hobbit ever. Add a really bizarre sense of humor with timing that will make you shoot orange juice from your nostrils, and you have my husband.
Maybe that doesn't tell you so much after all.
Mark works for NASA's International Space Station Program; he manages repairs for Boeing, but he isn't employed by them (grumble grumble). He's a very intense, very personal man who has the biggest, gentlest heart God made. Unless he's hungry or over-tired, in which case, I stock up the house with dark chocolate and take extended visits with friends.
Mark wants to name our baby Gallifrey for God's sake. Why do I need to explain anything else about him?
Burgundy
Burgundy is not just my child. In that peculiar way that we do, my daughter defines her mother. I defined mine, too. I rearranged my life when I found out she would be joining me, and I'm still shocked (a little) that she's here. What a perfect gift.
When I held infant Burgundy, I sang Brahm's lullaby to her. I rocked her, and when I came to "Little [insert baby name here] is sleepy. And she's tired, and she's sleepy, and she wants to go to sleep!" I thought those the most idiotic, uninspired lame bunch of words ever fitted together to make a rhyme. So I cooed, "Little Burgundy is lovely. And she's gracious, and she's generous, and she wants to go to sleep!" At the time, I thought it couldn't hurt to sing to her all her possibilities in life. All her best qualities.
Fourteen years later, we finished her Girl Scout Silver Award today. Burgundy volunteered over 52 hours during the last 3 weeks to organize and run a food drive for a local homeless service. She collected 208 cans, boxes, and bags of food, and we drove them to the shelter this morning. She came up with the idea after riding the bus and rail system in Houston this summer and seeing the homeless everywhere rooting through trash for a sandwich scrap. She packed extra bags of Cheerios with her lunch and handed them out at the stops. Yes, she's gracious and generous. Lovely.
What if I just take this meme and say, "The topic for today looks lame and silly. It isn't worth the effort. Instead, I'll write about the impact of flatulence in weather patterns over the US and the relationship of said flatulence to fast food consumption rates." I think that's what I'll do. Today, I'll introduce my family.
Me!
I'm 35, currently working for NASA's Constellation Program on the Mission Operations Project and trying hard to go home. At the same time I want desparately to be at home most of the time to serve my family, I also feel a bit conflicted about keeping my identity (I am competent. I am sane.) and continuing to participate with rational adults. I'm contemplating a couple of different ministry/volunteer options that I might work through our church, and I'm planning to teach Generation Change to our youth in the fall semester. Generation Change is the youth/teen-targeted version of Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University.
I'm 5 months pregnant now, and I still haven't quite gotten my head around the idea. It's been a difficult one so far, and while I'm thrilled to have a baby, I am less-than-jazzed about this particular pregnancy experience. I do not feel like a goddess-earth-mother-bringer-of-life. I feel like a nauseated, overheated, fat, old, wet dog who, if kicked one. more. time. will hork everything from her toenails upward onto your favorite carpet.
I have not been eating well because it matters not how well or badly I eat, I still feel like microwaved cat crap. I think I need to stop eating out of the trash can, though, because the indigestion and nausea have continued to improve in spite of the garbage I'm eating. I bet if I just ate reasonably healthy food, I'd feel even better now. Not a month ago, though.
Mark
My beloved husband. How do I describe him? Imagine Ichabod Crane. Now imagine young Ichabod with bizarre, lustrous corkscrew curls falling around his face like the most adorable little (six-foot tall string-bean) hobbit ever. Add a really bizarre sense of humor with timing that will make you shoot orange juice from your nostrils, and you have my husband.
Maybe that doesn't tell you so much after all.
Mark works for NASA's International Space Station Program; he manages repairs for Boeing, but he isn't employed by them (grumble grumble). He's a very intense, very personal man who has the biggest, gentlest heart God made. Unless he's hungry or over-tired, in which case, I stock up the house with dark chocolate and take extended visits with friends.
Mark wants to name our baby Gallifrey for God's sake. Why do I need to explain anything else about him?
Burgundy
Burgundy is not just my child. In that peculiar way that we do, my daughter defines her mother. I defined mine, too. I rearranged my life when I found out she would be joining me, and I'm still shocked (a little) that she's here. What a perfect gift.
When I held infant Burgundy, I sang Brahm's lullaby to her. I rocked her, and when I came to "Little [insert baby name here] is sleepy. And she's tired, and she's sleepy, and she wants to go to sleep!" I thought those the most idiotic, uninspired lame bunch of words ever fitted together to make a rhyme. So I cooed, "Little Burgundy is lovely. And she's gracious, and she's generous, and she wants to go to sleep!" At the time, I thought it couldn't hurt to sing to her all her possibilities in life. All her best qualities.
Fourteen years later, we finished her Girl Scout Silver Award today. Burgundy volunteered over 52 hours during the last 3 weeks to organize and run a food drive for a local homeless service. She collected 208 cans, boxes, and bags of food, and we drove them to the shelter this morning. She came up with the idea after riding the bus and rail system in Houston this summer and seeing the homeless everywhere rooting through trash for a sandwich scrap. She packed extra bags of Cheerios with her lunch and handed them out at the stops. Yes, she's gracious and generous. Lovely.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Back Flips
Our parasite hates the jeans I'm wearing today, which sucks because they're not too tight, not too baggy, not falling down, and not giving me indigestion. Also not buttoned (yay belly sleeves).
I know he hates them because he is one laid-back, calm, cool, and collected little dude. He's so much like his dad already. Content just to be, he only moves when I'm uncomfortable. *TMI WARNING* The other day, I got all constipated, and he literally kicked the crap out of me until things got moving again. Hilarious. *OKAY, YOU'RE SAFE*
He goes mad after a long day on my feet when I lay down and put them up and the blood starts to rush back into the rest of my body. As my heartrate speeds up with the sheer pleasure of feeling the pain drain out of my feet, he rolls and squirms and pokes and wiggles like wild. When I sit for too long at work, he sticks and kicks and yanks (God he has a grip) until I get up and walk.
For the most part though, he just enjoys being there. As long as I'm happy, he's happy. However, today we are at odds. In spite of these wonderful, lovely, comfortable maternity jeans that aren't even buttoned, he's having little hissy fits. Does. Not. Want. Tough cookies, kiddo. Your big sister will tell you in a heartbeat: you just lucked out to get stuck into the least sympathetic mother ever. I like the jeans, and I will wear them again. Partially because I love to feel you moving.
August is half-over, and contrary to my dire predictions, I have not yet expired of heat exposure. I'm certain I will; I mean, God still has two more months of Houston summer with which to assault me. So hang in there. I'm not dead yet . . . [but I'll] be stone dead in a moment.*
Meanwhile, one of my favorite bloggers ever (I mean, GOD, she's so funny and real and raw [and wriggling]), grammardog at livejournal (y'all, I miss the old livejournal so much!), decided to do this meme. And given that I can't stick with the same topic for more than 15 minutes either way, I figured I'd announce my intention to do the same so that you'll all know that in fact, I will not do more than 1-2 posts. Then I'll see something shiny and chase it down and come back in two weeks blogging about Russian organized crime and its impact on the environment of Saturn or something.
Anyway, it's a 30-day thing with a different topic each day:
Day 01 - Introduction
Day 02 – Your first love, in great detail
Day 03 – Your parents, in great detail
Day 04 – What you ate today, in great detail
Day 05 – Your definition of love, in great detail
Day 06 – Your day, in great detail
Day 07 – Your best friend, in great detail
Day 08 – A moment, in great detail
Day 09 – Your beliefs, in great detail
Day 10 – What you wore today, in great detail
Day 11 – Your siblings, in great detail
Day 12 – What’s in your bag, in great detail
Day 13 – This week, in great detail
Day 14 – What you wore today, in great detail
Day 15 – Your dreams, in great detail
Day 16 – Your first kiss, in great detail
Day 17 – Your favourite memory, in great detail
Day 18 – Your favourite birthday, in great detail
Day 19 – Something you regret, in great detail
Day 20 – This month, in great detail
Day 21 – Another moment, in great detail
Day 22 – Something that upsets you, in great detail
Day 23 – Something that makes you feel better, in great detail
Day 24 – Something that makes you cry, in great detail
Day 25 – A first, in great detail
Day 26 – Your fears, in great detail
Day 27 – Your favourite place, in great detail
Day 28 – Something that you miss, in great detail
Day 29 – Your aspirations, in great detail
Day 30 – One last moment, in great detail
I suppose that's it for today. I and The Parasite have a lot of work to do, so I suppose it's time to put my nose to the grindstone.
* Anyone want to identify the quote source for minor geek points?
I know he hates them because he is one laid-back, calm, cool, and collected little dude. He's so much like his dad already. Content just to be, he only moves when I'm uncomfortable. *TMI WARNING* The other day, I got all constipated, and he literally kicked the crap out of me until things got moving again. Hilarious. *OKAY, YOU'RE SAFE*
He goes mad after a long day on my feet when I lay down and put them up and the blood starts to rush back into the rest of my body. As my heartrate speeds up with the sheer pleasure of feeling the pain drain out of my feet, he rolls and squirms and pokes and wiggles like wild. When I sit for too long at work, he sticks and kicks and yanks (God he has a grip) until I get up and walk.
For the most part though, he just enjoys being there. As long as I'm happy, he's happy. However, today we are at odds. In spite of these wonderful, lovely, comfortable maternity jeans that aren't even buttoned, he's having little hissy fits. Does. Not. Want. Tough cookies, kiddo. Your big sister will tell you in a heartbeat: you just lucked out to get stuck into the least sympathetic mother ever. I like the jeans, and I will wear them again. Partially because I love to feel you moving.
August is half-over, and contrary to my dire predictions, I have not yet expired of heat exposure. I'm certain I will; I mean, God still has two more months of Houston summer with which to assault me. So hang in there. I'm not dead yet . . . [but I'll] be stone dead in a moment.*
Meanwhile, one of my favorite bloggers ever (I mean, GOD, she's so funny and real and raw [and wriggling]), grammardog at livejournal (y'all, I miss the old livejournal so much!), decided to do this meme. And given that I can't stick with the same topic for more than 15 minutes either way, I figured I'd announce my intention to do the same so that you'll all know that in fact, I will not do more than 1-2 posts. Then I'll see something shiny and chase it down and come back in two weeks blogging about Russian organized crime and its impact on the environment of Saturn or something.
Anyway, it's a 30-day thing with a different topic each day:
Day 01 - Introduction
Day 02 – Your first love, in great detail
Day 03 – Your parents, in great detail
Day 04 – What you ate today, in great detail
Day 05 – Your definition of love, in great detail
Day 06 – Your day, in great detail
Day 07 – Your best friend, in great detail
Day 08 – A moment, in great detail
Day 09 – Your beliefs, in great detail
Day 10 – What you wore today, in great detail
Day 11 – Your siblings, in great detail
Day 12 – What’s in your bag, in great detail
Day 13 – This week, in great detail
Day 14 – What you wore today, in great detail
Day 15 – Your dreams, in great detail
Day 16 – Your first kiss, in great detail
Day 17 – Your favourite memory, in great detail
Day 18 – Your favourite birthday, in great detail
Day 19 – Something you regret, in great detail
Day 20 – This month, in great detail
Day 21 – Another moment, in great detail
Day 22 – Something that upsets you, in great detail
Day 23 – Something that makes you feel better, in great detail
Day 24 – Something that makes you cry, in great detail
Day 25 – A first, in great detail
Day 26 – Your fears, in great detail
Day 27 – Your favourite place, in great detail
Day 28 – Something that you miss, in great detail
Day 29 – Your aspirations, in great detail
Day 30 – One last moment, in great detail
I suppose that's it for today. I and The Parasite have a lot of work to do, so I suppose it's time to put my nose to the grindstone.
* Anyone want to identify the quote source for minor geek points?
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Much Ado About Nothing
Mark had his interview with the new company yesterday, and they're having an open house tonight. I still don't know whether the open house is for employees only, so I'm planning to stay home and get dinner ready.
Meanwhile, we're going to see Much Ado About Nothing at Miller Outdoor Theater tonight. The Houston Shakespeare Festival celebrates its 36th anniversary this year, and Dr. Sidney Berger is directing it. Dr. Berger founded the festival and directed all the plays for years, and his really is the major name associated with the festival. I had heard he was retiring, so I'm thrilled to learn he's still directing for the festival.
Much Ado About Nothing is one of my all-time favorite pieces of work. It ranks behind Othello because of its profound treatment of women. Now don't get me going too much about Othello, but I will tell you that from my perspective, the whole play seems to be constructed as an opportunity for Emilia to blossom and grow from a cardboard cutout (in the beginning, she describes herself as "Iago's wife" who is there only to do his will) to a fully developed, self-referential woman capable not only of independent action and decision but also of self-recognition and self-sacrifice in the interest of truth and in the face of her abusive husband's threats.
Um, sorry. Much Ado About Nothing. One of my favorite pieces of work. It actually is Burgundy's favorite, and will continue to be until she's old enough to understand why Emilia merits a higher ranking for Oth- Oh, sorry. There I go again. We're going with my mom for certain and possibly with a couple of Burgundy's friends. As soon as I leave work today, we're driving downtown to pick up free tickets for the covered seating, fan-cooled area.
Houston Shakespeare Festival is something we look forward to every year. Through this program, we've seen world-class performances of Othello, MacBeth, Hamlet, Measure for Measure, The Taming of the Shrew, Twelfth Night, Pericles . . . I could go on and on. This year I refused to attend any other outdoor events on the grounds that I am pregnant and saving my pittance of heat tolerance for the Shakespeare Festival. In addition to Much Ado, they're also performing A Midsummer Night's Dream. We're slated to see that Saturday night.
Meanwhile, we're going to see Much Ado About Nothing at Miller Outdoor Theater tonight. The Houston Shakespeare Festival celebrates its 36th anniversary this year, and Dr. Sidney Berger is directing it. Dr. Berger founded the festival and directed all the plays for years, and his really is the major name associated with the festival. I had heard he was retiring, so I'm thrilled to learn he's still directing for the festival.
Much Ado About Nothing is one of my all-time favorite pieces of work. It ranks behind Othello because of its profound treatment of women. Now don't get me going too much about Othello, but I will tell you that from my perspective, the whole play seems to be constructed as an opportunity for Emilia to blossom and grow from a cardboard cutout (in the beginning, she describes herself as "Iago's wife" who is there only to do his will) to a fully developed, self-referential woman capable not only of independent action and decision but also of self-recognition and self-sacrifice in the interest of truth and in the face of her abusive husband's threats.
Um, sorry. Much Ado About Nothing. One of my favorite pieces of work. It actually is Burgundy's favorite, and will continue to be until she's old enough to understand why Emilia merits a higher ranking for Oth- Oh, sorry. There I go again. We're going with my mom for certain and possibly with a couple of Burgundy's friends. As soon as I leave work today, we're driving downtown to pick up free tickets for the covered seating, fan-cooled area.
Houston Shakespeare Festival is something we look forward to every year. Through this program, we've seen world-class performances of Othello, MacBeth, Hamlet, Measure for Measure, The Taming of the Shrew, Twelfth Night, Pericles . . . I could go on and on. This year I refused to attend any other outdoor events on the grounds that I am pregnant and saving my pittance of heat tolerance for the Shakespeare Festival. In addition to Much Ado, they're also performing A Midsummer Night's Dream. We're slated to see that Saturday night.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Burgundy spent last week at Spurs camp with the Girl Scouts. In the end, she felt really good about going, but she faced two challenges.
First, she went to Spurs late in the game. All the other girls in camp were 11-13 and entering 8th grade. One young lady was 14 and entering 9th grade, and Burgundy is 14 and entering 10th grade. One of her good friends from school was a camp assistant! She said it felt awkward and disappointing at first, but when she realized that all the other girls looked up to her and thought she was cool, the experience improved. When we picked her up, the camp nurse told me that Burgundy, "is just the coolest kid. She really loves the other girls, and that is so wonderful. The other girls all called her Mama." I really appreciate that Burgundy took a potentially negative experience and used it as an opportunity to lead other young people by example without the "carrot" of recognition in front of her.
Second, she had a bad time with one of the camp counselors. I found Burgundy's way of telling the story had a fascinating subtext; I'm pretty sure she was unaware of it. Throughout her descriptions of the counselors' behavior (there were several episodes she told us about), she referred to the counselors as women, ladies, or counselors. Each time she mentioned the one she had trouble with, Burgundy took great pains to be clear that she was a counselor, in charge, and in authority. But she talked about her as she does her peers, referring to her as a girl more often than not.
Apparently, the "girl" acted as though Burgundy was a threat. She went out of her way to compete with Burgundy about music, and she tried several times to exclude Burgundy from social interactions with anyone else Burgundy's age.
Asked how she decided to handle it, Burgundy said, "Well, after the first conversation I could tell that she didn't like me, and I had no reason to like her, so I just worked hard to stay out of her way. And whenever she got really out of line, one of the other counselors would step in and redirect her. She was just really immature."
Aw, shucks. My kid . . .
First, she went to Spurs late in the game. All the other girls in camp were 11-13 and entering 8th grade. One young lady was 14 and entering 9th grade, and Burgundy is 14 and entering 10th grade. One of her good friends from school was a camp assistant! She said it felt awkward and disappointing at first, but when she realized that all the other girls looked up to her and thought she was cool, the experience improved. When we picked her up, the camp nurse told me that Burgundy, "is just the coolest kid. She really loves the other girls, and that is so wonderful. The other girls all called her Mama." I really appreciate that Burgundy took a potentially negative experience and used it as an opportunity to lead other young people by example without the "carrot" of recognition in front of her.
Second, she had a bad time with one of the camp counselors. I found Burgundy's way of telling the story had a fascinating subtext; I'm pretty sure she was unaware of it. Throughout her descriptions of the counselors' behavior (there were several episodes she told us about), she referred to the counselors as women, ladies, or counselors. Each time she mentioned the one she had trouble with, Burgundy took great pains to be clear that she was a counselor, in charge, and in authority. But she talked about her as she does her peers, referring to her as a girl more often than not.
Apparently, the "girl" acted as though Burgundy was a threat. She went out of her way to compete with Burgundy about music, and she tried several times to exclude Burgundy from social interactions with anyone else Burgundy's age.
Asked how she decided to handle it, Burgundy said, "Well, after the first conversation I could tell that she didn't like me, and I had no reason to like her, so I just worked hard to stay out of her way. And whenever she got really out of line, one of the other counselors would step in and redirect her. She was just really immature."
Aw, shucks. My kid . . .
Man, there's so much I want to say. At least three times a day lately I notice something I want to blog about. And I still want to write another "installment" on the homebirthing stuff. I am working full time right now through the month of August, and it's exhausting even though it's actually not 40 hours a week. Right now I have about 5 minutes for a quick update, so I thought I'd post a super-quick update and thought.
Saturday we picked blueberries; Saturday afternoon we cleaned house a little bit, and Saturday night we made blueberry-lime jam. Heaven in jars, I tell you. I still have 14-15 pounds of blueberries to do something with. I have in mind blueberry pie filling, blueberry compote, another batch of jam (I have 1.5 dz right now), some berry jelly (with strawberries, blackberries, and blueberries from my freezer), and maybe I'll just leave a few in the freezer for later in the year.
Yesterday Burgundy started band camp. When I dropped her off for the second half in the afternoon, I used the girls' room. On the wall of the handicapped stall, I saw this:
It says, "'I have found that the harder I work, the more luck I get.' -Jefferson, Thomas" Beneath it, in blue, someone wrote, "Leave it to the orchestra kids to write graffiti like this."
I think you'll all understand that I could not help but giggle that this is what passes for depravity in our school's band hall. I love music nerds.
And time's up! Off to get myself some luck, yo!
Saturday we picked blueberries; Saturday afternoon we cleaned house a little bit, and Saturday night we made blueberry-lime jam. Heaven in jars, I tell you. I still have 14-15 pounds of blueberries to do something with. I have in mind blueberry pie filling, blueberry compote, another batch of jam (I have 1.5 dz right now), some berry jelly (with strawberries, blackberries, and blueberries from my freezer), and maybe I'll just leave a few in the freezer for later in the year.
Yesterday Burgundy started band camp. When I dropped her off for the second half in the afternoon, I used the girls' room. On the wall of the handicapped stall, I saw this:
 |
| Yes, I did snap a photo in the bathroom with my cell phone. And? |
I think you'll all understand that I could not help but giggle that this is what passes for depravity in our school's band hall. I love music nerds.
And time's up! Off to get myself some luck, yo!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Money and Family
My grandfather had money, and he lived in north-central Alabama. One hot July when I was fourteen, we went to his big, classy house. The epitome of new money, it sprawled, a brick fortress set on a hill. It had four bedrooms and three bathrooms in the upper level. Granny Jean had a carpeted kitchen, a living room with a glass wall that looked out on a patio, a living room with a silver and blue Christmas theme, including a fake, silver tree decorated in blue. Grandpa had a little office off the side of his carpeted garage where he kept his jewels. He poured a bag of sapphires onto his desktop, and I watched them catch the thin fluorescent light from the little lamp on his desk, and I used all my teenage self-control to stifle the urge to tell him I wanted a sapphire ring, not emerald.
"Grandpa's nervous," Mama explained to me when we arrived. "If he gets mad at you, don't think anything of it." I couldn't understand why he would be nervous. He owned the place. Why should he be nervous?
The master bedroom had a bathroom the size of my parents' bedroom in our trailer home in Laurel. Granny Jean showed me into a closet the size of my bedroom where she let me try on her Levi jeans. She even gave me a pair of button-fly jeans, the only pair I've ever owned. By the time I made enough money to buy my own, Levi's didn't make them in my size. A glass wall in their bedroom opened onto a sprawling, wooden deck raised out of the hillside, and from the deck we could traverse two flights of stairs to their Olympic-sized swimming pool. It had a yellow slide that, in my memory anyway, climbed as high as the wooden deck outside the master bedroom. When nobody paid attention, Granny Jean and I would sneak out to the second, detached garage where we would get on her little motorcycle (really only a ramped-up moped, but it was red and would go 40 mph) and ride the length of their long, serpentine driveway. Up and down the hill, back and forth, until Granny announced she had to make dinner, do a load of laundry, or get a drink. Or all three.
From the pool, a sliding glass door led into the lower level of the house. It was an open area about the size of the front of my house now. It contained a second kitchen, a bedroom the size of our living room and kitchen combined in Mississippi, a full bathroom, and another closet the size of my bedroom back home. The internal stairs to the upper floor marched along the top of the triangular wall, the entirety of which had been painted in a floor-to-ceiling mural of a number of dogs dressed in suits, 30s-style, smoking cigars and playing poker.
I fell in love. The carpet in the garage, the extra kitchen, the glass walls all sang the siren song of luxury. I drank it up, listened with abandon, and loosed a teenage girl's exuberance upon the house. I half-ran down the main hallway of the upper level, impatient to be in the pool, my mind completely occupied with trying to calculate whether it would be faster to run down the stairs and out the glass door of the lower-level apartment or through the master bedroom and down the deck stairs. My left hip bumped into half-circle hallway table, and a curio fell over.
My heart leapt into my throat, and I grabbed the curio to save it, right it, put it in its place. An iron fist closed on my upper arm, and Grandpa stood in my face, screaming, asking where I'd learned manners and how to behave. He had a smell, one I didn't recognize at first. Not beer; that was a smell I knew. It reminded me of the whiskey-and-peppermint "cough syrup" Mama used at home when I got sick. "Never run in a house; what's wrong with you? Try to move like a lady for God's sake; you should be ashamed of yourself." I stammered apologies, tried to shutter my face; I knew instinctively not to cry, but the tears came anyway. I felt ashamed, such a horrible disappointment. He shook me, "Stop sniveling. You're too old to be a crybaby."
Mama appeared and took me away, telling Grandpa she'd deal with me. We went downstairs, and she surprised me with a hug, told me everything would be okay. "It's okay baby, you didn't do anything wrong. You just bumped into a table," she spoke in a rhythm, a cadence. A chanted lullaby. "You didn't do anything wrong. I promise. Grandpa's the one who has the problem. He's nervous, and he doesn't know how to handle having people around. It's okay. It's okay. It's okay." I began to understand that when Mama said nervous, she meant afraid of people. Maybe territorial.
A few years would pass before I realized that the dogs-playing-poker picture was ubiquitous and not the invention of my rich, alcoholic grandfather's twisted imagination. Even more time passed before I learned it was tacky. To this day, my gut association with that picture is New Money. Dirty, oozing, filthy rich new money.
Ten years later, he knelt by the wall-to-wall brick hearth in the living room, put his pistol muzzle against the bottom of his chin, and pulled the trigger. Granny Jean called Mama, and by the time Mama drove from Mississippi to Alabama, Granny Jean was dead drunk. Unable to function. Mama called me in Texas where I lived with my four-year-old daughter and told me the news. I took my company's bereavement leave, three days, and relished the time off to catch up on laundry and dishes. I played games and went swimming with Burgundy.
Mama said she cleaned it up. Wiped the blood and flesh from the hearth and scrubbed it from the carpet and the walls. Granny Jean drank.
He never met Burgundy; Mama feared he wouldn't be able to handle the shock of knowing his oldest grandchild had failed at chastity. That probably was for the best, but I always wondered how in the world I could have lived without her. How could anyone look into the eyes of my daughter and wish I'd been chaste?
Granny Jean never met her either. She had photos after Grandpa died, and she lives in a home somewhere in Alabama. They sold the magnificent house. I never saw it after the summer of 1989. I've never seen her again, either. I just realized it's been 21 years. I send her a Christmas letter, but I've never heard back from her.
Grandpa left a tape recording. In it, he addressed how he wanted his money doled out. He didn't exactly say goodbye or try to tie bows on the packages of relationships. It was a settling of accounts. He left each of his three children the same amount. He made sure to deduct the amount of a loan that he'd made to my Uncle from his inheritance. He told Granny Jean that although they'd had a lot of fun for a number of years drinking together, it was time for her to grow up and fly straight. No more drinking.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Der Behbeh - Un Update
What a full weekend! Friday morning, Mark, Burgundy and I drove to an office in Pearland where we would have our ultrasound done. My mom met us there, and I have to tell you, regardless of what you think of interventions, there's something miraculous about seeing your bitty baby right in front of you, kicking, waving, and heart whumping away. Mark stood under the monitor completely mesmerized by our child. Burgundy stood next to me yelling, "WOW" and "OH MY GOD, THAT'S A FOOT!" every couple of images. My mom stood behind Burgundy, just as enthusiastic but oozing sentimental tears the whole time.
He's beautiful, by the way, in that black-and-white, grainy way that ultrasound babies are. He weighs 289 grams, about 10.2 ounces. The ultrasound showed my date almost spot on to our calculations based on last menstrual period, and yes, he gave us every view we needed.
Meanwhile, I feel a little bit of something every couple of days. I had a lot of trouble sleeping Sunday and Monday nights, but last night I slept until 3:30, barely made it to the toilet, then slept soundly again until 7. Mind, I'm supposed to be at work at 7. Thanks God my start time isn't critical.
We've been throwing around names. Mark suggested Gallifrey, and much as we love the Dear Old Doctor, Burgundy and I both vociferously denounced the idea. That led to a round of who-can-come-up-with-the-worst-sci-fi name. So far the best contenders are Gandalf, Frodo, Bilbo, Adversary-Destroyer of Kings-Angel of the Bottomless Pit-Great Beast That is Called Dragon-Prince of this World-Father of Lies-Spawn of Satan-and-Lord of Darkness (the real name of Adam Young in the link), and Aragorn. We've encountered surprisingly little resistance to Aragorn, perhaps because I named my first child Burgundy and people simply are relieved that we aren't seriously considering Gallifrey (hands-down top contender for worst sci-fi name, by the way). I think either way we're going to have to call the little guy Strider just to honor this laborious process we've undertaken.
Serious naming contenders: Lucas (general acceptance), James (Burgundy's on the fence as it's her name as well), Darcy (Burgundy has decided the child should be called Darcy James), Tristan, Colin, London, Phoenix and Bob. Well, not really Bob, but you know. I think I really like Tristan Lucas, Colin, Darcy James, and something with Phoenix. But Phoenix is a little too close to trendy for my money.
This weekend, I pick up Burgundy from horse camp Friday evening in Conroe. We'll spend the night in a cheap motel and get up super-early Saturday morning to pick blueberries from Moorhead's Blueberry Farm. Saturday evening, several friends are coming over, and we'll all make blueberry-lime jam together. Very excited about that.
Meanwhile, I feel a little bit of something every couple of days. I had a lot of trouble sleeping Sunday and Monday nights, but last night I slept until 3:30, barely made it to the toilet, then slept soundly again until 7. Mind, I'm supposed to be at work at 7. Thanks God my start time isn't critical.
We've been throwing around names. Mark suggested Gallifrey, and much as we love the Dear Old Doctor, Burgundy and I both vociferously denounced the idea. That led to a round of who-can-come-up-with-the-worst-sci-fi name. So far the best contenders are Gandalf, Frodo, Bilbo, Adversary-Destroyer of Kings-Angel of the Bottomless Pit-Great Beast That is Called Dragon-Prince of this World-Father of Lies-Spawn of Satan-and-Lord of Darkness (the real name of Adam Young in the link), and Aragorn. We've encountered surprisingly little resistance to Aragorn, perhaps because I named my first child Burgundy and people simply are relieved that we aren't seriously considering Gallifrey (hands-down top contender for worst sci-fi name, by the way). I think either way we're going to have to call the little guy Strider just to honor this laborious process we've undertaken.
Serious naming contenders: Lucas (general acceptance), James (Burgundy's on the fence as it's her name as well), Darcy (Burgundy has decided the child should be called Darcy James), Tristan, Colin, London, Phoenix and Bob. Well, not really Bob, but you know. I think I really like Tristan Lucas, Colin, Darcy James, and something with Phoenix. But Phoenix is a little too close to trendy for my money.
This weekend, I pick up Burgundy from horse camp Friday evening in Conroe. We'll spend the night in a cheap motel and get up super-early Saturday morning to pick blueberries from Moorhead's Blueberry Farm. Saturday evening, several friends are coming over, and we'll all make blueberry-lime jam together. Very excited about that.
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