In Recovery

So on Friday at 11ish our friends out in Puyallup gave us a call and invited us to meet them at the Pacific Science Center. As we got ready to go, my mom called and asked if she could visit this weekend. It has been, oh, way too damn long, since she visited. Like, the house was in its original layout I think.

The house was embarrassingly dirty, the washing machine hoses were still frozen...and the kids knew we were going to the Science Center, leaving in 5 minutes. To see Grossology. Oh, no, we weren't going to put off that trip. So we left the dirty house in the dust, and went to have fun.

And then we came home, shoved food in our mouths, combed hair, and left to see Swan Lake with the Pacific Northwest Ballet. Which I wasn't exactly looking forward to after the last ballet I'd seen...but it was great.

Home at midnight. Um, no, not doing the dishes and vaccuuming.

Mom came in at 5:30am, which means I woke up at 4:30am. In the morning. Ouuuuch. I am SUCH a BABY about the lack of sleep thing. Whine, whine, whine. Shoved dishes around, wiped down counters, shoved toys aside with the vaccuum cleaner in an attempt to eradicate some of the crumb-age off the floors. Not clean but not as embarrassing.

Picked up my mom. Came home to still-sleeping kids (yay!). Mom bribes them individually as they wake up, with Pez candy and neat new toys - little bathtub things with propellers, they bump and redirect. Toys bumping around in the sink, kids happy.



Left for P's birthday party. Dropped off transmission-fluid-leaking car on the way, picked up cheese and crackers, got there only slightly late (first guests). Ate too much. Kids had too much fun. We did manage to get some evidence of that...

Toddler Mischief:




Boy Fun:



Mamas:


Gratuitious Toddlerness Photo:


Left on time, went to MIL's. More food. Pies instead of cake. She had these...interesting...candles that are connected by a strip of paper that encircles the wicks. You are supposed to light one end of the paper, and all the candles get lit. The results were a little more...dramatic...than we expected:



Think she was up to something or what?



MIL brings up a computer problem at the last second which was way more involved than it should have been. We didn't leave until 10ish. Ouch.

Spent Sunday morning recovering. Dropped mom off on the way to a mamas-fondue-night. Home by 8 but damn, the kids did NOT want to go to sleep and I, well, did.

Enormous, pounding headache this morning. Out of good coffee. Fished some crap-ass ancient stuff that doesn't even smell like coffee out of the cupboard. Not working. Ugh....

The children can smell weakness. I know that they can. This is why, on days when I am spaced out and foggy, they start bickering over stupid things and doing things that aren't strictly allowed. Like making tiger stripes on the couch cover (white) with some "neat" new crayola "Slick Sticks" that, oddly enough, do not state "washable" anywhere on them. Fuck.

In Which Becca Turns Seven

Becca had, for months, been planning for it to snow on the night before her birthday, so her friends could come sledding. It was going to be SO MUCH FUN, she said.

You'd better think of a backup plan, sweetie, I said.

And so, the zoo it was! Oh what a glorious day it was for it too! (OK, ok, so it would have been better 10 degrees warmer...) We met our friends at the kid zone and after a bit of running around to burn off some kid-meeting-up energy, we found some tables and had some sugar (cake and brownies) and Becca opened her presents:



(Thanks Danelle, Becca's used at least one page of every book already.)

Then it was off to view some animals. Tempt some sharks. You know.





We came across a bunch of animal enrichment activities towards the end of the day. A tarantula! Pet rat! Barn owl! All out walking with their keepers.

And then there was the beluga whale. I've never seen him do 'tricks' before, but apparently he can, they just don't make much of a show of it. So we caught his zookeeper interaction just after the zoo closed (but before they started kicking us out):





I think we were the very last visitors to leave the zoo. As far as Becca was concerned, this was simply proof that she'd just had the best zoo birthday ever.

The Synthesis of Becca - part 1

Becca's birth story hasn't been written. I do think it will remain that way forever, now. I don't remember most of it. Oh sure, I've got bits and pieces - it's an important event! - but I didn't get it all congealed into any sort of meaningful form, and it is far too late now.

So I'll share the bits and pieces. It isn't a story, but the memories are still important.

I have come to the conclusion now, years later, that Becca was meant to be far more than she was an "accident." I'd attended the University of Wisconsin at Madison the year before, and for some reason things were simply not falling into place for housing for the next year. It was still all up in the air when I stowed my things at an aunt's house, flew home, and (you guessed it) was pregnant within the week.

In the fall I hauled my pregnant behind to the University of Hawaii, astounding people by showing up in classes like Calculus III, Calc-based Physics II, and Organic Chemistry (erm, pregnant lady, WTF are you doing here?). I filled papers with shapes and numbers and dialed microscopes, and I had this odd feeling that everyone thought my life was pretty much over after this.

They were kind of right. "It will be Different," the already-mothers all say. Different. Capital D, Different. A NEW kind of Different.

I was horribly morning-sick during the first and part of the second trimester. I ate and ate and barfed and barfed. My husband (then boyfriend) came into the room and it was all I could do not to vomit from the smell of his cologne - when I got him to stop wearing cologne it was the deodorant, when he got unscented deodorant it was the soap. I yelled at my sister not to use so much shampoo because it was stinking up the place.

I gained 4lbs in the first trimester, because I puked so much.

I felt movement at 14 weeks. Too early?! I don't know, I was pretty thin and laying on my belly at the time, and I swear I felt it. I'd forgone the first trimester ultrasound that was a given in the practice I went to (I was sure of my dates even if they weren't, and I wasn't going to do one for THEIR sake, damnit), so we compromised and had one at 15 weeks instead of 20, to get better dating but still be able to see whether things were developing right. The man who performed the ultrasound is a neonatologist, a very skilled surgeon who ENJOYED doing these ultrasounds and did them for FUN. It was probably the best scan I've ever even heard about. Chatty, immediate explanations, "look, here's what I'm measuring, isn't that neat? Oh, I love doing ultrasounds on healthy women and babies. See those toes? That there is the cord, see how it..." I hope he's still doing it.

I showed up halfway through the second trimester with a weight gain of 30 some-odd lbs and was asked if I wanted a referral to a nutritionist. "No," I said, just-out-of-teenagerhood-me having quite enough trouble with the perceptions of others already and unwilling to place myself under scrutiny any more. Blood pressure was fine, GTT was fine, and the docs at the huge HMO I was going to didn't seem inclined to care much if I got horribly fat so long as I did it without causing organ damage.

At 30-something weeks we found out that the insurance plan I was on, through my mom, would cover me but not my baby. Um, not cool? There is a "mother" and a "baby" section on the hospital bills, and that "baby" section can be a couple thousand dollars strong. So we transferred care to my Dad's PPO, and I started seeing a doctor across the mountains from us.

I liked this better. Two doctors in the practice and one of them would be at the delivery. I hand-carried my records from the HMO to my new doctors, and they accepted them without question.

I never heard another word about my weight. That's puzzling, now...I gained 75lbs or thereabouts with this pregnancy. But I must have looked healthy enough despite all that.

Before I got pregnant:



One month before Becca was born:

Part 2 - Birth! And Recovery...

First-timers never seem quite sure about going into labor, and I was no exception. I called Fran back from school around lunchtime on a Friday, because I was getting a trickle of fluid and some contractions, but the contractions stopped coming and the fluid stopped trickling, and in the evening we went on over to the hospital just to check on whether it was amniotic fluid or the mysterious "something else" of pregnant-woman legend...they said it wasn't amniotic fluid, but since the trickle had stopped quite a while back, that didn't surprise me. Probably a high leak that resealed.

We walked all weekend. Around the beach park, watching people playing volleyball...we made the 2-mile circuit twice. Around the parking lot by Fran's mom's place. Around the neighborhood by my parents' place. Up curbs, down curbs. Up stairs, down stairs.

Nothing happened.

I went to sleep defeated on Sunday night and sent Fran to school on Monday morning. Only to call him back, again around noon. This time at least, I told him to stay at school until he got out at 4. I labored lightly all day, nothing difficult or painful but oh so exciting. My mom did a manicure and pedicure. It felt nice but she painted my nails and that is very unlike me, so in the birth and postpartum photos it doesn't seem like ME holding my baby. Small thing, eh? But my bond with her was so tenuous, right at the beginning, that it seems sad to me.

I was so very hungry by dinner. My mom had made spaghetti and I ate a ton of it, despite the warning that it was sure to all come back up. By the time we were sitting around after dinner, contractions were coming almost every minute, but were still pretty painless. I definitely knew they were there. It wasn't feeling particularly urgent, but the birth center/hospital was over the mountain, so off we headed.

Things became painful when we got there.

This is where my memory really leaves off. It was a fog really. It was more pain than I had imagined and a lot of that was poor coping. We had been to childbirth ed classes, but it was one of those "you don't get a medal for going natural" classes, and all of the techniques we'd learned were about coaching, talking, touching...interacting. I discovered I was a very introspective birther and wanted not a thing to do with people telling me what to do, with looking at things, with being touched. And yet, this was all we'd learned. Our "teacher" had actually told us that it was a bad idea to close your eyes during a contraction!

So childbirth was a FIGHT for me. A tooth-and-nails, knock-em-down, FIGHT. My body versus my brain. My husband, because of that childbirth ed training, largely fell on the "brain" side of the fight and kept trying to coach. I was so stuck in myself that I couldn't tell him not to. I'm not sure I muttered a whole two intelligible words until well after I'd given birth. My body battled my brain with everything it had; muscles, hormones, everything. I was convinced I needed to battle back.

It was torture.

The nurse at some point asked whether my water broke. "Friday," I said, thinking of my trickle and not entirely thinking straight at the moment. "That's not what we want to hear," she said. "OK," I said, "it didn't break yet then." "Much better," she said, charting the news happily. Later, during pushing, my water would gush during a contraction but not EXPLODE the way it did with my second, so I do think that it leaked a bit on Friday and had reopened that leak during labor. But whatever, it is probably better she charted that it was unbroken.

Probably around 10pm the nurse asked for the second time whether I wanted an epidural, and informed me that the anesthesiologist was going home for the night and it would take an hour if we decided later. I was beyond speaking by this point and my mom answered for me, "no, she doesn't want one, send him home." "You sure?" the nurse said. I nodded. The anesthesiologist left.

At some point I did throw up that spaghetti. My mom was ready with a large bucket.

At some point I got in the bathtub, and that was nice. But it was small and to submerge my belly any kind of meaningfully I needed to lean backwards, and that was uncomfortable, so I stayed in there for probably only a little more than half an hour (wild guess there).

I don't remember a lot from the last couple hours. I remember at one point I stared at the instructions for operating the hospital bed and that got me through one contraction without losing my connection to reality.

Towards the end, I fell asleep between each contraction, I was so tired. I think that this was what finally allowed my body to complete the process, because I was too tired to fight it anymore.

When I started pushing, my mom had to battle the nurses to "let" me push in a crouch. The squat bar they'd advertised in their literature was nowhere to be found, and it was obvious that if it existed at all, it was in some dusty far-off closet.

Pushing wasn't the relief I'd heard it was, but it wasn't horrid either. I don't remember the nurse checking to see that I was fully dilated, but this might have been because I blocked it out. The only reason I remember pushing in a squat is because I can remember holding tight to the back of the bed (fully tilted upwards), looking straight at the wall, knees half-akimbo and embedded in the top half of the bed.

But I was already quite tired, and after only a few contractions I needed to lie down again. The nurses "helped" me into that unlovely c-shaped pushing position, and were shocked to see that there was quite a bit of descent. They ran off to call my doctor, insisting that I take it easy on the pushing. As more and more of the head became visible, and there was still no doctor, they tried to get me to breathe through contractions.

I was unable to tell them off, FAR beyond the ability to express myself verbally, but luckily my mom was there.

"Surely you can catch a baby? I'd get ready for that possibility, ladies!" *nurses stand about as far from me as they can get while still in the same room, looking for all the world like deer stuck in headlights* *mom gives nurses a disgusted look, and says "GO AHEAD and PUSH." I'm pretty sure she'd have caught that baby herself if they kept standing there.

Like I was about to do anything else at the moment!

This, btw, is why in all my photos (and I have very graphic photos of this birth) there is NO perineal support even though it is obvious I needed it. I was also, however, spared an episiotomy in a situation where I'm sure all but the most episiotomy-hating doctor would have performed one.

At some point the pictures stopped, because there was no mirror and the only way I could see anything was if Fran turned the swivelling screen of the camera.

My doctor came running in, her hair dishevelled, snowflake sweater pulled over a matching flannel pajama set, chewing gum, just in time to pull on gloves as Becca's head bulged past my perineum.

Her cord was wrapped around her neck a couple of times and tight, if I remember correctly. It is REALLY foggy. I think the doctor cut the cord before she was fully delivered because of it...certainly the cord was cut once already before my husband was presented with the scissors, and I think that this was the reason.

When she was plopped on my chest, I couldn't say anything but "oh, oh, oh." Words still failed me but in a very different way. Becca was born at 2ish in the morning. She stared at me with one eye open and the other sealed shut against the light. She'd switch eyes every now and then but couldn't seem to handle having them both open at once. She nursed pretty quickly after she was born.

Her shoulders were what tore me. Pretty badly, too. 3rd, almost 4th degree. The repair took a long time but my doctor was gentle and careful, and she did a good job of it. It was painful recovering but it healed well and I have no complaints about that.

At some point a broken thermometer was used and read some outrageous high temp. The nurses took Becca over to the side to check things out and redid the temp several times...with the same thermometer. Finally my mom got fed up and just TOLD them to go get a new one. They did, and she was fine. Great.





We slept that morning pretty uneasily. We were still awake when the sun rose outside the window. We slept on and off, people came in to see us. I was exhausted. I don't really remember anything, except that after we woke up that first day a kind nurse took pity on my discomfort and gave me a cast-off set of hospital scrubs to wear. I felt like she'd given me my dignity back, and when Fran's family came to visit I felt like a PERSON. It was so much better than feeling like a PATIENT.

A lovely, vibrant, curly-red-headed nurse with an unidentifiable accent (at least in my memory) was happy to hear that even if we'd had a boy, she wouldn't have had to try and talk us gently out of a circumcision.

My mom took the "breastfeeding" bag (from Similac!) and dumped all the formula propaganda into the trash. With flair. With as many nurses in the room as possible. While expounding on the evils of formula companies.

And after a second night at the hospital we packed up and left.

Recovery was heinous. And not just from my tearing. My body had fought hard, and all my muscles were sore. Very sore. My arms in particular...I couldn't lift them above my head without supreme effort for a week.

My bottom hurt like NOTHING ELSE, which isn't terribly surprising given the tearing. My mom prepped sitz baths for me and I tried to lie exposed to air on a chux pad every now and then. But I was supremely uncomfortable.

When my 6 week check came around I still didn't really feel well, but I suppose my recovery was passable.

I had PPD after my daughter was born, something I didn't recognize until well after I was out of it. She was not the easiest child in the world - colicky, difficult to comfort, supremely high-strung - and that didn't help any.

Fran and I married when she was 6 months old - she was still high-strung but no longer horribly colicky. I pulled out of my PPD a couple of months after that and became the "me" that most of you, who read my blog, now know.

The whole period - pregnancy, birth, and postpartum - was a growing and changing experience for me. I went into it a newly-adult-being, not yet matured, and came out essentially as you know me today.

Toddler Coddling

It was pointed out to me *ahem* that EldestDaughter is creating a "princess" by fawning over toddlerness. And yeah, I kinda saw it. But if there were any doubts left in my mind, the following incident cleared them entirely...

Here comes EldestDaughter carrying a whimpering Toddlerness up to me. "Mama," she says with a sigh, "Nomi bumped the sharp part of the door..." she pauses and shakes her head "...her poor magnificent little toes..."

"Mama," whimpers toddlerness, "Nomi needs a coffee."

Confession - this morning she was whining so hard for my cup that I poured about a tablespoon of it into a mug of milk. She stood on a stool in the kitchen, sipping and staring out the window, completely and utterly HAPPY.

I fear she will demand coffee every morning for the rest of her life now. And no, I'm not kidding. *I* demand coffee every morning...

Losing the Garbage War

Taking out the garbage - the process of putting it into the larger cans outside - has never been a specifically-assigned task in this household. Which would spell dooooooom for some households, but for ours, non-assigned tasks seem to get done pretty smoothly. The dishes are another such task, and we fall in and out of routines with our dishwashing, but generally Fran and I are doing half the work. That is, on any given day, we'll each do about half the work, not that one of us takes on the kitchen entirely each day. It is interesting how these things work themselves out as years of marriage start to extend behind you.

But apparently this little understanding is falling apart when it comes to the garbage.

I noticed about a month ago that it seemed like I was the ONLY one taking care of the garbage. Like if it was full, Fran would leave garbage on the counter or stick it in a bag next to the garbage...and then not take care of things when he was done with whatever-it-was.

This pissed me off. But I held that pissed-off in complete and utter silence, largely because the laundry (one of the things that are definitely "mine") was overflowing all over the bedroom, and I couldn't be starting the arguement right then. Fran had too much ammo. I decided to postpone the battle until I could stock up better.

A mere week later, we had it out, him standing in the kitchen and me in the bedroom, shouting across the living space. Not the best way to have a rational discussion, don't you think? "Niki, the trash FRUSTRATES me, I don't LIKE to do it!" "oh, and I ENJOY it?!" "well, it doesn't drive you NUTS, but it drives ME nuts!" "MAN, I don't like to do it either! Just because I don't get all huffy doesn't mean I LIKE it!" (insert man sulking here) (insert Niki at a loss for words here - stupidity can have that effect on me...)

And so in the intervening time, I had been stubbornly refusing to take out the trash. So, apparently, had Fran. Because after the trash can filled up, that ever-so-lovely bag appeared next to it. And another. And it drove me NUTS. I couldn't open the dishwasher without rearranging them. I couldn't use the step-can and had to wrestle with opening up the bag to throw stuff away. But I put up with it. Until this morning, when I woke up and there was liquid leaking from under one of the bags.

This was just too much.

I caved.

I took out the trash.

The battle, I fear, has been lost. I'm left wondering if Fran will ever take out the trash again.

So much for the eveil one, eh? Couldn't think of a better way to do this? Oh, yes, I thought of a million. Including leaving trash on his side of the bed...dumping the bag over his head...putting bags behind his car so he had to move them to go to work...

But I fear that this would cause a revival of other, more important battles. I'm not interested in starting a war I'll lose. Because when it comes down to it, Fran, as anal as he can be, is a man...and he can live in squallor far longer than I can. Plus he's still taking the filled trash cans on the long journey up to the main street for pickup every week, and I really don't want to get nailed with that one too.

I can't believe I've been out-stubborned. Me!! Out-stubborned!!

Like Mother, Like Daughter

Toddlerness does a pretty fair impression of her mama in the morning, wouldn't you say?

Weird Wood

Weird title, no?

Yesterday we had our first bonfire of the year. It wasn't a SPECTACULAR bonfire, largely because the dead crap we were burning was very, very wet and it took until 11am to get it going at all. I checked the websites and made sure that there was no burn ban before we lit it, but when I came in and turned on the computer after darkness had fallen, there had been one called shortly after I checked. I might have known! The smoke, instead of wafting gently up, up, and awwaaaaaaayyyy, settled in with the tree trunks and clearings, making a fog of its own in the clear, crisp, and entirely windless day.

Oh well.

The weird part of it is that we encountered, once again, what Fran has termed "piano wood" because the smell it makes when it burns is what he imagines the grand pianos he spent his childhood around would smell like burning. Why is this weird? Well, we have no idea where it comes from. It isn't a tree identifiable to us. Nothing that grows here, anyway. We know well the smell of burning cedar and maple, and the unpleasant (but mercifully brief) tang of the burning vines and half-sprouted leaves of various poking things we decide to eradicate each spring. And this isn't one of them.

We'd kind of assumed, before, that the huge stubs of massive trunks that are littered here and there about the area were just cedars. Cedars that would have dwarfed the ones currently standing around our house but just cedars - a known entity - for all that. They certainly look plenty cedar-ish, what is left of the decaying bark and crumbling innards. But know I wonder, with the repeated appearance of the mysterious piano-wood, what stood in this forest before we were here. Before, judging by the degree of rot in the trunks versus those cut more recently, we were even born.

It would be nice to know, I think. What was here before. Somehow I doubt anyone ever took a picture of this spot before 1980 or so (this house was built in '84), if even then. Some things I can imagine, but others? What was exterminated to make this spot more inhabitable?

I think the mystery of the piano wood will be solved at some point. One day we'll run across a chunk of the stuff that actually LOOKS like something. But I suspicion that it doesn't exist in living form anymore, at least not right here.

There is a hill, by our neighbor's house, that I realized a couple of months ago was not a hill at all. It is the fallen hulk of a humongous tree, its trunk housing a new generation of growth (judging by the size of the new trees, about 10-15 years old). I wonder if at some point it will crumble away, exposing the kids-clubhouse maze of new roots that had wrapped around its exterior...or if it is now a permanent hill, a tiny protection against the erosion that is surely happening as the winter rain pours down the larger hill each year.

Nature is cool.

Bad Birth Stories

For whatever reason, in recent months I've read and heard traumatic birth stories in numbers far outstripping the "nice" ones. Some of these people I know personally, some I've never met. Some stories I know to be the full truth, some have gaps. But the reality of all of it is that these are women who are hurting. This massive exposure (I'd say the bad ones average out at about 1.5 per day versus the approximately 1 really awesome story a week) has led me down quite a few thought paths, some of which I'd like to put into some sort of more material, word-and-sentence, form.

The medical establishment disrespects women. Doesn't even want to KNOW about women, not really. Sure, they will measure the LH surges and figure out where hCG comes from, but I can't help but think that it is motivated more out of sheer human-curiousity than out of any kind of desire to understand women - real women with real babies growing in their real uteri - any better. A woman is more than the sum of her hormone receptors, vital signs, weight, income, and race. A woman is more than these things EVERY DAY OF HER LIFE, but in labor, she is more than these things by far. She has (wooo-wooo alert) a power beyond the understanding of medicine behind her. The power of millenia of moving forward, of evolution, of moving towards perfection. I ask you, would this movement toward perfection KILL her? Well, maybe if you gave her mother drugs that crippled her skeletal system. Maybe if you told her that white bread tastes better, canned vegetables are wonderous things, and all you really need in life is some meat and A1, and she fostered a body deprived of all the fuels that it really needs to thrive. Maybe if you gave her enough drugs that it short-circuited not just pain but pleasure, not just suffering but memory; that made of the process a lie. That attempted to remove from the picture anything not understood to be absolutely necessary, and left only the contraction, as if that was the one and only thing important to the process.

Maybe if, in other words, you messed with the system.

Because that is what it really is. It is a system that nature has developed, and it has been a long hard process to get here, and it is being messed with. THIS is what almost every traumatic birth story I've read has in common. There are stories with midwives, with doctors, with transfers. With all kinds of disrespect. But at the beginning there was lack of trust in this birthing system that nature has given us. Oh, and what a beautiful, complicated, WONDERFUL thing that system is! The complicated part doctors get, and most midwives get, but the BEAUTIFUL and WONDERFUL parts are so often lost in these stories.

At the heart of all the disrespectful behavior is this lack of belief. No, you don't see it written large across the face of every traumatic birth story. But in every traumatic birth story it is THERE. I haven't read a single one in which it wasn't. Whether the midwife was impatient, or the hospital absolutely needed that monitor, or the doctor at transfer held a grudge because a mama believed in herself and was finding that belief crumbling, or the nurses laughed in the face of the mama who thought she could do it without the medicine, it is THERE.

It is human nature, I think, hold other humans as far more important emotionally than events. Certainly there are birth stories with horrible outcomes that read sweetly, that in the rememberance the kindness of others shines through and makes of the memories something shining and glowing and perfect despite the traumatic FACT of what happened. People are greater than fact in our minds. We almost don't care that we tore, we care that the doctor looked at us kindly, explained everything that was going on, and took care of things with gentleness and respect. Or the outrage of that doctor doing anything otherwise will stay with us FAR beyond the impact that is left by the fact of the tear itself. Sometimes we can't ekke these things out very well, and in our minds, we are scared of tearing or of getting an IV or of placing a phone call to the hospital or whatever-of-a-million-things was traumatic the last time 'round - but most of the time, what we are really scared of is the human actions that were accessory to it.

And that is the most painful thing of all when I read these stories. That there are human beings behind these things that we fear. We go to the hospital, before we know better, because we think that these human beings can save us from the process of birth. Because we've been led to believe that this process is inherently pathological, that it is a curse, that it is - for lack of a better way to say it - a disease epidemic unto womankind, and that we NEED to be saved from it. But we aren't saved from it, not even close, because at the hospital there are human beings, just like us, who used to think that they could save us from childbirth but after a while, seem to exist in a somewhat resigned "at least we're trying" state, finding a reason for their vocation in a dozen procedures a day, bouyed by the occassional "success" story, the occassional life saved.

For every woman who experiences the rough end of that belief set and decides that the next time will be different, there are 200 who experience it and believe that the system has saved them. That it was bad, but not as bad as it probably would have been. They have bought, hook-line-and-sinker, the lie that women are incapable and need the system for their own good.

This is a system blinded by the disrespect for women that has been so endemic to our culture for so long that we've forgotten what respect looks like. (Brief foray into politics...) When is the last time you heard a MALE congressman being told his father would be proud? And yet, oh, how heart-touching, everyone said. Heart touching my fucking ass. The very fact that everyone seems to think that this is not just OK but laudable is just another symptom of the fact that WOMEN DO NOT COMMAND THE SAME RESPECT AS MEN. And anyone who thinks that they do needs to be hit upside the head with a frying pan. It is written in big bold letters across every social interaction in our culture. Across the medical literature.

Across birth.

And yet...

I feel that in some of these cases, these traumatic stories have become so very important to progress. The birth story of Janet's first child is gut-wrenching, but just look (http://www.joyousbirth.info) at what she has turned her experiences into. I feel like there would be a hole in the birthing world, almost in womanhood itself, without her voice and the voices she has added to the chorus. Even for those women who experience a traumatic birth and do nothing with any more impact than follow it up with an absolutely glorious birth that was everything they ever thought they couldn't do, the world is richer for their experience. Their lives are richer for that experience. The lives of their children are richer for that experience. In this sense, every traumatic birth story can become a victory story. And I hope that they ALL do.

Procrastination Achieved!!!

I am seriously not regretting it, either.

Shortly after writing that last post I decided to take refuge at a friend's place, so off we headed. While the kids ran around in her (wooded) backyard (with a Rainbow playset), I lost myself briefly in some genetics and embryology reading, so it wasn't time totally wasted.

We had coffee, sat around, gossiped, ate pasta, read textbooks, had more coffee...

And I didn't think about gyn. Not for a second.

And...I am seriously not regretting it.

That's life?

I have this strange desire to share what I have done this morning, largely because I'm done with my morning routine way earlier than usual.

Banging and clattering from the kitchen, and I'm borderline-awake at 5:30am-ish. Toddlerness stirs and I decide that now would be a good time to nurse her and try to escape. We do that, she settles back in, and I doze on and off while Fran makes quite enough noise to wake the DEAD getting himself ready for work. Once he's clear of the whole 2 square feet of free floor space in my house, at about 6am, I get up.

Coffeeeeeeeeee my neurons groan, but I manage to put a sock in the microwave first - it is 62 degrees in here and my Hawaii-grown internal settings are rebelling against the cold. Sock, coffee, grab the sock, grab dirty laundry - out the door, laundry in the washing machine, firewood in my arms, into the house. Set a fire, wash the one pan Fran apparently didn't bother with (WTF? He washed and put away everything else!?). Grumble. Pour coffee, add various taste-good-bad-for-you shit to it. Close the woodstove door - the fire is blazing now. Sit down at the computer, give myself a little pat on the back for thinking to position the desk four feet from the woodstove (getting warmer by the second). Drink some coffee, send some emails, check some blogs. The brain is warming up now, I sign into WebCT.

I hate WebCT.

Tempted to hit up the discussion boards, but don't. Open the pharmacology exam. A little startled by the contents, but mainly only because there are things in there I don't remember reading. Oh well, it is open book.

I finish the exam half an hour later at 7am. Email the instructor - one of the questions didn't translate properly into digital format. Give myself a minor pat on the back for drawing THAT one closed right away.

Yell at myself for forgetting that I was going to mail my mitigation forms on that damned speeding ticket yesterday.

Begin browsing school discussions.

Boyness wakes up, followed closely by toddlerness, who apparently needs cuddles and nummies in bed for half an hour.

Some time on out-of-school discussion boards.

I begin contemplating doing my Gyn Learning Objectives. Don't want to think about it.

Bring in more firewood, add it to the fire. Start another load of laundry. Bring paper towels in from the shed.

Sit back down. Still don't want to think about gynecology. Decide to write here instead.

Now.

Damn. I guess I can't procrastinate the schoolwork anymore. Dammmmmmmmmmnnnnniiiiiiiiitttttttttt.

Night Weaning

I've decided that I've had enough. I'm night-weaning toddlerness. About damn time? I dunno, she's a little teddy bear in bed, she's easy to SLEEP with. But I've been feeling drained lately and how hard this last sickness hit me was the last bit of evidence I needed. I think she's taking an enormous amount of energy from my body, and that needs to be tapered off.

Right now I'm at that difficult stage where it is MORE difficult not to nurse than it is to nurse. It means actually waking up, telling toddlerness that the nummies are sleeping, and letting her whine and thrash about for a minute. It is pretty painless, but still, it would be easier and faster to just let her nurse.

I did nurse her at 6am when my husband left for work. I felt a huge load of milk going out, and after insisting on nursing through let-down on both sides, she rolled over happy and slept another 3 hours while I got out of bed, tended the fire, had coffee, and did some homework. THAT might be a routine I could get down with.

The Snow is Gone

Looks like the last of the snow melted last night. And the world is green, green, GREEN. It is startling. The evergreens and the grass, all bright and green and ever-so-different from the sterile white that coated my world last week.

I said that I wouldn't mind a less...adventurous...driving experience, but I'm missing the snow anyway. It felt like the world was sleeping under all that snow. I feel like it still SHOULD be asleep. Like the green doesn't belong right now. I feel like *I* should still be hibernating too, but more in a recovery sort of way. I'm most of the way better today, I'm sure it will come soon.

Without further ado, various pictures I've failed to post lately:

Because a few of you haven't seen me in a bit:


What happens when you get involved with something in the kitchen and don't notice your toddler walking off with a bag of sugar:


Toddler/husband cuteness:

Toddlers and Boobs and Such

My toddlerness, yes, my *gasp* over-two-ness, yes, *gasp* still nurses. Rather a lot. How much a lot? No fucking clue.

But yesterday, I was gone at school until 8pm. And apparently, she ate/drank fairly normally in the early day, but around 5pm *gave up* on me coming home soon, and drank...get this...

3/4 gallon of milk

Holy shit little girlie! THAT is some milk-drinking talent!!!

And then she didn't jump me when I came in the door! Fran told me he was about to cut her off and switch to water, because she was getting a little scary with the refills, but DAMN no. Next time I leave, I am SO buying extra milk for Toddlerness!!

Oh, and she didn't drink another SIP of milk once I'd arrived home. Ahem.

It seems like I always get these great little clues about the inner workings of my kids when I LEAVE them.

More Fun in the Snow

So today we were 'snowed in' again. Well, kinda. Fran went to work but I wasn't about to drive anywhere.

My sister was over and we spent a TON of time outside, despite the fact that it was colder than can really be considered reasonable or humane.

There was a lot of wiping-out but even more FUN. This was our second of three outdoorsy sessions today, and Naomi was asleep so I wasn't doing anything more interesting than sitting on a log a few feet from the top of the hill, taking pictures of kids going by.

Snow Kids

OK so they had some better runs later, but I like these pictures best :)




Obligatory Naomi photo:

Snow Scenery

What lovely, lovely snow we had this morning! This doesn't happen every day 'round here, so of course, I had to go out and take some photos of it! Here are just a random couple. I've got all sorts of snow, branch, sky photos, and I'm sure I'll love and hate them all in sequence.

And yes, that IS my house, that little tiny thing under all those trees. And yes, I WAS this-close-to shitting myself during that wind storm the week before Christmas.

Why Are Toddlers So Gross?!

Toddlerness' latest and unloveliest habit? Filling her mouth with water/juice/milk (whatever) and spitting it back and forth from cup to cup. Or onto her legs. Or whatever. We just like to spit.

"Mama, here, DRINKIT!!!" Um, no girlie. No.

My Own 2000th Visitor

So when I went to check on the uploaded/not status of that last entry, I became my own 2000th visitor!

Yay me!

I think.

Books!!! Here!!! At my house!!! For REAL!!!

Oh, I'm so glad to see them.

Who ever would have thought that "The Developing Human: Clinically Oriented Embryology" and "Obstetrics: Normal and Problem Pregnancies" (and 8 others) would have my heart going pitter-patter?

I was really, really worried for a while. These books were incredibly horribly expensive and were ordered practically the SECOND that a generous check from my mom cleared its way into my account. It became phenominally messy when I collaborated with MIL to use her discount (at which point she stepped in and paid the remaining several hundred dollars for the rest of my books), and things were ordered under her name to her house, so I couldn't even call people up and bitch them out in person.

I'm very much not-happy with Barnes and Noble, but I'm feeling a good deal more magnanimous now that my books are actually in my hands. I was pondering, last week while everyone ELSE was talking about how much reading they were having to do and *I* was just sitting here thinking about how I would have to do TWICE THAT next week, actually buying them on Amazon on credit and working out the details later. That would have been phenominally STUPID, and I'm glad I didn't do it.

And off I go to read.

Go With the Flow

Yup, 'tis arrived.

Just in case anyone was wondering.

Nomi, Poteee! YAAAAAAAYYY!!!!

So, only L will really understand how funny this is.

Nomi peed in her potty four times yesterday evening. Without reminders or cajoling. Just kind of walked over and did it. Said YAY! walked happily with me to the bathroom to dump it out and rinse it, and went on with life. Like she'd been doing it all along.

This is mainly hillarious because I wasted about an hour and a half of my life yesterday MORNING searching for new diaper covers for the toddler I was SURE had no interest whatsoever in potty learning right now.

Period Due Yesterday

Yes, the title says almost-it-all. I'm not particularly worried about being pregnant, for a couple reasons:

1) I'm PMSing, cramping, and headaching, none of which are pregnancy symptoms for me. My biggest early pregnancy symptom has been bloating, in all three pregnancies, and this isn't something that's going on with me right now.
2) Sex happened so far off ovulation this month that it would have to be the will of some really evil godlike creature-thing if I am, indeed, pregnant. I can't imagine that any sort of reasonable and NICE god would think that I should be pregnant right now. You know that saying "God never gives you more than you can handle?" Well, I'd lose my shit. Niki-loses-her-shit-for-real (and not just on an internet rant) is a scary, scary thing that people who know me don't want to see.

OK, so maybe I am worried about being pregnant. But more because it would really suck than because I think it's true. It's more like a sitting-here-musing-about-it-while-waiting-for-a-sudden-gush-of-red-stuff issue, though.

Barnes and Noble

They STILL HAVEN'T SENT MY BOOKS.

I am so mad. So, so mad. People-who-know-me-would-step-away mad. Give me my fucking books, you lame-ass lying bastard fucktard idiots mad. You made a mistake and you should pay for it in BLOOD mad.

OMG, I am so mad.

If Barnes and Noble was a person, his ears would be ringing so hard his head would blow up.

YAY!

My little sister is coming to visit next week!

I haven't seen her in, like, a YEAR?! What's up with THAT? When you grow up with people, I guess you never really imagine that you'll not see them for a year (actually a tad more) at a time. We used to share a bed *sigh* and ninja-girl kicked me senseless each night *sigh* meeemorriiiiiieeeessss......

In other news, I made the phenominally stupid mistake of taking off my overshirt and undressing the Christmas tree in a spaghetti-strap shirt. Yes, it was hot. But yes, I should have been smart enough to realize that if my hands were welting and itchy from handling the tree while I was putting it up....why yes, my arms itch like mad now, all the way up to the shoulders. Ooowwwiieieeeeee. Better this morning than last night.

I finally thought of a New Year's Resolution for myself. Don't do stupid things.

We'll see how that goes.

Books

Fuckers over at Barnes and Noble completely and totally DIDN'T DO AS THEY SAID THEY WOULD and haven't even SENT my books yet.

I am so, so pissed.

Schoolish Update

So the courses are up *breathe, breathe*. I am reading articles and starting to feel more normal, if still a bit pissed because the early AM is the only time I can read in any kind of large volume without getting distracted and retain it all, so my opportunity for today is shot.

Anyway, the PMS monster is rearing her ugly head. If you couldn't tell from that last post.

In other news, when you try to give a 5yo a haircut and he doesn't hold anything even closely resembling STILL, the results are less than perfect. And now looking at his lopsided gourd is going to drive me NUTS. How to fix it...how to fix it...I don't think he wants it shaved...

This Quarter Starting, Or What?

So I still only have about 1/5th of my books for this quarter, and today is supposedly the start date.

But there's nothing new on the website. So WTFever. Here I was ready to go searching for the materials for the first week (while the one-week shipping takes three weeks to get to me...I'm assured it will be here "soon") but there's nothing to do.

I still don't even have grades for Nutrition...not just the final grade, that would be bad enough, but for anything past the midpoint of the quarter or so. Now, I think that this is solely the fault of a very lazy excuse-making instructor, but it reflects badly on the school as well.

And there's nothing new on the website. Not: here's your syllabi that we were supposed to have LAST week. Not: well, here's the first week so you guys don't feel like you're being left in the dark. Nothing.

And I'm fucking pissed.

The "it's the new WebCT, the new WebCT sucks, whine whine whine" excuse will only carry you so far people. As far as I'm concerned, you've NEVER had your shit together. And it is getting old. You can only expect so much from your students when you're not displaying any accountability in return. As far as I'm concerned...no, this isn't the start of the quarter. When you get me my fucking classes, THAT is the start of the quarter. Which means that NO, money is NOT due today.

Merry Christmas!

Well, a day late, but I'm sure you're sick of it anyway.

Since Fran hasn't gotten me anything in 5 years (and I've reciprocated by getting him *very little* - I think I got him a 2L of orange soda last year...) I gave up and got him exactly NOTHING. Not a candy he likes, not a toy, nothing. And of course...this is the year he gets me something. http://www.nokiausa.com/770 and some candy.

Of course.

And I had NOTHING. Not so much as a candy cane.

Go me.

Anyway, Christmas rocked. Kids slept until 7:30. Loved their presents. Toddlerness proved that she will do things on *HER TERMS*. Sat on the couch and watched the big kids go nuts for a good half-hour (probably more) before she wanted to look at her presents. And then had a BLAST of it.

MIL had a drunk-dialing episode on Christmas Eve, but behaved on Christmas (aside from having Fran assemble the not-so-little red wagon she bought for Toddlerness). Good food, good time. Can't trust MIL to read labels for Tony. She is wrong far, far too often. And then she forgets what has milk in it and what doesn't (she handed Tony a large pack of muffins that I'D TOLD HER EARLIER WERE NOT OK as we were leaving, and then I had to be the bad guy and take them away). MIL is great, she does a lot of stuff for me, and she has a kind heart. Which I have to say every time I vent about my MIL - she is a bit screwed up, but a great person at the core. She bought nearly half the books I need for next quarter, a huge expense, as my Christmas gift. I literally don't know what I'd do without her.

Decorations!

Well, our decoration procrastination hit an all-time record this year. We finally, on the 22nd, got a Christmas tree (the top of one of the midsized cedars that fell during the windstorm) up and decorated. This beats our previous record of the 21st, on the year Toddlerness was born. The tree is...unconventional...but 8 feet tall and blinking the appropriate lights and sporting the appropriate ornaments. And there was no waste involved.

But yeah, thus began our Christmas season.

And why yes, I DO mean that I hadn't even dug the decorations out of the shed until then.

And why yes, I DO mean that I didn't send the presents to my family in HI until then.

Yay us, right?

Toddlerness Turns Two!!!

I can't believe she's two already!! Well, I kind of can...because she's been acting like a two year old for almost a year now...but wow, time FLIES.

I've put her birth story on my blog here: http://lifeatnikis.blogspot.com/2006/12/birth-story-of-naomi-melelani.html and for a real trip, contrast her birth story to that of her brother: http://lifeatnikis.blogspot.com/2006/12/birth-of-boy.html . Both stories are of "ideal" births, but look how different an "ideal" hospital birth is from an "ideal" home birth. I thought when Boyness was born that it was the best birth could be, and certainly, it was about as good as any hospital birth can get. But it is incredible how different it looks after putting on my rosy-colored homebirth-glasses and reading it again.

So now, reflections on Toddlerness.

Oh, where to start!! She wasn't the easiest of my three as a baby, but she came close. She wasn't trouble until she started to learn about that lovely little concept called "autonomy." And then, well DAYM! no stopping her! She is stubborn, strong-willed, clever, and mischevious. My child much?

She is my solstice child, born on the longest night of the year. Or, as my mom says "she brought with her light, the longer days, rebirth, hope." A tad too dramatic if you ask me, but a very pretty sentiment. And she certainly is a child of fire and energy. A FORCE in a way that neither of the elder two have been. Oh, yes, they had a phase wherein TODDLER might as well have been tattoo'ed on their foreheads (and "yes, I have a TODDLER" on mine, although the gleaming stripes of dried snot on my shoulders were almost as good). I'm not normally a believer in astrology, but when I found out that Toddlerness resides right smack-dab between Saggitarious (fire, adventure, exhuberance, optimism) and Capricorn (earth, acheivement, "powerful resilient energy") I had to wonder at the accuracy of this assessment. It is said that there are two types of Capricorn: the garden goat and the mountain goat. Well, damn, my Toddlerness is a mountain goat for sure! If I could get her to keep her little feet on the ground just 1/20th of the day, I'd be happy!

Anyway, Toddlerness is two today. And oh my, is THAT ever wild! How did two whole years go by! I have friends here who have known her since BIRTH, others since she was teeny tiny - practically her whole life. And that's crazy, too. It is a happy little "loved" world that my Toddlerness is growing up in. The happy-childhood fantasy that I WANT for my kids. I almost can't believe we're so lucky as to have it.

The Birth Story of Naomi Melelani

Naomi’s Birth Story

There is both much and little to this story. Little, because Naomi was simply…born. A beautiful waterbirth; a short labor and very short pushing stage; a beautiful baby, 7lbs 2oz, 21 inches long. Much, because for something so profound, the memory lies for me in emotions, which can never be conveyed whole from person to person, and thus the experience for others must lie in the details; and when my own emotions fade in the hormonal fog of new-motherhood, I will need the details to bring them back.

On the morning of the 21st my waters sprung a light leak – something I did not recognize at the time, but a thin mucous continued its way slowly out of me and when my midwife did a swab while I was in labor, it was definitely amniotic fluid. Still, at the time I was unaware that labor was soon to be upon me, so life proceeded as usual on the 21st. We finally got a Christmas tree, and my children and I spent the afternoon stringing up lights and decorating (finally). Tree decorated and house re-cleaned, we took our baths and headed off to bed – it was as I lay there, wide-awake at 10pm, squished between hot little bodies on a twin mattress and waiting for my children to sleep that my first obviously labor-contraction found me at last, the familiar ache in my back told me that this was it, no more practicing. Still, I did not take it too seriously. Even as it was followed 15 minutes or so by another similarly strong one, and another.

By the time my husband arrived home at around 12, I had decided I was in labor and had begun to get things ready. I told him I thought the baby would be born in the morning. We planned to prep the kit and the bathroom and then try to get some sleep. But contractions picked up significantly as we spoke and cleaned, and at 12:30 I called my midwife and asked her to come over.

Contractions came and went, but I had recently found an analogy that I found very helpful – if I were to take a difficult but pleasant hike, and instead of focusing on the pleasurable aspects of the experience would instead dwell on the unpleasant aspects, even if it was the most beautiful location in the world I would be obsessed by the difficulties of breathing, with the burn in my legs, with the sweat on my back, with the tiredness creeping up as I walked. So it is with labor, and so I enjoyed the time between contractions, talking to my husband, making neat little arrangements with the birth supplies, talking with my baby, or sitting quietly on the couch. Contractions were spaced far apart, and it honestly felt like I had started labor before time began, that they had collected themselves slowly but surely, years apart, then months, days, hours, and finally now, minutes. I don’t know how far apart they were, because time then was unimportant to me. I just know I experienced them, with much time between. A few were more difficult, and I needed to stop and sway and breathe deeply through them, but most were nothing more than a dull ache and tightening.

Perhaps it is some essential but cruel paradox that I, who enjoyed this process, would experience it briefly while for some who find it excruciating it would last days; but whatever the reason, this stage of labor lasted just over 2 hours for me. Somewhere in that time, at around 2am, my midwife arrived along with her partner. They complimented my belly, complimented me, and brought their things in quietly. I agreed to an internal check and was 7cm, but my midwife told me that it was not my cervix holding my baby in, that it would easily stretch to accommodate my baby even if I were to push her out now – instead, it was simply a matter of waiting until my body told me it was time. I was told that I was doing beautifully, that I was handling things so gracefully, and it meant a lot to me to hear these things.

And so I went about my labor process as they prepared and filled the pool, as my husband got the children up and awake and explained things to them, as everyone got settled in. Between (and sometimes through) contractions I continued doing little things, talking to the children, showing my MW where this or that thing was. Somewhere around 2:30 the pool was halfway full and I felt myself to be approaching the climax of labor, so I got into the pool. The warm water was soothing, but I was at the very height of labor, and spent the next couple of contractions with eyes closed, slowly breathing out deep breaths while my husband poured warm water over the exposed portion of my belly. After a gentle suggestion from my MW, I added ever-so-little pressure to one of the contractions and felt my baby move down. And then, it hit me, the *need*, absolute, undeniable, primal, and for the first time in this labor, truly painful – to push. My midwife, who had not forgotten my desire for a hands-off birth and was at that point sitting quietly on the couch across the room, said ‘just go with it,’ and I did, and all at once she was crowning. I reached down and felt her head as it started to come out; I moved my tissues with my hands and sighed her head out of me. In some very distant part of my attention I noted my son and daughter a few feet away (they were sitting on a couch, just a few feet from my own feet) watching quietly and just a little excitedly. A few moments later, a little extra push brought the rest of my baby into the world, and oh the relief I felt; a relief so profound that for a few moments I forget there was a baby there in the water, until my midwife quietly reminded me; “pick up your baby.” I held her and she felt so tiny, and was so alive, so whole and healthy and complete – she turned pink right away, cried that mewing newborn-cry with almost glass-shattering intensity for a few seconds, and then seemed to fall asleep.

And so, Naomi Melelani was born at 2:50 am on December 22, 2004.

Her cord was long; longer than my legs, but very healthy. She remained attached to me, anchored still to my uterus, for long minutes while I marveled at the small sleeping body on my chest. Her head perfect and unmoulded, her fingers long and graceful, hair dark, her body still largely covered in a thick layer of vernix. I noted as if from a distance that there was a lot of vernix floating around in the water, but not a drop of blood. I felt my abdomen and could feel the placenta there, quite large actually, and my midwife had a moment of worry over a possible twin (yes, it was really large – plus I had a muscle spasm at just the right moment to worry her), but that worry quickly faded. I had to push out the placenta – it did not simply slip through as the placentas of my other children had. But it came out without problems.

My midwife clamped the cord and my DH cut it. The water was now very bloody and I was ready to get out, so I did get out and showered and half-dressed while DH and the kids held and loved the baby. When I got out of the shower I was shivering and my midwife and her partner brought me some heat packs and warm towels, and we set up in bed. I asked to be checked – no tearing! And Naomi was checked, too, and checked out as perfect as I thought her to be. We lay there, naked skin to naked skin, for a long time, visiting and then nursing, my new daughter’s 7lb, 2oz body sticky with vernix in places, smooth and warm in others. Just before my midwife left at 4:30 she put on Naomi’s first diaper and wrapped her in a warm blanket while I put on a night-shirt, and then we settled in for the night; my children, my husband and I, all snuggled up in bed. We called a few relatives with our news (some of them disappointed we had not called during labor so they could be there, but we were happiest by ourselves), and my 4.5 year-old daughter Rebecca wanted to talk to everyone and tell them about how when she got older, she wanted to have a new baby in the water just like mommy. But finally we settled in and slept far into the morning, all warm and happy and together.

There is more, much more, that I could say, the story of Naomi’s birth growing into the story of her first days and my recovery; but I will end the story-telling here. I will note instead that there is nothing negative to say. Naomi is astoundingly healthy and astoundingly happy; she cries when we take off a diaper but never otherwise, she hasn’t shown even a hint of jaundice, no bruising or trauma, is eating and sleeping and pooping and peeing and everything a newborn is supposed to do. Sometimes she opens her eyes and seeks out the voices she hears, studying the faces of those she has spent months hearing from the womb. But mostly she sleeps, most comfortable laying on her side with one fist to her cheek, the other arm flung up, shielding her face. She spends hours deeply asleep in her daddy’s arms, and more hours sleeping curled up next to me in bed. She is such a peaceful child, and I wonder sometimes if it is that she has had such a peaceful birth, free from the traumas small and large that my others experienced during and after their births. Or if simply being at home, her family unstressed and peaceful, means that she can’t pick up on the stresses of others the way that my other children so obviously did.

I cannot sing the praises of homebirth or waterbirth loudly or strongly enough. After this experience, I look back at the natural-but-hospital-based births of my two older children and resent anew every blood-pressure reading, every washing (Naomi hasn’t been ‘washed’ yet, her skin is soft and smooth and clean without the ‘benefit’ of soap and water and scrubbing), every needle-prick-just-in-case. I look back and loathe the feelings I experienced, the self-consciousness, the powerlessness, the be-a-good-patient-submissiveness. If my son’s birth came close to everything a hospital birth can be, then my new daughter’s birth comes close to everything that birth itself can be, with nothing to look back upon and wish different. Three days later, I still feel like the most blessed person in the world; high and happy and ever-so-much in love.

Hot!

I'm up too early again this morning. Damnit. I've got that bleary, muscles-don't-work-yet feel about me. At least the kids aren't up too.

You see, my husband lit a real rager of a fire in the woodstove this morning. It actually began to set fire to the wood that he had placed on top of the woodstove (this usually dries out the wood...for those unfamiliar with woodstoves - it is NOT supposed to catch fire up there). So he woke me up: "Niki, I'm going to be late for work and I'm getting later because I can't leave the fire alone."

I begin my mental grumbling "always fucking wants that fire watched supposed to be hot what the hell can't you just get a grip and let it go everyone says woodstoves are hot supposed to be hot WTF do you mean I've gotta watch it you're fucking insane let me sleep go take your damn shower."

But the setting-things-OUTSIDE-the-woodstove-ablaze component of this one got me worried enough to drag me out of bed. How bad is it when you're SOOOOOO bleary that you don't even want to make coffee yet? Ah, but I have good news: I forced myself. I've got half a mug of coffee down the chute, and I might just muster the energy to be civil to my children when they awake.

And an update: approximately one hour after lighting the damn thing, with all the windows open, it is 83 degrees in here. "OMG, are you sure you'll be warm enough" my ASS, MIL!

Oh The Weirdness

I, yes, me, the amazing woman who never goes anywhere without her children, went shopping ALONE yesterday. Yeeehaw!!!

But that's not the weirdness I've come to report. Here it is:

I am walking towards Target and I see what looks like a minor accident. Come closer...is that a DOG in the driver's seat? Why yes, it was. A german shepherd had aparently put a tiny elderly sports car in neutral and rolled it into somebody's truck. And was sitting there la-dee-da - I'm a dog in CHARGE, man! - as Mr. Truck laughed his ass off. Oh, it was great.

A Little Excitement!

OK, so the storm on Thursday was TERRIFYING for us. Those who have been to my house will know why. For those who haven't, let's just say that the dude who built the house didn't seem to see any point in removing any trees that weren't immediately in his way. So yes, 3 feet from our bedroom window stands a cedar that must be over 100 feet tall (I am horrid at estimating this kind of thing. I figure I could stack my house several times before I got to its height though.) and there are quite a few more in very close proximity. They are tall and healthy, and last summer Bernie-Landlord had the most suspicious of the maples removed, so we were slightly reassured about THAT, but we spent all night listening to the trainlike wind noises, hearing the loud swells approach for a mile or so through forest as they approached us. We heard the gunshot-cracks of large wooden things breaking, the percussions of large things falling. We tried to go to bed at midnight, figuring that there was nothing we could do about it anyway, but it was impossible to sleep while we were laying there fearing that the house would cave in at any moment. We finally decided to forget this trying to sleep shit, and sat there wishing for structural integrity instead. At one point we heard a gunshot crack and a large object falling rather near the house, and we hastily grabbed children and herded them towards the center of the house. But it didn't fall on us (it missed the shed by a tiny bit). In fact, nothing fell on us at all.

But the power did go out. And I did indeed go to finals on Friday anyway, largely because I just wanted to get it the heck out of the way. The drive was a bit of an adventure, and we ended up having the final exam in my assessment partner's home (which may be why her blood pressure was about 10 points higher than usual...), which was great...not only did she have power, she has the rocking-est bathroom ever.

Anyway...my phone proceeded not to get signal at home and people proceeded to call me and think I'd died in my little house amongst the humongous trees, and that sucked.

And we proceeded not to have power until this morning (Monday), and that sucked too. But we had the woodstove (heat) and had filled a few canteens (water) and had about 40lbs of frozen meat in the freezer to sustain the cold in there, so we pulled through without having to even throw out any food. Between the woodstove and a fire outside, we were covered for food, and the lanterns that our Puyallup friends gave us were plenty for light. We were pretty well set for a decent amount of time.

On Sunday night, though, we decided that enough was enough with this not-showering thing, and headed over to BIL's house for the night. Ahhhhh...showers. I hadn't gotten around to mine yet when the power went out on Thursday, so I went from Wednesday morning to Sunday night without a shower. And so did Fran. And the puddle-loving, mud-pie-making children. WORSE THAN CAMPING. OMG I think the only time a shower has felt so good was after that camping trip from dustbowl hell last summer.

And BONUS! sFIL and MIL, who had decided to check in to the Comfort Inn after their house hit 50 degrees and MIL's elderly mom (who has diabetes and extremity problems) started to turn blue, invited us out to eat last night. Now, we'd packed every food item in our fridge and freezer to bring to BIL's house and were well set for food, but it isn't every day that a family as poor as ours gets to go out to eat, so out we went. I don't know whether it was because our expectations were low or because our server ROCKED (she was awesome about Tony's dairy allergy, got him some separately prepared things because, for example, the salad dressing had dairy...I never would have guessed...) but we actually had a GREAT time at the Olive Garden, of all places.

So our power came on this morning, according to NeighborSusan, and we'll head over there once Fran gets off from work. For now I'm stuck at BIL's but there are totally worse places I could be.

Personality Test

I thought this was more fun than most, thanks ~L~


What type of Fae are you?

Nutrition SUCKS

No, not nutrition as in eating fairly decently. Don't fall over ~L~.

Nutrition, like the class. At SMS. Specifically the instructor. Which damnit, I have been holding back from saying all quarter, but this is THE LAST STRAW.

In the syllabus, it says projects 2 and 3 will be due on 12/14.
In the callendar it says project 3 will be due on 12/15.

In the handly little announcement she sent in the wee hours of Monday morning, it said we would be presenting projects 2 and 3 on TUESDAY. Tuesday is, last I checked, 12/12.

I am not prepared and I am inclined...very, very inclined...to say FUCK IT, turn in what I have, and declare mutiny on the spot if that is not accepted.

It ain't bad, honestly, it is pretty good. But there is no "creative component." Creative fucking nutrition at the fucking 11th hour...just not happening. I've been trying all afternoon to figure out how to make this work and...it's just not happening.

In other news, the whole frigging staff asked me this morning how I did on the epi final. Which was...interesting. Apparently if you ace the midterm people talk. Why people talk about MY test scores, I dunno, and it was a little unsettling. I still haven't sorted out exactly how I feel about that, and maybe I'm just still a little stuck in big-world academia, but my test scores have always felt a little like my weight - I'll let you know without shame if you ask, but I don't want it in the Christmas letter, you know?

Boy's Leg

Quite out of character for me, I know, but I'm worried about boyness' leg. On Friday, I grabbed his shoulder to get his attention and he slipped into a near-splits. Ouch? Yeah, well, it hurt, it got a kiss blown in its general direction, he went about his merry way.

And on Saturday he woke up yelling about it hurting.

Screamed, SCREAMED I tell you, if I tried to straighten his leg. Hobbled about. We went to a friend's place and he *kept* hobbling. Hobbling on Sunday. Hobbling on Monday.

WTF?

Did he BREAK it?

Fran asks him to support his weight on it, and straighten it out, and he *kind of* manages, but it hurts and he's not really straightening it out all the way. So long story short, I hate doctors (kinda), he seems more or less OK except for the limp, yada yada...4 days later, no real improvement. Now, when I was a kidness I remember getting these kinds of injuries relatively frequently (Fran said he can't remember this ever happening to him...but his mom didn't let him run *at the park*, what can I say?) but I can't remember how long they're supposed to last. The doctor-worshippers...I mean, in-laws...seem to think that he's going to keel over if I don't get him to a doctor ASAP. Like, OMG, what do you MEAN you haven't seen a doctor?!!!!

It quite frankly is driving me nuts because at this point, I *am* considering taking him to the doctor. And damnit! They'll act like "oh PHEW you took him to the DOCTOR!! Finally you grew some SENSE!!!"

ARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH

See, this is why I want to live here, but with MY family around me. They're not doctor-worshipping paranoid lunatics who get tetanus shots every time they scrape a cuticle on the mailbox. Oh why, oh why, did I have to choose between my sane family and the PLACE I wanted to live?

Wow, that was a big wander. True though. I want my family back.

Co-ops and...allergies?

So we've got a 100% success rate for something very odd...

My son has had an allergic reaction any time someone comes to pick up a co-op package.

Supreme coincidence?

I have no fucking clue. Fact is, this only happens once every couple of months, so the two happening together is...interesting.

The mama who came to get her package yesterday hung out to play for a while, which was cool, but by about 15 minutes in she was wondering if her middle child didn't have a dairy allergy, too. "Wow, he doesn't respond to you like that when he hasn't had dairy? And...he used to have ear infections until you cut out dairy? Hmmmm...."

I don't know, if DairyBoy Tony wasn't the most fucking irritating thing on the planet, I'd say it was actually a POSITIVE thing that someone got to see him on an allergy high yesterday. Because it certainly got the gears in her head turning. "Every time I drink milk my nose gets super stuffy, I even *sound* funny...he used to get ear infections all the time and his hearing still seems worse than his siblings...really, it's related to bed wetting?"

Anyway, DairyBoy is damn difficult to deal with and a real burden on his siblings. So I can't decide whether to be all weird about it and not let people visit when they come to pick up co-op packages anymore.

This reaction courtesy of "Create a Treat Gingerbread House Kit" which lists "Allergens: wheat, soy, corn, sulphite" in exactly the way I told my MIL meant that a product was safe, but which actually contains "milk powder" about midway through a 200-or-so-item-long ingredient list.

Squeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

So I don't usually post parenting dilemmas over here. But this is one of them. Mainly because it is driving me frigging bonkers.

Toddlerness has begun making extremely high-pitched protesty noises when she doesn't get her way. Everything from not getting to nurse right.this.instant to wanting the toy her brother has to needing a little extra attention.

It is irritating as all kinds of shit.

And because I think it is the most irritating thing in the world, my reflex is to do whatever it takes to stop it RIGHT THAT INSTANT. This is, to put it mildly, not a long-term solution to the problem of me wanting to squash whatever being makes that noise. In fact I do believe it is encouraging her to do it louder and more often.

Fran was wondering to me last night if part of decent parenting was putting up with the whining. He made the point that the families we hang out with, ones we thing parent exceptionally well, have kids that, well, whine a lot.

I don't think so. Whining is fucking annoying and not a good way to go about getting what you want in the real world, besides.

But "not putting up with whining" is a complex problem. Often she is whining about something I'd have given her anyway, and she's too little really to understand having to restate things without whining. I think. Fran is deliberately misunderstanding her when she does it, asking her "what" until she says or gestures what she wants without the squealing. I'm not sure I can put up with doing that all day long, but I may have to if I want her to cut it the heck out.

I have to say that I think we averted a hearty whining phase with the older children just by being better able to anticipate their wants and needs and cater to them more quickly. Toddlerness rarely asks for anything unreasonable. It's usually something super simple, like water, or getting her blocks out, or a turn with whatever toy her brother has, or more paper to color on. This means that I'm not only usually willing to do what it is she wants, I *want* to do it, and just *doing* it regardless of the whining is the easiest thing, particularly when I just want her to shut up so I can go back to thinking about whatever assignment I'm working about.

I realize that the way to deal with this most consistent with our overall parenting style would be to give her my near-complete attention nearly 100% of the time. But, I've got stuff to do. I've got other kids who need attention, too. And the problem isn't that I can't do what she wants, it's that I want her to learn to ask for it in a less irritating way. She is a very, very 'needy' kid. Her day is an almost-continuous chorus of "mama, mama, nummies, mama, mama, cracker, mama, color, mama, paper?, mama, mama, block?, Dada HOME!!!!, Dada, dada, dada, dada, outside? Dada, stick? Dada, dada, color? Dada, paper?" Sometimes being verbal is a handicap. She rarely shuts up while she's home and my best hope for a break is that she'll get engrossed in some activity. Right now she's got several paper bags, and she's putting random stuff in them and delivering them to people. This will probably last about 5 minutes and then she'll ask me for something. It will probably be something really random, like a towel to put on top of the basket full of stuff she's got. It will be something that I'm more than happy to get. But she'll whine about it and squeal if she doesn't get her way. And then I'll want to squish her (and not in a good way). Fucking whining! It totally destroys the happy-busy mood I think we'd have around here otherwise.

Corn Meal

So it has been three days.

And the toddler is still carrying around a bag of corn meal and treating it like a baby.

She made her daddy cuddle with it yesterday.

She pokes and prods it into the perfect shape and rests it gently upon her shoulder.

She sits it in her highchair.

We have baby dolls. We have stuffed animals. We have any number of things that would be more normal to carry around than something she dug out of the back of my baking supply shelf. But no, we are once again verifying that we are the wierdest toddler alive. Corn meal it is.