Year: 2007

Tuesdays With The Bean and Murray

I’m sorry I can’t use up today’s post on Murray entirely, Internet. But I will include a picture and this video of Murray’s butt.

 

Today is TobyJoe’s birthday. He turns 30. THIRTEE. He’s finally old man river. I turned 30 almost four years ago. I am almost dead. OK, that’s not true, but my body is currently telling me otherwise. Anyway, The Bean is 30. Happy Birthday, Bean.

This is what Toby looked like 15 years ago:

This is how he looks now:

Today will be much like every other day only today will have cake (and some overflow cupcakes) because I made a cake yesterday evening. The cake (along with several cupcakes) was made right under Toby’s nose. It was supposed to be a surprise birthday cake, one baked today, but I have learned that surprises are impossible when you have a baby because there’s no one to watch the (very needy) baby while the other is baking the cake. It’s also impossible to make a surprise anything with Murray around because Murray will find it, rip the tinfoil off and try and eat it even though chocolate is sometimes poisonous to cats. It’s impossible to have surprises with a baby and a Murray in the house, unless you consider cake ransack a surprise or a poopie diaper.

We aren’t going out for a romantic meal because we don’t have anyone to watch the baby. But that’s OK, because we would much rather have the baby than a romantic meal. Plus, a romantic meal is how we ended up with the baby. And there won’t be any presents because all the extra money we’re making is going into the baby’s college fund. It’s what I like to call our “401 Kid”. We’re putting as much money as possible into the kid’s education so when we’re old and immobile, in 7 years, he’ll be able to take care of us. He’s allowed to specialize in whatever he wants, except for law. I tell Emory all the time, “Mommy doesn’t like lawyers. If you want to go to law school, I will take your money and give it to Murray the cat.” And TobyJoe always says, “That’s a surefire way to make him become a lawyer.” And I laugh.

Anyway, it’s TobyJoe’s 30th birthday. Happy birthday, Bean.

 

P.S. You are the awesome.

Subconjunctival Hemorrhage

TobyJoe and I got up early this morning and drove to Whole Foods at Union Square. We brought the Bjorn and the baby and did some early morning shopping. The city is so nice in the morning. No one is out (except for maybe the people still drunk from the night before) and the stores are empty. Even the street vendors are still at home wrapping up their dreams.

We shopped. And Emory did really well. A lot of ladies came over to see him. One really adorable woman stopped us to talk about how cute he is. She called him Pumpkin Head, which made me laugh because I call him My Pumpkin Pie all the time. There’s something pumpkin-like about Emory.

We spent a small fortune, double the rent I used to spend per month while living in State College. We grabbed our bags and headed back to the car. We got everything in. I turned around to ask Toby something. (He sits in back with Emory.) It was at that very moment TobyJoe noticed my eye, my big red bloody eye.

It’s a subconjunctival hemorrhage, bleeding in the eye that happens if the eye is hit or scratched. I didn’t get hit. (It’s the opposite eye from the one I smacked running into a car door.) Nothing scratched it. I would have known. That leads me to believe it’s from a third cause: high blood pressure.

Of course, now that I’m all worked up, I’m having a slight panic attack, which causes shortness of breath, dizziness, and tingling, which are all telltale signs of high blood pressure. You see the dilemma?

I have always has stellar blood pressure up until I was 41 weeks pregnant. What the hell is going on? First it was the basal cell carcinoma, which led to the MOHs surgery. Then I got hit in the face with a car door. And now this? I look like a monster.

Edited to add: I just took a bath and was thinking about stuff about things. Pregnancy is the only thing I can think of that causes all sorts of weird (and negative) side-effects yet is still positive. Like, your hair may fall out (a common problem for breastfeeding mothers), your skin may sag, you may find new skin tags, moles, or (in my case) cancer cells. Pregnancy can ruin your eyesight even (another discovery I had recently). There’s joint pain, weight gain, hemorrhoids, stretch marks; the side effects are endless.

I was just thinking about everything that has changed since having Emory, all the physical oddities I’m still discovering, some of which are really painful and life-altering. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

They are the greatest side-effects ever.

December 8, 2007

I haven’t been doing too well. I am at 149, which is more than last week. I can’t seem to give up the sweets. Damn brownies.

Photo Friday!

I started writing my labor recovery post. It’s going to take some time. While I’m working on that, I figured it’d be nice if I posted some pictures I took this morning.

Emory is always happiest in the morning.

Tucker the Orangemani terrorist

The Hobo Nest (More about this here)

Last night’s carnage. Someone left the homemade bread out on the counter.

Gratuitous self-portrait

Ornamental gift from my brother.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!

Happy Friday everyone else!

On Graphic Design.

I don’t read magazines all that often but when I do it’s usually in bed and I’m usually on my back. I noticed something the other night as I was reading an article in Wired magazine about India’s skeleton trade. I noticed that unless you’re in the middle of the magazine, it’s hard to read using one hand. And I usually fold my magazine in on itself in order to read it using one hand. In the front of the magazine, the left hand side of the spread gets cut off when the magazine is folded over.

I am forced to turn the magazine at weird angles in order to read the type at the gutter.

It’s a small design pet peeve of mine.

When you get to the back of the magazine, the same thing happens in reverse order. It’s easy to read the left hand side of the page whenever the magazine is folded back on itself. But whenever you get to the right hand side of the spread, you’re forced to either open the magazine entirely or do the same weird motion.

Think of how many minutes I could save every day if the magazine designer took this phenomenon into consideration. Think of how much more pleasurable my reading experience would be if the gutter was thought about depending on where you are in the magazine. Perhaps the designer could extend artwork to include the gutter. Perhaps they could vary the width of the column closest to the gutter depending on where you are in the magazine. White space never hurt anyone. As my design professor used to say, “It’s not a problem, it’s an opportunity.”

And then sometimes decisions made by a graphic designer or marketing team just confuse me. Remember this logo?

I originally saw it on its side. Like this:

Some folks thought it was just me, while others agreed. The point is, enough people saw a penis to warrant a second look and maybe a third, fourth and fifth.

People should have to pay for good graphic design but more often than not it’s an afterthought. If more people thought about graphic design over at Baxter Healthcare Corp., three babies might still be alive today and Dennis Quaid might not be suing them.

Obviously, the Heparin bottle design (or lack thereof) is a bigger deal than a logo that may or may not look like a penis even if said logo includes the tagline “Sharing God’s Gifts.” And it’s a much bigger deal compared to whether or not I have to move my magazine around in order to read it. But my point is (and always has been) that graphic design is a lot more important than people choose to admit.

Am I right? Or am I right.

2 Roads. 1 Internet.

I originally posted this on Sunday night. It was up for about 2 hours before I had a minor freak out and took it down. I freaked out because I worried that people who may not have heard about it otherwise would find out about it because of me. I wouldn’t rate this blog PG by any means, but posting a fetish video isn’t something I want on my resume, especially now that I’m a mother. I’m a lot more overprotective and sensitive now that I’m a mother.

A few days have gone by since I deleted the original post. In that time I have watched a few more of the reaction videos on YouTube, including one starring John Mayer and a cup of ice cream. Opie and Anthony have been showing it to their comedian friends and filming their reactions. The one with Adam Ferrara is pretty awesome.

The reaction videos are a sight to be seen. I really mean that. Some of them had TobyJoe and me laughing out loud. I think it’s awesome that people have taken something so downright disturbing and turned it into something creative and funny. In the future, whenever someone brings up the Brazilian fetish video, I won’t think about two girls doing disgusting things with feces; I’ll think about the hilarity that ensued instead.

I fear this has become the longest caveat ever. But I think it proves how conflicted I am. And I think I’ve pretty much rewritten the original post with more paranoia this time.

In the name of creativity, I have decided to resubmit the post from Sunday.

Please note: I am writing this today NOT to pique anyone’s interest. Though the subject at hand sparked a bit of curiosity at first, I took the sage advice of friends and family and held strong.

My purpose today is to warn those who haven’t yet seen and/or heard about the newest gross-out meme to follow my lead. Those whose friends are of the type that cajole and trick and hack at resolve should heed this warning: Do not succumb to a moment of weakness, lest you wish for a time machine.

On Friday, TobyJoe came home and said, “You hear about the new [insert website term I am not going to say for fear that folks will look it up] sweeping the Internet?”

“No.” I replied. “But if it’s anything like [insert website term I am not going to say for fear that folks will look it up], I don’t want to know about it. I still can’t shake that image from my head.”

“It’s so bad Ryan won’t let anyone say the name. Andy had to sign it to me from across the loft.” TobyJoe made a number two using two fingers and mouthed a word and then held up one finger and then made a gesture like he was drinking. “Apparently it’s very disturbing. I haven’t watched it.”

“Do I want to know about this? Does it show animal cruelty?” I asked.

“No, but it shows two girls eating poop and then vomiting in each other’s mouth.”

“Oh holy crap! Gross. But I could handle that, I bet.” I bragged. “I can’t believe you didn’t watch it”

“No way. But I did watch the reaction videos.”

And that’s how it started. That’s how I became obsessed with a video I will purposefully never watch.

I have watched countless reaction videos which are downright genius. Here are a couple of my favorites. And this is the video that made TobyJoe decide not to watch it.

I find the whole phenomenon fantastic. I think the reason I find it so completely amazing is that this particular trend takes everything that is so very wrong with Internet and inspires some of the things that are so right. The reaction videos (a trend all its own, the reaction video) are consistent enough to bring to mind clinical psychological studies and the results are just as fascinating. The reaction videos restore a little faith in humanity. They suggest that while there is a lot of ugly out there, there’s a whole hell of a lot more awesome.

That’s why I have decided to take the road less traveled and not watch the original video. I want to live in the world with a lot more awesome.

Tuesdays with Murray (Chapter 24)

The cats used to sleep with us. Now we have to close the doors at night so they don’t walk all over the baby. One of our four legged roommates can’t seem to figure out that the baby is alive. It just so happens that he’s the smallest of the three cats which is a good thing because whenever he does walk on the baby the baby doesn’t even flinch. It’s quite the opposite, actually. One morning I woke up to find Emory laughing because Murray had a paw against Emory’s side. (Before you call the ACS, we don’t actually let the cat walk all over the baby.) Unfortunately, Murray is starting to put on weight, which means we’re going to have to keep an closer eye on him whenever he’s near Emory. It also means I’m going to have to put him on a diet. And I hate that idea because living with Murray is like living an episode Fear Factor. Only he doesn’t do it to show off his enormous, fake tits. He eats everything just for fun.

Now we shut the folding doors that separate the living area with the bedrooms, a decision Murray is not very pleased with. And he lets us know about it each and every night repeatedly. It starts whenever we first close the doors. And I generally give in if we’re still reading or watching TV. I let him in just to prove that he’s not missing anything. Eventually, he either gets bored or we have to toss him out. But the cries do not stop. The cries return at least twice during the night and they come on strong at 5 AM. The cries are much more desperate at 5 AM.

Murray has always visited me at 5 AM. When he was a kitten and we first brought him home, he’d climb into bed and curl up on my ear or around my neck. One night, I had a dream I was having my teeth drilled and I haven’t ever even had my teeth drilled. I woke up to find Murray asleep and purring loudly against the right hand side of my face. I miss him a lot. But it has to be done.

A few days ago, we were sleeping soundly. At around 4 AM, Emory woke up and wanted something to eat. I fed him and changed him and we were asleep again by 4:30. At 5 AM Murray started. He cried and cried. I guess he wondered where we had gone. They were up a minute ago, where have they gone? Why have they locked me out again? He continued to cry and we continued to ignore him. This went on for roughly 15 minutes.

“MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!”

Silence.

SCRATCH. SCRATCH. DOOR HEADBUTT. SCRATCH. DOOR HEADBUTT.

“MEOW! MEOW!”

DOOR HEADBUTT

“MEOW!”

DOOR HEADBUTT. DOOR HEADBUTT.

“MEEEOWOOOWWW!!”

Silence.

At some point he realized that a simple MEOW wasn’t going to work and so he moved on to a more abrasive tactic.

This is what the tactic sounded like. (Click below.)

Murray is probably the only creature capable of making me laugh at 5 AM. And of course throwing the monkey against our door a few times not only woke me up, it brought him numerous early morning scritches as well.

NowBlowPoMe: The Mental Aftermath Hurt Far Worse.

You should read this in order. Previous Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7

Enough people have written me email or have left comments about my birth story to warrant some clarification.

For starters, I want everyone to know that when I think about my experience giving birth to Emory, I don’t think about it as a negative one. For me to see it as negative, something would have had to go wrong with Emory. And he was happy! His heartbeat never took a turn. He was totally fine throughout the entire ordeal.

I also want to talk about why I was induced. I have always had a steady blood pressure. My doctors have always described my blood pressure as perfect. So, whenever things drastically changed so much at week 40 my doctor was rightly concerned. Not only was I off the charts where blood pressure was concerned, but I was seeing little white fireflies in my peripheral every time I stood up. My doctor (who I trust with my life and my baby’s) decided it was time to take action. She gave me four days go “get things going”. If I came in after those four days and still had problems with my blood pressure, we should talk about scheduling an induction. Guess what? Four days later, things were worse.

I would not have scheduled an induction had there not been a medical reason for it. I was miserable toward the end, sure, but my discomfort wasn’t reason enough to induce. Because of my deteriorating health, Emory was at risk as well.

I also need to mention that I never really had a birth plan. A couple of people asked me why I never came up with one. I put a lot of faith in my doctors throughout my entire pregnancy and looked to them to decide what I should do. I felt both my baby and me were in excellent hands the entire time. While the actual labor may not have come off as smoothly as I may have liked, Emory was in very capable hands. I really believe that. Even when he was admitted into the NICU I felt he was safe and looked after. I will say this much: if we ever do have another baby, I won’t think twice about going back to that hospital. I would like to see that evil desk clerk fired first, but otherwise, I have no complaints.

More than a few people have hinted both passively and aggressively that I would have had a better time with a “natural” childbirth. That very well might be true. We’ll never know. But I get annoyed with how loosely the term “natural” is thrown around. In order for anyone to correctly use a word, we need a common definition. When does something become unnatural? Is human action, presence, or influence the source of the distinction? Medicine? And if it’s medicine at what point do you draw the line between “natural” medicine and all other? My point is that your definition of “natural” probably varies from another’s. Is anesthesia natural? How about using acupuncture as an anesthesia? Ice is pretty natural, right? How about being submerged in ice before a medical procedure? The truth is, the word “natural” is an empty rhetorical trick used to mask a lack of clarity or spin a simpler and more concrete distinction in favor of one side over another.

I think what people mean to say when using the word “natural” is without the use of pain management drugs or an epidural. In such a case, it would be more productive to use a term such as “birth without pain management drugs.”

I did not choose to go about childbirth without the epidural. I was frightened. I hadn’t ever done anything like it before. I hadn’t been around women who had. I know of two people who nearly lost a baby because the baby swallowed meconium during labor. And still one more person very close to me lost a baby this way. I couldn’t imagine going through nine months of pregnancy, growing attached to a baby only to see it die. The idea still terrifies me. Also, there are no known downsides to the use of modern pain management drugs aside from stepping on the toes of ideologues.

One person asked me if I felt that having doula would have made things different. I don’t know. I asked my mother to be there for my labor and delivery because she went through all three childbirths differently. My older brother was born by use of an epidural. My mother was induced for me and she was then given both narcotics and an epidural. (Which is the most preferred state when dealing with me.) And my younger brother was born without the use of any drugs or anesthesia at all. I felt (and still feel) that she was a perfect person to have around. I also wanted to share it with her. Had I been able to have more than two people in the delivery room I may have entertained the idea of hiring a doula. But it never came to that. I knew from the beginning that I wanted both my mother and my husband in the room with me.

Looking back, however, it would have been nice to have a person I’m not close to around to tell me that what I was going through and how I was feeling was perfectly normal especially after the baby was born. I really beat myself up for weeks following Emory’s birth. If doulas can be hired for that purpose, I suppose it may have been helpful. But I always thought that the doula’s role is to keep a woman from agreeing to something during childbirth that she may not have agreed to under more rational circumstances. Since I didn’t have a birth plan and I’m known for changing my mind and wholeheartedly believing in said change, a doula sounded like she could become more annoying than helpful. I’m stubborn and rather pigheaded when I need to be. I probably would have pissed off a doula and fired her midway through my labor. (Granted, this is all based on what I have heard a doula is hired for. I could very well be proven wrong about a doula’s role in all of this.)

If it’s NOT a doula’s role to make a woman feel as normal and comfortable as humanly possible after giving birth, there is a huge market for a person like this. I really could have used NOT a lactation consultant, NOT a birthing coach, NOT a midwife, I could have used a sane someone who’s been there before. I would have benefited from someone telling me that it’s OK if I can’t get the hang of breastfeeding. It’s OK if I am afraid to hold the baby right away. It’s OK that I feel like I dismantled any previous version of my life and that one day I would learn to how live the new one. I wanted someone to grab a hold of my head, shake it clean and let me know that everything I was going through was entirely normal and the sadness would one day subside. Instead, that role was filled by several hundred voices from the Internet.

If we do have another baby, I will likely go about things differently. I would like to avoid being induced unless it’s absolutely necessary. If my blood pressure raises again as it did with this pregnancy, I might asked to be watched closely by a doctor to make sure we’re both ok instead of being induced. If it doesn’t work out that way, I might ask that they NOT give me the epidural until I am further dilated. (The reason they didn’t give me enough Pitocin the first time was because they had no way of judging how intense my contractions were.) If that can’t be done, I might ask for the internal monitor from the get go so they can judge how much more Pitocin to administer.

And yes, for all those out there with a boner for a childbirth without the use of narcotics or an epidural, I might give that a try as well. Now that I know what happens, now that I’m no longer terrified to give birth, I might give it a shot. Who knows. I don’t want to make an absolute plan. If there is one thing I learned from all of this is that all of it is entirely unpredictable. I planned on so many things before I actually had the baby and when I returned home with him, I was barely able to accomplish one of them. And the seeming failures made me feel even more depressed. I really beat myself up over my failures and spent little time rejoicing in having a baby.

If you take anything away from this post and the 7 chapters I wrote over the last couple of weeks it’s the following statement:

The mental aftermath hurt far worse than the days I spent in the hospital.

And I went through that both drug and epidural free.

One More Day!

I have one more day left of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). Writing every day for an entire month has been difficult. Especially since this month had a pretty substantial holiday. I realize that November is short, but man! It ain’t been easy.

For those of you still here, thank you. Here’s a short video. Emory thanks you as well.

P.S. I will be sure to include a video or picture of Murray next Tuesday to make up for his having off this week.