Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Let me just say, really quickly, that apart from him name obsession, Roger Moore was not a bad guy. He'd always lend you his notes and was a good study partner and would proof your papers and help you come up with topic ideas. I would have considered him an acquaintance - we didn't go out for beers, but we talked before and in between classes, helped each other out, he was a decent writer and a decent guy. You totally wanted him to be on your team for group projects. But his name obsession overrode all that. It was that bad.
For some reason, no one in the College of Journalism ever discussed his name obsession, even though everyone visibly cringed every time he announced himself as Roger Moore. It was something of a taboo, although I'm not sure why.
Well, his name obsession was not the only "thing" about Roger. There was something else, something physical. Something you could not miss about him if you were one of the three blind mice, looking at him from across a football field, through dirty binoculars.
Roger had a big ass.
Scratch that. Roger had a HUGE ass. I mean, it was so big, he clearly had difficulty walking. It was a serious badunkadunk.
Now, I'm not one to hate on people with big asses. My is currently the size of a continent, and when I'm not pregnant, it's still pretty round and full. Always has been, even when I was a painfully thin teenager I had very present and curvy behind. It's just part of my genetic make up.
And I LIKE asses. I think it is way better to have a big ass than no ass at all. But, the thing is, you don't often see a man with an enormous ass. I mean, maybe if all of him is enormous, but that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about an ass that is disproportionally large in comparison to the rest of his body. You've seen these asses. You've stared at them. Admit it. They are a rarity, an oddity, you want to know more. Even if you are not ass obsessed, you can't help but take a gander when you see a man with a disproportionately enormous backside. You just can't. It's physically impossible.
So, anyways. Roger and his ass.
I was telling a friend of mine all about Roger and how annoying he was and how obsessed with his name he was and she was like, "Wait. Does he have a big ass? Because he totally goes to my church. And he has an identical twin brother (!!)."
I immediately started laughing my ass off (excuse the pun), because although I knew Roger had a large ass, I'd never articulated this fact and neither had anyone else in our mutual acquaintance.
When I caught my breath, I said, "What?? And IDENTICAL twin? As in identical asses?"
Yes, she claimed it was true. I thought it was strange that I'd know him for three years and he'd never mentioned his identical twin (although I was kind of glad because I think identical twins are kind of creepy) but he went to a different university and I guess they were trying to be "individuals" or something.
Well, I decided that I had to report back to some of my J School buddies about this previously unknown twin.
So, I told a few people - Sandee, Kevin, Lou, Jamie, Dan - and they were all like, "Do you mean IDENTICAL IDENTICAL?" And I had to tell them Yes, identical, right down to the ginormous ass.
And then, the ass was out there, so to speak. All of a sudden, we could speak freely of the ass, and of Roger's obsession with is own name. In fact, it was all we could speak of. The jokes, oh, the jokes. It got a little out of hand.
"Hey, have you seen Roger?"
"No, but I saw his ass at happy hour last night."
"Roger made it to class on time today, but his ass was 10 minutes late."
"Roger didn't make it to staff meeting today. He must have been feeling a little assy."
"I'm Moore, Roger Moore. And behind me is my ass."
"Roger though he was being followed but it was just his ass."
"Stand back, my ass has a license to kill."
And on, and on, and on.
Now, understand this was like three years of pent up annoyance about Roger's obsession with his name. I'm not saying we were right, but it was like letting steam out of radiator vent. It felt soooo good.
And, not one of us EVER said anything to Roger about his ass, or to anyone outside of our little group. It was more of a way to cope with his annoying "Moore, Roger Moore" introductions and I honestly believe it is what allowed us to remain on speaking terms with him.
But, I've always felt bad about it. I mean, his ass had to make him feel self conscious. He must have know about it's size and worried that people mocked him for it. And, for years and years after college, I felt guilty about all the teasing I did behind his back.
Then, maybe five, six years after graduation, I ran into him at a bar in DC during happy hour. He spotted me from across the room and approached. I felt nervous, guilty. What if he'd heard about the ass jokes? Would he confront me? But, I was intent on making this reunion go smoothly. I could not help but notice his ass was still intact.
"Jenni? Hey! Do you remember me? Moore, Roger Moore, from J School."
I know I must have visible cringed.
"Oh yeah, I remember you."
AND YOUR ASS!!!!
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Things are going well. Little Miles was quite jaundice, but he's such a fantastic eater it is clearing up nicely.
The breastfeeding has been like a dream. He latched on within moments of his birth and pretty much hasn't stopped nursing since then. Unfortunately I've come down with a nasty case of mastitis derailing my recovery, which was going really well.
Miles is, in a word, sweet. He is snugly. He is positively lovely. I had no idea I could fall in love with another baby so completely. Oh, the perfection. And he's soooooo different from baby Oscar. And also, so exactly the same.
Oscar is adjusting. He misses his mom tending to his every need and Nelson is struggling at times with caring for him on his own but I think he's doing a great job.
Okay, that's all for now. I hope to be back to blogging and reading YOUR blogs in the next week. I feel so out of the loop. I'd love to hear some updates in my comments section (hint, hint.)
Thursday, December 18, 2008
I was a Journalism Major. Did you know that about me? I doubt it. I was also a Women's Studies Major, but a Journalism Major first and foremost.
However, I am not a journalist. My senior year, I became jaded with the media machine and realized I could never be someones lackey like that. I wanted to make an impact in a way I didn't feel I could if I were a professional journalist. And that's not to say professional journalists don't make an impact - they absolutely do - I just didn't see myself as someone who could.
ANYWAYS, although I went to a very large state university, the College of Journalism (or, J School, as the super nerds called it) was quite small. We all knew each other, had classes together, worked at the paper together. It was pretty competitive to get into the college, but once you were in, they wanted to keep you there so there was a real sense of community.
Also, there were some real assholes. And some really amazing people. And some really weird people. I'm going to tell you about one of the weird ones today.
His name was Moore, Roger Moore. Okay, that was NOT his name. BUT he has a very famous name and it is the same name as Roger Moore's most famous on screen personality. The personality with a license to kill, if you know what I mean. Really it was guys, and that was totally awesome. It was his real name. I'm not using it here because he is absolutely the type of person to google himself and he's a lawyer now and I don't want to get sued. For libel, right Roger?
Anyways, Roger Moore and I had many, many classes together over the years. So, here's the thing. I absolutely have to admit that it is very, very cool that his name is Roger Moore. But, the thing is, he also though it was very, very cool. And it was annoying as hell.
Like, when he introduced himself to people, instead of saying, "Hi, I'm Roger" he'd say, "Hi, I'm Moore, Roger Moore." Seriously, he did. It was funny the first time, but it began to wear thin after four years.
In some of our larger survey classes (with like 400-500 students), like media law or economics, students were supposed to say their names when they were called on. So, if I raised my hand and was called on, I would say, "Jenni. Blah, blah, blah, genius answer, blah," so the professor could respond to me by name. But when Roger was called on, he'd always say, "Roger Moore, blah, blah, blah, mediocre answer, blah."
And it was like DUDE. We get that you have the same name as a legendary spy with a license to kill. Shut the crap up about it, will you?
Once, in media law, we were talking about copyright infringement (exciting stuff!) and Roger Moore raised his hand and was all, "Roger Moore. So, my name is Roger Moore. If I opened a security company and called it 'Roger Moore Security' would that be considered copyright infringement? Because, I know it's a well known name, but it's also MY given name." And then we had to spend a freaking hour talking about Roger Moore Security and his freaking name because it was a gray area.
It was too much. He was just soooo into his name. I couldn't take it any more. None of us could. Something had to be done. Something had to change.
To be continued...
Monday, December 15, 2008
So, yeah, I'm still pregnant. And no, I don't want to talk about it.
I'm nine days overdue. NINE. I've been having contractions 20-25 minutes apart for TWO DAYS. Enough is enough already.
This is my final gust poster, Crazy Loves Company. Her baby was due the same day as mine. Neither arrived promptly. Go check her out! Hopefully she's posted some photos of her little one by now.
My first guest post. Jenni is a brave woman on two fronts. She thought I'd come up with something entertaining for her readers, and she is betting that she has her baby before I have mine. Well Oscarelli readers, I'll do my best.
My family always took in the "stragglers" as we called them, for the holidays. Friends from college who were far from home. Friends left alone for whatever reason. Friends that were just in town that we haven't seen in 5 years... it didn't matter. Mom and dad always made everyone feel comfortable to have a bite to eat and hang out.
This Thanksgiving, husband and I were the stragglers and we celebrated with friends since both husband and I are without family nearby. There were 8 of us and we had an awesome time. Great food and even better conversation and company. The cast of characters included:
husband and me
- our good friends, recently married, who were the hosts; we'll call them Kevin and Sara
- the mom and sister of Kevin who both came from New England
- 2 guys, friends of the married couple. Ed from Texas - I don't remember what he does for a living, and Alex, who came to America from Russia when he was 20, 20 years ago, an anesthesiologist who was on call that night. Their wives took the kids to visit family and left the husbands to fend for themselves. You know that can't be good.
At first it was just the 6 of us, the guys were running late. While Kevin and Sara were finishing up in the kitchen I went to talk to the mom and sister. Both were super nice, but I had a hard time making conversation with the sister. She had to be in her late 20's and was nice enough, but we had nothing in common. I was struggling for conversation and could not be less interested in the football game playing in the corner. But at the same time I could not make myself get up from the director's chair I chose to sit in. It was either that or the couch and I know it would have taken at least one person to pull me up if I had planted myself there. God a vodka tonic would have been wonderful! Finally husband came into the room and the conversation flowed a little easier. I envy his ability to hold a conversation with anyone, anytime.
The mom was pretty soft-spoken but we had this whole pregnancy thing to discuss. You know what I'm talking about moms. How are you feeling? Is it a girl or a boy? Oh, you're not finding out? How unusual. Why not? Are you working? Are you going back to work? Do you plan to nurse? Be prepared, it doesn't work for everyone. Let me tell you about my 72 hour labor with my first child and my unscheduled C-section with my second and all the horror I had to go through and then the nursing, OMG. At about this point I had to pee.
I wander into the kitchen to help by sampling everything and we chat. Things are great, Kevin and Sara really are one of my favorite couples here, they've been such great friends to us.
We sit down for dinner and the 2 guys arrive shortly thereafter, but not before I have to pee. I love good conversation, not just the 'how's the weather... weekend plans...' kind of conversations that are fine, but lets discuss something we all have an opinion on, whether we share or not. You have to get a picture of Alex in your head. He's dressed very European and reminds me of a Russian Billy Crystal in his speech and mannerisms. Got that?
We are talking about the election, and we're clearly in the pro-Obama majority but it's not unanimous. We talk about promises made and that no one expects everything to be put into effect, clearly there are high hopes and expectations for the coming years. And then we get around to gun control. It becomes clear that Alex and the rest of us at the table have very different frames of reference. When Alex and I were talking we agreed that there should be stricter controls and laws. The difference is he owns a gun, and would never not own one, and I would never own a gun or have one in our house. It's a deal breaker. My rationale, however flawed, is that I understand if bad people want to get weapons, they will, whether legal or not. However, I don't believe I have ever heard a report about a burglar or murderer being shot by someone who owned a gun. What I do hear are the stories about the child that found a gun and accidently shot himself or someone else. Or the stories where an adult gets their gun and shoots someone, who turned out not to be a burglar. I know, there are safeties on most weapons, you can keep them in locked boxes, the ammunition in a separate place, training ....... all of that. But the possibility of an accident is too great for me.
Here is where it gets interesting. One of my few personal gun related anecdotes takes place when I was in high school. Some friends and I were at a friends house and he says, look what my dad has. Classic right? He pulls a handgun out of a closet somewhere and shows us. He says it's not loaded. He's showing everyone and waving it around. He hands it to a friend and what happens? A shot goes off and shoots out the window. People, we're in suburbia in a middle class neighborhood. Everyone practically wets themselves and they guys scramble to replace the window glass. I freak out and go home.
Alex's personal anecdote is this: He was in the USSR until he was 20 years old. When he was 12 years old, in the 1980s, all of the kids went through drills that included putting on a gas mask and then assembling and dis-assembling an AK-47. They did this all through high school to prepare for the imminent threat of war. He never felt safe as a kid growing up, people fought all the time and there was a lot of general violence. Now being in the U.S. for 20 years his neighborhood is 'up and coming', and his home has been broken into twice in 4 years. Now, I would move out of this neighborhood, probably wouldn't have chosen it to begin with, but it's where he and his family live. He is close to the hospital he works in and it's close to his wife's job as well. He feels that with a weapon at home, safety on, locked away, and an imposing dog, his family is much safer than without.
I don't mean this to be a post about gun laws. More about perspective, frame of reference. This man grew up preparing for war when he was 12. They didn't know any differently. My background is so different, it's almost impossible for me to even imagine thinking like that.
So, this holiday season when you find yourself talking with family, friends and stragglers, enjoy the conversation. Ask questions. We don't all have the same history.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
That's the thing with teaching hospitals - residents are in and out constantly doing only somewhat necessary procedures. I'd only been in an hour and my health and pre-natal history had been taken twice by different doctors. Very annoying.
But, an ultrasound? Who doesn't want to see their baby swimming around inside? So, he asked why I was having a section and I told him because I'd been presenting breech since my 37th week.
"Umm, are you sure? Because that's a head in your pelvis. This baby is vertex," said Dr. Liu, and he spun the monitor over and showed Nelson and I.
And it WAS a head. Pointing down. In vertex. The ideal position for birth.
Nelson and I were shocked. Shocked. We still are.
My doctor arrived shortly after that and confirmed via pelvic that the baby is indeed head down.
"This is good news! If your midwives will still perform a home birth, you can go ahead with that now," he told me.
The did a non-stress test to make sure the baby was okay - my placenta is fine, my fluid level is good. So, that's where we stand. The midwives were ecstatic, as was my birth assistant. We are ON for a home birth, assuming the baby comes before I'm 42 weeks (next Saturday.)
And, in all seriousness, I don't think there has EVER been a woman more happy to be on the verge of 41 weeks pregnant.
Babies don't turn after 38 weeks? My ass!
I'm writing this pre-surgery (obviously) and I am terrified. I have never had major surgery. This will be my first experience. I think I will be a wreck, so please think good thoughts for me. I mean, I have to have a catheter, people, a catheter. Do you know where those go? I wince just thinking about it. And lets not even discuss the layers of fat and blood and muscle and organ the doctor is going to have to slice through to get to the Sprout. FYI, vaginal birth really isn't very bloody. Like, maybe a cup or so of blood all together. I'm betting with a section there is WAY more.
I know I won't be able to FEEL him actually cutting, as in feel the pain. But, I'm told I will feel the pulling and prodding and tugging and that is just weird, okay? WEIRD.
Also, there is going to be a needle in my spine. And they won't let Nelson be in the room with me when they insert it and I have to be really still or I could become paralyzed. I mean, I could become paralyzed from it ANYWAYS, but you know, non-stillness increases the risks.
Okay, now I've got it all out. All my anxiety is above, for you, my dear readers, to feast on. Please, wish me luck. I'm hoping Nelson or I will post a photo and announcement tomorrow.
I'm off to become mother to two. Let the games begin.
P.S. Also a special thanks to many of you, my bloggy friends, that have been checking in on me on a regular basis these past few weeks and wishing me well these past few days. You have kept me sane. Or, more sane, I should say. Really, you guys rule. You know who you are.
P.P.S. I totally shaved my legs this morning.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Do you read Veronica' s blog, Sleepless Nights? You probably do because she is a big, fancy, All Top blogger and she just happens to be my friend. I can smell your jealousy from here.
Actually, the truth is Veronica's kind of not fancy at all, which is my favorite thing about her. She's a SAHM down in Tazmania to a very precocious two-year-old and she's pregnant with number two. She is very funny, very honest, and her blog reminds me that I am not really going crazy. I just parent a toddler.
So in about 8 weeks I will be giving birth to our second baby – a little boy. Unlike Jenni was, I am planning a hospital birth.
Now several things went into my decision to give birth in a hospital.
1. Living in Tasmania I don’t have any choice.
2. Uhm. Uh. Well.
Which hey, maybe there wasn’t so much thinking involved in my decision at all.
So for me, choosing to give birth in a hospital wasn’t really a choice, more of an ‘I don’t have any other options’.
But you know what? I’m good with having to birth there. Our hospital has mostly midwife based care (with doctors available, obviously), they try and get you through your labour without drugs, failing that – ie: you request drugs - they start with the little stuff (gas, pethidine) rather than routinely giving every woman an epidural.
All healthy babies are placed on their mothers stomachs immediately after birth and both mother and baby are covered in warmed blankets, rather than taking the little one away to a warmer. Breastfeeding is generally initiated within an hour of giving birth and all that good stuff.
So really, not a terrible place to give birth.
But this time around I’m worried. See, when I was heavily pregnant with Amy, I lived 5 minutes from the hospital. I had no worries about not making it to the hospital in time or that Nathan would have been drinking and wouldn’t be able to drive. Our plan for Amy’s birth was to call a taxi to drive us down and when I went into labour at 8am, that’s what I did.
We actually only stayed at home long enough to call the hospital and wait 30 minutes to make sure the contractions weren’t going to stop. Unlike other women I have talked to, my contractions didn’t start at 8-10 minutes apart. Mine started at 2 minutes apart with a side dose of OMG I can’t talk or move or walk through theeeeeeeeese *insert breathing and nothing but breathing here*.
Needless to say, the taxi ride into the hospital wasn’t the most comfortable.
With this pregnancy though? We live an hour from the hospital, if we don’t have to drive through peak hour.
My labour with Amy was fast for a first labour, only 7 ¾ hours from first contraction to last. I have been assured by the midwives that second labours are even faster.
Now I’m sure that I will make it to the hospital on time and not give birth in the car yada yada, but apparently my subconscious doesn’t believe me because I have a continuing sequence of dreams that either involve me giving birth in the car, or giving birth in my kitchen.
Either way, I am a little more apprehensive about labour this time around. I find myself thinking about it an awful lot and planning things more than I did for my first.
I know what I’m in for and I know what I want to do differently and what I want to do the same.
I’m still planning to go in with an open mind though, to just go with it and see how we end up.
As for Nathan? Well he knows for sure that this time he wants to be standing near my head, or even better, behind me. Anywhere where he doesn’t have to see everything. Hehe.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
I'm very honored to have Moo here guesting today (as I've been honored to have all my guest posters), but Moo is especially special to me. Moo is one of the "ones" for me, as a blogger. She is one of the very first bloggers that I did not know in real life to put me in her blog roll, and as you other bloggers know, that's a big deal.
So, thanks, Moo! Love you!
I am "nosy."
I put nosy in quotes, because I think I'm less nosy and more ... well, let's say, "curious." I really want to know things about people. It was one of the biggest draws to psychology for me. I could ask as many nosy questions as I wanted to and -- get this! -- people would pay me for the privilege. It sounded perfect.
Then, of course, I am also bossy. I love telling people what to do. I think I'm right, all the time, even when I know I'm wrong. THAT trait is a problem, I must admit. It makes it difficult for me to swallow criticism, even constructive criticism, because HELLO, CORRECT HERE, ALL THE TIME. I've gotten better about it, I promise.
I'm not shy about asking people about their personal life. And along those lines, I'm not shy about sharing stuff about my life, either. Pretty much ask me and I'll tell you what's up. It sometimes surprises me that 1.) people are shy about asking what they want to know and 2.) people are surprised that I would share so many things about myself. It's the drama-queen-attention-whore-nosy-bitch syndrome, I think.
No one around here yet has asked me the million dollar question that I'm sure at least SOME of you have thought in your heads, so I'm just going to go ahead and get the answer out there, without waiting for someone to be brave enough to ask.
This is going to be our last child.
After bob is born, we are done. Physically, financially, emotionally ... I am done. Lots of times during this pregnancy, I've wondered what in the world I am doing. If I wouldn't be a better parent to only one child than to two or more. Even when trying to get pregnant, I wondered what it would be like if we only ever had Grayson. I read books on it. I solicited advice. I hemmed and hawed.
Ultimately, I am going to be happy with my decision to have a second child. But I may not feel that way for years and years ... or maybe I'll feel that way about 5 minutes after I give birth. Because I am contrary like that. (point being ... I have no expectations, one way or the other.)
PK recently asked me, since we don't know the sex of bob, "so if bob is a boy, then what?"
"What do you mean, 'then what?'" I asked.
"I mean," he clarified, "then we'll have another one ...?"
"You want another one after bob?" I asked. I confess, I could not keep the incredulity out of my voice.
"If bob's a boy," he began, "then what?" He totally sidestepped the question.
"If bob's a boy," I said firmly, "then we will have two boys. The end."
"But what about a girl?" he questioned hesitantly.
"If bob is a boy," I told him, "then we can talk about having a girl in four or five years. And then we will adopt so that we will be sure to have a girl."
"So, I guess this means you're done, huh?" he asked, laughing.
"Oh yes," I replied without hesitation. Then I paused. "Is that ok?"
"That's fine, dolly," he admitted. "I just wanted to know what the plan was. Because in my house, growing up, that would never fly." (PK is the oldest of four ... his parents kept having babies until his mom had a girl)
But see, here's the thing ... I would like a daughter. An adult daughter. And a tiny baby girl to dress up and do her hair and take her to dance classes. Everything in between those two times? I'm not interested. That high school bullshit? NOT INTERESTED. So it's safe to say that I would be OK if I had two boys. I might have a regret 20 years from now ... but in between now and then ... really. I'd be okay.
And I'm only 32. So I still have time to Change My Mind.
So now it's MY turn to be nosy ... how many kids did you think you wanted, and how many do you have? Is that OK? Is your partner on board with that plan? How did you know you were done? Have you ever regretted that decision?
Monday, December 8, 2008
My father is a collector of names.
As far as I know, there is no official term for this practice, and perhaps he is its only practitioner, there's no real way of knowing. The collections he creates are not tangible: they exist only in his head, and in the folklore surrounding his life's experience. Once his mind is gone, a process I can see beginning even as I write these words, my brother and I will be the only ones around to keep the name-collecting memories alive for our own children. Which, you know, we probably won't do.
Name-collecting, as it is practiced by my father, consists of a man--short, bald, humor leaning heavily on the sarcastic side--going through his life and looking for names of things, people, places, what have you, that strike his fancy. I don't know how it started. But I have to assume growing up in a household with a Aspergian father and a former model mother had something to do with it. My father has always referred to his parents as Jack and Vi, not Dad and Mom, and when I've asked him for an explanation, all I've received is my grandmother's overly ornate non-sequitur explanation that my father, aged 12, walked into the room one night, performed Jacques' speech from As You Like It (i.e. "All the world's a stage . . ."), and forever after that they were "Jack and Vi." And I guess this was OK with them. Which is even more troubling, when you consider the fact that, were I to attempt to call my own parents by their first names, I'm pretty sure I'd get smacked across the face. Or something equally dramatic but less violent.
But the names, back to the names. My father would often answer questions to which he did not know the answer--the kind of questions a child asks, such as "Why is the sky blue?" "Why do I have to have a brother?" "Who is the admissions officer at Harvard?"--with a name. A weird name that he had picked up somewhere along the way. By way of example, I will tell you that one of his go-to names was Lance Rentzel. Lance Rentzel might come up as the answer to a Trivial Pursuit question, on the odd occasion that my father didn't know the answer, or if you asked him, "Hey, guess who sings this song/writes this show/is the star of this movie?" Who? Lance Rentzel.
And then he would laugh. And then you would say, inevitably, "Who is Lance Rentzel?" Because it must be some joke that you're too young to get, right? And Dad would say something like, "Roger Staubach hit Lance Rentzel on the open fly pattern," another reference that you didn't get, but that was--apparently--even funnier than the name "Lance Rentzel" alone. And years later, you would find out that there was some kind of situation in which Lance Rentzel, a football player from the seventies who once dated Victoria Principal, had been in some public situation with his fly down. And vague references to this moment were--apparently--really funny, particularly if repeated to little children.
Slowly, painfully, over the course of my childhood, I would learn from these instances that what my father says is mostly bullshit. Especially when he says something that involves an unusual name. I knew that any unsolicited name he provided me with was likely to just be another dumb, arcane reference to the popular cultural imagination of yesteryear. Or worse, fabricated out of wholecloth, such as when my father kept saying, "Phoebe," and I was like, "What?" and then he said, "Phoebe Garbo." And I said, "Who is Phoebe Garbo, Dad?" And he said, "Greta Garbo's sister." And so I would go through my life thinking that Greta Garbo had a sister (named Phoebe), because why would anyone lie about something so retarded? Until one day I was with friends and Greta Garbo came up, and I would mention Phoebe Garbo, and they'd be like, "Who?"
And I'd think, "Dad!" Only it would sound in my head the way Jerry says "Newman!" on Seinfeld.
So, finally, there was the day at Rockefeller Center. We had been making visits to various colleges I had applied to, and were spending a couple of days in New York City. We were watching the people ice skating, because that is what tourists do, particularly when those tourists come from a place where there is no such thing as "weather," and like three ice skating rinks in their entire state. I had ice skated once before, and was way too cool and self-conscious to do it again this time. But we were standing there, waiting for my brother to finish, I believe, when suddenly everyone cleared the ice. I didn't hear any kind of announcement, but people were moving off the ice in one swift motion, so I asked my father what gave.
"The Zamboni man is going to come out now!""COME ON, DAD! Don't you think this name thing has run its course?! I mean, maybe it was funny when I was a little kid, but--"
And, mid sentence, I was interrupted by a large machine, not unlike a car, driving across the ice. On its hood was the word, "Zamboni."
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Scene: Baking isle of neighborhood grocery store (the irony here is not lost on me)
Jenni is perusing the birthday cake candle and decoration display, totally minding her own business, if not taking up more than her fair share of isle space.
Stranger: Oooooh, girl. How many months are you?
Jenni (turns, rubs belly): I'm due tomorrow. So, all of them.
Stranger (eye visibly widen, as if to take in my girth): Oh, my! Is it a boy?
Jenni (shrugs, smiles)
Stranger: I bet it's a boy. You always get REAL BIG with boys, don't you? I have two at home.
Jenni (trying not to beat stranger with five pound bag of sugar): I have a boy at home too. I didn't think I'd get any bigger than I got with him. But here I am.
Stranger (averting gaze, backing away slowly): But you carry it REAL well, though.
Jenni (putting down sugar, beginning to leave): Thanks. See ya.
Stranger (nervously scanning the isle for witnesses): See ya. Good luck.
Strangers are calling me fat. The general public FEARS me. At dinner last night, every single person that walked by me said, "Excuse me," as though there was not enough room to pass me and my gigantic self.
I am no longer large and lovely. I'm just large. Frighteningly large.
Can I please be done now?
Friday, December 5, 2008
I was a little put off when she asked for my address, but I figured she just wanted to send a gift. I got a little suspicious when she asked for my mother's maiden name and my social security number, but I figured, what's the worst she could do? Hijack my identity as a stay-at-home-mom with poor hygiene, maxed out credit cards, three smelly dogs, two kids under two, and a husband who cuts the grass in a white tank top?
Wait a minute...am I Brittney Spears?
When Jenni over at Oscarelli asked me to guest post she mentioned that it might be nice to write about any advice I might have for her as a new mom of two children. I offered her my standard advice for every mom no matter if they are carrying their first or their fifth child; Take every precaution that there isn't some horrible mix up at the hospital and you take the wrong baby home. Jenni then reminded me that she was planning on having a home birth so my advice was no good to her. Even though the odds of Jenni mixing up her newborn with another newborn born the same day drop substantially because she'll have the baby at home, I maintain it's just sound advice for anyone no matter where you are.
So if I had no advice for my friend, the very least I could do was offer her some sort of gift as a consolation prize. So, in Jenni's honor, I have created two exciting offers for new moms everywhere. Presenting the Steenky Bee Precious Mama Package and the Steenky Bee Lavish Mama Package. Each package is hand assembled (and wrapped, not well) by me and is tailored to fit the unique personality and lifestyle of any mom. Supplies are limited so act fast! Package descriptions and pricing are listed below.
Steenky Bee Precious Mama Package - $399.99*
You'll delight in this unique mix of services and thoughtful gifts. Great for first-time moms or seventh-time moms alike!:
- Steenky will stay at your house for 3 days and 3 nights. (Special restrictions apply. Steenky is fine with sleeping on the couch, but Steenky will not sleep on a futon. You provide towels and linens as needed.)
- Steenky assists with delivery of the baby (Includes motivational coaching, unorthodox breathing techniques, running of the television remote and maintaining a constant supply of ice chips.)Umbilical cord cutting (You supply the cord, Steenky supplies the scissors.)
- 4 suggestions for baby names (Family names are subject to an extra charge.
- Steenky will provide her expert handling of the boiled water and ripped sheets (You supply the water, pots, stove and sheets. Steenky brings her own pot holders.)
- Professional 40 minute video of birth complete with director commentary (Shot with state of the art cell phone technology and set to Amy Grant‘s hit from the ‘90s, Baby, Baby, Baby. Youtube upload is subject to a $12 service charge.)
- Steenky’s Signature Pedicure (Includes foot massage, mild exfoliation and your choice of whatever shade of polish you have lying around the house.)
- 1 box of partially eaten crackers with cheese spread (Quantity of crackers dependant upon distance between your house and Steenky‘s house. Hey, a girl‘s got to eat.)
*Pricing according to costs associated with 1 birth only. Prices subject to increase in the event of multiple births.
Steenky Bee Lavish Mama Package - $599.99*
You'll not be sorry you upgraded your 'Precious' package to a more 'Lavish' experience. In addition to all of the items standard in the Steenky Bee Precious Package, you’ll also receive these exciting upgrades:
- 2 additional suggestions for baby names (Family names are subject to an extra charge.)
- 4 issues of Steenky’s gently used Parents magazine subscription from 2007 (Condition of issues may vary.)
- Use of Steenky’s first name as your child’s middle name (Subject to gender, or not, it's your call.)
- Commemorative photo of you, Steenky and your precious newborn in solid oak frame (Sorry, no husbands allowed. Who else would take the photo?)
- All you can eat Subway sandwiches for 3 days (Offer good for 6’ sandwiches only. Does not include chips or beverages. Extra charge for foot longs apply. That‘s what she said.)
*Pricing according to costs associated with 1 birth only. Prices subject to increase in the event of multiple births.
If you act now, I'm willing to discount both Steenky packages by 10%.
Disclaimers: Steenky Bee Precious and Lavish Mama Packages are intellectual property of Steenky Bee. Actually, not much intellect at all was involved when I created them. Recipients must sign a contract waving their right to any injury, intentional or unintentional against themselves by Steenky and her stay with them. Gifts are non-refundable and non-transferable. Gifts must be redeemed within 12 months of purchase.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Okay, not really. Cameron's blog is waaaay more awesome than vaginal trauma, and definitely funnier. He's a father of two and a Midwesterner to boot - and who doesn't love a Midwesterner? He fully accepts the irony that is parenthood and battles it head on and I am totally honored that he agreed to post for me. Here's a bit of advice from Cameron on parenting two:
First of all, I would like to say congratulations to the proud momma and poppa, and big brother. Secondly, I would like to discuss my standard 'guest post compensation fees', my 'congratulatory surcharge', and my 'delivery fee' at your earliest convenience. I know you’re busy now, but maybe in a couple days.
What, you thought I was doing this out of the kindness of my heart?
Alright, tell you what? My agent is NOT gonna like this, but I will do your guest spot pro bono…this time.
Ok, ok...who am I kidding? I'm between agents now. The first one was imaginary and I haven't found the second one yet.
Alright, on to the post. Jenni has asked me to give her a little advice on parenting two children. I assume she did this because my children are very well adjusted fine upstanding young darlings. Or maybe it’s because I've painted them in that light, all the while hiding the fact that they are hate mongering devil children with horns that come out of their heads just before they spew their hatred. One or the other.
Anyway, I would like to offer some advice without scaring the holy crap-olie out of Jenni. So here goes:
1. DO NOT make direct eye contact with either Sprout or Oscar for the first six months. If either one of them feels they can get your attention, the other one will become frustrated, agitated, and will lash out at you with a force that you have never before witnessed.
2. When Sprout gets a little older (I would say crawling age), DO NOT separate them when they fight. Let them figure out who the alpha dog is.
3. Screw Nelson as much as possible. No, no…not like that. I mean, make him responsible for diapers, feedings, laundry, garbage, and make him do as much as possible. When you had Oscar, you and Nelson were a precision team that could handle anything that came its way. Now that there are two children, there is no team; there is just survival of the fittest. You're looking out for #1 now.
4. There’s something to be said about playing possum. Pretending to be asleep can be a very strategic way of getting out of diaper changes, feedings, etc.
5. Alcohol can be far more consoling than even your best friend.
Pretty sound words of wisdom, if you ask me. Ok, alright, maybe there was a hint of sarcasm in there. On to my REAL advice:
6. Don't expect a repeat of Oscar. Sprout will be different in every imaginable way. From feedings to sleeping to the color of Sprout's poop, different, different, different. This is not necessarily a good or bad thing, it's just a thing. It's important NOT to be let down if things don't go quite the way they did before.
7. Having two kids isn’t twice as hard. It’s 7 times harder!! You will find that tasks that were once simple become very complex with two kids. Nap schedules, baths, trips to the grocery store. It’s important, especially early on, to delegate, to accept help, to sleep as much as possible, to take turns.
8. Ok, now that I’ve scared you to death, advantages: when Sprout gets a little older (around a year), Oscar and Sprout will be able to play by themselves, sometimes for quite a while, without adult interaction.
9. It doesn’t cost twice as much. You probably already have toys and some clothes, stroller, maybe a bassinet.
10. When they get older, you can put them to work cleaning the house, mowing the yard, and any other slave-like labor that you deem fit.
Ok, this is getting pretty long, better wrap it up. Again, congratulations to Jenni, Nelson, and Oscar. You are embarking on a journey which, while sometimes can be difficult and tedious, is more rewarding than you can imagine.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Truth? I'm more than a little terrified of bringing home number two. I mean, two is a whole new ball game. First, there is no way I'm going to get lucky the second time around and have a quiet, cuddly, good sleeping, non-crying baby like Oscar was. Little Breechy McBreecherton has already proven itself to be more difficult.
And, then there's just the whole numbers thing. Two. That's twice as many as one, for those of you keeping count. Um, there is still just one of me folks. I'm not multiplying. Only two hands and two legs and one chicken-fried brain. Yes, I have Nelson, but the guy is gone 12 hours a day for five days a week. Just imagining it makes my head spin.
Since I'm being honest here, I have to say, most days I feel like I barely cope with Oscar. I know it's a lot to do with my being pregnant and unable to interact with him as well and having a very short fuse these days, but even still. Toddlers are hard, significantly harder than a newborn. Newborns mostly just sit there in your arms or the swing and you feed and change them every few hours and yeah, it's a lot of work. But toddlers spend roughly 50 percent of their time trying to kill themselves and 50 percent of their time driving their parents insane. Constant rescuing and attempts to preserve ones sanity are way more difficult than a dozen dirty diapers a day. I can even imagine doing it all at once.
But, I'm starting to get sore. Not just my back, but my legs and my feet and my knees. I've already put on an extra 10lbs with this kid than I did with Oscar and my body is paying the price. I want to walk without waddling. I want to meet this baby, the one does the one legged tap dance on my cervix and punches me in the diaphragm 50 million times a day. I want to smell that new baby smell and snuggle a soft little head and marvel at teeny, tiny toes. I want to wrap it's little bottom in those itty bitty N sized diapers. Le sigh.
So, yeah. I'm mostly okay that I'm still pregnant. Except when I'm not. A walking, talking contradiction.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
This first guest post is from Casey over at Half as Good as You, and I am so lucky to have here today. Her babes are about 16 months apart - mine are about 17. Her blog assures me that having children this close together is completely insane, exhausting, and ear-shattering but never dull and, if you have a good sense of humor and aren't afraid to laugh at a little baby shit in your eye, it can even be fun. So here is a little advice on parenting two from Casey. Oh, and Casey, if you think that 1,000 miles is going to keep me from taking you up on your babysitting offer, you are sadly mistaken.
I’m honored to be posting over here while Jenni is popping out her second kid. I feel like I should be simultaneously holding one of her legs and telling her to push while I type this sentence. I’m pretty sure Nelson has that area covered so I’ll stick to the blogging part since I’m sure Jenni will be more comfortable pushing if she knows someone is holding down the blogging fort. Hey, I’d even offer to watch Oscar if it would help but the commute to FL might be a tad much for the little guy to handle.When Jenni asked me to guest post, she suggested I give advice on bringing home baby number two. I think I actually laughed out loud when I read that. You see, my kids are a week short of sixteen months apart. They’re currently seven and twenty-three months old and we’re BARELY surviving. I’ll give it a shot though, here are some thoughts on bringing home baby number two:
When I was pregnant with Elliot (my youngest), we noticed that my son Graham had somehow turned into a grabby, selfish clepto. He would cruise by and grab ANYTHING out of our hands and claim it for himself. I’m talking about things he never even cared about before, a shoe or a spoon, he NEEDED immediately because WE had it. As parents of an only child, we never thought twice about handing over said item because it didn’t make a difference to us if he held the spoon or not. Or so we thought. We knew that baby number two was coming soon so we devised a plan to teach our then fourteen month old to learn to share. We refused to hand over things he grabbed until he patiently asked to share. “No, Mommy is using the book, you need to wait your turn. Ok, I’m done with the book now, Mommy will SHARE the book with you.” We were super cheesy for months, SHARE SHARE SHARE was the only thing on the menu. They could have filmed a new and improved episode of Barney at our house except that instead of a big purple dinosaur, I played the part of huge pregnant sharing whale.
We were pretty damn proud of ourselves the first time Graham asked to share. His baby-talk pronunciation for share sounded more like “sha! sha!” and we were more than happy to oblige. We gave each other a pat on the back and went along our merry sharing ways. Things were great for awhile, Elliot was born and we brought her home into our cheery universe. Graham tried to “share” a few toys with his new sister by throwing them full speed at her head. I’m pretty sure he was aiming for her soft spot but we had to praise him for sharing at all. A few months later, Elliot (who survived the dive-bombing toys) learned to grasp her own toys and later crawl to objects of interest. This didn’t go over so well with Graham. Elliot frequently gets pushed to the ground and screamed at. We’ve had to relearn “share” to teach Graham not to steal from his poor sister.
These days Graham uses the magic word on command. The problem is that sharing is a one-way street with him. He marches up and DEMANDS that we share with him and then grabs the item from our hands. We are promptly greeted with a big fat NO when we ask him to share his toys with us or his sister. We continue to remind him to be nice to his sister and to share his toys. It’s a learning process, we’ll get there someday. So my advice to Jenni on easing baby number two into the household? Buy a helmet. You’ll thank me later.
Monday, December 1, 2008
We are all healthy and well, and presuming I don't go into labor in the next seven days, we'll be scheduling my C-section for early next week.
I may check in periodically, but mostly I'm just going to relax, enjoy your blogs, and let this already large baby pack on the ounces.
I'm feeling okay about this. One of the main reasons we had a home birth with Oscar is that I believe in my body. I believe in the ability of a woman to deliver a baby; I believe that our bodies know what to do and so do the babies. I think birth is just a natural part of life and when I was pregnant with Oscar, I had faith in my body and faith in my baby.
For the same reason, I've decided I need to accept this breech baby. I don't know why it is breech. I don't know why it won't turn, why my body won't allow it to turn, but I'm just going to accept that if it is breech, it needs to be breech. I am going to trust my body and this baby the same why I did when I was pregnant with Oscar.
The situation may not be ideal, but it is what it is and I'm gonna roll with it.
I'll talk to you all soon!
I'm scared. I'm absolutely terrified of having to have major surgery. I don't like hospitals in the first place and the idea of needles and scalpels just freaks me out. Of feeling a doctor I barely know tug my child from my abdomen. I'm a total mess about it.
I'm sad. Sad that my birth may go nowhere near as planned. Sad that the Sprout may have to be born into a bright, cold hospital OR instead of our safe, warm, softly lit home. That they will whisk him or her away from me, that I will not be the first one to hold him or her.
I'm trying to to dwell on my fear and sadness. After all, I do not know how things will end up. And, fear and sadness aside, we are welcoming a new member to our family. We are giving Oscar a sibling. I'm about to be a mother of two, and I'm (terrified) excited about that.
I'll update later today, if possible, and certainly later this week. Either way, guest posts will start dropping tomorrow.
Wish us luck!