So stuff has happened.Namely, I'm 34 weeks pregnant, 1 cm dilated, and Cletus the Fetus has gone and shoved her little head all the way down into my damn pelvis. She is, as my midwife announced, "engaged." Also, I've become diseased, infected with some kind of bug or bacteria that has caused me to lose 3 pounds and run a very low fever. So... I'm on antibiotics and, until this mess clears up, temporary bed-rest.Months ago, maybe even weeks ago, if you had asked me what I thought about the prospect of being put on bed-rest, I would have been all "Have we met? Seriously -- bed rest? I am AWESOME at bed rest. Bed rest is what I do best. Now go fix me a turkey pot pie." But now that it's actually happening? And there's a chance that the baby will come early? And I have yet to clean my apartment, organize the baby's room, have sex one last time before my body is stretched out like silly putty? Bed-rest is not my friend.The husband has valiantly sprung to action. Over the weekend he assembled the baby's crib, stroller, pack n' play, and changing table. Last night he stayed home from a free White Sox game to cook me dinner. This morning he installed the car seat and spent three hours at Babies R Us and Target with my meticulously prepared shopping list. This evening he might leave me for someone less high-stress, like, I don't know, the first crazy homeless lady he sees on the street while he's running full-speed away from me. But until then (and maybe even after then) I sing his praises from my spot on the couch.There are lots of reasons to be positive, friends and strangers. I am far enough along that if the baby decided to come out tomorrow (which she will NOT or else she will be totally grounded with no Myspace privileges) she would most likely be fine. And they did some kind of test on me at the midwife's office that showed that I'm unlikely to go into labor in the next couple of weeks, anyway. AND we got some practice on the external fetal monitor, which turns out to be just as space-age and alarmist as I had envisioned. Although to my dismay, it did not at any point go "ping!"So it looks like the countdown may or may not be starting earlier than we had hoped. All I can say is: now, more than ever, I love the Tivo so much that I might actually make out with it.
Assuming everything goes according to plan, in approximately 7 (seven) weeks I'm going to be someone's mother. Here is what I have and have not done in order to prepare:HAVE: Received/purchased future offspring's crib and mattress.HAVE NOT: Fully assembled said crib, nor decided where it should go. The husband and I had been hoping the crib would be portable enough and appropriately sized so as to be able to move easily between baby's room and our room. It is not. (Question: Babies are small, no? Why are cribs so freakin' huge?) I am relatively anti-bassinet. Should we assemble the crib in the baby's room so as to promote independence, as well as to promote the idea that we are parental enough to have set up a "Nursery"? Or should we just give in to the fact that I a neurotic freak who will probably obsess over the baby's nighttime breathing and, accordingly, assemble the crib in our bedroom? Seriously. I'm asking.HAVE: Received/purchased baby swing, stroller, car seat, and pack n' play.HAVE NOT: Figured out how in the name of Kelly Clarkson these contraptions are supposed to work. Many buttons! Many switches! Some of these things look like they are designed to eat babies, not accommodate them. And it doesn't help that the instructions manuals are, like, written in Esperanto.HAVE: Purchased weird plastic alien-looking "breast shells," at the urging of my midwife, in order to help prepare my Flat Nipples (which, apparently, is a thing) for breastfeeding.HAVE NOT: Given a thought to whether or not that is an overshare. If I am going to attempt to give in to the Breast is Best nazis, you all are going to have to deal with some boob talk. The breast shells make my boobs pointy and I REFUSE to wear them out of the house, no matter what the midwife says. Some things are not meant to be seen. My bra stuffed with plastic cones is one of them.HAVE: Found a day care option that we love. A home day care provider located 5 minutes from our house who has an opening in January.HAVE NOT: Gotten my boss to settle on a post-maternity-leave schedule for me, so that I can sign a contract with said day care provider. This is due, I fear, to the possibility of my job being downgraded as a result of the current long-term planning process going on behind closed doors at my work. I don't know. I heard Chipotle's down the street is hiring...HAVE: Started attending a Prepared Childbirth class, which is actually awesome and enlightening. There are only 3 couples and we get to ask lots of questions. Last week we learned about the different stages of labor; next week we learn to Manage Our Pain.HAVE NOT: Come to terms with the amount of Pain I will be Managing.HAVE: Read the following: Birthing From Within; The Birth Book; The Baby Book; The Working Mother's Guide To Life; The Nursing Mother's Companion; The Happiest Baby on the Block; Operating Instructions; and parts of The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy and What to Expect When You're Expecting, before they both started bugging the shit out of me.HAVE NOT: Retained a damn thing from any of the above. The brain, she's like a sieve. Plus, the books all contradict each other. Swaddle the baby; don't swaddle the baby. Your baby will die from SIDS if you co-sleep; your baby will die from SIDS if you don't co-sleep. You suck; no, YOU suck. Meh. I just want someone to show me how to change a diaper.Seven weeks, people. That's less than two months. I've taken longer than that to wash a sink full of dishes. I'm definitely psyched and all, but someone had better buy this baby a helmet. I think it's going to be a bumpy ride.
Allow me to introduce you to my new friend: The Tivo.I've been secretly pursuing a relationship with the Tivo for quite some time now, lingering around on his website, casually mentioning his name in conversation with my husband in order to gauge the level of horror it would provoke. I was jealous of my friends and neighbors with whom the Tivo was already tight. I feared change, continuing to tape fuzzy recordings of tv shows on my VCR while the husband spun tunes on the 8-track and balanced our household budget on the abacus in the other room. And then, our good friends and enablers who live down the street sent us a link to some pseudo-shady underground deal where we could get the Tivo, a year's worth of prepaid service, and some Venezuelan crack for under a hundred bucks. We signed up that night.I know what you're thinking, and let me assure you that you're wrong. My budding relationship with the Tivo is NOT why I haven't posted in over a week. No, that particular negligence can be chalked up to visits from family, daycare interviews and childbirth classes, and long days at work during which I was verbally abused by a crazy woman who felt called to shout out to the entire library her wishes that I "be judged!!"Nevertheless, the Tivo and I have been getting close. From the start, it was clear that he would be a friend that was attentive to my needs. For instance, when we met he offered me a special service called "Tivo Suggestions," through which he would pay attention to my viewing preferences and subsequently choose and record programs that he thought I would enjoy. How thoughtful! I was charmed when his first selection was right on the money: the MTV docudrama "The Hills," a show that follows pretty rich kids in California. Finally, I thought as I settled in to watch, a friend who understands my most secret of trashy television desires, who responds without judgment, who truly cares.Of course, eventually I did have to turn the Tivo down on his kind offer to "suggest" further programming when he began recording multiple episodes of "Cops." But hey - we all get a little carried away with things sometimes. And really, it's the thought that counts.The way I see it, the Tivo is kind of like a postpartum doula. He knows that when the baby comes, I'm not going to be able to fully participate in the fall television schedule without a little assistance. He also knows that as a breastfeeding mother I will have to endure long stretches of sitting in a chair with an infant attached to my boob. What's a new mother to do while being sucked dry by her offspring? Sing to the baby, perhaps? Gaze at and stroke the baby? Fie, no -- call on Tivo, of course! Tivo has plans to keep me entertained and pop-culture-savvy as I come to terms with motherhood. Up at 3:00 AM with your daughter again, Melinda? Never fear: here's a lovely episode of America's Next Top Model I saved just for you. Enjoy!Already, Tivo has kept me current on the Daily Show and Sex and the City episodes I'm never around (or awake) to see. And last week, when I randomly stumbled upon a moment of awesomeness being shown on afternoon TV, the Tivo allowed me to press "record" while the show was already in progress and save the show in its entirety for subsequent gleeful viewing by myself and the husband. The program? Was an episode of the Tyra Banks show. The subject? Was "unusual phobias". The awesomeness? Was such that I'm not sure I can adequately convey. There were five guests. The first was afraid of Styrofoam. Tyra sent her to a Styrofoam factory to help her conquer her fear, then (without even a hint of irony) made her wade through a sea of foam peanuts to retrieve a jewelry prize. The second guest was afraid of garden gnomes. She cried while telling the audience of how her boyfriend chased her around with a gnome for fun, and how her family members hid gnomes in her shower. Tyra made her walk through a garden full of gnomes, searching for one that was emblazoned with the Tyra Show logo. The third and fourth guests were afraid of clowns. Tyra made them kick it with a bunch of Bozos in full makeup and clown suits, then sent them TO THE CIRCUS as a prize for their bravery. Throughout it all, Tyra was the picture of empathy, hugging her shaking guests to her bosom and comforting them by telling of her own debilitating fear... of dolphins. Now if that's not awesome, I don't know what is.Tivo, I think this is the beginning of beautiful friendship.
We are going to break the baby.At least, that's the only conclusion I can come to after spending the last week in close proximity to an actual real-live newborn for the first time in my adult life. My cousin and her one-week-old daughter were in attendance at the family reunion from which I just returned. The baby was tiny and long, all squirmy arms and legs. She was jaundiced and cross-eyed and covered with what my cousin called "baby acne." She hated me on sight, crying every time I even breathed in her general direction. My mother found this an appealing opportunity. She thrust the baby into my arms one morning, insisting that I "practice."People, holding a baby is not as easy as it looks. You've got to support that floppy little excuse for a neck without actually holding by the neck, since that would, you know, strangle it. At the same time, you've got to get a solid grip on something or else the baby will just slide off your lap onto the floor, which is frowned upon, so you maneuver the child's ass into the crook of your elbow, or you span the child's waist with the fingers of your other hand, or you just lay the child across your legs and hold onto the back of its head for dear life.My "practicing" on my cousin's baby pretty much consisted of me gingerly shifting the infant from one almost-position to another, then bouncing her around awkwardly and talking to her with the same tone of voice I use with my dog. "Who's a good baby?" I asked her. "Is it you?" Unlike my dog, the baby did not respond by sneezing into my face and scratching her ass with her foot. Instead, she stuck her tongue out and flailed her arms around in little jerky motions. "Why are the whites of her eyes yellow?" I asked my mom. "She's just a little jaundiced, honey," she replied. "Why is the skin on her feet scaly?" I asked. "That happens sometimes when babies are born a little overdue," she reassured. The baby started to squawk, then to wail. "She's crying," I said to my mom. "What am I supposed to do when she's crying?" My mom smiled, clearly finding this amusing. "Try giving her her pacifier, or rocking her at your shoulder. She likes to be cuddled." I stuck the pacifier in the baby's mouth; she spit it out. I carefully lifted the baby to my shoulder and stood up so that I could bounce her around. She kept right on crying. I was in a room full of aunts and uncles, cousins who were five years younger than me and already nursing their third or fourth children, people who KNEW what to do with crying babies but who were currently contenting themselves by watching me flounder like a big pregnant future-baby-breaker.Finally, my mom took pity on me and expertly scooped up the sobbing child. She cradled the baby to her chest and, within seconds, the crying was no more. "Don't worry," an aunt called out from across the room. "When it's YOUR baby, your instincts will kick in."My instincts? My instincts are telling me that I am going to BREAK THE BABY. That is all.In non-baby-related family reunion news, a dessert wrap-up for your vicarious enjoyment: On Wednesday night, weary travelers like the husband and myself were presented with a choice of fruit pies or vanilla tart. On Thursday, five kinds of cream pie -- including chocolate, peanut butter, and coconut -- descended from the heavens on angelsoft clouds, while Friday's trumpeting cherubs heralded the arrival of a selection of cherry, lemon, and chocolate custard desserts. Finally, Saturday's late-morning brunch, while marred by the presence of a vat of liverwurst, was brought to a satisfying conclusion by the appearance of multitudinous cookies. Of particular note were the little peanut butter cookies with chocolate kisses stuck in the middle of them, as well as the plate piled high with artery-clogging-yet-somehow-strangely-life-affirming whoopie pies.See, desserts I can handle. Desserts make sense. I have instincts about desserts, like: this dessert belongs in my mouth. Babies? I'll believe it when I see it. Until then, I've got less than two months to pad the walls of this here apartment like a crazy person's jail cell -- you know, to help cushion the falls and muffle the cries until my mom comes over to calm my sobbing daughter who will see right through me with her tiny jaundiced cross-eyed gaze and oh my LORD what was I THINKING???
This week, the husband and I will embark on the last of our summer traveling. Which is good, because I don't know if I've mentioned this yet to all of you, but: I'm pregnant. Have you heard? I weigh, like, 5,000 pounds more than usual; I am constantly uncomfortable; my legs ache; I'm grouchy as hell; and I pee, constantly, out of what seems like every possible orifice. I even leak now, like an old lady rocking the Depends. Don't you all wish we got together like this more often?This week's road trip is a doozy. It's a 12+ hour drive to Kansas for a family reunion. My dad's family is Amish and, consequently, huge. The heart of the reunion is comprised of my dad, his nine siblings, and all of their spouses. Add to that their children, their children's spouses, and all of their children (the Amish -- they like the baby-making) and you've got one massive pack of pie-baking, horseshoe-playing, jive-talking Amish and ex-Amish relatives. It's been four years since the last reunion. When I was younger, when my dad's parents were still alive, we used to go to Kansas every other summer. The reunions in those days were twice as long, and I looked forward to them like most kids looked forward to trips to Disneyworld. First, there was always the long car trip to Kansas, which I LOVED because it meant that my parents brought along a box of brand-new toys (Magic Pen secret ink activity books, Colorforms) and tooth-rotting snacks (Capri Sun drinks, little individual boxes of sugar cereal) to divert the attention of their car-cooped children. Then, there was the one-night hotel stay halfway through the journey, which was awesome because it meant that we got to eat fast food ON OUR BEDS in front of the TV in our hotel room. Which, come on, isn't that still kind of a thrill?And then finally there was the reunion itself. My dad's family has a small stretch of farmland along which there are three family houses and a barn. We kids, me and my sibling and my five zillion cousins, would flit from one house to another, from outside to inside and back out again, barefoot and clutching cookies and looking for adventures. Sometimes we would climb up into my uncle's silo and do belly-flops into the piled-up hay. Sometimes we would run around in the field and try to make one another step into the little piles of cow manure. When we were teenagers, my cousin Marietta and I would sit on lawn chairs and read the romance novels she had borrowed from the non-Amish friends on her softball team. Our parents all sat around inside, mostly, and talked and talked and laughed and cried and talked.Sometimes there were chores to do, and they were always so much better than the chores we had to do at home. At home, we had to wash dishes and make our beds and otherwise act as tools of the establishment. In Kansas, we got to feed milk to the baby cows out of what looked like huge oversized baby bottles! We got to gather the eggs out of the henhouse! This chore was extra awesome, because (cover your eyes, ye followers of PETA) you got to poke the chickens with a big metal rod until they flapped away in anger, so you could grab the eggs they were lounging on. And then you got to go wash the poo off the eggs in a big white basin. SO much better than cleaning your room!Now when we go to Kansas, my activities are much less centered around the excrement of assorted farm animals and more around trying desperately to remember the names of my cousins' spouses and children, usually to no avail. The car ride is less of a thrill and more of a sweet-Jesus-are-we-almost-there affair, and there are definitely fewer free toys and snacks involved. But keeping close ties to this part of my family, for me and for my own kids, is important enough that I didn't even have to think twice about making the trip. There's a certain feel to the air out there, a smell and a grit, a hot dirt-path roughness under my feet and between my toes that will always feel like home to me.Plus, people, have you ever had Amish cooking? We're talking full-fat, all the time. Pies for breakfast. Pies for lunch. Pies for dinner. Just what the midwife ordered. Or should have, anyway.
Inspired by recent posts from Maven and Sally, and in light of my recent weekend of 80s nostalgia, allow me to share some of my own most cherished live music memories. Maven's list was a Thursday Thirteen -- I guess mine will have to be a Tuesday Twelve.Twelve Concerts I Have Attended:1. Elton John popped my concert cherry. I was but a wee high school freshman, escorted by my friend Kelli and her dad and stepmom, known to me as Dad-n-Gayle. Dad-n-Gayle were rich; they owned a mansion with a see-through floor under which there was a swimming pool. In accordance with their great riches, Dad-n-Gayle bought fancy box seats for the four of us to see Sir Elton. We were served a buffet dinner in the fancy box. I don't remember anything about the concert itself, but I do remember eating cheesecake.2. The first concert ticket I ever bought for myself was to see They Might Be Giants play in Kalamazoo. TMBG were the band that brought me out of my shameful and single-minded obsession with listening to nothing but broadway musicals and Enya. Here was joyous music for drama-geeks with "nobody understands me" complexes! I remember this concert as being one of the happiest times of my miserable high school experience.3. Then a couple months later I saw the Violent Femmes in Chicago. I went to this show with a group of slightly older, cooler girls. We got lost and then couldn't find parking in the city, causing us to miss all but the last few songs and the encore. I remember being so, SO upset about this when it was happening, but trying desperately to keep my panic and despair under wraps lest the cool girls deem me an unworthy companion.4. R.E.M., Monster tour, also in Chicago. Anybody remember this album? It's the one with "What's the Frequency, Kenneth" and "Strange Currencies." This was a huge concert and we were way up in the balcony. The main thing I remember about this show is that it was Michael Stipe's mother's birthday and he called her from the stage so we could all sing "Happy Birthday" to her over the phone.5. Like Maven, I also went to the Lilith Fair. Like Maven, it was also in 1997. And like Maven, I also saw the Indigo Girls, Jewel, and Sarah McLachlan. And Lisa Loeb, I think. Maven, were you the girl sitting behind me who yelled "Sit DOWN!!" during "Possession"? Cause, man, did I love me some Sarah McLachlan back in the day.6. When I was a sophomore in college there was this iconic lesbian couple, one half of whom was very, very butch and badass in her black leather ensembles, the other half of whom was snarky and smart and had fake red hair. Secretly, I was a little in love with them both. So it was a great occasion when I somehow found myself driving to Omaha with my friend A. and the snarky, smart, fake red-headed half of the power couple to see Melissa Etheridge in concert. I was never super into Melissa Etheridge, but when she played for almost 3 hours straight with no breaks and about a million encores, I was impressed. When the concert was over, the snarky fake red-head turned to me and said, "Wow. That was just some good old fashioned rock n' roll."7. Like any good Gender & Women's Studies student, I went to see Ani Difranco several times during college. The most memorable time was in Ames, Iowa, where she charged something like $35 per ticket and played in some big concert hall with flashing fluorescent lights, then abruptly stopped her concert mid-song to chastise the fans in the front row who were shouting out song lyrics at the top of their lungs, saying: "Don't yell at me! Please! I'm just a folk-singer!" And that pretty much ended my love affair with Ani. Because, please: folk-singers play in coffee shops for five bucks and a smile. Get over yourself.8. Weasel 7. My then boyfriend/now husband's college ska band. Named after a cross-country run, the band was made up of skinny dudes from the track team. My husband played the euphonium. If that doesn't scream sex appeal, I don't know what does. The singer and saxophonist, with whom we are still friends, was an English major, and therefore Weasel 7 songs often contained lyrical gems like: "Here comes Hester Prynne, Hester Prynne, Hester Prynne/ I wonder what's up, who she's with, where she's been."9. In the summer of 2000, I went with Laurie and Erin and a bunch of other friends to the Falcon Ridge Folk Festival in central New York. We slept in sweaty tents and bathed in sunblock and saw Dar Williams and Lucy Kaplansky and Richard Shindell and other random musicians with whom we were obsessed at the time. I also ate my first delectable taste of falafel. We went back the next year, but the crowd was different and I think Laurie was in Suriname and it just wasn't as fun.10. Gillian Welch and David Rawlings at the Avalon in Boston. To this day, this is probably the best concert I've ever seen. Every song was amazing, every harmony was pitch-perfect. We just stood there with our mouths gaping, ready to fall prostrate before them if asked, ready to run away with them and do their bidding if only they would play, like, 2 more songs. If you don't already own a Gillian Welch album, go buy one now or you're dead to me.11. Bon Jovi at the Fleet Center, bitches. Don't hate; congratulate.12. And finally, two weekends ago, in Detroit: Def Leppard and Journey. People, I can't even begin to tell you. First off, the souvenir stand sold thong underwear marked with the words "Hot, Sticky, Sweet." Ok? Second, the Lepp rocked an honest-to-goodness hair metal MEDLEY, seamlessly joining "Photograph" and "Armageddon It" as one long enjoyable hunk of cheese. And third, Journey played both "Open Arms" AND "Faithfully." I dared not hope for both, and yet - like manna from heaven, both came.
