Just in time for halloween

I've discovered that Little One has supernatural powers.
Like most eerie sixth-sense type talents, she only uses this power in the depths of the night.
At first i thought it was a coincidence, but now- now I know it's on purpose. It has to be, or it wouldn't occur so consistently, and SO MANY TIMES every night. Here's what happens.

Little One eats, and snuggles, and falls into a deep, coma-like sleep. I mean you could not wake the child with a trombone symphony. I look at the clock, which reads: "unbearably late at night", and I look at Little One, and think "yay she is finally asleep!"
I very gingerly, very carefully, ease Little One into her cradle. I set her down, hold my breath, and watch. Not a single sign of consciousness. Steady breathing, no movement. Excellent.
I very gingerly, very carefully, settle into the bed. I pull the covers up, all the while watching Little One closely- still no signs of consciousness. I slowly lower myself down onto the mattress. And then it happens. The pillow. It's something about the pillow that sets off her were-baby senses. The instant, I mean the exact moment my cheek touches cotton, Little One's arms fly out, her legs kick up, her face get all crinkled in and she lets out The Howl.
The Howl will continue, my friends, until all of those steps are quickly reversed and we are back to the first sentence you read after "here's what happens". It's like a carefully orchestrated song...stuck on repeat for the entire night.
How does she know? I tell you I am watching her when this happens. Eyes closed! Sleeping peacefully! I swear I do not have some freakishly loud pillow. She just...KNOWS. Maybe she gets these strange powers from her father, who has a positively uncanny ability to sense my moods and come home, when necessary, bearing Ben and Jerry's like a sheild.
Maybe in time, Little One too will learn to use her power for Good. Or maybe I will learn how to sleep sitting up.

Photo Mania III- Homecoming

Not like beer and football at our alma mater homecoming. That will come later. Maybe next year. But since homecoming is going on right now, back at the school where J and I met and we are missing it, I thought I'd celebrate by posting some pics of a different kind of homecoming.

Looking truly ridiculously engulfed by the giant car seat on the way home

Yay! We're all home!
Looking rather lost in the huge cradle, as well
Getting comfy at home
Checking out her room with mom and grandma

Meeting the other two members of our little family

"Hmm...I think I like this place!"

Photo Mania II

This the the "in the hospital" installment of my Little One exhibit.
Pieces are titled, in this order: Napping in the bassinet thing, all bundled up, dressed up to go home, and with her happy parents right before leaving.
Little One didn't seem particularly impressed by this transition, but as someone who has spent well over a decade looking after other people's kids (and falling totally in love with every single one), the concept that I was actually about to get to take one home, and actually keep her, like, forever, was just so amazing that later it would cause a reckless over-use of italics when writing about it.

Baby...Yellows?

Did you know there is this thing called 'baby blues'? It is actually called that, in medical literature, and it apparently is very common. 80% of women get some form of 'baby blues' in the first few weeks after giving birth. 80 per cent! That's like practically everyone. Personally I think this makes sense, what with the hormones and the sleep deprivation and the realization that the belly wasn't all baby and didn't just fall off after delivery. As most of you know quite well, I am not the least sensitive person in the world. I may even have been called emotional, once or twice...a day.
So when I read about this phenomenon called 'baby blues' I pretty much accepted that this was a phase I would be dealing with (read: inflicting upon unsuspecting husband) at some point. I even prepared myself for it. I stocked up on the most potent anti-depressive substances I could think of, the kinds that are highly specialized and rare, that can only be found in certain places in certain times.
That's right, throughout my pregnancy I was careful to hoard a plentiful depression-fighting arsenal in my freezer of cadburry eggs, various ice cream, and girl scout cookies. The really good kind, in the purple box. And I went so far as to issue a decree forbidding all husbands from tapping into my stash, knowing that I might need the full force of these items. And I also went so far as to warn him of the high probability of having a weepy, moody wife to contend with right about when he would also be getting a weepy, moody infant to contend with. Which I'm sure he was excited about.
Truly, the leftover belly is not uplifting. But still. Little One and I have been home nearly three weeks now already, and I've been peeking in at my little arsenal (now heavily fortified by halloween candy 'for trick-or-treaters') in case I need to nip some blues in the bud, but so far...nothin. So far, at least, I am sore, and sleep-deprived, and since the family left sadly deficient in human contact and, well, daylight, and my life is an endless cycle of feeding and diapers and laundry.
And, oddly, I've never been so happy ever in my entire life. I think Little One might have some genetic defect that causes her to emit THC through her pores or something. I mean, if I could just bottle her fun-adorable-punkin-ness and sell it on street corners, you'd all be watching me on MTV's Cribs right now.
In all seriousness, I'm feeling pretty grateful to be in the minority, at least for the time being. Although I was a little disappointed that I didn't have a, you know, medically viable reason for self-medicating with chocolate. But then I realized that the fact that I'm enjoying all the poop and insomnia so much probably means I've gone a bit masochistic. And hey it's at least as important to treat that as it is to treat the blues, am I right? :)

Let the photo mania begin

You know that guy in the grocery store line that asks if you want to see photo of his kids, because he knows he has a captive audience, and then you have to say yes so you don't look all Cruella De Ville, and then he opens up his wallet and rolls out, like, 5 miles of little pictures and you miss you TV show cause you're stranded in the supermarket nodding and going "uh huh, that one is the cutest also...that one too...aww...uh huh..." This is like that. Only worse, because I do not have to contend with the narrow spacial confines of a pocket. Now, normally, I'd probably be ashamed, at least embarrassed to be That Guy. Buuuut, since I know that copious pictures of Little One are what you're really all here for, and that they are WAY more fun than anything I have to say, I'm just going to roll with it. So, cyber friends, let me ask you. Want to see a photo of my kid? Yes? Well then. We shall begin with day one:
Don't forget to nod your head, smile, nod, and tell me how cute she is.

First bath right after being born, with her respective very obviously sleepy parents, getting her first workup with help from future Dr. J, and just simply being a cutie pie. In that order. Now, aren't you glad you said yes?

Perfect Ten

(Warning: This post contains birthiness. Birth stories are always gory and bloody, and not in a cool Vin Diesel movie kind of way. If overly-personal information and general goriness make you queasy, get out now. Sissy.)

So I would like to answer a question posed to me by my very fabulous friend A, the day after Little One's arrival. i would like to answer it because it is a good question, and because some of you out there are pregnant and have therefore been exposed to horror stories from friends, family, and strangers on the metro, and I'd like to add my two cents now that I have had a baby and get to join the ranks of women who suddenly know everything. The question was:
"So...was it the worst pain of your life?!?"

Which the answer is Yes, Yes it was.
But let me explain. I knew all day Monday, as I cleaned and worked on the house that the contractions I was having were different. Like, "hey, that one had some kick to it!" like a little tobasco sauce thrown in there. So it's not like I ignored them, I wrote them all down just in case, like they tell you to in the otherwise pointless childbirth class I dragged J to a week earlier. But I mean, come on. We've all seen the movies, where women are screaming and throwing things and writhing around, and their heads turn 360 degrees and they curse their husbands and use very non-maternal language. That's labor, right?
Well. I'm a little sorry to say, it was not like that. (Which means I've pretty much blown my chance at a get-out-of-jail free card for totally inappropriate behavior, which is too bad.) So I thought, hmm...maybe not. Still, by the time J finally got home, about 13 hours later, I was pretty sure we'd be making a trip to the hospital, at least to check it out. At around 8pm, we decided to drive over. I called the baby people on the way to let them know I was coming, and here is what happened. The nurse said, "What did you say your pain scale was?"
You know the pain scale, right? It's that little chart in the doctor's office that they stole from your 7th grade school counselor. It has the little happy face over by the number 1, and then the little happy face looks less happy, then rather ambivalent, then kind of disgruntled, and finally turns all frowny over by the 10. I have been told, many times, by medical professionals trying to decode this advanced technological monitoring tool for me, that zero (happy face) means NO PAIN, and 10 (frowny face) means the MOST PAIN EVER. Ever.
So, I thought about the little faces, and as I considered what number to tell the nurse, I thought about mideival torture. Because, really, I think those people set the standard for frowny faces on the pain scale. And I compared the contractions to, say, being stuck with a hot poker, or having eyes gauged out, and I thought, well, surely, this is not so bad, you know, in the scheme of things. So I told her seven.
And she told me to go home. What? Yep, go home and wait awhile for my pain scale to get worse, and then come back. So we did, and I couldn't help but say to J, "oh my gosh...I think labor is really going to hurt". Which we laughed about later, and you'll see why.
Well a couple of hours later, I popped up from the bed and told J we were going to the hospital NOW and screw the nurse. (Which was for emphasis, not a directive, mind you.) When we got there, they asked me my pain scale again. Hmmm......"eight?"
So, the nurse, clearly (annoyingly) unconcerned by this, told me they would just monitor me for a while, and to tell them if things got much worse. This is where J stepped in and used all his future doctory skills and saved the day. He said, "you know, C, 10 on the pain scale is supposed to be the worst pain you personally have ever felt. Not, like, the worst pain imaginable." Oh. Well then.
So I looked at the nurse and said, "Right. Ten. Definitely TEN". Well, apparently, ten is a magic number. Nurse Unconcerned rushed a doctor in. Doctor asked what kind of pain relief I'd like, and I said I'd like to try none, and all the people in scrubs looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. The doctor did an exam, and the eyebrows went up again, this time even higher, and she said, "well, if you want a natural childbirth, this is the way to do it, because you are dilated and going to have this baby RIGHT NOW." So, apparently, I had been in actual labor all along. Which meant, I realized, that it was almost over. You know how on TV, there are these moments where the character gets bathed in a spotlight from above and the choir goes "aaaaahhhhhh!!!" That can happen in real life.
So they rushed me right over to the delivery place and Little One proceeded to make her entrance. And I'm not going to lie, I think I might have hit and 11 on the frowny face scale a couple times, but then something amazing happened. Little One was here.
Here is my hypothesis. I think labor hurts for a reason. Let's consider newborn babies. They cry, a lot, they poo, a lot, they look kinda funny and they don't even say thank you. Evolutionarily, there has to be something to keep us all from getting tossed down a well by the age of three days. I think labor is it. I mean, imagine an ice cube (work with me here).
If you hold an ice cube in your hand, it is not a particularly pleasant sensation. It's cold, and kind of slimy, and it even stings a little. Now. Imagine that you have burned the bejeezus out of your hand trying to get your cookies out of the oven. Suddenly, holding that ice cube is the best thing your hand has ever felt. The ice is heavenly, thank goodness for the ice! Do you see what I mean, here? I think the reason that labor hurts is for that moment that they hold up the baby and say "look at your baby!" It makes something great and amazing into something miraculous. Which is what it was. And you fall all in love with the crying, pooping baby on the spot, and rather than throwing it down a well, you spend all your time for the next 20 years trying to keep it alive. Evolution is smart, people.
Granted, I had a relatively easy time of it, so I'm told. And I had J there with me, every second, being amazing like he does, so I knew that at some point it would all be ok. And the cool thing about birthiness is that, unlike say, gout, it won't last forever.
So look, the long answer to the question is that, sure, it was the worst pain I ever felt in my life. But come on, what does that really mean? Most of us have never been drawn and quartered, or burned at the stake, or eviscerated. What's the worst pain you've ever felt in your life? Was is really that bad? And at the end, it's all so, so worth it. Because in one second, you jump right off that pain scale onto the happy scale. And you get to start right out at 10.

To the tune of that Dolly Parton song

I know I know! I promised pictures, I promised updates, I promised not to ignore you cyber-people all the time. I meant it, really. I am so on your side, all you people who sent me gently inquisitive or rather nasty emails. Take it up with Little One.
You see, awhile back, once upon a time when She was still beating me up from the inside, there was lots of back and forth talking between me and J, and lot's of pacing around and hand- wringing on my part. The end result of all this drama was the decision for me to stay home with Little One all the time, for now at least. This effectively makes Little One my new boss.
Let me tell you, She is the toughest boss I have ever had. I'm sorry to say that She is actually a little bit bossy and demanding. Rather dictator-like, in fact. Miss Little One will not tolerate any laziness in her employees, and she certainly does not allow idling away productive work hours on the internet when there are important things to be accomplished, such as staring adoringly at Little One for hours, or re-creating a plethora of nursery rhymes and lullabies so that they all contain her name. (it is all about her, after all).
So if I've been lax in posting here, it's not because I forgot you, it's just that I have yet to accrue any time off. Or any coffee breaks. Though I did recently get promoted to showering every day, which is a plus. I'm hoping I'll be able to sneak over here more often as I get the hang of this new position, but in the meantime bear with me; I'm not ready to hand in my resignation any time soon. I mean so far the job is a little rough, granted, but the benefits are awesome.





See.

Say it with me now

...Awwwww :)

Honey...

So my pregnancy book says that history is rife with tales of women who have knowingly placed a hand on their belly and looked at their attentive husbands and said "honey...it's time". And counted and timed contractions and done lots of fancy breathing and rushed to the hospital ready to go, only to have labor hit the breaks, burn rubber and fishtale, and come to a screeching stop as soon as they reach the exam table (which if I were that baby and say some strange guy with a flashlight peeping at me, I might change my mind too. Just sayin'.) I tell you this as a disclaimer.
Because, barring such an event, which evidently is quite possible, I think Little One may have decided to join us after all!
I've been in a good denial most of the day, which I can only partly blame Little One for, seeing as how I haven't actually had the opportunity to tell her the little boy/wolf story yet, but at this point I think we're ready to assume that she might mean business. So please wish us all some luck that next time I post here, there will be a picture of a squished pink alien which we will all decide is the cutest thing we have ever seen.
And a little luck for the Elephant, too, if you don't mind. :)
See you on the other side! (I have so always wanted a reason to say that).

... It must be an elephant

On Saturday, J and I got to go to the birthday party of M, the little girl I used to nanny for. It was great to see her, looking as usual like a big pile of adorable cuteness, and fun to see her parents and all the other neighborhood kids I haven't seen in a few weeks too. I was having a great time party-mooching, stocking up on essentials like M cuddles and cupcakes (tell me you can think of a better way to spend a Saturday) when one person, who shall remain nameless to protect his identity and also because I don't know his name, asked a very good question.
This person is the father of some child I know from M's playdates at the park. I think. He spotted me from across the room. He probably had one of those visions like in the cartoons where Elmer Fudd sees Bugs as a giant steak, only for this guy it was my round belly morphing into a target, and he thought "ooh! I have something funny to say!" and he shouted, loud enough that everyone in the room stopped talking and looked at said target-belly, "Hey! What are you, an Elephant? You've been pregnant forever!!! Har har har!!!" (Har har means laughing, so you know).
Now, for those of you who don't get your daily recommended amount of Animal Planet, Elephants have, like, the longest pregnancies on earth. Two years, my friend. Which is insane, but anyways. I do happen to be privy to this little bit of trivia, so I think I get the joke. heh...heh. But I have to admit that really, that comment could be construed in a couple of different ways, and that, really, it would be sadly applicable either way. Which means it really is a good question, and I'm thinking of trying today to see if I can pick stuff up off the floor with my nose. Which would be really cool, since I can't actually end over any more.
So here's a shout out to Mr Funnyman, with his keenly witty observations. Mr Funnyman has a point, and I have a new empathy for one of my Animal Kingdom relatives. After, I guess if it looks like and elephant, and it gestates like an elephant....

Brought to you by the letter N

Some of you may not know this, but I have an serious love of secondhand stuff. I am a craigslist junkie, and am totally one of those people who thinks that trolling local thrift stores and garage sales is a perfectly good use of a Saturday. What is not to love about other people's old stuff? It's cheap! It's unique! It's recycling! And I think that if used stuff is good enough for me, it's even better for Little One. Seriously how long has a baby item actually been used?
So last weekend I was super excited to find a baby-stuff only flea market right around the corner and drag my friend to it. I got a bunch of super cute little outfits, and I will never tell you which ones they are because you will never be able to tell. That is how super and cute they are. Most of them actually still had tags on, which is like, bargain shopper jackpot.
But anyways, I scored a bunch of baby books too, since so far the nursery had exactly one such item in it, not a good way to foster the nerdiness she will need to fit in with this family. So, since though I love old stuff, I hate old germs, today I was cleaning each and every page with disinfectant (yes really).
I was thinking, as I wiped down a particular alphabet book, "my this is in perfect condition for having belonged to a drooly little kid", which it was, really pristine, until I came to the page with the letter N. Letter N was covered with some kind of sticky particulate matter I'd rather not try to identify. It was the only page affected. Which I thought was funny enough to share because in this book, letter N stood for "Neat". "Nice and Neat", in fact.
Ha ha. I like this kid, this little punk kid who used to own that book. This kid has a prematurely developed sense of irony. I imagine this kid will grow up to be funny, and a little bit of trouble. Which is the whole fun of buying other people's old stuff- it all comes with a story of it's own. Since this one was a book, I call that a 2 for one. Nice.

tick...tick...tick....

If you know about all this pregnancy stuff, you know the term "drop". I had no idea what this was until recently, but there is a point- generally when you are so pregnant that you can barely breathe and your kid is smooshed and sticking various appendages up under your ribs like a midieval torture device- where the baby does a headstand and 'drops' down low. This is great because now you can breathe again, and even when baby stretches, generally the ribs are pretty safe. It is also great because it means that baby is getting ready to get the heck out of the belly. Or it is supposed to mean that.
Supposed to. This is why, nearly a month ago, I got all excited when the doctor said "oooh she's already dropped- she might come early!" Yay! Early! So I have rushed around like a crazy person getting all ready (see last post) and....nada. Little One is, apparently, perfectly happy in there, and probably just was tired of me poking her back when she kicked me in the lungs. I have to admit that at times, I have recently wished I could issue an eviction notice. This wish often occurs at around 4 am, after the 6th or so trek to the bathroom. Also when I see tiny pink shoes with no tiny pink feet in them.
But, technically, I think eviction notices are void before the actual due date. So I am trying to enjoy these last few days (I am sticking to days here, positive thinking) of calm. I'm sleeping in and taking naps, and eating ice cream and doing little things around the house that might not get done again for a long, long time. And I'm doing a little thinking on becoming a mom and all that stuff, and trying to appreciate the kicks and squirms that will never be the same once she's on This Side. I have to admit it's probably a good thing to have had the time to finish getting ready, and to rest awhile. Besides, as J says, it just may happen that I rush her on out and then she screams all night and I'll want her to get back in again!
I guess Little One just wants me to know that she is, in fact, related to me and therefore not going to show up early for anything. And since she is after all putting th finishing touches on her brain, rather than just her outfit, I guess i can be a little more understanding. For now.

Tweet

I think this is what my pregnancy books call 'nesting'. My husband calls it 'acting like a crazy person who needs a hobby'. Tomato, tomahto. I'm not sure how much of it is Little One induced, and how much of it is just being home all day and not working, but I have gone a little crazy around here. Our house is spotless. I spent about 13 hours straight cleaning on Monday. Like, the kind of cleaning where there are toothbrushes involved. All of our clothes, sheets, towels (even the ones that hadn't been used) are washed and put neatly away. The dogs have been bathed twice in the last 2 weeks, and had their teeth brushed 9 times. Yesterday I spent all day painting things that didn't really need to be painted, including re-painting some of our walls because they had scuff marks that didn't come all the way off with scrubbing. And John did wake up over the weekend and come downstairs at 6 am to find me scrubbing baseboards and polishing furniture. While making breakfast. Maybe I'm just a domestic super-girl! ....Or maybe I have gestational OCD. All I know is that I can't sit here debating the fact, because holding still this long is driving me crazy. I think I need to go organize the utlilty room. Again.

battle begun

SO today a scary thing happened. I went to the mall (scary enough) and I was looking for some PJ’s to wear in the hospital in the case that Little One ever decides to be born. I was thinking, childbirth is no excuse to not attempt cuteness! I will get myself some cute yet functional nightgown type thing and all the nurses will say “there goes a halfway decently dressed patient, right there”. I like to aspire to greatness. But then, the sales lady came over. She tricked me by looking all smiley and innocent, but then as she approached she got this very serious look in her eye. She spoke, with a tone that was both commanding and slightly scolding. And she picked up the most hideously frumpy, old-mother-hubbard looking nightgown and held it up to me and said “this is good for YOU. This is what you should be wearing. Here, take THIS one”. Ahhh! It has begun. From this moment on, I will have to fight the good fight against prarie nightgowns, hair scrunciis, and mom jeans. I’m counting on you, on ALL OF YOU to help me in this battle by never remaining silent if you see me veering, in a trancelike state, towards teal sweatpants with elastic at the bottoms. I expect you all, knowing that infants cause a mysterious affinity for amorphous clothing in cartoon-animal prints, to give me occasional updates on what is trendy, what is chic, and what belongs in a “Cathy” comic. And to kick me if I get out of line.
As for today, when I was quite on my own with out you all, my little warriors, I will have you know that I picked out a dress to wear in the hospital and I bought it and I took the tags off so that there is No Going Back. It is silk. And I’m pretty sure it’s meant to be a party dress. But I do not care. This is war, people.

Update for those who know

So people who already knew about the stuff in the last post are asking for information that isn’t ancient. Here is the update for now:
J is conducting a one-man study on insomnia, as he heads off to the hospital every day at 5am and has overnight call every weekend. Because he is awesome, he is still managing to be a coherent person when he is home, and has been finishing up small projects around the house as we get ready for Little One.
I am finishing up my last week of work (really my last week this time, I think). Baby M’s parents have still not found a new nanny, but my bladder is too small for any more waddling to and from the metro every day, so I have told them that next Tuesday is IT for me.
Little One is doing great, she is kicking around like crazy in complete disregard for the fact that she doesn’t have room for that anymore. She is still quite fond of her 3am dance parties. The Doc today checked her out and says things look good, and that she is all upside-down like she’s supposed to be, ready to go. Which proves that she inherited her sense of direction from J, so that’s a genetic score! for Little One.

The story

Since I have started this little collection of stories about life, I thought I should give some background. I am married to J, who is in military medical school, which is like having a full time job and going to med school at the same time, which is quite simply insane. But he does have to wear a hot-navy-boy uniform every day, which is a plus for me. We live outside DC with our two dogs, X and E, who are both adorable mutts who I love despite the fact that they have the amazing magical ability to shed about 56 cubic meters of hair onto my clean floors every day, without ever getting all neked like those freaky Chinese dog-things. So far, X and E have been our babies, and they always will be. But just about any time now, there will be a new baby (who actually will resemble one of those hairless Chinese dog- creatures, except smaller and with hopefully far fewer teeth.) I’m C, and I am finishing up the nannying job I started in grad school, so that I can switch from taking care of adorable baby M, to taking care of the baby that is currently making me look like Chris Farley in the proverbial little jacket. Which means that there will probably be a lot of talk around here about crying and poop and fascinating topics like that, so just prepare yourself now.

By the way...

I’m starting a blog.
There are three reasons for this.
One, I am always promising to email and call people and update them on various things and I am always getting into trouble for being too lazy. Now I can announce things to everyone who cares at the same time, even if there are only 3 of such people. Or none. This covers all bases.
Two, My husband is all busy and gone all the time now thanks to the hell that is known as 3rd year med school, and so now there is no easy target for me to aim all my rants and pointless thoughts at. “Blogging” sounds way less crazy than “talking to myself”.
Three, blogs are fun. Who knew?
About a year ago, I got an email from the new adoptive mom of some kids who John and I knew in Ethiopia, and had given our email address to in the hopes that we would hear from them again if they were adopted into the US. Not only did this awesome mom email us, she said “hey, you should read our blog”. So I did. I had never read a blog before. And I soon discovered that blogs are like crack. There were stories! Pictures! Cute little faces of kids we love looking all smiley and doing fun things with other smiley people. This blog was my gateway blog-crack drug. Because, there was a list of other blogs on her sidebar. Which I soon found out had pictures and stories about other kids we knew. So I went on a finding-kids-who-were-adopted rampage, and got to reconnect with lots of people, which is super awesome. But then I started reading other peoples blogs, just cause they were interesting. And now I have a terrible addiction, and I blog-stalk lots of people, just because they are cool.
So one day I decided, hey, maybe I will be a blog person too. Throw in reasons 1 and 2, and here we are. Welcome to the random thoughts of a random person who can think of no good reason why anyone would care to read a blog about nothing. But you will! You are reading it now! And that is because, as I said, blogs are like crack. Even boring ones. Which makes me like your dealer. Bwaaa ha ha ha haa! Welcome to my blog. ☺