One Small Corner of the Universe

New frontiers

2007-02-25T13:10:00.000-05:00

This is my last post on Blogger, and my first post on my all new blog at Wordpress. Call me a follower, a copycat, a bandwagon-jumper--whatever you call me, please keep visiting, and if you link to my site, please adjust your site accordingly.

The truth about the change is that I don't like being forced into things. I have a hard enough time with change as it is, but when someone says, "You must! You have no choice!" I tend to resist. So that's why I'm moving. It's not just because lots of other cool people have moved. Well, not entirely. I do tend to like that bandwagon.

~~~

And speaking of moving, I may be buying another house. I say another house because I haven't sold the house I'm living in now. But I've stumbled upon a house that may be too good to pass up, and since it's unlikely that my house will sell in, like, a day, I may have two houses for a while. I'll send you my address at the institution, where I will no doubt end up if all of this comes to pass.

~~~

But now for the biggest news of all: I have a new principal. Yes, that's right. New. As in, Principal is on "extended medical leave" through the end of the year. If you believe that, please contact me as soon as possible so I can share with you the meaning of life and introduce you to my best friends, Tom Cruise and Oprah Winfrey.

No, the truth is, some higher-ups found out about this, plus all kinds of other unethical and borderline illegal things Principal has been up to, and since bad publicity is not allowed in my school system, they made up something to tell the public and then pretty much sent her packing. Honestly, though, knowing Principal, having someone find out she is not perfect is probably enough to send her to the looney bin--that's even worse than having your school burn down--so she may well be on actual medical leave. Who knows? What I know is that going back to work in two weeks will be just slightly more bearable because there is nowhere for my school to go but up at this point. Of course, that's not the case for my students, they who are running amuck in my tiny classroom, making huge messes, slacking on their assignments, and scanning their faces into my password protected computer (seriously, every teenager should be considered a dangerous hacker). No, my students are going down.

60 is the new 92.5

2007-02-13T21:55:00.000-05:00

When I was a senior in high school I had a kick-ass English teacher who, to me, was an icon, a goddess among people. She was sharp-tongued and quick witted, and she worked our know-it-all asses off. Most of my classmates hated her. I wanted to be just like her.

One of her best-known quirks was her adamant refusal to "give" points. If you earned a B, you got a B, never mind that your B was the highest possible B, a mere half point from an A. You didn't earn an A, end of story. I never had a problem with this rule; I always made As in her class, as did my best friend Meredith (who is now reading this blog--hey Mer) and our friend Susan. We were the top three graduates in our class (I was 3) and we didn't need free half-points. Hell, our classmates probably hated us, too, but that is so not my point.

My point is points. Grade points, to be specific. I always admired teachers who gave the grades their students earned. I became one of those teachers. I used to begin the school year by giving my students a cut-out paper A. I explained that it was the only grade I'd ever give them--they would have to earn everything else, good and bad. When students ask me about extra credit I have to work hard to keep the sneer off my face, and I reply, "Let's try earning the regular credit first. If you don't turn in what I assign you in the first place, what makes you think you have time for 'extra'?" Don't get me wrong, I give kids chances to succeed. Lots and lots of chances. If it's clear to me that they don't understand something, we approach it another way. If the majority of a class bombs a test, we retest (with a different test, of course). I work with my kids to make sure they are learning. That's what teachers do. But I don't give grades.

At least I didn't until the fall of 2004. Can anyone guess what happened in the fall of 2004? Why yes, you there in the front, that's when Principal came to my school and we fell headfirst into the flaming pit of hell. Quite literally. Heh. (Ahem. Sorry. We joke about the fire now. What else can you do?) When Principal came to my school, she started changing grades. Occasionally a 92 became a 93, an A, but mostly lots of 68s and 69s became Ds*. I hated it, and after I ended up looking like a fool who told students one thing and then had to explain why the grade on their report card was higher, I upped their chances at success. I--gulp--even gave the occasional extra credit.

All of that is a preface to this story: On January 31 a teacher workday marked the end of the first semester and the beginning of the second. We are on the block schedule, which means new students and new classes for the rest of the year. Thank God. Because I am a nice person (read: because I didn't want the hassle of redoing what someone else would have done wrong) I spent a few hours at work that day finalizing first semester grades. It was much easier than I had anticipated, as my third sub in 4 weeks (did you catch that? THREE people could not handle my job! THREE!) did not record any of the grades she took in my gradebook, which I left for her, nor did she leave HER gradebook for me. I could have made up grades, but I've never been good at writing fiction, so my students got the grades they'd earned as of my last day (the day Christmas break started) plus their exam grade.

I should tell you that in the three weeks before break, I gave my students so many chances to pass that I should be sainted. I didn't give them grades, mind you, but I did throw my beloved deadline rule out the window on their behalf, and many of them rose to the occasion. Many, sadly, did not. I should also tell you that I taught honors freshman English for 10 years, only to be handed three low level reading classes at the start of year 11. The curriculum for the reading course is canned and so, so easy, especially considering that in a class of 25, only 8-10 students really had reading problems. Thus, everyone should have aced this class, especially given the numerous opportunities I allowed them back in December. But because they are freshmen, which is Latin for "humanoids whose skulls are filled with donkey excrement," several of them failed. Eleven, to be exact. I know this so certainly because the day after the grades were submitted to the office, I received this email at home:

"We have 11 kids fail out of your Strategic Reading classes. Is this right? We had 4 that were in the 60s. I just want to be fair to them. Thanks."

Bet you can guess who it was from. I almost ignored it, but I couldn't help myself, I just had to know what she meant by "60s." So I asked her to send me the names of the students in question and their questionable grades. One of them had a 67, and she probably passed him. But the other three--they actually had 60s! Six-zero. That was their final grade. Please, somebody explain to me why it is not fair to a kid to give him a 60 when he earned a 60! It's not like they were a half, or even a tenth of a point from passing. We are talking 10 points. TEN! And she wants to know if that's fair. Damn right that's fair.

I did reply to that email. I could have authorized the grade changes and seemed "fair," but instead I told her I recorded the grades the students earned. I never got a response, but I know what happened. I know she changed those grades. I've seen her do it time and time again. I complain about my job, but in my teacher's heart, this is what's driving me away. What lesson does a child learn when he fails two quarters and the final exam and ends up with a D? It isn't that I'm a grade fanatic and care more about the number than I do the kid. Far from it. I care enough about the kid to have high expectations, and let's face it, no matter how many inspirational teacher movies tell you otherwise, there are some kids who will not meet those expectations. Not even when they get lots of chances. And not even when we lower our expectations.

Perhaps the worst thing about Principal is that in her mind, should Lifetime ever make a movie of her life starring Meredith Baxter Birney, she would be portrayed as a positive force who helped her students rise from the ashes (again with the fire jokes) and inspired them all to get good grades and go to college. And some kid who graduated under her rule would see it and say, "Hey, I know that lady, yo. She was so nice, and she helped me pass, and then I got to college and those professors were trippin', man, they won't give a brother a break. Talkin' 'bout how I can't write and shit, and how I was on academic probation. That's why I said 'Screw that, yo,' and I got me a job at Bojangles, 'cause I don't need nobody tellin' me what to do. Man, don't they know I was number 6 in my class?"

*We're on the 7 point grading scale.

Shout out to the Dixie Chicks

2007-02-12T21:49:00.000-05:00

Actual words tomorrow. I swear.

Unsinkable

2007-01-31T22:12:00.000-05:00

So long, Molly.

Friday Photo: Unique Body Parts

2007-01-27T13:49:00.000-05:00

My most unique body parts are my ridiculously long toes. As I am currently in desperate need of a manicure and don't want to gross you out with photos of my feet, I'm posting Mia's feet. They are miniatures of my feet. I always hated my feet and toes, but now that I see them reproduced detail for detail on my daughter, I will never complain about them again. I'll start referring to them as "unique."

A la mia cara Mia: Month 1

2007-01-26T16:11:00.000-05:00

I know this sounds prosaic, but I can hardly believe you are already a month old--that an entire month has passed since I first saw your face, just inches from mine, looking into my eyes for the first time. You've given me the once over many more times since then, and as best I can tell you're happy to be here with me. I'm certainly glad to have you.

It's been an eventful first month for you, relatively speaking. You have visited the library, the hospital where Nonna works, Ma Gayle's house, Jay's Deli, Moe's, Starbucks, the grocery store, and, on several occasions, Target. You slept through most of these trips. If I could figure out how to get you to sleep that way in the house, say, during the wee small hours of the morning, I wouldn't have this dazed expression on my face all the time. Lots of people have visited you as well--Cheryl, Caroline, Nancy, Janet, Erika, Joy. You slept through most of those, too. Again, if I could only get you to sleep that well for me....

Actually, I'm not giving you enough credit on the sleeping thing. Lately you've slept like a champ at night, drifting off between 10 and 11, waking to eat at 1 or 2 and again at 6, and then sleeping until 9 or 10. Napping during the day for longer than 20 minutes is another story entirely, but your new night hours more than make up for the short naps, as well as those nights two weeks ago when you didn't go to sleep until 1 or 2--or 6. I am still recovering from that night, and I can't promise you I won't remind you of it when you are older and wanting a favor from me.

I certainly can't complain about the times when you're awake. You're starting to smile a little now, and make sweet little sounds that seem to surprise you when they escape your mouth, and you would win a staring contest hands down--when your eyes settle on something interesting you stare at it for a long time, like you're memorizing it, making a copy of it in your mind for later, because at the moment it's the most fantastic thing you've ever seen and you don't ever want to forget it. I hope someday you'll stare at the ocean that way, and the flowers in our yard, and the sunset, and the mountains on the way to Papa Mo's, and colors, and the faces of all the people you love most.

You've already got a head start on the colors. One of your favorite places to be right now is on the changing table, because right above the changing table are nine small blue, red, and yellow-colored canvasses that to me are an unfinished art project, but to you are some kind of baby LSD. You become positively transfixed when you realize you are within sight of those things, like you are communicating with the colors on some other plane that only babies and people who snort cocaine can reach. It's amusing to watch, but also kind of freaky, because I can't even focus on something for that long, and I have been practicing for 32 years.

You may be my ticket to transcendence, though, because I could gaze at your sweet face for eternity. You are so, so beautiful, and I'm not just saying that because I'm your mother. It's true, and here's how I know: in my experience, when someone sees a baby he or she will look at it and then say to its mother, "Oh, she's just beautiful," or "He is so adorable." It is, after all, the polite thing to do. That doesn't happen when you meet new people. When people see you for the first time, they do go on about how beautiful you are, but not to me, not for my benefit. They tell you, and they tell each other, and they email or call other people, who then email or call me and say things like, "So-and-so said you had the most beautiful child she's ever seen," and I have to think they are not just being polite. I believe they are seriously mesmerized by you--your big eyes and your long lashes and your hair.

Your hair. When the ultrasound tech told me back at Thanksgiving that you had a head full of hair, I imagined typical fuzzy baby hair that sticks straight up and falls out after a month. I was not prepared for your hair--dark and thick and fine, like mine, and full, not like a baby's hair, but like a person's hair. And the curls--just a little water and you look like one of the Jackson 5, and then it dries in soft waves and peaks all over your head. People keep telling me it will probably fall out, but I don't believe them. I am more inclined to think that soon I will have to take you to the salon and have my stylist shape up your sideburns and trim your mullet, lest I wake up in the middle of the night to find you partying it up with a six-pack of Old Milwaukee and that Billy Ray Cyrus CD I can't seem to sell at the used record store.

You do love your music. You love mine, too--Emmylou and Joan Baez, Josh Ritter and The Weepies--but already you recognize the music from your mobile and the Baby Einstein CDs we bought you, and you don't know how happy it makes me that you are so soothed by music. You fit right in here, and how much easier will it be to take you places in the car knowing I can pop in a CD and you will listen right along with me. I've read that babies who like music are smart babies who turn into bright children who turn into intelligent adults. This does not surprise me at all--just look around you: everyone in your life loves music, and we are all brilliant, brilliant people. Just yesterday I tried to open the garage door with my phone. See what you have to look forward to?

You are already smart--I can see it in the way you study your surroundings--and also very talented. You can both spit and fling the pacifier great distances for someone so small. You can lift your head for long periods of time. You can hold your bowels and bladder until I have put a perfectly clean diaper on you, and then fill it up before a full minute has passed. You can even tell when the diaper is off and your tiny butt is resting on a clean surface--my hand, for instance, holding you against me because you've just made a puddle on the changing table--and then poop prolifically on that surface. You're also the best farter in the house, better than the dog, even, because you are loud and proud about your farting, and the dog always tries to pretend she has no idea what just happened, jumping and looking curiously behind her to see where that sound came from.

But I was completely unprepared to deal with your greatest talents: your ability to make me rethink everything I've ever believed to be true about the world, about life, about myself, the way you can change my entire state of being with a look or a sound, how you can take years off of my life in a matter of seconds. When you were two days old and I was dressing you for the first time, preparing to take you home from the hospital, the pediatrician on duty stopped by to visit, and he told me to brace myself, that the first 6 weeks of your life would be the worst 6 weeks of mine. He called you a "neurologically incomplete organism" and assured me that after 6 weeks, when you started acting like a little human with a personality, I would not be able to imagine my life without you. I have thought about his words many times during your brief fits of inconsolable screaming. But then last week Nonna and I were bathing you, pouring water over your head and in your face like always, because you seem to enjoy it, and just as the water ran over your nose you inhaled. Your eyes flew open and your face froze and you wouldn't inhale or exhale or cough or cry, and you started to turn red. I grabbed you up out of the water and held you in the air and shook you a little--and then I handed you to Nonna, because in that moment I glimpsed my life without you, and the mere thought of that life reduced me to helplessness. In a split second you cried out--apparently you'd just been holding your breath--and I took you in my arms and held you close and felt my world right itself, and I remembered what the pediatrician had told me, how it would be three more weeks before I could no longer imagine life without you, and I want you to know how wrong he was, Baby, how very, very wrong. I want you to know that in that first moment when you strained to lift your head and look into my eyes a month ago, you became my life.

Ti amo,
Mommy

And consumer whores all across the South rejoiced

2007-01-25T16:45:00.000-05:00

Swedish retailer plans move to North Carolina

Breaking the epidural silence, and other random thoughts [*EDITED]

2007-01-25T16:24:00.000-05:00

With all the thanks I've received for writing an epidural birth story, I'm starting to feel like I've broken some heavy silence we've all been afraid to crack. Seriously, are there people out there who are afraid to admit they want drugs during childbirth? Afraid of being criticized or ridiculed? Afraid we might think badly of them for not having a natural birth? Huh. Because now that I'm an authority on the matter (laugh all you want), I'm here to tell you that giving birth needs to be all about you (after all, nothing will ever be about you again). There are those who would chastise me for making this statement, who would remind me that it should be about the baby and the baby's safety*. To them I say that birth is traumatic for the baby no matter what, whether it's being squeezed through a passage the size of a roof gutter or being pulled suddenly through a sizeable incision. Being born is risky business, and the kid's biggest ally in the process is her mother. Mommy should be as physically and psychologically content as she can be in order to be the best ally she can be, and if that means drugs, or no drugs, or a pool of water, or a necessary C-section, then so be it.

And as for the phrase "natural childbirth," what, I ask you, is more natural than bringing forth life? Yeah, I know it's just terminology, but what is the flip side? Unnatural childbirth? Was what I did was "unnatural" because I couldn't feel pain? Hell. No.

[*Edited to Add: I want to make sure everyone understands that I understand that sometimes it's ALL about the baby's safety, and our preferences don't matter. I didn't want my doctor to use the vacuum, but he felt he had to because Mia was in distress. There are other situations even more serious than that. I'm not talking about those situations here; I'm just addressing those times when things are normal and we as mothers can choose the birth we want.]

***

I mentioned my "labor shirt" in the birth story, and after someone asked what exactly a labor shirt is, I thought I should elaborate.

In every single video and photo essay of birth I've ever seen, the laboring woman is always half (or completely) naked with her breasts bared for all to see. I decided after my childbirth class that I could handle my hair being messy, my composure going to hell, and my ladyparts all wide open for everyone to see, but I drew the line at bare boobies. So I bought a maternity cami/tank top just for the event so I could at least salvage a sliver of decorum. It wasn't to be, though--they made me strip down even before they admitted me. Thankfully, they gave me something else to wear, but there's just something about your own stuff. I made up for the shirt deficit in pillows--three of my own from home. It was a reasonable trade.

***

Those of you who have been reading about my pregnancy attempts from the very beginning might recall that I assigned names to my eggs and the sperm donors I used, as many of us do. You might remember the early days of Joey and Geena, which ended badly. There was a second donor after Joey; I never named him, and maybe that was the problem--he just never felt welcome. And then I sent Geena packing, because Donor #3, who was super-extra-crazy fertile, resembled George Clooney (so said the sperm bank) and was dubbed Dr. Ross (think "ER"), and the most logical next step was to name the girls Rachel. It took Ross and Rachel one try, so all that talk of signs and good omens worked for me, but I feel the need to clarify one tiny detail, lest you think I'm a complete and total lunatic.

My daughter's middle name is Ross. Had she been born a boy, her first name would have been Ross. This was decided long before I made up names for my reproductive matter and assigned real live faces to the sperm donors. That the real live face I assigned to the donor who would help me conceive Mia was actually Ross is a coincidence. You see, my grandfather's middle name was Ross, and even before the attempts at conception began in earnest, I knew I wanted my child to have that name. I wanted him to be a part of my child, not just in spirit and in my mind, but in my child's mind as well. Someday I will tell Mia about my Papa, her namesake, and she will know him through me, and this will make me happy. Only having him here in person, a real living presence in her life, would make me happier.

But then, a part of me believes this has already happened. That in some cosmic way, Mia was with him before she was with me. That the curl in her hair and the iron in her young will came from him. That now, when she cannot really communicate her experiences, she remembers him, and later, when she can communicate, she will have forgotten their meeting. And I will be there to fill in the gaps.

If I Had Known Then What I Know Now: The Story of my Daughter's Birth, Part 2

2007-01-23T17:52:00.000-05:00

It was just before 2:30 a.m. on December 26th when we arrived at The Women*s Hospit@l of Greensboro, a place I had heard many wonderful things about from friends who have delivered babies there. I had been to the facility for one Sunday morning insemination, an ultrasound, and an HSG, all good experiences which took place a)during normal waking hours, and b)WHEN I WAS NOT IN LABOR. I immediately rethought all the good things I'd heard when, as soon as we arrived, I was escorted to a cubicle to complete paperwork and answer a bunch of questions. Did I mention the contractions, oh God, the contractions, and did I mention that by now they were 4-5 minutes apart? It shouldn't have come as a major shock to the nurse on the other side of the table that maybe I might possibly have a little trouble answering her questions in a timely fashion, but apparently she had just been sent over that very hour from, oh, I don't know, the customer service desk at Sears, and she kept repeating her questions when I didn't immediately answer. Thank God Gayle finally pointed out the obvious, and she looked closely at me and said, "Ohhhh. I understand." Things went much more speedily after that, and I was finally taken to an examination room where I was forced to remove my "labor shirt" (purchased specifically for this event) and put on an ugly backless hospital gown.

Once I was on the table a nurse hooked me up to the monitors, took my blood pressure and temperature, and then checked my cervix (which was, until I experienced labor, the worst pain I'd ever known). "Hmmm," she said as if contemplating what to order from a menu at Shoney's. "You're completely effaced." Silence, accompanied by more poking, then, "You've lost your mucus plug, so don't freak out if you see blood." More silence, more poking, and finally, "Huh. I'm not sure how much you're dilated. I'll be right back." My mother had arrived, and she was timing my contractions by the wall clock, which now read 3-something; they were 3-4 minutes apart now, and I was freaked because nothing I did brought relief. Mom and Gayle were looking freaked as well. I was managing to breathe through the contractions, but it took every ounce of energy I had not to scream. I remember saying "I don't know what to do" a lot. In the midst of all of this, my nurse returned with another nurse who announced that she, too, was going to check my cervix. She was quick and efficient, no running commentary this time. I was only dilated 2 centimeters. I wanted to cry. Meanwhile, the first nurse told me that my contractions weren't registering on the monitor. I interpreted this news as "They aren't really that bad yet. They are going to get much worse." She gave me a little button and instructed me to push it each time I felt one starting, and then she left to report the state of my cervix to the on-call doctor.

There are eight doctors in my OB practice, and I dislike one of them. One. The one who was on call that night. We had attempted to page my doctor, my beloved Dr. T., per his instructions, but his pager was off. Now the icky doctor with no personality (we'll call him Dr. Cardboard) was going to deliver my baby, and I was sad. Then I had another contraction, and I decided that if Dr. Evil and Mini Me delivered my baby I would be fine with it, just so long as they did it soon. When the nurse came back after talking with Dr. Cardboard, she explained that he wanted to be sure I was in "real labor" before proceeding (read: they were not going to admit me unless I continued to dilate), and perhaps I could walk around a bit to move things along. She smiled cheerfully and said she'd come check my cervix again in an hour. If I hadn't been having yet another contraction I would have slapped her.

I grudgingly put on my robe and headed out into the hospital, Mom on one side of me and Gayle on the other. My sisters were passed out in the Admitting waiting area, which was maybe 50 feet from the room I'd just vacated. I made it to the nearest waiting area chair before I had to sit down. I've read that walking is a natural inclination during labor. Not for me. For me, a natural inclination during labor is to claw through solid wood with my bear hands. I sat in the waiting area for a few contractions and then announced that I wanted to go back to the room and lie down.

When my hour was up and my cervix was checked yet again, it was announced that I'd gone from 2 to 3. Actually, I had gone from 2 to about 2 and three-quarters, but the nurse took pity on me and told Dr. Cardboard she was officially admitting me. I have never been so happy to see a wheelchair in all my life. When we arrived in the labor and delivery room, a large open space with a recliner and a pull out sofa, the clock read 4:30. I was so sleepy I was actually half nodding off between contractions, which were holding steady at 3-4 minutes apart and were becoming more difficult to tolerate by the minute. When the nurse asked if I was interested in pain relief I wanted to hug her. She immediately put the epidural process into motion, but warned me that it would take about an hour (there was bloodwork, which had to go to the lab, and other things I can't remember). My main goal in life at that point became watching the clock and saying to myself, "I can do anything for an hour." It was almost 5:30 when the anesthesiologist came in to drug me. I wanted to hug him, too.

I remember that first hour in the labor and delivery room as calm and quiet, despite my pain. The lights were turned down low, the blinds were closed, and there was a hush about everything the nurses were doing. It was extremely calming for me. My sisters were asleep on the sofa. My mom and Gayle were watchful. My nurse talked quietly to me, not too much, just enough to let me know what was happening. When the anesthesiologist came in and started the epidural I was significantly calmer than I had been in Admitting. He, too, spoke in hushed tones and explained what he was doing and what I would feel with each step. It took him less than 10 minutes to insert the catheter for the epidural, and I immediately lost feeling in my right leg. My left side was completely normal, so I was still feeling contractions on the left. The nurse explained that she could give me four additional doses of medicine, which she would do until I couldn't feel pain. She assured me that in the event I could still feel pain after four doses, she would call the anesthesiologist back. I'm happy to report that the fourth dose was the charm. Finally pain free, I curled up into my pillows and slept.

We all slept. The sun was starting to rise, and light was creeping in through the blinds. At my request, Emmylou Harris's "Wrecking Ball" was playing on the CD player. Occasionally my sister Charity would get up and examine the contraction monitor and report her findings to me. If we listened carefully we could hear the baby's heartbeat on the fetal monitor. It was a good morning, even in spite of the exhaustion and the trauma of the night before. I was surrounded by people I love, I was feeling no pain, and I was about to meet my kid. I didn't think life could get any better, but it did. The morning nurse came in and introduced herself, and then announced that she had just talked with Dr. T. and he would be coming in to deliver the baby. Dr. Cardboard would be coming by to check on me, and then I would officially be Dr. T.'s patient. I was filled with relief and gratitude. Dr. Cardboard did stop by around 7:30; he checked my cervix (6 centimeters!) and broke my water, and that was the last we saw of him.

The rest of the morning was more of the same: intermittent sleep, Emmylou Harris singing in the background, lots of cervix-checking. Each time the nurse checked my progress she called Dr. T., and then she came back to report on their conversation. She told me he wouldn't be there until I was dilated 9, but that I was in good hands until then. Indeed I was. She was a peach. Her name, in fact, was Peach. C. Peach. She looked like she had just walked out of a 1950s movie: long white hair in a bun, traditional nurse's uniform, white stockings and white shoes. She made me remember all the good things I'd heard about having a baby at this hospital.

I'm not sure what time it was when C. Peach announced that I was at 9 centimeters, but things moved very quickly after that. She left to call Dr. T., and then informed me that he was on his way. People started coming in and setting up the room for delivery. C. Peach explained what would happen when it was time to push. She told me how long I might expect to push since this was my first labor (2-3 hours). She told me that she's worked with Dr. T. lots of times, and she gave me her take on his work (in her opinion he tended to move things along too quickly instead of letting nature take its course; as it would turn out, this was a good thing).

Dr. T. arrived about 45 minutes later. It was just before 11. He apologized for not having his pager on the night before, and then insisted that I introduce him to everyone in the room, a small crowd that now included my grandmother. He checked my cervix yet again, pronounced it dilated to 10, and went to change clothes. C. Peach flipped up the leg supports, lowered the end of the bed, and gave me a crash course in pushing. Suddenly, after feeling nothing at all from the waist down for the past 6 hours, I began to feel pressure. Not pain, just pressure. C. Peach looked at the monitor and then at me and said, "Did you feel that? That means you're ready to push." She directed Mom and Gayle to their posts, and before Dr. T. had a chance to return in his scrubs we were underway.

I would love to tell you how many times I pushed, but I don't know. What I do know is this: I have never concentrated on something so intensely in my life, and still, I couldn't feel a thing, so I was not entirely sure I was actually doing anything. And then I heard C. Peach say to my mother, "Do you want to see the head? It's crowned." I could hear my sisters squealing, and my mom and Gayle laughing, but hearing those words gave me a massive infusion of adrenalin. My entire reason for being became pushing. I thought my eyeballs would pop out and fly across the room.

When the real action started C. Peach turned up the fetal monitor so she and Dr. T. could hear the baby. Her heart was strong and loud and clear--and then it wasn't. As my contractions became more intense, her heartbeat became more frenetic. A contraction would start, I would push, and her heartbeat would disappear. Once the contraction ended it would slowly recover. I panicked, but my doctor--did I mention that I love him?--he takes no chances. He explained that she was in a bit of distress, and that he was going to give her a hand--in the form of the vacuum. I didn't want him to use the vacuum, but hearing her heartbeat go silent made me reconsider. I agreed, and he told me to start pushing four times per contraction instead of three. He and C. Peach were practically cheering, my mom was counting, and my sisters were still squealing when, at 11:54 Mia emerged.

I'm sure there was noise in the room, but I heard nothing. Time stopped. Dr. T. held her in mid-air, his long left had gripping her under her arms, and suctioned her mouth and nose. I could barely take it all in--her tiny body, her little head, her mass of hair, her wide-open eyes. I managed to ask if she was okay, and she screamed her first protest in response. He assured me all was well and plopped her on my chest. Sounds suddenly returned to the room. Camera shutters clicked, the voices of my family called out, Emmylou Harris kept singing in the background, and Mia cried, and there has never been a sweeter chorus.

If I Had Known Then What I Know Now: The Story of my Daughter's Birth, Part 1

2007-01-22T15:32:00.000-05:00

There is video footage from Christmas morning of my sisters trying to bribe the baby into being born. Megan is holding up the baby's presents--two tiny tie-dyed shirts she made, a teensy pair of baby Crocs, a Lambchop doll that talks. Charity is showing the baby the dogs and the cat and pretending to pick her nose, assuring her unborn niece that she will let her eat her boogers if she so desires. In the background my mother is on the phone telling a very animated version of our Christmas Eve catastrophe: a buck appeared from out of nowhere and t-boned my mother's car with Charity at the wheel and Megan in the passenger seat, while Mom and I drove off into the darkness in my car blissfully unaware until I suddenly realized there were no longer headlights behind me at almost the exact same moment Megan called in a state of near hysteria. The deer's antlers collided with the driver's side of the car, and then it hit the car head on. No one was hurt--well, no one other than the deer, who lost the contents of his bowels on the car and then disappeared into the black night--and if we had left Mom's house 20 seconds later it would have been my car that got hit, with me at the wheel, so we were all feeling pretty good about life except for Mom, who was distressed about the damage to her new car, and, well, the deer. We waited on the side of the road for the highway patrol for over an hour; they never came so we left after being assured by the insurance company that Mom wouldn't need a police report for the repairs. We had to stop almost immediately so I could pee behind a gas station (it was closed, but I still felt safer peeing near a gas station than on the edge of the woods) because, after all, I was minutes from being 40 weeks pregnant and peeing was my life. All of this is documented on the video, along with the sounds of holiday music in the background, and the mounds of presents and pillows and blankets in the middle of my living room, and the fire crackling in the fireplace. It was a good day. Who wouldn't want to be born into such goodness?

My kid, apparently, or so I had recently begun thinking. My visit to the doctor the week before had been uneventful--no dilation, little effacement. My nightly Braxton-Hicks contractions were becoming only slightly more uncomfortable, and the baby, while in prime position for birth, was behaving in her usual manner (read: nothing different in her movements indicated that delivery was near). I was scheduled to see my doctor again on my due date, December 28th, and I was sure I would go to 42 weeks and have to be induced, and my child would be enormous and her head would go on record as the largest head ever to be attached to a newborn baby. As a teacher I've never believed in bribing kids to get them to cooperate, but on Christmas day, I was perfectly fine with bribing my own. It seemed my only hope.

I should mention that I began the last month of my pregnancy thinking I was in labor every single night. Between the nightly Braxton-Hicks extravaganza and the constant discharge, I was sure labor was imminent and my water was surely about to break, when in fact those contractions were nothing, nada, and I was just wetting myself on a regular basis. Good times. I asked several friends who have given birth, "How will I know when it's real?" They always replied, "Oh, you'll know. Trust me, you'll know." I have to tell you, in the end, I didn't know. There was nothing unusual about Christmas day to clue me in that something different was about to happen, and that night when what I believed to be Braxton-Hicks contractions started, I ignored them. I had no idea.

We had our Christmas dinner around 5. I helped Mom prepare some of the meal, and then I ate like the pig I had become in the 3rd trimester, and then I helped her put everything away. After dinner we all sprawled in front of the TV and watched "The Lake House," and when it went off we watched "Ice Age." My mom and sisters had spent Christmas Eve at my house, but they were heading home that night, right after the second movie ended. About an hour into "The Lake House" I felt that familiar crampy tightening beginning; as the movie was ending I felt it again. At the beginning of "Ice Age" it happened again, stronger this time, and I glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes later there was another one. As I have already mentioned, I completely ignored these sensations. I had been told by authorities on the subject that I WOULD KNOW when it was for real, and this couldn't possibly be real. So I allowed my mother and sisters to leave, to go back home to Virginia (a mere hour away, but still), and I didn't even mention the contractions. After all, THEY. WERE. FAKE.

Except that about 20 minutes after they left I had another one, a rather painful one, this time after I'd been up walking around, straightening up the house, and THAT, my friends, is what freaked me the hell out. My trusty pregnancy book explained that if you change positions and the contractions worsen instead of improve, you are probably in labor. So I stretched out on my bed. Bam! Then I got up and paced. Bam! I had told my mom to call me when she got home, so I decided to wait for her call; I wanted her to get there and do what she needed to do, and I knew if I called her she'd turn right around and come back. And also, my trusty pregnancy book assured me that first labors were interminably long, and if this was the real thing, it could be hours and hours and hours before anything really happened. There was no need for her to come back yet.

But just to be on the safe side, I called Gayle, who was just 30 minutes away, and explained that I might be having contractions and that I may want her to come over, and we agreed that if I had another one she would head this way. After all, how embarrassed would I be if what I was experiencing ended up being really bad gas from the mounds of food I had consumed at dinner? When I found myself doubled over in pain 15 minutes later I called her back, and she was already on her way. It was 9:55. She told me to start timing, so I made a lame attempt to calculate the times of the last two, and then I started timing for real. At 10:12 there was another contraction, followed by another at 10:22, and another at 10:31. I got a 23 minute break then, and after that a 21 minute break; after that, the longest I went between contractions was 12 minutes.

My mom called at 11 and I explained the situation. I told her I was going to try to go to bed, that I probably wouldn't need to go to the hospital until the next day, and that she should go to bed, too, and I'd call if anything changed. I actually did try to lie down. It didn't go well. I also tried walking, standing on all fours, leaning on the exercise ball--all bad. By this time it was after midnight and the contractions were between 4 and 9 minutes apart. I don't know how long each one lasted, but I was becoming frantic. Nothing I did eased the pain, and it was body-wracking pain. I was still coughing from a cold I'd had for several weeks, and the coughing seemed to make the contractions worse. All those big ideas I had about waiting until the last possible minute to have the epidural...what the HELL was I thinking? I wanted it right then and there, but thanks to my childbirth class, I was sure they wouldn't give it to me in the near future because I'd only technically been in labor for a few hours, and according to the class, that's not long enough to make any real progress. For the first time in months I was worried about myself instead of the baby. I was afraid.

Sometime between 12 and 1 I called my mom and told her to come, book and childbirth class be damned. I was in so much pain that I was dry heaving, and I NEVER throw up, ever, so I knew things were getting serious. Out of desperation I took a warm bath. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and the book assured me that the warm water would be soothing, but it did nothing to ease the pain. I did manage to shave my legs and wash my hair, both comforting gestures for me, and then I went into hyper-prepare mode. It was as if my brain suddenly registered that this was really happening and I remembered everything I'd meant to do but hadn't yet done. I curled up on the bed and directed as Gayle gathered things for me. She was as calm as I was frantic. I was trying to breathe without coughing, because I seemed to have a contraction every time I coughed, but it wasn't working, so in between bringing me earrings and my shoes and the swaddler for the diaper bag and pillowcases for my pillows, she brought me a cough drop, and I found out the hard way that what they say about eating during labor is true: it's a BAD idea, even if you're just sucking a lozenge. After mere seconds I was dry heaving again, and contracting every 3-4 minutes, and losing what tiny grip I had on my composure. It was 2 when my mom called to say she was halfway to my house; Gayle told her to meet us at the hospital, and I didn't protest.

To be continued.

Something blue

2007-01-22T15:25:00.000-05:00

A few of you have asked me, "Where the hell is your birth story? Your kid is almost a month old already!" Actually, I exaggerate; those of you who have asked were very nice about it, but it IS about time, isn't it? Thus, I plan to put it in writing in the next day or so. In the meantime, I've made a few changes around here, and as I am one of those people who can't even purchase an article of clothing without consulting a number of people on the color and general look of the item in question, I am asking for feedback. Please share your honest opinions regarding anything that is garish, hard to read, or just plain ugly about my new look.

Thank you, Trista, Kristin, and Julia!

2007-01-18T19:41:00.000-05:00

Mia received this in the mail last week, and while she's worn part of it a few times already, I've just now gotten around to documenting it. I'm really disgusted with my digital camera, which seems to be capable of taking only blurry pictures indoors. While I'm sure it would perform better outside, it's a little chilly and I don't want to use up all my Bad Mommy points in the name of good photography.

Anyway...behold the cutest baby hat and scarf ever:

Still here

2007-01-09T20:08:00.000-05:00

There isn't a great deal of sleep taking place here in our Small Corner these days*, so composing anything that makes sense is out of the question right now. It doesn't help that I've had a cough/cold since mid-December and can't seem to shake it. However, I am lucid enough to post a few gratuitous photos of Mia. Please note: it's NEVER too early to encourage sound political ethics, as illustrated below.

*Don't be deceived by the photo above. It was taken during the day. Apparently sleeping during the day is in fashion for 2 week-olds. Sleeping during the night...not so much.

Mia

2006-12-27T21:45:00.000-05:00

Santa saved the best present for the day AFTER Christmas

2006-12-26T21:37:00.000-05:00

Actually, the "unwrapping" of said present started on Christmas night, but I didn't actually get to enjoy it until today. Specifically, at 11:54 a.m. today.

Her name is Mia. She weighs 6 pounds, 14 ounces, and she is 20 inches long. Her hair is amazing--you have to see it to believe it. Pictures forthcoming, along with more details.

Upon the first day...

2006-12-21T10:10:00.000-05:00

January: Have you ever had so much going on that you couldn't light on one thing to focus on (or in this case write about)?

February: It's official: I'm a Flickr whore.

March: I've been mulling over this post for several days.

April: My temperature did not go up today.

May: There was a time when I was always embarrassed.

June: Imagine a sheepish look on my face.

July: This is a story of embarrassment (those dead plants were in my house for months) made right.

August: I found my creativity! It was inside my sewing basket! Who knew?

September: School has started. I'm so thrilled.

October: Okay, so I'm behind on Photo Friday yet again.

November: Since the laptop I've been using for all of my internet access was in my classroom, I have to resort to my antique desktop, which sometimes freezes mid-sentence.

December: It is 80 degrees in my class--er, cubicle.

Theft is fun!

2006-12-20T16:47:00.000-05:00

Another STEAL THIS MEME brought to you by Calliope.

1) December is to the teaching profession as Sand is to your crack at the beach in the summer.

2) If you gave me a Dys0n vacuum cleaner I would think you were reading my secret diary (& loving you for it) but if you gave me sparkly jewelry I may wonder if you really know me at all.

3) My house is decorated with bits and pieces of everything I love.

4) All I want for Christmas is for Calliope to get knocked up. (different than #2, this is where you tell us how much you really want world peace or mandatory nudity at strip malls...)

5) Giving a loved one soap or any type of body wash is the path of least resistance where gift-giving goes, unless said relative really loves soap or body wash. I myself like soap and body wash. In fact, I would love some of that green Dove soap in my stocking. Hint.

6) What is your favorite holiday movie? "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "A Charlie Brown Christmas"

7) What is your favorite holiday food dish? My mom's cornbread dressing.

8) Who would win in a street fight? Elijah or Jesus? I'm thinking Mary would come in to break it up and kick both their butts.

9) If I hear one more holiday song I will hope that I FINALLY start feeling some holiday spirit.

10) What is your favorite moment/s of 2006? & for all of you bitters, what is (are) your least favorite moments? My favorite moment was realizing that the rythmic pokes I was feeling several times of day was actually Chickie suffering from hiccups. My most bitter moment was watching my workplace burn down.

It's always something

2006-12-20T11:11:00.000-05:00

I have been making empty promises about this post since last Wednesday. Sadly, it's already Wednesday again, almost two weeks after I originally started it, and I still may not finish it. It's chaotic at work. Have I mentioned that? At this moment I can hear the sounds of four different classes, my own not included. Two of the classes are playing music; one is reading a novel out loud; another is attempting to do student presentations. My class is playing Scrabble; they are making the least noise. If you know me at all, you will know the irony and the significance of the following statement: I would rather be in the mall on Christmas Eve than sitting here.

But that's not the point of this post.

This is:

Thirty-two weeks ago I was sitting at my desk in a near comatose state waiting for my planning period to start so I could go home and lie on my bed in a near comatose state and wait for my ultrasound appointment. I was bleeding, and I was convinced it was happening again--that the alien looking thing inside me was making its exit and I would once again be back to square one with nothing but angst and grief to show for all my attempts at pregnancy.

I tend to be one of those people who is always right. Not the annoying kind who claims to be right but isn't. I am, in fact, actually right. Except sometimes, when I'm not.* And then I'm usually only a little off. But this time, 32 weeks ago, I was as wrong as I've ever been in my life. I have never been happier to be so.

I went to my ultrasound appointment braced for the news. As it turns out, I was braced for the wrong news. When I heard the words, "There's a healthy baby in there with a heartbeat," and, "You seem to have a small subchorionic hematoma, which will bleed a little and then most likely be reabsorbed by your body," I came completely unglued. I have been a nervous wreck ever since.

I mentioned in an earlier post, which I can't seem to find right now, that I fully expected every doctor's appointment to reveal the big hoax--that mistakes had been made, reports misread, and there really wasn't a baby in there after all. The revelation never came. I developed a case of perpetual queasiness. My clothes got too small. My boobs grew. Every ultrasound showed a living being in my uterus, a little bigger and a little more mobile every time. I know it must sound ridiculous, but I continued to doubt my good fortune. The more attached I grew to the idea of actually carrying and birthing a child, the more panicked I became about the myriad of things that might go wrong. When the pings and pokes began, when I could actually feel the kid flitting around in there, I became obsessive about detecting movement and convinced myself that if I didn't feel it all the time, something horrible had happened to the baby. I kept most of this to myself, but I was a basket case most of the time.

I would love to tell you I've become one of those serene pregnant women who sits around gazing lovingly at her swollen abdomen with a haze of light emanating from her pores, absentmindedly humming lullabies and attempting to communicate with the unborn. But I can't. I'm not there yet. I am still worried about things--head size, measurements, fetal movements, fluid level (mine is on the "low end of normal"), inhaling toxic odors, that cat scratch on my thigh. It's insane, really, but there you have it. My friend Cheryl told me recently that she loved being pregnant for the first time because she was so clueless and had no idea what was going on. This line of thinking perplexes me; being clueless only adds to my paranoia. And adds and adds.

There are those who would say to me, "Oh, stop it. You have what you want. Why are you complaining?" There are those who said it to my friend Bri recently. What I want to ask those people is this: Do you KNOW what it feels like? How many babies have you lost? Do you KNOW how much the girls in this little circle have SPENT on pregnancy attempts, invasive medical procedures, drugs, sperm, therapy? Yeah, of course we're going to worry. Does that mean we're not happy? That we're ungrateful? That we're not going to enjoy pregnancy? No, not at all, but we take nothing for granted. Nothing.

There are times during every day when Chickie is twitching around, hiccupping, jabbing my side with tiny little heels and crushing my bladder with that larger-than-average head, when I am overcome with gratitude. When I go home every afternoon I head straight for the nursery, where I sit for a while in silence taking it all in, letting the day fall away, feeling my baby toss and roll under the palm of my hand. I can't wait to meet this kid, hear its cry, hold its tiny little hands and feet, stroke its arms and hair and back. But I'm not naive enough to think that all my worries will be over once I've given birth. I'm told that at that moment, the worrying has only just begun.

I would be lying if I told you I'm not elated beyond words about the possibility of having this kid in the next week. I'd also be lying if I told you I'm not worried that something could still go wrong, or that I will be totally clueless once pregnancy ends and motherhood begins. But it's the kind of worry I'm willing to accept. It's the kind of worry I wish for every single woman who wants more than anything to have a child, and for those of you who have already been blessed with a kid or two. And for those of you who don't worry--mind sharing your drug of choice with the rest of us?

*Okay. I hope you know I'm exaggerating. I'm NOT always right. I am frequently wrong. Frequently. I was kidding. Kidding!

This is just to say*

2006-12-14T09:15:00.000-05:00

I have not
gone into labor
and probably won't
until January

and my baby
will weigh 15 pounds
and have
a giant head

Forgive my silence
work is insane
so hectic
and so maddening

*I started a post last Thursday, which I plan to finish today. Meanwhile, it would make me very happy if someone correctly identified this post's extended allusion.

Brooklyn Sidewalk Caves In, Swallows Woman

2006-12-06T15:03:00.000-05:00

Um, Bri?

thirtysomething

2006-12-01T20:45:00.000-05:00

My friend Steph is compiling a list of great things about being 30 for her sister-in-law, who is apparently freaking out about her upcoming thirtieth birthday. Since most of my readership is in the 30s range, I thought I'd enlist all of you to contribute to the list. Leave your "what's great about being 30" contribution in the comments, and feel free to include more than one if you are so inclined. I'll start:

1. I no longer worry so much about looking or feeling stupid in front of others, because who really gives a crap as long as I am content with how I look or feel?

2. I no longer obsess about that weekly pumpkin cream cheese muffin or that extra handful of Peanut M&Ms, because I've developed a close enough relationship with my body to understand that moderation is acceptable.

3. I leased a car at 21, and after the lease was up I financed the car; I never managed to pay off the loan for that car. The car I bought less than three years ago will be paid off in 18 months.

4. I have grown up furniture now.

5. I am much more interested in what a person stands for than in what a person is wearing (or what size a person is wearing), and I find it to be a much healthier interest.

Your turn.

Hell?

2006-12-01T13:42:00.000-05:00

It is 80 degrees in my class--er, cubicle. 80. The temperature of early summer. The temperature of greenhouses. A temperature it should never be inside of a building occupied by humans. And humid. God, is it humid. It smells like feet, or a gerbil cage. Nice. I am not kind when I'm hot, and I. AM. HOT. Feel sorry for my 4th block class. Feel very sorry.

Stolen goods

2006-11-30T19:26:00.000-05:00

I stole this meme at Cali's urging. If you haven't already, you are welcome to steal it, too. I don't think she'd mind. She's nice that way. Be advised, those fill-in-the blank questions are HARD.

1) If somebody said you were like a breakfast cereal, which one would you be and why?

Honeycombs, because I am multi-faceted and VERY sweet.

2) How do you take your coffee/tea?

Regular coffee hot and black, but I prefer an extra-hot latte made with 2% milk.
When drinking tea I prefer Earl Grey, and I like it with half a packet of Splenda.

3) Your bedroom is on fire. You can only reach in & grab ONE thing. Do you grab your photo album or your journals?

I'm going to exercise my rights as a recent fire survivor to not answer this question.

4) When I see Peanut M&Ms and Diet Coke I wish I could inhale them so that everyone else would know what a myth my reputation as a health nut really is.

5) Got porn?

I'm WAAAAYYY too vanilla for porn.

6) If I could meet with my college roomate and explain why I think she is a coward hiding behind her religion for ceasing to be my friend I would never think about our lost friendship again.

7) What is the worst pet name in the history of your family?

Once we had a dachshund named Feller, whose nickname was Pooter. Take. Your. Pick.

Unless, of course, you are talking about pet names as in a cutesy little name you call a family member or significant other. In that case, again, take your pick: my childhood pediatrician called me Hee-Ho (sadly, it stuck); my mom's childhood nickname was BaBo; and I called (okay, sometimes still call) my Aunt Karen Kar-Kar.

8) I would eat a bowl of OATMEAL for free, but if you want me to eat a bowl of GRITS you'd have to pay me THE COST OF A BOTTLE OF ABSOLUT, which is what I'd have to drink in order to eat the grits.

9) What 80's tv star would make you giggle like a school girl?

Duh! Tom Selleck! (And yes, friends, I KNOW he's a Republican AND a member of NRA. I choose to overlook these things.)

10) What age was your best and why?

I like now the best. 32. Maybe just the 30s in general. So far, so good.

Quick update

2006-11-30T09:15:00.000-05:00

As I was assured by many of you, my baby does not have an enormous head. My doctor shared the radiologist's report with me yesterday, and everything is within completely normal range. The head measures about a week and a half ahead of the rest of the body, which the doctor said was nothing to worry about.

Thanks for all the encouraging comments.

For those of you playing along at home, I have 15 days of school remaining. If only I had the energy to do the dance of joy.

2006-11-27T10:33:00.000-05:00

Well kids, things are definitely back to normal around here. I have given my slacker 1st block class an assignment, and most of them are doing it. Two of them, however, are sitting at the back of the cubicle (okay, so some things will never be normal) talking, laughing, glancing my way to make sure I'm not paying attention to them (Hello? News Flash! I'M NOT DEAF, dumbasses!). This is just like it used to be! I'm so thrilled I could hit them hard with a blunt object, because something else that's just like it used to be is THEY ARE GETTING ON MY NERVES. They must pass my class to earn a credit toward graduation. They must past the exam in my class to become 10th graders. Of these two boys who haven't even started their work, one has been in high school for four years and has earned six credits total (you can earn up to eight per year, if you're wondering); the other is taking 9th grade English for the third time. I'm thinking that all the care in the world on my part isn't going to make a damn bit of difference on theirs. That's why I'm talking to YOU instead.

Your assignment, and you'd better do it (see above re: blunt object) is to tell me one or all of the following things about yourselves:

1. What is the most outrageous gift you'd give someone for the holidays if you had unlimited funds?

2. What is the most outrageous gift you'd WANT from someone else?

3. What is your family's weirdest holiday tradition?