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April 2007
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May 2007

My little portable space heater

The boy wore me out today. I'm beat, and that's with having one of the devoted aunts watching him all morning and Phillip due to walk in the front door any minute now. If you're wondering how I managed to get to the computer AND type with both hands, it's because the boy is propped up in the Boppy on my bed and I am using the laptop and nudging him every three seconds with my toes.

He's suddenly figured out that he can conquer gravity, simply by fussing until someone (namely, me, his wuss of a mother) picks him up. Who wants to sit or, horrors, sprawl out in bed if there is a perfectly soft and cozy human nearby to haul you into the air and nestle you into their pudgy folds? He's smart, my kid. It is, however, 85 degrees today, which is a full ten degrees hotter than the average Pacific Northwesterner's melting point, and I am no different from my pasty brethren. Not only is it Officially Too Hot To Live, I also have to hold a small furnace all day lest he torment me with the fussing.

Which he is doing right now. Please excuse me.

No doubt you think I am a rotten mother, what with the propping in the Boppy and the jamming in of the pacifier and the mad dash back to the computer, but whatever. At this point, Day Two of Endeavoring to  Keep Baby Alive All By Myself, I am doing whatever keeps me sane. And that little Soothie pacifier they gave me in the hospital? Praise be to God for the Soothie pacifier.

My original plan for the day was to put the baby in the wrap and enjoy the sunshine, but the wrap was too hot yesterday, at a mere 80 degrees. No way was I wearing the baby today. Which meant I was standing up and holding him and bouncing him and enduring the shrieks of indignance (is that a word?) whenever I set him down to rehydrate. I decided I was going to go nuts if I didn't find something to do, so I took advantage of several fuss-free minutes to assemble the stroller and the car seat and off we went to the Asian grocery store twelve blocks away. (I counted. If only you lost one pound per block. Wouldn't that be awesome?)

I only bought what would fit in the bin thingie on the stroller (fruit, yogurt, more chocolate for my depleted-daily candy dish) and I graciously allowed the checker ladies to coo over my TINY BABY. Then we hiked home where we both promptly collapsed of heat exhaustion and the sheer exertion of pushing a stroller for twelve blocks. How am I ever going to make it all the way around the lake again?

Phillip is STILL not home. Not that I want to be at work. I believe I even said to myself today, out loud, "Self, even though you are overheating and you smell bad and you are wearing the same pair of shorts you've worn for a week because NOTHING YOU OWN FITS YOU, this is still a much better job than the one you had before." And then I kissed the baby on both of his fat little cheeks because they're THERE and how can you NOT kiss those cheeks?

And because someone has STILL not uploaded the new pictures, here's the birth announcement I made with one hand. Will someone please tell my child that he need not look so worried? It's not like we're forgetting to feed him or anything.

Birthannouncement

Those stripey pajamas? Do not fit him anymore. Wah. I am totally going to bronze them and frame them in a memory box to hang above his crib. Hee.

Oh wait. Phillip is home and GUESS WHO JUST NOW FELL ASLEEP WITHOUT ANYONE HOLDING HIM.


No real train of thought, but a post nonetheless!

Phillip went back to work today. I am home. Alone. With a mewling infant.

Okay, so not very alone. Lunch was delivered by my old friend Neighbor and her eight-month-old and my in-laws are here right now. ("I can hold the baby while you take a nap!" "Do you want to do some work? I'll hold the baby! "Want to go to the store while I hold the baby?" "Let me fund a month-long all expenses paid Hawaiian vacation so I can hold the baby!")

But for a few hours this morning, in between Phillip tearing himself away from Jackson and my friend showing up with twelve tons of food, I was on my own. I fed the baby while I watched the morning news. I stuck the baby in his car seat and dragged him into the bathroom so I could take a shower. I wrapped him up and propped him in the Boppy while I ate some Cheerios and did the dishes and dusted the living room. He slept while I organized the giant mountain of loose papers that have taken over the dining table. I slid him into my new Moby wrap and we went outside to mail some thank you notes. We sat on the couch and watched The Real Housewives Of Orange County and ate the Godiva chocolates my next door neighbor gave me last night, which is pretty close to sitting in the bath reading trashy magazines and eating bon bons, don't you think? I could definitely get used to this staying at home thing.

Except that I have no idea when I'm going to do the millions of things I have to do. I was giving myself at least two months before I even begin to think about work stuff, but someone just emailed me about a new project that sounds pretty cool and would pay me actual paper money. What is this Pages feature in TypePad? For I must know and also, I need to fix up the funky pages I already have. My shopping list keeps growing. My list phone calls to return keeps growing. People have brought us so much food that we can't keep up with the leftovers and the fridge is probably growing all sorts of new fungal species. There are bills to pay and announcements to print and send, laundry to wash and fold, and you are not going to believe this, but packing up and putting away of preemie clothes. I KNOW. About half of his preemie clothes are too small because they either were actual honest-to-God preemie clothes and he's grown out of them, or they are preemie clothes for the Jolly Green Giant's small baby and I somehow shrunk them in the wash. Even when I washed them in cold and dried them on the lowest heat. What's up with that?

He is still a SMALL BABY but he's getting to be a looong baby and this growing out of things is making me sort of weepy. Sniff.

Everyone says I should take a nap. Seriously. The chorus of GO TAKE A NAP is constantly ringing in my ears. But I don't WANT to take a nap. Do you hear me, people?! I am getting a little annoyed with you. For one thing, I have never been able to nap. Anxious fidgety people like myself are not good nap takers. Also it is bright and sunny out nearly every day and who wants to climb into bed when you have flowers to water and a Moby wrap to stick the baby in so you can walk down to the lake and get an ice cream cone? There is just always something to do, and taking a nap is never at the top of the list. Sure I'm tired in the middle of the night, but I bet I'd be tired even if I'd taken a nap.

I should probably stop complaining and tell you a bit about How Things Are Going. Everyone wants to know how he's sleeping and eating (and even if they don't want to know, they ask anyway, because these are the two things around which a new parent's world revolves) and I would have to say: fairly well, thank you very much. Again, this is possibly because of my drastically low expectations for all things newborn. He's a little fussy, a little gassy, he has his days and nights mixed up and he takes forever to eat. But! He doesn't shriek and scream and howl for hours on end, like other babies I've known. We've yet to even consider driving him around the block in a last ditch attempt to get him to sleep. He's gassy, but what baby isn't gassy? He wants to stay up all night talking about fuel prices and the '08 election when his parents just want to sleep already, but I'm pretty sure sleep deprivation was part of the new baby deal. And he may not have the eating thing completely figured out (and do not assume his mother does either!) but at least he EATS. These first couple of weeks are HARDLY the nightmare I thought they would be. Of course, I am always waiting for the shoe to drop, so we'll see. Every day is different.

And even when the baby has latched and unlatched himself forty-seven times in the course of half an hour and I am about ready to pitch him out the window, that drunk-on-milk face is the absolute cutest thing in the entire world.

This is where I would insert a picture of the drunk-on-milk face, but SOMEONE hasn't uploaded the pictures on the camera. Not that I am going to point fingers, but you can probably guess who that SOMEONE is. Complaints may be sent to mightymaggieATgmailDOTcom.


Two week update

Yesterday I was all MUST UPLOAD NEW WEBSITE because the order of life right now goes One: Baby, Two: Website, Three: Husband, and I was starting to get the shakes. But stupid Typepad. I fussed and nitpicked and published my test blog 147 times (man, whatever smartie on the internet recommended the entire IDEA of a test blog was freaking brilliant) but then when I went to publish the real thing, I kept getting an error. Sorry! Typepad said with a cheerful yet snotty grin. Try again later! Gah. Stupid Typepad.

***ETA: Um, stupid me. I totally broke my website. First I blamed TypePad. My bad! Then I blamed Phillip because he finally decided to map the domain he bought me two and a half YEARS ago. (Which still doesn't work.) But no, it was me. Sigh. But it's fixed! All better! And just in time to feed the baby!***

So this morning I am reading my email and typing one handed, as I often do these days, and someone mentions my new banner image and I'm all HUH? And then I tell myself I am a big fat dummy and clicked refresh and voila: new banner. Gah. Am an idiot of massive proportions. Also because I forgot to update a couple of files and certain pages are half new and half old and funky looking. So don't go looking at those. Who knows when I'll have time to fix them! ***ETA: Yes! Still funky looking! But in a completely different way! My ability to break the website knows no bounds!***

Look at this instead!

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This is how I stretch when I'm waking up. It makes my mother positively googly-eyed. I totally have her wrapped around my ET-like fingers.

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Dear Uncle Alex: You can't take 400 stupid pictures of yourself with my camera and expect not to have any of them show up on the internet.

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My dad took me to shop in the electronics section while my mother hunted for SMALL BABY clothes. Oddly enough I am still wearing the same sissy pajamas.

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See? This is my Worried Face which I save for when I watch the Middle East reporting on CNN and for when I ponder what life will be like if I am wearing duckies until I'm fourteen.


Correspondence

Dear Friends Who Came Over This Morning And Did All My Dishes And Made Me Breakfast And Watched The Baby So I Could Take A Shower,
You are the awesomest. Please come back tomorrow.
XOXO
Maggie

Dear Witch Hazel,
You and I were cool for a while, but now that everything I own absolutely reeks of you, the relationship is starting to go sour. I've asked the universe when I can stash the rest of you under my sink, but the universe and all of my friends said, "It hasn't even been two weeks!" and laughed and laughed.
Bite me,
Maggie

Dear Manufacturers of Preemie Clothes,
Seriously? Are you kidding me? My baby isn't even a preemie and your clothes are practically dripping off of him. I thought you people were supposed to make clothes that fit SMALL BABIES. Right now all my kid wears are Target onesies and a couple of sissy yellow pajamas  because all the other preemie clothes in the world are made for preemies who apparently weigh fourteen pounds.
We are totally not speaking,
Maggie

Dear Jackson,
Can you fatten up here already? Because you've got some SUPER cute clothes in your dresser and if you don't hurry up and grow, I will have an entire summer's worth of adorable little outfits you'll never be able to wear. So annoying. Part of the deal with having a new baby is getting to dress him up and I'm still waiting for you to deliver on that one, kid. Straighten up.
Love,
Your Mom

Dear My Mother-In-Law,
If I'd known that all I'd have to do to make sure my fridge was stocked with two dozen kinds of Chinese food on a biweekly basis, I would have done it way sooner. Next time please bring more fried rice.
Love,
Your thirty pounds overweight un-dainty daughter-in-law

Dear Phillip,
Babies do not sleep through the night. I thought this was a well-known fact, but it seems like you could stand to hear it again. Babies? Do not sleep. Also? They sometimes cry for no discernible reason. This does not mean you should sit up in bed during the 3 am feeding and rant about What Could Possibly Be Wrong With Our Kid Why Will He Not Shut Up Already. GOD.
Kisses!
Your devoted wife

Dear Phillip's Hippie Boss,
You totally rock with your supportive work-from-home-dad-ness and your "Maggie and the baby are your first priority!" message of complete awesomeness. Now we would like a big fat raise.
Thanks!
Maggie

Dear People Who Have Still Not Received A Thank You Note,
I suck. I know. I have a year, right? Is that just for weddings?
Sheepishly,
Maggie

Dear Red Wine,
If I were not feeding a six-pound infant every three hours, you and I would be kicking it in front of the Gilmore Girls series finale. But you'll have to wait until I get the hang of the this whole pump-and-dump thing. 'Kay?
Fondly,
Maggie

Dear CW Network Who Thinks It Can Cancel My Favorite Show,
SUCK IT.
-M

Dear Nielsen Ratings People,
Sorry about the whole agreeing to record our television watching thing. I've totally been watching TV, my baby even turns his head to the sound of Steve Carrell making an ass of himself! I just haven't been writing it down. See, I sort of had a baby on the day I was supposed to start. My bad!
Still friends?
Maggie

Dear My Brother,
Just because Phillip is six foot two does not mean my child is the Last Great Hope for an NBA star to emerge from our family. Since I am taller than everyone in Phillip's family and we are no clan of giants ourselves, I think this is a little too much pressure. Lay off. Also, you are holding him wrong. Gah.
Thanks for bringing pizza,
Maggie

Dear Friends Who Keep Bringing Us Dinner,
You are also awesome. I am already dreading the day when everyone decides we are self-sufficient and that we don't need anyone to come over and feed us anymore. Really. You guys are much better at this cooking thing than I am.
Smooch!
Maggie

Dear My Mom,
I know I said it was okay for you to stay home and finish out the school year so your fourth graders wouldn't be traumatized with a long term sub. I also know I said you should stay home and pack up and move out of the house, sign all the papers, exchange money under the table and pay off the appropriate officials to sell the house, but I am really REALLY looking forward to you moving home already because you are probably the only person who will ask me if the baby pooped that day and actually CARE.
Wah,
Your daughter

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Here I am sitting next to Fat the Bunny in my sissy yellow pajamas. Yes, I know he is also known as Pat the Bunny, but someone at the baby shower accidentally called him Fat the Bunny and my mother thinks that is the most hilarious thing she has ever heard. I will be in therapy by the time I'm eight.


The birth story. Sort of.

Sublime? Hmm. I should have spent more time thinking before I wrote that completely barf-worthy paragraph the other day. How can something involving hospital gowns and stitches and, uh, all that fluid be sublime?

I read Moxie's post on what constitutes a good birth a dozen times before I got pregnant and another three dozen times after I got pregnant. My biggest fear was (is) post-partum craziness and after a while I decided that I would "plan" my pregnancy and birth and parenting style around whatever would prevent anxiety. Hee, you are thinking. THAT is HILARIOUS. I know! But all that really means is that I decided not to plan. I smiled when friends gave me books about pregnancy and then barely looked at them. I declined all the genetic testing. I read up on the side effects of epidurals and counted up the number of friends who told me I was crazy if I didn't get one. I did not write up a birth plan. I found a doctor and hospital I liked, went to a one day childbirth class and read an excellent book about labor and delivery about a week before the baby arrived. In the meantime I ate ice cream and watched TV and obsessed over diaper bags. (I bought this one by the way. *Love*. Seriously. Best bag ever.)

I know some people think women need to fully educate themselves about labor and not hand their births over to doctors who may see them simply as the screeching woman in room five and for the most part I agree. And I think I'm pretty educated. I have read every mommyblog on the internet. But I knew that too much information wasn't going to be good for me, the anxious control freak. I knew I couldn't do natural childbirth because 1) I am the Queen of Wuss and 2) it would require a lot more education, practice, determination and commitment than I was willing to give. I didn't want to commit or plan or decide on any one thing on the offchance I failed and set myself up for the kind of disappointment and guilt trip only a Type A overachiever eldest child can create for herself. The most important thing, by far, was to keep my anxiety to a minimum.

Anyway, birth was not a big deal to me. Except for the part about how much it hurts. That was a huge deal. I was not at all excited about feeling what it's like to have your lower lip pulled over your head. I figured as long as I got a healthy baby and a relatively intact body out of the deal, I'd be in good shape.

So that was my mindset when I started having contractions at 3:30 in the morning on Tuesday. I was pretty convinced this was nothing, just practice contractions because hello, this was my first baby and he was sure to be two weeks late. You know how all the books say "longer, stronger, closer together"? Well these were short, manageable and very close together. After a while they were longer, stronger and farther apart. Late Tuesday night we were keeping close track, but they weren't matching the go-to-the-hospital pattern, even though I was having to, you know, deal with these things. Who are these people telling you to get a pedicure and go to the movies in early labor? WHATEVER.

I stayed up all night watching crappy TV. I tried to sleep in between shots of stabbing pain, but because I had to leap up from the couch every time and go through my This Will Not Kill Me routine, sleeping was difficult. I whiled away the morning hours in the same way, watching Phillip work furiously on the laptop because he wasn't quite ready to leave for two weeks. I still wasn't sure it was the real thing, though. I'd been reading up on Jennifer, for one thing, she of the endless early labor misery, and the last thing I wanted was to show up at the hospital all eager new mom-like and be sent home. I had my last doctor appointment scheduled for that afternoon and Phillip made me go, even though I thought enduring a contraction in the car would make me positively insane.

The doctor said, "You're four centimeters already. You can go to the hospital now or stay at home a little longer, but you're having this baby tonight."

I didn't get it. These contractions were above and beyond the ones I was having even a few hours earlier, but they weren't closer together and they weren't getting longer. I didn't feel like I had lost my "social self" like the books said I would in active labor. I was still blogging! How could I already be four centimeters? So we went home and I threw a few more things in my hospital bag. We called our parents. We looked at each other nervously. Phillip did some more work.

A few hours later I was having contractions that were the same length, still about ten minutes apart but making me want to throw myself down the stairs. "I think," I announced to my husband, "that I would like the professionals to start taking care of me." We took five minutes to sit on the couch and ponder our last bit of coupleness, our last taste of doing-whatever-whenever-we-want-ness and then we were off. Phillip trying to remember how to get to the hospital, me praying I would not have a contraction in the car.

And I didn't!

Gosh this is getting long.

Once we got to the hospital everything got much more whirlwindy. Within the first half hour I was wearing the gown, strapped to the monitors, hooked up to an IV, a blood pressure cuff, fetal and pulse monitors and quickly growing loopy from the dose of narcotics the nurse had kindly dumped in the IV so I could sit still while they inserted the epidural catheter. "This," I thought to myself, "is why people do not want to have babies in the hospital." The epidural lady was scary, my nurse was pushing the drugs because she wanted me to sleep, the bed was already uncomfortable and the blood pressure cuff squeezed my arm off every fifteen minutes.

But the contractions didn't hurt anymore. After everyone left the room and I was under orders to get some rest, Phillip and I just stared at each other. We were going to have a BABY. I was already at 5-6 centimeters by the time we got to the hospital and unless the epidural slowed everything down, I was pretty sure I'd have a baby in my arms by morning. I couldn't sleep because of the stupid blood pressure cuff. We talked about how everything had gone as hoped: we'd stayed home as long as possible, we were well along our way dilation-wise, we had a room that faced the city instead of the boring hospital courtyard, we had yet to argue or freak out on each other. We were both done with work, we had time to pack our bags, we were totally prepared. I was starting to grow very fond of my nurse, who checked up on me frequently, and I think at that point we were both feeling incredibly thankful.

My nurse would come in every so often, cluck at the contraction monitor strip and say my contractions weren't getting closer. She laughed when Phillip asked if we might have the baby before midnight. Then she'd check me and every time I was further along than she thought. Sometime in the night we heard the woman next door start to scream and Phillip looked at the nurse nervously. "I thought she got an epidural too," he said. "Oh," she grinned, "let's just say that not all patients are like your wife." Which, you know. Totally made me feel like a labor and delivery ROCK STAR. I have to be a brown noser even when having a baby, people.

So we just waited. At one point the nurse came in and sat down and said, "Looks like you're ready to push!" And I was all, "Um, I don't think so." Because my doctor was not there. It was the middle of the night. I was quite happy just dozing off in between blood pressure readings. This was not how I pictured pushing. Phillip and I were all, "We cannot believe how easy this has been. Everything is going SO WELL!"
Of course, that's where things started to not go well, because suddenly our baby did not have a heartbeat. The nurse put on her Worried Look and started fussing with the monitors. I switched positions fifteen times. We could not get a consistent heart rate and when we did, it dropped dangerously low during contractions. The nurse went to page the doctor and left me there to obsess over the numbers. I finally made Phillip take my glasses away so I couldn't see the machine. (See? I need LESS information!) Finally the nurse brought out this scary ELECTRIC PROBE THING and said she was going to attach it to my baby's HEAD. And then? THAT DIDN'T WORK EITHER.

I don't know how long this took, but suddenly there were lots of people plus my doctor fidgeting in my room. Sometimes they had me push, sometimes they told me to hold back. My doctor hesitantly brought up the suction option, which I had to explain to Phillip was like putting a toilet plunger on the baby's head. They'd asked me long ago not to turn up the epidural anymore (turns out the contraction monitor wasn't working either and they needed me to "feel" them) and yowie, this was starting to get intense.

I thought of pushing as two things: either the crazy intense horribly painful experience I'd read about in countless natural birth stories, or my friend N's epiduralized pushing, which was more like calmly giving a good push every time she finished a chapter in a very engaging book. Phillip and I had watched N's birth video (not by choice, my God, we were so not interested in seeing that) and the pushing looked like a breeze. Seriously. She could have been having a pedicure. And that was our picture, Phillip's especially, of pushing.

But no. Not only did I have a lazy SMALL BABY who didn't shape up and start growing until the doctor threatened induction, I had a baby who didn't care for these monitor things and clearly was not interested in going along with the plan. Until the doctor threatened suction and he was all, "Time to exit! Here I go!" And suddenly I was PUSHING. Like, oh my God how is this even humanly possible pushing. Pushing to the tune of a chorus of people shouting, "YOU CAN DO IT! YOU'RE AMAZING! YOU'RE DOING SUCH A GREAT JOB! LOOK AT THAT! SHE'S AWESOME!" And you know what? I totally felt awesome. Well, I totally wanted to die, first of all. But a teeny part of my brain was also thinking, "This is the most cool thing I have ever done in my entire life and oh YEAH I am doing awesome." I mean, I know they say that to every woman pushing a baby out, but I don't care. They made me feel like a superhero. If I hadn't been breaking in two I would have given them all big sloppy kisses.

I think that was the part I would call sublime. Which is crazy. I have never ever felt that kind of pain AND THAT WAS WITH AN EPIDURAL. It was so awful I couldn't stand to not push. And at the same time I thought I was going to explode, I was unbelievably high. The baby wasn't even out yet and I couldn't believe that I, me, girl who hates exercise, girl who does not run unless she is being chased, girl who thought running suicides at the end of basketball practice was tantamount to torture- I WAS DOING THIS. AND IT WAS WAS WORKING!

He was out. He looked like a little alien. And quite honestly, I was much more excited about no longer having a watermelon in my pelvis than I was about having a baby.

A few hours later, in the middle of the night when all three of us were supposed to be sleeping, I cried into my plasticky hospital pillow. I could not believe this happened to me. I'd spent nine months fretting over how horrible it was going to be, how I'd just have to endure it and get through it and hopefully recover fast enough to escape the anxiety monster. And here I was thanking God that I got to feel what it was like to push my baby out. (Caveat: WITH AN EPIDURAL. I cannot even imagine what it would have been like withOUT the epidural. I would have surely died.)

I was so taken care of, you guys. By my husband who totally did not faint, by my nurse who stuck around to watch my baby being born even though her shift was long over, by my doctor who cheered me on. All the things my friends had prayed for a week earlier, when it occurred to us that we were going to have a baby soon and it'd be nice to have people pray for us- all of those prayers were answered. We had amazing nurses and a room with a view and not once did I tell Phillip that all of this was his fault and he was sleeping on the couch from here on out. Our baby came out by himself, perfect, ten fingers and ten toes. And the very last thing I thought I would feel- that the birth had been an amazing singular experience I'd treasure- was exactly what I was feeling.

I just have to think that God knew. God knew that the weather would be beautiful in May, and he knew that good weather does wonders for my psyche. He gave us enough time to finish up at work and still have a few moments alone together. He knew I'd want a room where I could see what was happening in the rest of the world. He knew my nurse would immediately want to drug me up and that I'd resist for the sake of showing off, but that she would sit with me and reassure me and treat me like I was Superwoman when I started to panic.  I was so afraid and so nervous and so anxious about being anxious, and the whole time God was going to give me this.

Now I have to go feed the boy. Eventually I want to write up a play by play, just so I don't forget, but these are the parts I want to remember most. I can totally forget the mean epidural lady who told me, after the fourth prick, that if I didn't stop flinching I'd get the spinal headache to end all spinal headaches and she'd blame ME. Now I think she was trying to be jokey, since we were all being kind of jokey and I was completely doped on fetanyl and attempting to make light of absolutely everything, but MAN did she scare the crap out of me.


My life in 3 hour increments

I don't know what to tell you about first.

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I'm hungry. Why are you always checking your email? Why do I have the forehead wrinkles of an 87-year-old man?

My sister is here holding the baby. I don't have to feed him for another hour. I should be sleeping, right? Ha.

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Why do these people keep swaddling me? My fingers are so tasty!

I wanted to sit down and write a birth story today. A sort of birth story, anyway. I knew my sister was coming over and I'd taken a nap and I was all prepared. But then I made Phillip drag out the plastic tub with my summer clothes (it's 80 degrees today) and now I am horribly miserably depressed because my summer clothes are two sizes too small and I will NEVER WEAR THEM AGAIN.

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Of course, I am so worth it.

Then, because it's 80 degrees out, I watered the front yard. I was hungry so I ate a banana. I threw twelve million burp rags in the washer. I held a fussy baby and watched the news. I rinsed out all the plastic thingies that help me feed the baby and tried not to think about yesterday's follow up hospital visit, where a very nice nurse told me that just because the baby is sucking doesn't mean he's eating. I tried not to think about how I starved my baby for three entire days.

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I am already a SMALL BABY.

I really want to write all about how Jackson came into this world, (minus the graphic details as this is, after all, a family website) but it's going to take me forever. Even if I had the time and brain power, I have no idea how to write it down. For someone who was absolutely uninterested in birth, in the "experience", who made a conscious decision NOT to read everything, who sincerely just wanted the baby out in the easiest way available, it was... surreal, amazing, sublime. And hurt like hell, but I guess that's a given. The more I think about the day Jackson was born, the more I think God planned the entire thing, down to my nurse and the room and the time he finally arrived. I hate to be one of those googly-eyed annoying girls raving about her Experience, but PEOPLE. It was AWESOME.

Not that I want to do it again. I'm going to take a quick scalding bath before the baby starts howling for food and it takes me about half an hour to climb the stairs.

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[I don't know what this ribbon thing is called, but when you have a baby in Italy, you hang one on the front door until he's a month old. And that door? Is my front door. Also, yes, that is blue painter's tape. Tape was not on the list of Things To Buy Before The Baby Comes.]


I am an excellent one-handed typist

Sometimes when I'm done feeding the baby and I'm half delirious I start writing terribly eloquent posts in my head. I so wanted to sit and write something profound in honor of Mother's Day, but the baby hasn't pooped since we took him home from the hospital (Phillip wants to know what you all think about that btw, he wants to harness the power of the internet) and we've been soothing an upset gassy baby all night. But this is fun. I know sometime in the next few days the novelty will wear off and I'll get really tired and cranky, but right now all of it is so fun. Even the hard and scary parts, which so far have not been that hard or scary. I cry a lot, but 90% of the time it's because he's looking up at me all content-like and I don't think I have ever been so happy.

Right now he is watching the little letters pop up on the screen as I type. Our little computer nerd.

Anyway I hope you'll stick around even if it takes me a while to write the profound stuff (which, I'm sure you're well aware, will probably be the exact opposite.)

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Mmm, baby burritos are delicious.

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My boys. And the evil pumping machine.


The calm before the storm

Well there were a couple of obstacles to getting this post out.  First there was the trip to the hospital.  That went pretty well.  Lots of green lights and no traffic.  Not very many contractions on the way there either.  Then there was all the hospital stuff.  Signing forms, setting up monitoring, getting epidural, ordering dinner (for me, not Maggie).  Throw in a visiting sister and calling friends and relatives and you have a pretty busy time. 

Also there was some technical problems as well.  Turns out the hospital uses the same IP range as my work so my VPN client was actually blocking the internet.  So now I have internet but it looks like the the hospital blocks access to Typepad.

Long story short, Maggie's doing fine and is trying to rest.  After posting this I'll try and get a nap too.  Hopefully the next update will have some baby pictures. 

-Phillip