It all started with brunch

I used to think I liked French toast the way my mom made it. She would dunk bread into the egg batter so quickly that it was really more like *showing* the bread to the eggs. Her French toast, then, was truthfully better described as battered bread – there were distinct layers to it, egg-bread-egg, as if it were a cross-section of an archaeological dig.

For years I ate it happily, after watching her prepare it with a careful eye. She’d crack the eggs into a flat pie plate, add a splash of milk and a pinch of salt, and beat it all together with chopsticks. Then she would take up the square white bread, hold it aloft in readiness, and turn to me. “You have to be fast,” she’d say. “Nothing can ruin your French toast more completely than if you really let all that egg soak in there. The bread’ll fall apart.” I’d nod, my eyes gleaming with avarice as I fiddled with the syrup bottle in anticipation. Flash! And flip! And into the pan. The toast would sizzle as it hit the hot butter. Within minutes, my brother and I would be leaning over our laden plates, eyes closed in beatific joy as we inhaled the smell of a wonderful weekend in the making.

When I got into high school and then college, sometimes the preparation of weekend breakfasts would fall to me. I dutifully prepared French toast just the way mom always did – assembling the necessary ingredients quickly, whisking the bread through the egg batter, and frying up platefuls of crispy, sizzling toast. My dad, who abhorred sweetness with any kind of protein, always skipped the syrup, rolling his eyes at us in derision as we poured it on thickly. He would slather butter onto his French toast and devour it as a savoury treat.

At some point, I must have been watching Nick at Night instead of writing a paper for college, because I caught an episode of “Family Ties” long after the show had actually gone off the air. Alex P. Keaton was telling little brother Andy how to prepare French toast. “First,” he squeaked in that charming Michael-J-Fox way, “you start your preparations a day ahead of time, because you have to let the bread soak in the egg batter for at LEAST 24 hours.” I wrinkled my nose at the TV. “Ugh. Mush!” The rest of Alex’s lecture went unnoticed as I marveled that anyone could actually let the bread sit in the batter for any longer than a second or two. Shuddering in distaste, I eventually turned off the TV to focus on my homework.

It was years later when some small voice made itself heard on a fateful weekend. There I was, looking down at all the familiar accoutrement of the French toast ritual, when I thought, “But really – how mushy would it get?” I decided to do a little experiment. Teeming with guilt that I was departing from the method my mother had taken such care to instill within me (those Catholic mothers know what they’re doing with the guilt thing), I purposefully prepared the egg batter first before preheating my frying pan. Then I dropped the bread into the egg batter and stepped back. Turning my back on the plate to avoid the temptation of snatching the bread right back out again, I busied myself with the pan. When it was finally ready, I turned back to the pie plate to look at the bread, half-expecting to see that it had dissolved completely – but it looked fine. I had to use a little more care getting it into the frying pan, but once there, it fried up with no ill effects – it didn’t lose its shape, take any longer to cook, or splatter any more than it normally did. Somewhat disappointed in this seemingly normal production, I slid the toast onto a plate, cooled it off with a little maple syrup, and prepared to enjoy a distressingly routine brunch.

How wrong I was. Once I’d cut through the toast with the side of my fork and taken the first bite, I knew in an instant that I was on to something. The crispiness of the toast – yes, that was familiar and quite delicious. But the inside of the toast – there dwelled a creamy, custardy heaven I never would have fathomed. Somehow, the bread itself had been transformed into a smooth and fluffy filling of sorts for my crusty French toast shell. I ate my breakfast ecstatically, unwilling to take even a short break to call my mother and tell her about my discovery. (When I finally did call her, she was not impressed.)

From then on, the French toast ritual has never been the same. Not only do I relish the chance to let the bread soak in the batter, I add flavors with glee, experiment fearlessly with ingredients. Cinnamon makes its way into the batter regularly, as does vanilla. I’ve departed from white bread to try my hand at croissant French toast, or cinnamon raisin bread French toast. I saw recently that there’s a restaurant in Austin that does a carrot cake French toast I’m dying to try. But my favorite thing about the ritual now is that it’s mine. I finally woke up and smelled what I was cooking, departing from the way I’d been told to do something, instead finding my own path.

Since then, I’ve taken stock of a lot of things I picked up along the way to today, to see if they’re really mine. Some things still fit comfortably, whereas others suffered the same fate as mom’s French toast methods. The looking, though – that’s what’s important.

Come fly the friendly skies

My husband and I took our four-and-a-half month old son on his first plane trip recently. Here are some things I learned during that adventure.

1. Everything you thought you knew about air travel just became obsolete now that you're traveling with a baby. Even if you're a seasoned veteran of the post-9/11 airport thing, this is a whole new world.
2. You will always feel like you forgot something huge when you leave the house.
3. The baby has tiny clothes, but still needs significant room in a suitcase, once you consider diapers, wipes, blankets, toys, bath accessories and other various sundries.
4. The security personnel who man the X-ray machines don't care that this is your first time flying with a baby.
5. It takes longer than you think to disassemble the car seat/carrier from the stroller base and collapse it all to place on the X-ray machine conveyor belt.
6. If you don't place the car seat/carrier face down on the belt, it will get stuck.
7. It takes approximately seven minutes, two security personnel and one exasperated dad to "un-stick" a car seat from an X-ray machine conveyor belt.
8. A security line at the airport can back up impressively in seven minutes.
9. The guy behind you at the security line doesn't care it's your first time traveling with a baby, either.
10. It's very hard to tie your sneakers when you're wearing a baby in a Baby Bjorn carrier on your chest.
11. Your husband probably has his hands full with the carrier, stroller, backpack and diaper bag, plus boarding passes, and can't help you with your shoes.
12. People at airports don't even think twice about hacking into their grimy hands and then reaching out to touch your baby.
13. It's very convenient to wear your baby in a carrier, since you can lean back out of the reach of hacking people who want to touch your baby.
14. Airports are way dirtier than you remember them being, once you take your baby through one.
15. It will not kill your baby to be in a germ-y environment for a few hours, as long as you take reasonable precautions. Also, buy stock in Purell once you learn you're going to have a baby, as you will spend a fortune on this stuff.
16. The mild gravitational force you feel during takeoff apparently causes four-and-a-half month old baby boys to void their bowels in forceful, violent and pungent ways, often requiring a change of clothes.
17. There is not enough room in an airport lavoratory for two parents and a four-and-a-half month old with a soiled diaper.
18. When one parent stands outside the lavoratory with the diaper bag and supplies while the other wrestles with the child (who's laying on a changing table the size of a dinner plate), the antics are on display to any passengers seated beyond the lavoratories. If you can manage a wry comment directed at the rest of the plane, you will get some chuckles that may earn you some forgiveness when your kid starts wailing later.
19. A four-and-a-half month old baby boy is strong enough to pull up your discreet nursing cover.
20. The guy across the aisle from you is probably looking, too.
21. Somehow, flashing the guy across the aisle doesn't bother you as much as you thought it would. You're probably too damn tired to care.
22. People can surprise you with their compassion and decency. When you apologize for your crying baby and offer earplugs to the folks around you, almost all of them will decline, saying, "Ah, I've got kids/grandkids of my own -- I know how it is."
23. After all the headaches and juggling of gear, you can look back on the trip and marvel at how well your little one handled a major disruption in his or her short life, and feel proud of the kid. And of yourselves.

Jukebox baby

I grew up singing. But my musical repertoire wasn't limited to just nursery rhymes and children's music. I cut my teeth on seventies rock and easy listening, with some classical music thrown in for variety.

You see, I was born when my parents were in their early 20s. And like most college-student 20-somethings, they spent a great deal of their time with music playing in the background as they studied and went about their days. So when I came along, they just continued that practice as a matter of course.

My earliest memories have music in them. Some of them involve my grandmother singing me traditional lullabies, but more likely they center around CCR, Bread, Lobo, Juice Newton and Chuck Mangione. I played with Barbies as they rocked to AC/DC. I pushed around my brother's Tonka truck as the Mamas and the Papas sang "California Dreamin'." I helped my mom dust and vacuum as Copeland's "Rodeo" thundered through the house. My younger brother and I knew all the words to "Coward of the County" and "The Gambler" and sang along with Kenny Rogers every chance we got. I lay awake in bed on nights my dad's friends came over, listening to Vietnamese folk and popular music as it filtered through the walls from the living room. Years later, when I was a member of our office's party planning committee in the consulting firm where I worked, I noted aloud that we could enliven a summer office barbecue with John Fogerty and Santana. "What are you," asked my market leader, a senior partner in the firm, "some kind of hippie?"

Recently, my husband and I agreed we wanted to surround our son with music, just as we'd grown up. So today I launched iTunes and hit "play," setting my library to "shuffle." Within an hour or so, he'd heard Queen, several tracks from "My Fair Lady", "Rent" and "Les Miserables," Michael Buble, Soundgarden, the Dixie Chicks, Bill Withers, and more. I have no idea whether he absorbed any of it or if he even noticed it. And yet there may come a day when he runs across a throwback station on XM radio and sings along with Michael Jackson. One can only hope.

112 things

I've read two great blogs lately (emlocke and badlighting.blogspot.com) which featured lists of 112 things about their writers. I thought it was so clever that I did my own list.

These are things you'd know about me only on a "need to know" basis. If you know most of them, you're super special. If you know all of them, you should check to see if you are, in actuality, me.

1. I love sun-dried tomatoes, but hate fresh ones.


2. When I was a little girl, I loved to draw. For some reason, the two things I remember drawing over and over again are ballerina feet en pointe, and whale tails.


3. I always wanted to be an astronaut. The movie "Space Camp" was my personal "Rocky."


4. I support the anti-fur movement, but secretly think fur feels amazing. I mean, not amazing enough for it to be ok to kill something, but wow.


5. I've read "Jane Eyre" once a year since I was in the eighth grade.


6. I'm a stay-at-home mom with two degrees, and no, I DON'T think that's a waste of my education.


7. I think raw oysters are gross. If you have to serve something with Saltines and Tabasco to even make it appetizing, it's not worth it.


8. When I was in the fifth grade, I played an angel in the school play. The play was called "Follow That Star," and was about three astronauts who follow the North Star to the baby Jesus. No joke.


9. In elementary school, I was third-to-last out in the school spelling bee. I misspelled "chimney."


10. My husband and I, both non-drinkers, met in a bar.


11. The movie "The Hunt for Red October" can always rope me in.


12. The last movie I saw in the theater was "Cloverfield." I couldn't even watch all of it due to my crippling motion sickness.


13. Bing cherries are my favorite fruit, hands down.


14. The only kind of apple I really like eating is the Honeycrisp kind. It also seems to be the kind with the shortest growing season.


15. I love good jewelry, but own very little. (If any of you out there are looking for gift ideas, or anything.)


16. I am terrified of water. Almost all my nightmares have water in them.


17. I could probably eat sushi, Vietnamese spring rolls, Thai tom kai gai soup or just about any kind of Indian food every day.


18. When I was in junior high, I starred in an Oscar Wilde play called, "The Importance of Being Ernest." Our drama class was short on literate guys, so I was cast as one of the two male leads, opposite the guy I actually had a "thing" for in real life. So I essentially played a Wilde character in reverse drag to get a guy to notice me. Sometimes all you can do is shake your head and laugh.


19. My first real job was as a collections manager for Blockbuster Video.


20. The first cable channel I check when I turn on the TV is the Food Network.


21. I once tried out for and earned a spot on a professional cheerleading squad. It was as an alternate, and the squad was cheering for a now-defunct arena football team, but still.


22. My favorite pizza: extra cheese, veggie supreme, 86 the onions.


23. I think a man's sexiest accessory is a wedding band. Commitment is H-O-T.


24. I believe everyone has a natural superpower. For instance, I have a girlfriend who can go to the grocery store *without a list* and not forget a single thing she wanted. My natural superpower is estimation. If I'm setting the dinner table and I grab a jumble of silverware and a stack of napkins, I'm likely to get the count exactly right. Please - hold your applause. (I never said it was sexy.)


25. I always regret eating cinnamon rolls. They seem to embody excess. When I do eat one, I eat it as if I were unrolling a wound-up ribbon. Why would anyone bite straight through a cinnamon roll? You just end up with shards of pastry everywhere.


26. I love ramen. I really do. It's kind of sad. My favorite kind is the stuff you get from the Asian supermarket. You know, with the instructions in another language, so you're always just preparing it by gut feel? Good stuff.


27. When I announced I was making a career change years ago, I was told by my then-manager that I was making a huge mistake, and that my choice was a "dead-end." After that, I went on to have eight years in my new field, six of which were in highly competitive consulting environments, where I generated award-winning work and dazzled my clients before quitting to start a family. So there, Don. Don't ever underestimate a smart woman.


28. One of my favorite albums of all time is Annie Lennox's "Diva." I love just about every song on that one. Same goes for Alannis Morrissette’s “Jagged Little Pill.”


29. I know every word to "Les Miserables."


30. Before I made a faith-based commitment to abstain from alcohol, my favorite beers were Killian's Red and Red Stripe. Favorite mixed drink: Midori sour. I never could stand margaritas.


31. I dislike cheesecake.


32. I once dreamed of doing language research involving sign language and chimpanzees.


33. I love the smell of clover.


34. I believe that dogs have souls, and that cats cannot be trusted.


35. I've visited 22 states[1]. But I've only lived in two.


36. I'm great at Pictionary and Taboo, but horrible at Scrabble.


37. For the most part, I don't really mind public speaking.


38. I would dance every day if I could.


39. The last time I wore perfume, it was Happy by Clinique. I also really like L'eau D'issey by Issey Miyaki, and Red Door by Elizabeth Arden.


40. I can carry a tune, but not with style.


41. The only way I like scrambled eggs is wrapped in a flour tortilla with hash browns and salsa.


42. I *love* football.


43. I hate basketball.


44. I can tolerate baseball if I'm going with fun people AND it's Dollar Dog Night, when hot dogs are a buck.


45. I'm already, despite my own valiant efforts to the contrary, turning into my mother.


46. I give great scalp massages.


47. I miss the old Sesame Street episodes. After catching a few minutes of it the other day, I was greatly saddened by how different it is now than what I remember.


48. I realized last week that my son will never know a world without cell phones, laptops or DVR.


49. I can still hum the melody to the theme song for the 80s show "That's Incredible." It was hosted by Kathy Lee Crosby, Fran Tarkington, and that dark-haired guy.


50. I remember that Balki Bartokemous of "Perfect Strangers" was from the island of Mypos.


51. Someday, I want to develop a "look" I really like. I think it'll involve boot-cut jeans, long jackets and scarves. If Catherine Zeta-Jones would wear it while starring in a movie that takes place in the fall in New York City, it's probably for me.


52. I make a bed like no one's business. The sheets are always smooth and perfectly tucked. I have to get into a "made" bed at night, so I've been known to make a bed just to go to sleep.


53. I have two freckles on my nose, plus one chicken pox scar.


54. Thanksgiving is far and away my favorite holiday, because it's about nothing but food and gratitude. I'm a big fan of both.


55. Halloween is my second favorite holiday, because it's about fun and candy. Love those things, too.


56. The only other holiday I really like is the Fourth of July. Stuff explodes, you get to smell gunpowder in the air, and if you go to see a real fireworks show, you can usually get popcorn, too.


57. I never once was allowed to go trick-or-treating as a kid.


58. I got sick on grape jelly in the third grade. It was almost 20 years before I ate it again.


59. I don’t know how to pronounce the word “chignon.”


60. I still think doodlebugs are cool. (You know – those bugs that roll up into a ball when you flick them.)


61. I only go to bed because I have to. I love staying up late.


62. I played the flute for eight years and hated it. Then I switched to bass drum. I didn’t play it for enough years. LOVED it.


63. I made a binding commitment to attend a university I’d never visited.


64. I will never regret not making the Dean’s List in college.


65. The smell of freshly popped popcorn at the movie theater or in the airport is literally irresistible to me. Airport popcorn has been known to cure my frequent motion sickness.


66. I have no idea how the first guy to ever eat durian worked up the courage to try it.


67. Vacuum lines on a carpet make me happy.


68. I believe that people judge me based on how tidy my house is when they come by to visit.


69. When the Challenger exploded, I was in gym class in the fifth grade.


70. When the World Trade Center was attacked, I was driving to work in the carpool lane.


71. For me, home is where my husband’s hug is.


72. I don’t really believe that slot machines are gambling. To me, it’s like playing a video game – you put in money and pay for the entertainment of pulling the lever or punching the buttons. Who ever really expects to win, anyway?


73. I’m terrible at video games, unless you can succeed by random button-smashing – like Street Fighter.


74. I used to pretend that the plastic pegs for my Lite-Brite were jewels for my Barbie dolls to mine. That was how they funded their lavish lifestyles, with their mansions, convertibles and horses.


75. I hate being outside in hot weather. I detest that feeling of dampness in your creases that you get immediately when you set foot outside of an air-conditioned building. I’d rather wear four sweaters in a freezing climate, than feel sticky from the first sweat of the day at 7 a.m. where I live now.


76. Because I loathe editing, I’ve developed a more or less organized stream of consciousness. That way, when I write, I am assured of at least a partially logical product. (Lists like this don’t count.)


77. I cannot be relaxed in a cluttered room.


78. New York City intimidates me.


79. Whenever I announce to anyone that I’ve never seen “Citizen Kane,” or “Casablanca,” I get a shocked gasp. When I announce that I’ve never seen “The Goonies,” I get the same gasp. This does not bode well for Bogey.


80. I am grateful to know people who are always looking outside of the mainstream for interesting movies, music, literature and experiences. I am just not one of those people. I’ve always just liked what I liked, whether it was mainstream or “independent,” and I’m finally at a point in my life where I’m not apologetic for that anymore.


81. My favorite candy bar of all time is the Whatchamacallit.


82. I cannot, for the life of me, understand the appeal of scrapbooking.


83. The very word “flea” makes my hair stand on end. Ugh.


84. I can suppress a shudder. (I just had to, after I typed “flea.”)


85. I am also capable of sneezing silently due to superhuman stifling abilities. But it hurts.


86. I love the smell of rubbing alcohol.


87. I am a great solderer.


88. I used to fold underwear until I got married. My husband doesn’t, and his logic (“Who’s gonna know if it’s wrinkled?!”) has rubbed off on me.


89. I miss my gramma the most at Christmas-time.


90. I collect bookmarks.


91. I think snowflakes are heartbreakingly beautiful.


92. I put on a sock-and-a-shoe and a sock-and-a-shoe, not a sock-and-a-sock and a shoe-and-a-shoe.


93. I’ve never climbed a tree.


94. I will never understand why anyone buys a Rolls-Royce, a third home or a private jet.


95. I like the mountains better than the beach, but would gladly vacation in either locale.


96. I think someone could make a good living at targeting new mothers for in-home spa services. If someone was willing to come to ME to give me a pedicure, I’d pay a fuel premium.


97. I have almost never been able to eat an entire serving of yogurt. About two-thirds of the way through, the texture always makes me think “gack,” and I have to throw the rest away.


98. Lovebugs freak me out.


99. I speak Vietnamese well enough to converse with college graduates, and read it well enough to check a fifth-grader’s homework. But when I try to write it, I sound like I’m three years old. Or a moron.


100. I heart wikipedia.


101. When I was a kid, we used to call “sunny-side-up” eggs “dip-it-in” eggs. So now I have to stop myself from ordering them that way at IHOP.


102. I am addicted to my iPhone, but I don’t think I’m cool enough to be a “mac” person.


103. I prefer Super-Target to Wal-Mart.


104. I prefer Coke to Pepsi.


105. I love the sound it makes when you bounce a playground ball against cement. (“[ting … ting … ting …]”)


106. I love pie, but prefer crust-topped pies to open ones, unless you’re talking cream or meringue.


107. I bake better than I cook.


108. I do great French braids.


109. When I ski, I get bored on green runs, enjoy blue runs, and have absolutely no desire to try a black one.


110. I was in a car accident while driving the drivers’ ed car (though it was NOT my fault). After that, every time I got behind the wheel, the instructor would lead us all in prayer.


111. I think someone should find a way to serve avocado slices on pizza.


112. I don’t like it when the syrup from my pancakes touches my sausage or bacon. To me, sweetness and meat just don’t go together. (And because I’m a fan of “The Office,” I’m sitting here thinking, “That’s what she said.”)
     
     [1] California, Washington, Nevada, Colorado, Wisconsin, Missouri, Illinois, Iowa, New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Connecticut, Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, Kansas, North Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Louisiana, Texas and New Mexico, plus D.C.

Night, night

With my son's four-month birthday coming around, my husband and I have begun the process of sleep training. For those of you who aren't parents, what that means is that we're contemplating how we can get the munchkin to fall asleep on his own, sleep without being in someone's arms, and stay asleep for longer stretches (though we still expect him to wake up once or twice a night for a while to eat -- he's growing pretty fast).

Once you start doing the research on "sleep training," you quickly see why it's such a hot topic. There seem to be two predominant schools of thought -- 1) you are a parent, and you signed up for sleep deprivation, so just deal with your kid's habits and preferences, or 2) put him in a crib, close the door to his room and let him "cry it out." In a week or so, he'll sleep like an angel when you put him down.

I know lots of families who opted for the second choice -- or I should say, parents. I assume the kids weren't voting. It seemed to work well for them. They all admit it was tough -- that they hated hearing their kids cry -- that they cried themselves. But they come out of it saying, "It was the best thing we ever did." That's great. I'm glad it worked for them. Their kids do seem to sleep well and be well-rested -- more power to 'em all.

I'm not cut out for it. I just can't do it. I've spent the last three months and three weeks working hard to get the little guy to trust me -- attending to his physical needs as quickly as is reasonable, playing with him to help develop his mental capacity, praying with him to nurture his spirit if I can, cuddling and loving on him to address his emotional needs as well. After all that attentiveness (tempered with realism -- I'm not saying I've been his slave), it seems inconsistent to me to then put him down and communicate to him that he can cry all he wants -- I'm not listening.

The "cry-it-out" advocates argue logically that it's not neglect -- it's tough love. It's like taking your kids for their shots. You know they'll hurt, but it's good for them -- it's what they need. Or, it's like giving them the opportunity to learn a skill that will serve them in good stead. I buy it. I'm glad it worked for them and their kids. But I choose a different way.

I found a book called "The No-Cry Sleep Solution." It's the approach I choose to take with my son. I've found already that it's a misnomer -- there's no way you can change a baby's sleep habits with NO tears at all -- but I like that it sets forth a way you can respond to the baby's crying with soothing efforts, and still guide them to form new, healthier sleep habits. We're in week 2. So far my son's gone from taking 40-minute cat naps 5 or 6 times a day (exhausting to cycle between sleep and wakefulness that much), to sleeping an hour and fifteen minutes to today's triumphant two-hour stretch at a time. Once I make more headway with daytime sleeping, I'll focus on his night-waking -- he's a frequent muncher in the wee hours, and I know there are gentle ways I can get him to go longer stretches of sleep -- him and me, that is.

At the heart of it, I think it's been difficult because to some extent, I don't know if my heart is in it. The idea of changing his sleep habits seems bent on the assumption that it's a *problem* for him to fall asleep in my arms. I don't see it as a problem at all, but a blessing and a joy. It's a little inconvenient when I want to take a shower or eat a meal, but it's a miracle nonetheless. I know that in the long run, he needs to get used to sleeping on his own. I definitely don't want a high-schooler who still needs mommy to smooth his hair to fall asleep. I get that. But for now, I love to cuddle him as much as I can. He's already rocketed from 6 pounds to 12 -- from a skinny, wrinkly, fussy newborn to a playful, rounded, inquisitive infant who giggles and laughs when he's tickled. I'm all too well aware of how rapidly his changing self will outpace my ability to get in all the baby-time I'll crave.

So I'll continue to sleep-train. I'll keep easing away from him in bed to get him used to sleeping without mommy's warmth next to him. I'll keep extending his naps with extra nursing as he starts to awaken. I'll watch for chances to ease him into his bassinet or crib (both places where he plays happily but absolutely refuses -- loudly -- to fall asleep). I'll keep nudging him toward independent sleep -- and when he's snoozing in his crib all night, someone can tell me how to fall asleep without HIM.

They should make accordian-fold Mother's Day cards

Dear Mom,

Happy Mother's Day! As one of my steadfast readers, I know you'll see this. And I'm posting it here for a number of reasons -- 1) I wanted you to always be able to come here to see it, and know how much I love you, 2) I wanted anyone who comes across it to know how incredible you are, and 3) it won't fit on the inside of the card I bought you.

Now that I'm a mother myself, I have so much more of a sense of what you must have gone through in raising me and the boys. I have so very many memories of the adventures we all had while I was growing up, and as I look back on them, I can see now how some of them must have been so trying for you. So I have two main things to tell you this Mother's Day -- what I'm sorry for, and what I've learned from you. Here we go.

I am sorry for ...

• Starting off as a "day-night confusion" baby. Much mention has always been made in our family of how I was up all night and asleep all day for the first three months of my life, and only now do I see how exhausting that must have been for you and my dad. Believe me. I am REALLY sorry.
• Sneaking away from you as a baby and licking the bleach cap, and then throwing up all over the place.
• Being one of the reasons it became increasingly difficult for you to continue attending college classes. I have no idea how you handled being a mom and going to school. I'm truly impressed.
• Constantly throwing cookies into the aquarium and killing countless exotic fish. Come to think of it, I'll apologize for that again to my dad on Father's Day, since those fish were his.
• Feeding my baby brother an almost-full bottle of pink bubble-gum flavored Amoxicillin because he liked how it tasted.
• That time when some live crawfish escaped from the sink in the kitchen where they awaited being made into dinner, and I grabbed my brother's 5-year-old self and took off running with him out the front door and down the street for our grandparents' house. While we both had chicken pox. And were barefoot. You came home to an empty house with the front door open, and no kids. The fact that I am still alive after that escapade is a testament to your good graces and ability to forgive.
• The time I was about six years old, and we were visiting our Lutheran grandparents' home church (grandparents who were in some denial about the fact that we were being raised Catholic), and I genuflected at the entrance to the pew. Whoops.
• The scare I gave you when I got hit in the head with a baseball bat at school during gym class, and got a concussion and had to go to the hospital. It wasn't my fault, but I know you were terrified. I'm sorry you got scared. My turn will come, I'm certain.
• All the arguments I gave you over stupid ex-boyfriends in college who really weren't worth the breath we gave to fighting about them. For the record, you were right about all of them. For that matter, thank you for ultimately understanding that I had to figure some things out for myself, and for loving me in spite of my hard-headedness.

From you, I've learned:

• How to hold up my head when other people are trying to make me feel ashamed. I watched you for years handle yourself with grace and dignity in the midst of chaos. I admire you tremendously for the quiet pride you showed in spite of the troubles around you.
• How to love selflessly and completely. Not only did you slather love all over my brothers and myself, you delighted in who we were at every stage along the way, awkward or otherwise. You never once asked or expected anything from us except that we treat you and others with respect and kindness, and that we do our best at whatever it might be that we'd put our minds to.
• How to forgive, again and again. You've shown me that forgiveness isn't something you decide to do once -- you choose it day after day, and that's the true art of it, and the real gift of it to someone else. You're incredible at it.
• How to love a football team unreservedly. :) You and I both know we'll wear those team colors forever.
• What the phrase "living a life of service" really means. You are constantly helping others, in ways large and small. As someone who has benefitted from that help her entire life, and who has never needed it (or YOU) more than now, I thank you from the depths of my grateful heart.

Oh, I lied. There's two more things.

• You really love my husband. You really do, like he's your own. And the fact that I can sit in a room with you and with him and we can all talk without censoring ourselves, and we can all be ourselves just as we are that day or moment, and we can accept and love each other and respect each other completely, and enjoy each other's company wholeheartedly -- it's one of the greatest gifts in my life. I get to just be me around you both -- I never have to be "on" or wonder how you're going to take something he says or vice versa. I have entrusted you both to be yourselves around and with each other, and I can see that you have a deep affection and respect for each other. The peace that brings me keeps me whole.
• I can never thank you enough for the pure joy you take in my son -- your grandson. Seeing you delight in him gives me such pride -- that he can make you smile, that you love him so completely, that I can give you some measure of happiness through a little boy we both love so much. I will never tire of seeing you light up when you look at him, or when he smiles at you.

Thank you, Mom. Thank you for the sacrifices, the hardships, the self-denial, the unreserved love. Thank you for the sleepless nights, the ironed clothes, the cooked meals, the hugs and kisses, the rides to football games, the bedtime stories, the long conversations, the late-night phone calls, the times you took care of the spiders, the dogs you fed, the library fines you paid. Thank you for understanding that I never could stand touching wet food at the bottom of the sink and even when I did the dishes, you had to empty the sink strainer. Thank you for always having chocolate when I need it, or if you don't, for always going to get me some. Thank you for being there in the waiting room when my son was born, despite the fact that I was in labor for 25 hours and you couldn't drive yourself to the hospital, and had to keep getting rides back and forth. Thank you for remembering which one of the three of your children likes only the potatoes in a pot roast, which one only likes the carrots, and which one doesn't like pot roast at all.

It may seem like I'm grown up now, that now that I'm a mother, I don't need you anymore. Nothing could be further from the truth. I will love and need you always, and treasure our time together as I always have.

I love you. Call me.
Always,
Your daughter

Would you like fries (or onion rings, cheese sticks or buffalo drum-ettes) with that?

If you hand me a palmful of M&Ms, you may not initially notice anything out of the ordinary about the way I eat them. I don't toss them back the way a lot of people do, but that's not too strange. Watch me long enough, though, and you'll see that I actually choose which colors to eat first.

I guess some people do that too. But they're more likely to do it with candies that have flavors assigned to colors, right? I get that. I do it, too. For instance, Skittles -- I will happily eat all the red and purple ones out of any bag, leaving the citrus ones for my less-finicky husband. Gummi bears -- once again, I'll steal the red ones right out from under your nose so fast, you won't have time to say "Hello, Kitty." Lots of people have particular favorite flavors when it comes to fruit candies. And when it comes to chocolate, some even profess to like the green M&Ms more than the others. I worked with a woman who claimed that she could taste the difference between M&M colors (she was actually surprisingly good at it when we conducted a blind taste test).

Stay with me. My order of operations isn't about what M&M colors I do and don't like. It's not about flavor at all. It's about options.

See, when you hand me a bunch of M&Ms, you're not so much handing me "some candy" as you are offering me a *collection* of candy colors. And what's the hallmark of a collection? Variety, and completeness. So my preferred method of eating M&Ms is to visually assess which color has the most representation in the bunch, then start with that color. After I've eaten a couple candies (say, of the orange persuasion), I'll reassess. Brown dominates? Brown gets eaten next. My aim is to end up toward the conclusion of my snack with a complete set of M&Ms, one in every color. And from there I get even more picky.

In your standard, non-seasonal M&M collection, you've got brown, red, orange, yellow, green and blue. (I miss tan, by the way.) Because brown doesn't add too much (to me) to the color spectrum, I'll eat the last remaining brown one first. That leaves me with another set of options. Do I eat the remaining colors in "ROY G BIV" rainbow-spectrum order? Do I eat the cool colors first (green and blue), leaving the warmer colors for last, or vice versa? Do I get down to the basics by trying to end up with the three primary colors at the end (yellow, red and blue)? For that matter, do I consider "primary" colors to mean "primary" as in art (the above three), or "primary" as in the components of light (in which case it would be red, blue and green)? Do I eat the non-traffic light colors first, so that I end up with red, yellow and green? You see my dilemma.

The thing is, this weirdness isn't just limited to M&Ms (though M&Ms do seem to offer me the most choices in terms of how weird to get, don't they? I just re-read the paragraph above. Wow. That's a lot of crazy). I do this when I choose a cookie out of a variety pack, a Hershey's Miniature out of a selection, an appetizer off of a plate of assorted savories. My primary aim? To preserve as much choice for as long as possible. It's probably why I love buffets -- to me, a buffet represents not so much an opportunity to get as much food as possible for the money, but a chance to sample a nearly infinitely-supplied range of food for as long as I have the appetite. Growing up, my extended family members were always chiding me for eating just one plateful of food when we'd go to our favorite Indian restaurant for the Sunday buffet lunch. "You're wasting money!" they'd exclaim. But I was satisfied on so many levels with just one plate -- because I'd filled it with exactly what I liked, which on some days would be all veggies, or an assortment of potato curry dishes, and on other days might be just spinach and basmati rice.

Yeah, it's weird. I'm cool with it. Because chances are, most of us have some tiny, harmless insanity that we can't satisfactorily explain, and others can't begin to imagine. You do your thing, I'll do mine, and we'll all be ok. Pass the M&Ms, please.

Natalie Imbruglia's (very) hidden agenda, according to my college education

There's this thing I do when I get in the shower. I always try to get the shower curtain liner to lay flat against the shower walls. This inevitably involves dampening the walls with a palmful of water, then carefully sealing myself into the shower by making sure that liner sucks tightly to the wall. I realized that I used to do the same thing with blankets, at night in bed -- I like to sleep with the ceiling fan at a good clip, so I seal myself into the blankets by tucking myself in around my ears really snugly. I hate being able to feel a cool breeze leaking into the pocket of warmth under the blankets, but at the same time, I've got to feel it over my nose and mouth.

Why do I do these things? What's this obsession with sealing the cracks? In one way, it's about containing or preventing a potential mess. There's nothing I hate more than drying off after a shower, then stepping out onto a soppy shower rug. It's also about comfort -- a tightly sealed shower or a snug bed keeps in warmth, locks out cold. But maybe ultimately it's about control. Maybe I have to have things in absolutes -- all the water on this side where I want it. All the warmth from the neck down, all the coolness above the chin. Maybe these things I think of as my endearing quirks are really early signs of neurosis. Seem like a big leap? Not to me. I majored in English in college.

As an English major, you quickly learn that symbolism is king. If you can take two seemingly unrelated phenomenon and find a way to link them convincingly, you're golden. It's even more powerful if one of the two things you're connecting is a crippling psychological disorder of some kind, or at least has a strong religious subtext. I once listened to a song on the radio about a woman whose boyfriend had left her, and became convinced that the song was actually about her experience of losing her Christian faith. My family was pretty hard to convince, though.

"Mom, I'm telling you -- she says it right in the song. 'I'm all out of faith ... lying broken on the floor ... Illusion never changed into something real ... I guess the fortune teller's right ... should have seen just what was there, and not some holy light.' She's obviously singing about how she felt duped by organized religion."

"Sure, honey. Just finish your peas so I can wash your plate."

Anyway, sealing the cracks may be my way of creating a safe, isolated environment. And who couldn't use one of those? (Like how I morphed it from "control" to "security"? That's another English major trick. You're welcome.)

It's a jungle out there

A quick survey around my son's seemingly innocuous nursery reveals the following census of animals, present either in stuffed or toy form, or depicted in illustrations:

Lions: 5

Giraffes: 7

Elephants: 7

Monkeys: 9

Zebras: 2

Toucans: 1

Bears: 5

Frogs: 2

Turtles: 5

Ducks: 3

Bees: 6

Spiders: 2

Octopi: 1

Fish: 1

Crabs: 1

Alligators (I know!): 1

Animals among these that I'd actually wish for my son to encounter in real life at his age: 0

No wonder the poor kid cries if left to fend for himself in there for too long. I would, too.

The 5 a.m. bath

If you have a baby, and said baby sleeps with you in your bed, do yourself a favor and get a waterproof mattress pad. Just ... do it.

Last night started out like any other. The baby fell asleep and went through his normal cycles of sleeping 2-3 hours at a stretch, then waking up to feed sleepily, then drowsing right back off again. Toward morning he'd started to be a little fitful while feeding -- a sure sign to THIS now-experienced mother that he had what my husband calls a "project in the works." As a precautionary measure, I got up after the 4:15 a.m. feeding and got a small towel to place under our precious son, congratulating myself all the while on this brilliant prophylactic measure.

So it was about 4:35 when the boy started to really fidget in bed. I smiled in the near-dark, proud of myself that I'd done such a GREAT job of avoiding trouble. (I didn't know, of course, that this diaper would be a blow-out -- it had just been a while, and the boy owed us a good one.) I even reached past the angel-baby to tweak the towel up under him for good measure.

Well, the execution of this project was so noisy that it woke up my husband. "Was that *him*?" he exclaimed. "Of course," I replied, silently wondering if my husband was actually implying that it would be anyone else (namely, ME) making such god-awful bathroom noises while in bed. My husband then mumbled something like, "That's my boy," and rolled over to doze off again. I chuckled and waited the necessary 3-5 minutes to ensure that the boy was actually done, then gathered up my son to change that diaper. That's when I felt the wet patch.

Hearing my "uh-oh" for what it was (a dire commentary on the state of our sleeping arrangements), my husband catapulted from deep sleep into an impressively awake state. His first words were NOT "are you ok?" or "is the baby fine?" but "Is it ON THE BED?" (This should give you a sense of how much he loves our mattress.) After switching on the light, we discovered that the baby had managed to contrive a diaper blow-out *exactly* in the spot where the towel hadn't covered the bed. Of course. To paraphrase a somewhat forgettable movie from the 1980s ... the little insect was just waiting for that to happen.

So I plopped the munchkin onto his changing table to deal with the mess, and my husband sprang into "save-the-mattress" mode. While he wrangled wet washcloths, fabric brushes, carpet stain removers and detergent pens, I wrestled with our now-wide-awake and delighted three-month-old, whose toothless grin had all of us laughing within minutes. As Hyper-Diaper chuckled and chortled at me, no doubt enormously proud of his accomplishment, I tried in vain to get his jammies off over his head without smearing his work over the rest of him (though I narrowly avoided getting it in his hair, thank God). I looked at my husband, who surveyed the damage, sighed deeply, and said, "I'll go get his bath ready."

It's yet another sign (as if I needed it) that I married the right guy in that my husband then cheerfully accepted the inevitable and we had a fun (though somewhat shortened) bathtime session with Little Bit -- less than half an hour before my husband's alarm was scheduled to go off to get up for work. Cleaned up, dried off and re-dressed, the boy went peacefully back to sleep, as my husband hopped into the shower for his own ablutions, and I laid in bed, blessed with the knowledge that I'm the luckiest girl I know, despite the vile pile of linens that awaited me in the daylight.

More of life's mysteries

* When a dog digs a hole in your backyard, where does the dirt go? There's never anything to fill up the hole with.

* Why do hair elastics disappear? If it's not on my wrist, it's gone. Am I eating them in the night? Where do they go?

* How does Tupperware evaporate? I swear I had a complete set of plastic storage containers just a year ago. Now I have three lids and one container that fits none of them.

* Do rebellious teenagers in Japan and China get tatoos of English words?

* How does a fussy baby know just when you've had enough, and just at that moment, flash you a perfect, toothless smile?

* Why haven't they invented a candy that is nothing but the tip of an ice cream drumstick? Just cone, and creamy chocolate coating on the inside. Perfection.

But wait!

I love infomercials. Whenever I see a blue screen with the words, "The following is a paid advertisement for ..." I get excited. I don't know why it is. I'm especially susceptible to kitchen gadget infomercials, with home cleaning gadgets being a close second. Now that I have a new baby and we're up at all hours to feed, I'm definitely seeing my share.

My current favorite is in the latter category. It's the infomercial for the Shark Steam Mop. Or is it a Vac? Either way. I love the spot. Why is it that people in infomercials always call each other by name more than is necessary or natural?

Woman: "Mike, how can this Mop [or Vac] do what you say it will?"
Man: "Well, Rachel, I'll tell you. It's as easy as counting to eight. Or nine! You just plug it in, turn it on, fill the tank, wait for steam, push to activate, clean the mess, empty the trap, wash the mop head, sign this form, smile brightly, and presto! That's a floor you can be proud of. When was the last time your kitchen looked this good, Rachel?"
Woman: "Mike, I don't even know! Wow, I'm amazed, Mike! Can you show me that again, Mike?"
Man: "Sure can, Rachel. You just plug it in ..."

And so on. Usually the paid spokesperson (or "con", as I think of him or her) speaks way too loudly, and is dressed either way too well or way too casually (such as the woman in the GT Express 101 cooking device commercial -- could Wardrobe find nothing but her hooded velour track suit?). And just as often, the straight-man (or "stooge," to me) is way too naive. They have to be told how to operate something as simple as a light switch about six or seven times. And while I get that this repetition is supposed to hook the viewer, I just end up feeling insulted.

My favorite feature of any "paid programming" spot is the "but wait!" segment. It's always there. You've just been told how stupid it would be to pass up a deal this good on a food processor/juicer/fitness barre/vacuum/brother-in-law when all of a sudden, you get "two for the price of one!" or "also comes with these special tools/attachments/videos/gold necklaces/fanny packs, just for ordering today!" And then you listen for the magic words ... "Just pay for the shipping." Which is inevitably more than your mortgage.

But the kicker comes when the action cuts away from the studio to a pre-recorded segment of someone using an outdated or inferior product. The actor is always a total klutz. If the product is a compact blender, then he or she is shown going to the trouble of washing a conventional blender in a sink full of suds that regular dishwashing liquid could never generate, and dropping big kitchen items into the watery mess for good, splashy measure. If the product is a new kind of storage container for leftovers, the actor is shown opening a cabinet from which pour dozens of mismatched containers and their battered, scratched lids. If the product is a new food chopper, the actor is shown cutting his or her finger handling a "regular" knife and trying in vain to slice a tomato without squishing it. If these are the people who need the products being advertised, then the target market is idiots. Or at least people of average intelligence who have not yet mastered the art of deciding when you've put just enough stuff in an overhead cabinet.

Here are my current favorite infomercials, in no particular order. And admit it -- you can envision probably most of them because you've watched at least a few minutes of each yourself.

1. The Magic Bullet. Special bonus points go not only for having TWO paid spokespeople who are product "experts", but for one of them having a foreign accent for that extra twist of sophistication. AND for having a "stooge" who shows up in a housecoat, matted hair, too much makeup, horned rim glasses and dangling a cigarette from her lips. AND a fake New York accent. Priceless.
2. The aforementioned GT Express 101. What I want to know is, how many wraps do they think we eat? And once you've made two small cakes in the product's cooking wells, what do you do with the rest of the batter?
3. The Fluidity Fitness Barre. Wow. I'm actually serious here. If just buying the thing could make me look like those women, I would indeed shell out the cash.
4. The Shark Steam Mop/Vac. I scoff. But I also yearn for clean floors without chemical residue! (After a point, you start to go native.)
5. Hip-Hop Abs. I know better. And yet I can almost believe that working out could be fun. These guys are GOOD.
6. The Pedi-Egg. Do we really need to see what someone's foot shavings look like being dumped into the trash?
7. Chef Tony's SmartLidz. I don't know that I need them, but it looks like it would be fun to push my fist into the advanced polymer material just to seal up a container.
8. The RonCo Countertop Cooker. I don't even know what it's called. I just know that "Set it and forget it!" is the "Where's the beef?" of this day and age.
9. The sweeper thing with "quad-brush technology." This infomercial also sports an "international" spokesperson/expert. It scores special bonus points for the digital representation of being able to push a sweeper vac in four different directions AND swivel the head around.
10. The ShamWOW! I don't even know what I would use this product for. Think about it. If you'd used it to wash and dry your car, would you want to use it on your kitchen countertops after that? I have two words: love bugs. So if I actually bought it, I'd probably just pour soda on the kitchen table, wipe it up, and wring it all into a pie plate like "Vince" does in the demonstration. It looks totally fun.

Gotta dash. I think the Jack LaLane Juicer infomercial is due to start in 10 minutes.

D-Day, part 3: A welcome arrival

[This is a continuation of two earlier posts, "D-Day" parts 1 and 2.]


I will always be thankful for the amazing nurses and nurse-anesthetists who were present during the birth of my son. At each step, someone was telling me what was going on and what I would (or wouldn't) be feeling. My arms were extended out next to me and secured so they wouldn't stray into the surgical area. My epidural was kicked-up so that I wouldn't feel anything at all (at one point, I remember asking, "there's something *more* numb than the dead walrus I already feel like?!"). The surgical team stopped all activity for a few minutes for what the hospital calls a "time-out" -- I was asked to state my name and the reason for my presence in the OR -- so that everyone in the room could be assured that I and they understood a C-section was about to take place. My doctor walked in, and I heard the nurse-anesthetist at my head say, "It's 2:01 p.m. -- first incision just took place." My husband was led in shortly thereafter. He sat at my head and talked to me to distract me from my anxiety (and his own, I think), from my nausea (which didn't work) and from the thought of what was going on, on the other side of the screen across my body. And in an incredibly short amount of time, I heard my doctor saying, "This baby's got a lot of hair -- almost out!" And then someone was saying, "2:09 p.m. -- it's a boy!" And it's at that point that my memories are watery and blurry, because both of us were crying, overwhelmed at the knowledge of our son.

My husband was allowed to walk over to the side of the OR and watch our newborn son as he was cleaned, measured, weighed and checked. I was still in surgery, so I couldn't see him at that point. I remember using all of my remaining energy to keep from crying out in discomfort -- being flat on my back and jacked up on medication made me tremble painfully, and I was absolutely out of energy by then. I just tried to keep my body from shaking as much as I could, answering the doctor's questions with one-syllable answers. Eventually a nurse brought the baby over to me and laid him across my chest so that I could see him. I remember a tiny, pink face peeking out at me from a bundle of blankets, and my husband's gleaming smile, and then I asked them to take the baby off me, since I was worried my trembling would shake him right onto the floor. My husband held him for a few minutes so we could both admire him, and then the baby was taken away to the nursery for more observation. We'd previously agreed that we wanted the baby to have one of us with him all the time, so my husband went with him to the nursery while I was stitched up and wheeled to recovery, where my epidural was removed. (I remember thinking, "Damn, I was liking that. I don't get to keep that for a while?")

We had a lot of family members at the hospital, waiting for the baby to arrive. While my husband went to tell them the good news, I rested in recovery -- I had to stay there for two hours. I asked for an hour to rest, and then my family members came in two by two to say hello and congratulate me. Seeing them was so special, and yet I was still so tired that I couldn't visit as much as I wanted to. When I was finally wheeled up to my actual room in the maternity ward, I was beat. A nurse brought the baby in and we took a shot at breastfeeding for the first time. It was hard to do, between my trembling, tired arms, the baby's sleepiness and both of our inexperience, but hey -- you've got to start somewhere. By the end of the ordeal, though, I was in tears of exhaustion again. I had planned to feed the baby for the first time right after delivery -- and I'd planned on keeping the baby in the room with me for the duration of our hospital stay, an arrangement called "rooming-in." But my fatigue was too much for me, and I had to ask the nurses to take the baby back to the nursery for a while so that I could get some sleep.

That was Saturday night. Sunday and Monday passed in a flurry of visitors, activity, and smiles. Though still behind the ball in terms of getting enough sleep, my husband and I were so happy that we kept the baby with us as much as we could so that he could be there when people came by. Within 12 hours of the delivery, I was up and walking around, since the nurses told me that my recovery would be speedier if I kept moving. In truth, the incision was hardly painful at all -- just sore and tender. I was amazed that after abdominal surgery, I could feel so little pain. Within another day, I quit taking the pain medication, since it irritated my stomach, and just relied on good old ibuprofen to manage the discomfort.

And through it all, there was the baby. Tinier (oh, so much tinier) than I ever thought he'd be at 6 pounds 12 ounces, he was blinky and pink and lovely. He had peach-fuzzy little ears and shoulders that I noticed immediately, and the weight of him in my arms tugged somehow on my heart. To say that I fell in love with him is to say that the Grand Canyon is a crack in the ground. Just being able to touch his perfect skin and kiss his cheek or head sent me into silent paroxysms of delight. (Still does.)

Yet love doesn't make everything easy. :) The first night home from the hospital was, shall we say, *rough*. The baby decided at this point to transition from the sleepy little bundle we knew in the hospital to a hungry and quite vocal participant in the family decibel level. I don't even remember much about that first night except for the fact that it seemed I was feeding him all the time, and therefore not sleeping at all. At one point my husband was able to hold and soothe the baby for about two hours and blessedly, thankfully, I slept.

That's pretty much how the first three or four weeks went -- sleepless, bleary-eyed, delighted, exhausted, desperate joy. We sleep more now, but the delight is still there, though there are some mornings when I could definitely use some concealer and be better-looking for it. I have never missed sleep less -- or, as we've told some friends, we have never been so happy to be so tired.

D-Day, part 2: Weathering the worst

[This is a continuation of "D-Day, part 1: An inauspicious beginning."]

Pitocin is the name of the drug that's commonly used to strengthen uterine contractions. I called it many things the night I experienced it. As soon as the Pitocin drip started, I knew right away that I was in for a whole new world of sensation. Within half an hour, the contractions had increased in both frequency and duration. They were lasting about a minute, and were coming every three minutes. Since you measure contractions from start to start, that meant I was only getting two minutes in between to catch my breath and prepare for the next one. With my husband holding my hand and our doula rubbing my back and abdomen, I breathed through so ... very ... many of them between midnight and 6 a.m.

You learn about yourself through six hours of augmented labor. You learn that though you had envisioned yourself entering an altered mental state to deal with the pain (kind of like self-hypnosis), you are in reality so closely attuned to it that escape isn't really possible. You learn that though you'd prefer to simply breathe through the waves, you are one of those women who really sound like they're in labor, "ooooooh"ing and "haaaaaah"ing with the best of them. You learn that you can't predict what a contraction will feel like -- even though you imagine sort of an abdominal Charley horse, what you get is an intense involvement of all your abdominal organs, too. You learn that you need the touch of someone you love to anchor you -- the very few times my husband wasn't holding my hand when I had a contraction, it was much harder to remain relaxed throughout it. You learn that pain can make you physically sick to your stomach. You learn that fatigue can both dull pain and sharpen it, somehow -- the more tired you are, the less you care about the hurting, but the less able you are to meet it with the relaxed muscles you wanted to employ to speed labor along. Those six hours will remain in my memory forever as a time of razor-sharp sensations. That dimly lit hospital room was my entire world for those hours -- I had no spare energy to give any thought to what was happening beyond the boundaries of my belly.

Around 5 in the morning, the nurses checked me again. I was certain, just CERTAIN that I'd dilated to an appreciable 5 or 6 centimeters at least. So I was heartbroken to learn that all that we'd borne had only resulted in one more tiny centimeter's worth of dilation. At that point, I looked at my husband and said, "If I have to keep doing this, I will have *nothing* left when it's time to push. Bring in the epidural."

Once you decide you want an epidural, you want it RIGHT THIS SECOND. Unfortunately (and why don't they tell anyone this?!), once you make that call, you have to have an entire bag of IV fluids administered first before you can get the procedure done. That was the longest hour of them all. I knew the end was in sight, but knowing it would soon be over made every contraction feel even more powerful and overwhelming. Finally the anesthesiologist came in at 6 a.m. and administered the epidural. I wouldn't even have cared if he'd placed me against a wall and shot a needle at my spine from across the room -- I was so glad to get some relief from the relentless contractions. I don't even remember if it hurt at all. I just know that within two contractions, they felt less powerful, and within five, I was lying down and on the verge of exhausted, strung-out sleep.

From 6 a.m., then, until 1 p.m., I was allowed to labor in my sleep as the epidural numbed me from the ribs down -- the doctors wanted me to keep dilating so I could still attempt a non-surgical delivery. Every half hour, nurses came in to turn me from my left side to my right, so that the medication wouldn't settle into my body unevenly and result in unbalanced pain-relief. I was so numb I couldn't even help them roll me over. Under normal circumstances, it probably would have felt embarassing to have two nurses roll my eight-and-a-half-months-pregnant body from one side to another with a minimum of clothing covering me. But by then I SO didn't care anymore. I slept -- gratefully, happily, blissfully. My poor husband, though, bore the worst of it then. He sat in front of the monitors that showed my contractions lined up with the baby's heartbeat, and watched how each contraction made the baby's heart beat slow down perceptibly. He must have stared at the monitor for the entire seven hours I was sleeping -- every time I opened my eyes, he was there, looking with anxious eyes at the monitors next to me. "It doesn't feel right to me," he kept saying.

The nurses were also monitoring my temperature. As it rose slowly, it got closer and closer to the magic threshhold that would dictate medical intervention. When it finally hit 100.5 degrees a little after 1 p.m., my wonderful OB/GYN came into the room and said, "You know what? Let's have a baby." He explained that a C-section would need to be performed to keep the baby safe from the temperature I was running. Within a minute, my formerly quiet, darkened room was lit up and abuzz with nurses and surgical staff prepping me for the surgery. My husband was whisked away to change into scrubs to be at my side. There were no fewer than seven or eight doctors and nurses in the room with me from that point on. I remember asking a few questions, but feeling not disappointed so much as relieved that I'd soon be able to see the baby -- I knew that I would have had a very difficult time finding the energy to push anyway. In the only quiet moment that we had before the surgery, my husband took my hands in his and told me he loved me, and admitted he was worried. I, in my medically buffered numb state, told him it would all be fine, and we said a short prayer together. I was wheeled to the operating room down the hall and transferred from my bed to the operating table.

A letter to Thumper, part 2

My sweet son (a.k.a. "Thumper"),

Here you are. You've been a part of our family and home life for over three months now. And everyone was right -- nothing will ever be the same again. Before you arrived, I thought that when people said that, they meant that our sleep schedules, weekend agendas, evenings out and TV programming would all be forever changed by your addition to the family. And they have. But the deepest way I understand that phrase is entirely different. Let me try to explain.

I always knew that having a baby would be a full-time job. No surprise there. But while I imagined the diaper changes, night feedings and marathon soothing sessions, I didn't fully "get" how completely loving you would consume me. Now I understand that each day is made up of a million tiny tasks, all of them equally important to me. Yes -- you are fed, changed, cleaned up and held. You're walked, rocked and bathed. You're swung, bounced, mobiled and toy-ed. But you're also "re-binked" when the pacifier falls out of your rosebud mouth, countless times. You're re-covered when your blanket slips. Your clothes are smoothed out so you don't lay on wrinkles and get little creases in your satiny skin. Your laundry is done EVERY day (!!) with special detergent so your skin isn't irritated. Your burp cloths and onesies and bibs and socks are folded neatly and sorted out to be within arm's reach when they're necessary. Your diaper stacks are refilled, your powder and lotion levels checked, your medicine prepped, your swing batteries replaced, your mobiles wound, your toys recovered from around the house, and your blankets are folded, ready to swaddle you before naptime. Each day is nothing more than a collection of a million tiny acts of love, and that's not even counting the kisses, hugs, snuggles, cuddles, hair-smooths, head-sniffs and hand-holds that you get every day. You will never know how much love went into every touch, every little thing around you. And that's ok -- because nothing could make me happier than knowing that everything about your life, every fiber of your existence, was created with joy and in delightful anticipation of you.

You're still a little guy, and you sleep with me every night. I lay you in the bend of my arm, and then I lay down to face you, so that we're almost nose to nose, and I can open my eyes to see that you're safe and sleeping. Not only do you sleep in a hug, I curl my legs up so that your toes touch my legs. I literally curl myself around you all night. And that's what you've done to my life -- given it a new center around which to mold my tasks, thoughts, decisions, hopes and fears, each and every day. You'll soon grow big enough to handle sleeping on your own, in your own room and bed -- and yet somehow I know that though I won't be wrapped around you at night, my heart will still be entwined around you, my love for you doing its best to protect you from illness, injury, pain or discomfort.

So sleep, sweet baby, and know that you're loved. Know that whatever you are doing -- playing, eating, napping, fussing, laughing, learning, growing -- your mom is with you, doing what she can to help and hold you, keep you safe. There'll come a day when I have to start letting you make your own mistakes, when I can't stand in the way of something that may cause you pain from which you'll grow and learn even more. Know, too, then, that I'll be feeling those barbs and stings right along with you. For now, though, all that I am is poured into being a good mommy to you, and I have never been more fulfilled, happier, more enriched, more full of life than I am in loving and knowing you.

Love,

Mommy

D-Day, part 1: An inauspicious beginning ...

If you read "37 weeks and always", you know that our little Thumper has made his appearance. I realized the other day that I've written about him several times, but never documented the day he arrived. Thought I'd put it here.

** ** ** ** **


When you learn you're pregnant, you envision a lot -- not just about your baby, but about how your pregnancy will progress -- and end. For some reason, I was sure that I'd go into labor at night, when my husband was with me. In my mind, we'd wait out the early hours at home in relative comfort, then proceed to the hospital for a smooth and hiccup-less delivery. Our carefully-researched birth preference sheet listed all kinds of requests for that kind of delivery -- we wanted no pain medication to be administered if not necessary, a surgical birth to be avoided if possible, my husband to cut the cord -- all kinds of things. We geared our childbirth class toward natural delivery methods, and it was only at the instructor's insistence that we did more than a cursory run-through of pain-relief options.


It's funny how things tend to do what they're going to do, despite your best-laid plans.


The day after my 37-week doctor's appointment (at which we were told "it'll be a while yet"), I woke up feeling funny. To be specific, I felt ... leaky. Now, as any woman in advanced pregnancy knows, there is a point at which you're told to EXPECT that your bladder is just going to throw in the towel for a while due to the increasingly cramped conditions. So you're prepared for some of that, and you deal accordingly. For most of the morning, then, I was resigned to this sieve-like state, and didn't think too much about it.


But something didn't feel quite right about it. I had a sneaking suspicion that my water had broken. Finally around 11 a.m., I called my husband at work.


"Hey, it's me. Any chance you can come home early?"
"Why?"
"Um -- I feel -- leaky."
([Beat.] Then he whispers.) "You think your water broke?"
"I don't know. But I think you'd better come home."


So he did. And we went to the doctor, and he confirmed it. "Yep. That's amniotic fluid. And that means you're having a baby within the next 24 hours!"


Luckily, we'd packed up the car before heading to the doctor, and we just had to drive across the street to the hospital. On the way, we called family members to tell them what was transpiring. My favorite conversation was with my husband's brother.


My husband: "Hey. What are you guys doing for dinner?:
My brother-in-law: "I dunno. I think my father-in-law's coming in to meet us for Mexican food. Why?"
My husband: "Just thought you might want to meet us at St. Luke's Hospital for dinner instead."
My brother-in-law: "What? Why?"
My husband: "To see the baby."
My brother-in-law (shouting as he catches on): "WHAT BABY?!"
My husband, laughing: "OUR baby."
[General yelling of excitement ensues.]


So we got to the hospital amidst phone calls with parents, brothers, friends, and our doula. We checked in, I changed into my oh-so-stylish gown, was told I was barely dilated, and was then hooked up to a number of monitors to check my blood pressure, contractions, heart rate, and a few other things I can't recall. As I lay in bed with an IV started in one hand (after two or three unsuccessful attempts to find a vein), it hit me that this baby was *coming.* And that this was a scenario (ruptured membranes with no dilation, no contractions and no cervical effacement) that I had NEVER envisioned.


The nurse checking us in finally left the room, and I looked at my husband and dissolved into tears. Bless him, he put his arms around me (a feat in and of itself, not to mention how difficult all the wires, monitors and tubes made it) and coaxed me to talk about what was going through my head. "This isn't what I wanted," I sobbed. "I feel tied down to this bed and out of control. I feel like these people are making a delivery happen to me, and I can't do anything about it and don't have any say in it. I wanted to walk around during early labor. I wanted to be comfortable. I wanted to be able to eat if I was hungry. I wanted to feel calm and peaceful and happy and I don't feel any of those things."


With my husband's help, that sense of helplessness passed -- I had just gotten overwhelmed by the rapidity of events at that point. After a while, I was able to walk around and try to get labor progressing more quickly (because lo and behold, the monitor showed I was having mild contractions already and wasn't even aware of it). My doula arrived and started massage to help speed things up. She rubbed my back and abdomen, led me through some breathing exercises and generally got me focused on my body, which was extremely helpful. So from 2 p.m. through midnight, I sat in that room with my husband and our doula, and breathed, and focused, and waited. The contractions grew a little stronger and I could tell that things were moving along.


Disappointingly, though, at about 10 p.m., we learned that I was only 1 centimeter dilated (you have to be 10 centimeters dilated to even start pushing). Worse, my cervix hadn't really thinned appreciably (which it must, to dilate), probably because the baby was still floating within the uterus and hadn't yet descended to press on the cervix. So after my eight hours of natural labor, nothing had really happened except that I'd gotten tired. My doctor wanted to speed things along, since my water was broken and that made the risk of infection higher. So the nurse on duty came in at midnight with what I came to call the hell-box and hooked it up to my IV. That's when we *really* got underway -- and when my natural childbirth preparation and resolve was truly tested.

Years ago and 1,500 miles away

My mom's mom died when I was 15. I have a wealth of childhood memories with her in them, and then suddenly, my high school memories lack her presence. Hers was the first funeral I attended that affected me deeply. My grampa passed away just a couple of years ago. He lived a lot of years without her, and though many men wither away when their spouses pass on, he lived almost all of those years with vitality and exuberance.

There's so much I miss about them that most days I can't fully acknowledge it all. It hurts too much. Most of all, I wish they could have met my husband and my son. I think, though, that I'm lucky to have known them so well. My husband never met his grandfathers at all. So I'm blessed. This entry is a small tribute to them both.

** ** **

I got my love of baking from gramma. Every summer when we visited, we'd have a baking day (at LEAST one day, if not more). Everything in the kitchen would be dusted in flour. And we rarely made boring old drop cookies -- we made the real deal, rolling out tables full of dough and using old tin cookie cutters in magical shapes to create masterpieces of baked art. Once the cookies cooled, we frosted and sprinkled to our hearts' content. She never once chided me for sampling raw dough or eating frosting or using too much colored sugar on a cookie -- whatever I did was beautiful in her eyes. She gave me a sense of fearlessness in baking and I love her for that.

I got my love of reading from gramma, too. She read anything she could get her hands on -- newspapers, books, magazines, prayer pamphlets, church bulletins. And she was always good for a story when I climbed into her lap. She praised me when I read out loud, and bought me books for holiday gifts. She helped me discover the art of imagination through the printed word. Thank you, gramma.

Gramma loved to sing. She sang enthusiastically every Sunday in church. The thing is, she had an awful voice. It wasn't musical in any way -- it was just hers. It was the instrument she had to give praise with, and she used it unabashedly. Even as a little girl, I recognized the purity of that. The hymns I heard her sing are still powerfully poignant for me, and my memories of her singing Christmas carols and hymns with all her heart are why I weep at mass with my family each December.

** ** **

Grampa was one of those men who sailors might call "a good man in a storm." He was the quintessential neighbor. He was always ready to lend a tool, help with a stubborn piece of automotive equipment, pitch in with a tough job. He did it graciously and with good humor, never expecting anything in return. As a result, he was a very busy man -- he was always out helping others. And yet every year when we visited during the summer, he made sure we had whatever special play privileges we wanted that we couldn't have at home -- a sandbox in the backyard, bunnies in a specially made hutch on the back patio, borrowed bikes to ride around the neighborhood. How he orchestrated this every year, I'll never know. The bikes were always the right size for us to handle, the bunnies were always sweet and fun to play with, and the sandbox was always big enough for us to play in and have our own corners, without crowding each other.

We also had free rein in his workshop in the basement. Grampa's workshop was a special place, specifically because it was all his -- you could tell gramma never set foot there, since there was sawdust all over the floor and a general feeling of bachelor-y mess that only a man's space has. So we knew it was special to him, and yet he invited us in as a matter of course, turned the space over to us, and gave us carte blanche to play with anything safe, non-toxic and blunted. We cracked countless hickory nuts in his huge vice, spinning the heavy handle and chortling with glee when the nuts split open between the vice's massive teeth. We sorted through thousands of nuts, bolts, screws and nails and placed things in tiny jars according to size and type. We played with water-based paints, creating "art" on scraps of paper, and conducting "experiments" as we mixed color after color (all to achieve a uniform grey time after time). And through it all he let us play, sometimes laughing silently at our antics from across the room, delighting in our budding creativity and enthusiasm.

** ** **

What I remember most about gramma and grampa is how they loved and adored me and my brothers. I don't remember a single gift they gave me, though they showered us with special toys. What I remember instead is the way that they delighted in what I did, said, wrote, drew, baked or sang. I remember gramma's hugs and kisses, the way she smelled, the special gramma-way she had of enfolding me when her arms went around me. I remember grampa's quiet pride, his silent chuckling when we amused him, the gentle way he had of teaching us how to behave without ever raising his voice or scolding us.

They were, and are, amazing to me.

I've always wondered ...

... when you set your washing machine to "large load," does it add MORE water because there are more clothes, or LESS water because there's less room? Does anyone know the answer to this? I'm seriously stumped.

... how the FedEx and UPS people always know to ring the doorbell right when you start peeing.

... why your car never makes "that noise" when you start it up for your mechanic.

Things I hate

My last entry, entitled "Things I love" was all sweetness and light. I figured I'd turn the tables and make a rant-list for a change.

1. Getting a shard of a tortilla chip stuck between my teeth. OUCH.

2. Throwing up first thing every morning without fail for the first four months of my pregnancy. Thank God THAT'S over. There's nothing to make you hate mornings like knowing you'll greet the new day bent over a toilet.

3. Walking barefoot on ANYTHING except for clean carpet. I hate having dirty feet. And I also hate that feeling you get when you've stepped on a small, thin piece of plastic and it's hugging your skin like a best friend.

4. Motion sickness. I'm jealous of people who can read in the car with no trouble. I can't even sit in those backward-facing seats on Southwest Airlines planes.

5. The new trend in prime time television to split seasons into chunks throughout the year. When you have to wait like five months for the next installment of your favorite show, you resent the very thing you love. "What? It's only Valentine's Day ... and I have to wait till May to see the next episode of 'Lost'?! Goo."

6. Racism, prejudice and hatred. I think you can just lump all those together into "close-mindedness". If we could all open our minds to acceptance of others' differences, the world would be a better place.

7. Poodles. Creepy.

8. Onions. Stinky.

9. Touching wet food on dishes that need to be washed. Thank God my husband is willing to load the dishwasher. Equally lucky: He hates unloading it, and I love it. Bonus.

10. Missing a daily shower. I'm not a human being until I've showered each day. This is why I've never tried camping. Between a dearth of showers and the possibility of dirty feet (see number 3), camping seems like something I'm just not cut out for.

11. Bugs. Yet another reason I haven't gone camping. I'll deal with them if I'm alone in the house and I have to do it. But if my husband or anyone else is around to kill the roach, I'll pretty much be a tremendous coward about it. Can't help it.

12. Smelling like food. Pay attention here, this one's specific. I like smelling food, and the way food smells. I just don't like to smell like it myself. For instance, you know when you go to a Benihana's or to Subway, and you leave and you can smell your meal on you? Hate that.

13. Dusting. So boring.

14. Waiting for people ahead of me in the airplane aisle to load their stuff in the overhead bin so I can go past them and sit down. I don't know why I have such a problem with it. I'm normally a fairly patient person. But pretty much everything about flying is icky now.

15. Scouring the house for 'darks' to do a load of laundry, getting it started, then stumbling across one more thing you should have thrown in with it. Goo.

Things I love

A good friend of mine (www.stillhavesandinmyshoes.blogspot.com) recently posted an entry about things she loved. I thought it was so fun that I'd take inspiration from her and do the same.

1. Watching my infant son awaken. Most mornings I can count on him stretching his little arms above his head and waking up in a good mood. The sun doesn't come up for me until I get his first smile of the day.

2. Kissing my son's velvety little head. What IS it about babies that makes their hair smell so good? I've used Johnson's Baby Shampoo myself and I never smelled as good as my baby boy does. It's a mystery, but also one of life's blessings -- smelling a baby.

3. Hanging out with my brothers. I have two younger brothers and they can make me laugh like no one else except my husband can. When the three of us get together, we're all kids again. We usually just crack each other up quoting random movie punchlines at each other, until my youngest brother makes a ridiculous observation that kills us all.

4. Talking to my mom. It's the easiest and most natural thing in the world to do -- connect with her every day. I think it's because she's been my best friend since I was born. I'm a lucky woman to have such an amazing example of giving and openness in my life.

5. Making my husband laugh. For those of you who know us, you know that he's definitely "the funny one." He makes me laugh constantly. So when I can turn the tables on him and make him really lose it, I feel like I'm flying. It's extremely satisfying.

6. Reading a great book. This is a love that I've abandoned for a while to focus on being a new mom -- my reading has consisted of lots of books about childbirth and parenting. But I'm hopeful about getting back to this love soon. I miss getting lost in words and paragraphs. I can get to the point with a great book that I'm scanning words but what appears in my brain are people, places and smells, voices and other sounds, scenes and feelings. I LOVE that.

7. My iPhone. My husband wanted to buy me one when they first came out, and I resisted. "I don't NEED an iPhone," I protested for months. And I held my ground. This past Valentine's Day, though, he brought one home for me. And I fell in love with it. Apple is amazing. When I got an iPod, it changed how I listened to, bought, thought about, accessed music. Now my iPhone has changed how I live online. Incredible. Plus, it's just really freakin' cool.

8. This otherworldly confection called "Avalanche Bark" from the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. Think Rice Krispies meets peanut butter meets marshmallows meets chocolate chips and some other random and unknown goodness, all in one hunk of heartbreakingly-good delicious-ness.

9. Folding laundry. Weird, right? But I get a kick out of a warm mountain of clean, fresh-smelling clothes that I can fold before they get wrinkled. I think it means to me that I'm taking care of the people I love -- my husband and my son. I do laundry RIGHT -- I sort, I treat stains, I adjust dryer settings, I do reds by themselves. I'm GOOD at laundry. And I LOVE a warm towel on a cold morning when you step out of the shower.

10. Connecting with my sister- and brother-in-law. My sister-in-law and I were pregnant at the same time, and she's expecting their daughter to arrive in a few more weeks. Going through the process of being pregnant together has brought us so much closer and I love who she is and how she lives her life. She's amazingly connected to people and reading how they're feeling. She's a healer by nature and she's going to be a stellar mom. And my brother-in-law is adorable. He's strong and masculine, and his newborn daughter is going to rule him, I can just tell. They'll make the perfect parenting team because they complement each other so well.

11. "Lost." I don't watch much TV anymore, but this one's got me hooked again. So does "America's Best Dance Crew" (can't wait for the new season this summer!) and "Dancing with the Stars".

12. Caffeine-Free Coke. Now that I'm a nursing mom, caffeine is taboo. So are artificial sweeteners. Thank God for Caffeine-Free Coke. I love having a soda I can enjoy again. All during my pregnancy, it was water, water, water. I got so sick of just water. Yay for teeth-rotting soda!! :)

13. The dipping sauce you get with Papa John's pizza. WOW. Butter, garlic ... you might as well put a cork in your arteries, but it's SO good.

14. Helping my husband give our son his nightly bath. The boy LOVES his bath, though he didn't in the past. Now it's a joy to watch him light up when we lower him into his little tub. He grins up at us, even if he was just wailing for some reason. And there's something pure about a squeaky clean baby. Plus, his bathtub is the coolest thing. It has a built-in thermometer that tells you what temperature the water is, and shows you a safe and comfortable range for bathing a little one. So the guesswork's out of water temp. It even beeps loudly if the water's getting too warm. Amazing. Plus it works with running water, which runs into its own reservoir separate from the part where baby's sitting, so you always have a fresh water supply for rinsing. So cool.

15. Reading what smart, funny and kind people are doing and creating. I love my girlfriend's blog (see above) and trolling through Facebook to see what's up with the amazing people in my life. One friend's in the advertising business and is one of the most brilliant people I know. He doesn't post often, but when he does, I know it'll be good. Even his status updates are good. I have another friend who lives in Arkansas, and the shortest e-mails he sends me can make me smile, because his spirit shines through them. And text messages from my youngest brother at college always crack me up. A while ago, his favorite exclamation was "goo." If someone on TV suddenly got sick on camera, he'd yell "Goo!" Or if you told him you got a flat tire, he'd say, "Goo!" Once he dropped something sticky on the floor, and rather than cuss, he simply looked down and said very quietly, "Goo." And it cracks me up. Even just remembering how he sounded when he said it still makes me laugh. So he created a new way for me to swear without actually swearing. Now that I have a baby, that's really useful. So -- thank you, J.

Life's good. Reading back over this list has helped me realize that I have access to these "things I love" on a regular basis. I'm blessed, and I know it.