I Can't Understand You With Your Hand In Your Mouth!

Anja has started talking. A lot. I'm not entirely sure what she is saying but it must be terribly important. And I said a few posts ago that I would not suppress the creation and expression of independent thought, so I just let her talk on. She tells everybody, and she now has a big audience because she is meeting all of her new relatives. She is a bit rude though, because I try to talk back to her and she interrupts me.

I just hope that before she embarks on her career in public speaking that she takes her hand out of her mouth.

The thumb appears to be reserved for nighttime, but the rest of the hand is fair game during the day. It could be just one finger, it could be an attempt to stick the whole hand in there. Sometimes she sticks too much hand in there and she gags a little, which really cracks me up. Sometimes she inverts her hand and sucks on her pinkie finger, a la Dr. Evil (I'm sure she is saying "I think I'll call her mommy."). But most of the time her hand is in her mouth, she is also talking. A lot. I took of picture of her talking, one hand in her mouth and the other holding her little foot.

Adventures In Breastfeeding

After two days in the car, we are in sunny Albuquerque. Anja did great in the car. Breastfeeding does present a bit of a challenge on the road though. After two moderately successful nursing sessions in the car in which we were a little cramped for space, we stopped at a McDonalds in Muleshoe, Texas. There were several people in the restaurant, so I chose a booth in the corner. There were a couple of older ladies with a little boy in the booth behind me.

Here are the musings in Muleshoe...

"Look! What a precious baby! I think her mommy is going to feed her. That's called breastfeeding. Your mother breastfed you."

Sigh.

It's no wonder why moms don't always care to nurse in public. The ladies did come to our table to admire Anja, which I thought was nice considering they didn't have the decency to KEEP THEIR VOICES DOWN WHILE TALKING ABOUT ME.

Our next adventure came the following day. We were maybe 50 miles from Albuquerque when Anja started fussing to eat. I had not pumped any milk, so I had no bottles. Stopping would take a minimum of twenty minutes, and we were all eager to get out of the car. So what did this acrobatic new mom do? I took off my seat belt, sat on my little nursing pillow to elevate myself, and plopped my boob into the car seat. I sat in the most uncomfortable position possible for fifteen minutes while my darling daughter nursed happily away. She promptly fell asleep and stayed that way until arriving at her grandmother's house.

I'm amazed how much I take for granted the comforts of home...the nice rocking chair, the ottoman my feet often share with the cats, the radio with a remote control, the little lamp I use to nurse her at night. She is far better than I at adapting to our new environment and I am thankful. As long as I can provide her with what she wants, she stays happy.

The List Continues

I am always irritated at the sight of parents in a parking lot or in the grocery store (or anywhere), hand in hand with their toddler, walking at their own adult pace, with the poor toddler running behind with his or her short legs, almost struggling to keep up. I always feel a little sad for that toddler, because it is clear to me that the parent is more preoccupied with where they are going than where they are or who they are with. I imagine it is probably clear to the toddler as well.

So the list of things I will strive to never do as a parents continues...

When I am walking somewhere, with my daughter's hand in mine, I will travel at her speed. I will not make her run desperately behind me (unless, of course, it is raining, in which case I will probably pick her up and run). May her speed teach me that I should slow down and appreciate the world around me as she learns about the world around her.

I had more to say, but the cat sitting next to me just made some wierd barfy noise. The job of parenting never ends, even with the felines.

Mommy, How Do You Spell Puny?

pu·ny: slight or inferior in power, size, or importance

Anja and I like to watch the baby shows on TV. All of those shows like "Bringing Home Baby," "Runway Moms," and "Maternity Ward." I avoided watching those types of shows during my pregnancy because headlines like "Mary has gestational diabetes and her baby may have two heads" convinced me that Anja may have two heads. These shows are actually more interesting to me now that I know a thing or two about pregnancy and childbirth (and even though I had a c-section, I did attend approximately 12 hours of childbirth education). What Anja and I especially like is when the birth weight of the baby is disclosed. Anja was 9 pounds 11 ounces at birth, placing her at the 95th percentile. What this means is that 95% of babies weighed less than Anja at birth. We refer to these other babies as "puny." So, when the baby's weight is disclosed on television, Anja and I say, in unison:

"Puny baby."

We do not refer to premies as puny. That would just be rude. We also do not refer to babies who are ill at birth as puny. That would just be mean and heartless. And twins: certainly it is hard to reach your maximum potential when you have to share a room. But healthy babies are pretty much fair game. On one show, a nurse stated excitedly that the infant boy who had just been born was so big that he would have to go directly to a size 1 diaper. He weighed 8 pounds 14 ounces.

Everybody together now:

Puny baby.

A few days ago, I was mulling over the posts on the La Leche League message boards and stumbled on one from a new mom who had questions about nursing her son who was large at birth. She was having problems getting him to latch on correctly. She was also concerned because a lactation consultant told her that nursing her son would be like nursing twins, and she did not know if she could maintain enough milk for him. His weight at birth? That little boy, born the day after Anja, weighed...

12 pounds 10 ounces.

Uh-oh.

Seems the table had turned.

I didn't tell Anja that she was now the puny baby. I figure I don't need to start giving her reasons to go to therapy when she is an adult just yet. But I did respond to this mom and we emailed a couple of times about how fun it is to have large babies and how most advice you receive from a lactation consultant can be thrown in the garbage.

I suppose the moral of this story is that what comes around goes around. This is an important life lesson for Anja to learn. However, until she is old enough to comprehend this important lesson, the two of us will continue in our search for...

puny babies.

The Baby Store - For Anja By Mommy

(To be loosely sung to the tune of "The Big Rock Candy Mountain")

Well Mommy went to the baby store
She said "Man, I want me a baby!
With big blue eyes
Dark brown hair
Little fuzzy ears
And moonman toes
Yes, I want me a baby like that."

And the man at the baby store
Said "We don't sell any babies
With big blue eyes
Dark brown hair
Little fuzzy ears
And moonman toes
You have to make a baby like that."

So Mommy went home to Daddy
And said "Daddy make me a baby
With big blue eyes
Dark brown hair
Little fuzzy ears
And moonman toes
I want to make that baby!"

And Daddy said "OKAY!!!!!!!!!!!"

And then just a few months later
Mommy got herself a baby
With big blue eyes
Dark brown hair
Little fuzzy ears
And moonman toes
Mommy finally got her a baby!

Blue Jean Baby And Porn Star? Oh - They're Still Sleeping

The sperm donor was sweet enough last night to give Anja a bottle at midnight, giving me the opportunity for some extra sleep. For me, however, this nice gift meant that I missed the opportunity to feed her. Therefore, I continued to make milk and store it in my expanding boobs. Sometimes I think to myself that I should use the handy breast pump before I go to bed, but usually I'm so tired that I just don't care. So when I got up to pee at about 5 a.m., I looked like I had just purchased a mighty fine boob job. Or better yet, I looked like a porn star. A porn star who was in some pain it seemed, so I sleepily proceeded to the kitchen, assembled the handy breast pump, and went about my business. Anja was starting to smack on her thumb about that time. I am beginning to realize that chomping on one of her own body parts may mean that she is hungry. I offered her the other side, and, a half hour later, I was no longer my porn star persona. I had become the woman you see in Africa on the National Geographic specials, with her breasts sagging down to her knees. Anja appeared to have gone back to sleep, but her eyes bounced open the second I set her in the crib. So I took ahold of her, her blanket, and her pacifier, and headed towards my bedroom.

Shortly before Anja was born, the sperm donor bought us a new king size bed and an awesome Tempur-Pedic mattress. I have visions of a small dark-haired girl with giant blue eyes, just old enough to crawl out of her own bed, who walks into my room and says "Mommy, can I sleep in your bed?" At which point, I will scoop her up and plop her in the middle of my awesome Tempur-Pedic mattress, right in between the sperm donor and me. But I don't put her in bed with me very often now. I am all for co-sleeping with your infant; my close friend does it with her twins all the time. But I just fear blankets and sheets and pillows and a new mom who really enjoys sleeping without up to nine pounds of baby inside of her. But, this morning, with the sperm donor out on his Saturday morning bike ride, I figured I could get Anja back to sleep in the big bed. And I did, shortly before 7 a.m. I awoke to the sound of poop filling her diaper. Lovely. It was 10 a.m.

I can't remember the last time I slept until 10 a.m. Extra lovely.

We got up, cleaned her diaper. She ate, and then I dressed her in her very first pair of jeans. I got me a little blue jean baby. They are a little bit big, but as I always tell Anja: when you are a baby, you can grow into your clothes but when you are an adult you can only grow out of them.

Sucker

Anja perfected the art of sucking before birth. She was even born with the little sucker's blister that breastfed babies get; it's a little callous in the middle of her upper lip. My OB suggested that Anja was probably sucking on her hands when she lived inside of me. And why not? Big baby. Small space. Where else were her hands supposed to go?

Anja first experienced the pacifier on Mother's Day. At that point, the sperm donor and I had endured about a week of Anja being VERY fussy in the evenings. Not as bad as colic was described, though I feared it would turn into that. She would cry, would be almost inconsolable. The only thing that would soothe her was to walk around the house with her, so the sperm donor and I would take turns doing this. Eventually she would fall asleep for the night. On Mother's Day, we tried to go out for some gelato. The little gelato place was crowded with other families doing the same thing, and she fussed the whole time. So we got our gelato to go, and headed home...the long way...because we knew she would fall asleep.

A friend had suggested we try the pacifier, stating from her own experience that it might quiet Anja (the key word, I suppose, being "pacify"). So, when we came home from the gelato place, I pulled out all of the pacifiers I had received from various sources, found one that looked as though it might fit in her mouth, washed it, and stuck it in her mouth.

Silence is golden.

I later read that newborns often become fussy in the evenings because their little brains are trying to process all of the stimuli they have encountered during the day. The pacifier seemed to slow the world down...she would suddenly just relax. Now we use the pacifier mainly as a sleep aid. Anja resists sleep, especially naps, like the plague, so a little pacifier time lets her relax enough to close her little eyes and drift off to sleep. I try to avoid her actually sleeping with it, but she usually takes care of that: I go creeping into her room to pull the pacifier out of her mouth only to find that she has already spit it out and is happily, although somewhat noisily, sleeping.

But it seems the pacifier is going to be replaced.

At night, I sometimes hear Anja sucking on her hands over the baby monitor. She sometimes sounds as if she might be awake, so I go creeping into her room only to find her all squirmy with her hands in her face. And her eyes closed. Usually, she actually wakes up within thirty minutes or so. But this morning I walked in and found her sucking on one little part.

Her thumb. I've got a thumb sucker. She's very cute, sleeping away with her thumb in her mouth. I took a picture of it before I woke her from her nap this morning. And I'm okay with that. I visualize a little girl in her mommy's lap with her thumb in her mouth and that is a vision that is very precious to me.

I'm A Little Bit Somber

Today, June 29, is the tenth anniversary of the day the sperm donor and I moved into the only home we have ever bought together. I remember the movers dumped all of our boxes into one room, even though I had, in my o-c way, labeled each and every one of them. I remember this house seemed so big then. I think we only had furniture for the living room and our bedroom. A couple of hand-me-down beds from my great aunt and suddenly we had guest rooms. I never envisioned at that time the little beauty who would live in one of those rooms today.

After we finished moving our few belongings into our home, we took a couple of helpful friends for dinner. When we returned home, my mother called, stating that my grandmother had just died. She had suffered a heart attack the week before. When we arrived at my grandmother's home, there were fire trucks and police cars all parked along the front of her house as though there was complete chaos inside. After the law enforcement left, my grandmother's minister came to the home, led us in prayer, and things calmed down. This was probably the worst day of my life. I remember returning to my new home, where I had neither toilet paper nor an assembled bed, and fell asleep on the couch with tissues in my hand, while the sperm donor slept on the floor next to me.

In the years since her death, I have come to realize how dear my grandmother was to me, something I wish I had truly realized while she was still alive. When I was a child, she would come to my house and we would have tickle fights. She was "Big Rascal" and I was "Little Rascal". I used to spend a week with her every summer and I remember she would always dress me up and take me to lunch at the Hemisfair Tower. One summer, I was ill for most of the week I spent with her, and I recall being so upset because we could not do anything fun. When we spent summers in Colorado, she would tell me about the mountains and the rocks (I recall from her memorial service the minister said "Amy loved rocks."), and I didn't care much then, but apparently I listened because I still remember it when I see those rocks. Now I am the one collecting the rocks on hikes and saying to the sperm donor "Here. Carry this." She kept every picture I drew her and every paper I wrote. She used to mail me Garfield cartoons from her newspaper every week. She signed all of her cards "GM". When I was in college, she would let me come over and do my laundry. When the sperm donor and I got married, we stored the top of our wedding cake in her deep freeze; later, she and her sister would say it sure tasted good.

Yesterday, I walked Anja around the house and showed her some pictures I have up of her great-grandmother, including the one of her sitting at the head of the dining room table which now sits in my home. I hope that wherever my grandmother is, that she can see little Anja - see her smile, she her laugh, see her as she studies herself in the mirror I bought for her crib, see her with her little thumb in her mouth. I know she would be proud.

I love you, GM. I miss you a lot too.

HEY! Who's That Baby In My Gym???

My mother bought a play gym for Anja. The play gym has mainly been useful to put her in so she can kick her legs and swing her arms. I think she is still appreciating the amount of room she has since leaving the womb. Anyway, yesterday, she looked into the mirror and stared at her reflection. For a really long time. Of course, she doesn't know it is her; at best, maybe it's just another baby. But she kept staring at herself, then she smiled at herself, then she stuck her tongue out at herself.

And me without my camera. I'm hoping for a repeat performance later today.

The same baby also makes appearances in the car it seems, so we have determined that she really wants to be friends with Anja. I think that maybe she is one of those annoying people at the actual gym who is always there when you are there, no matter what time of day.

In regards to current headlines...put yourself in this scenario. You are an attorney in Iraq. Saddam Hussein calls you and says "Hey man. It seems I'm in pretty desperate need for an attorney right about now. You game?"

Run for your life!

Am I Dreaming??

Anja was put in her crib to sleep at 11:00 last night, just before overtime started in the Dallas-Miami game. Sperm donor gave her a bottle at about 12:30.

When did she wake up again to eat?

I know you are at the edge of your seat.

6:45.

She slept through the night. For the very first time.

One would think that mom got this fabulous sleep, but I woke up at 4 thinking "She's going to want to eat soon." Then I woke up at 5-ish, thinking, "Doesn't she want to eat?" Then I woke up at 6:30, thinking "She's going to be starving."

And she was.

Now she's enjoying her mid-morning snooze. Soon, we'll eat again, get dressed, then go to Target to buy diapers and a Starbucks!

And One More Thing About Breastfeeding, Then I'll Shut Up About It...For Now

It would sure be nice if the government, in its effort to promote breastfeeding, could also highly encourage retailers and other businesses to provide comfortable spaces for moms to nurse. As a friend of mine once said: I wouldn't eat my lunch in a public restroom, so why should my baby??

Breastfeeding 101

The United States Department of Health and Human Services recently issued a public service campaign to promote breastfeeding in first-time mothers. Current statistics indicate that 70 percent of first-time mothers initiate breastfeeding, but that only 33 percent are still doing it when their child is 6 months of age. NBC News reported that the primary reason for that drop is because mothers return to work, and while I agree with that....well, here's my two cents.

From the minute I learned I was pregnant, there was no doubt in my mind I would breastfeed Anja. The benefits were far too many to count. The sperm donor and I went to breastfeeding class at the hospital where Anja was born. I think the woman who taught it was high on crack. Seriously. She spent the entire 3-hour class talking with a smile on her face and her eyes closed. It was almost as though she was singing dreamily about breastfeeding. So we learned the basics: how to latch the baby, how to hold the baby, how long to nurse the baby, how to know the baby is finished, what the waste products of breastmilk look like, why to breastfeed at all, etc. There was nothing covered that I had not already heard or read. Crack woman made it sound like it was so easy; you just pick up the baby, hook her on the boob, and, abracadabra, she eats. No problem. Right?

I asked to see a lactation consultant from the minute Anja was born, which was at 8:45 on a Wednesday morning. In fact, I asked before they even wheeled me into the operating room. Said lactation consultant finally showed up the next afternoon, and was about as helpful as a little toe. Meanwhile, I can't latch poor Anja on because I had just had a C-section and was connected to an IV, a catheter, and a pulse ox. And she keeps falling asleep while eating. Here's a mental image: me, Anja, the sperm donor, and my mother, all hovering around my boob, trying to get newborn Anja to latch on and eat. Little toe lady said Anja is supposed to nurse for 30-40 minutes. First, her stomach is about as big as a quarter. Second, she keeps falling asleep. "Breastfeeding is so easy," the crack woman sang. Right.

Anja has never really had the normal yellow poops of a breastfed baby. Hers are green. Various shades, some quite pretty. I mentioned this to the pediatrician at our 2-week check-up, who said it was because of my diet. But Anja was growing at the 95th percentile, so whatever. Later Anja started choking and wheezing and sputtering every time I ate. What was this?? Crack woman mentioned nothing about the possibility of my daughter choking to death while eating off me. A call to a lactation consultant revealed that my milk came out too fast for Anja to keep up with. That's when I learned that if you ask three lactation consultants one question, you will get three different answers.

So the bottom line was that my milk came out too fast for Anja, so she would fill up really quickly. Unfortunately, she would fill up on the skim milk version of my milk rather than the half and half. If you know anything about the science of breastfeeding, this will make sense to you. I've spent the past several weeks trying different strategies for Anja to have more half and half.

Sometimes I sit in my nice glider nursing chair listening to my daughter sputter away and I think to myself "I could just pump everything out and stick a bottle in her mouth. Or better yet, get formula." But I don't because I made a commitment to her. It has been a commitment that has brought many tears wondering if she is getting enough to eat. I can be the persistent type. But I can easily see why other women would give up.

I am in debt to the La Leche League website. Their message boards have showed me that though my problems are relatively minor, there is a lot of empathy from other moms. Many of us posting are new at breastfeeding, and I for one am thankful for the experienced moms giving suggestions and support.

So I hope the US Department of Health and Human Services takes this into consideration. I have had to educate myself about breastfeeding; I have had to find my own answers. I also have a master's degree (indicating some modicum of intelligence) and internet access. But not all women are me, and they get scared and the process becomes intimidating, and they quit. I strive to still be doing this in four months. Again, I made a commitment to her.

Anyway, someone's hungry. Gotta go whip out the boob again. And at her two-month check-up yesterday? Still 95th percentile for height and weight; the doctor said she got an A+. Something's working.

The Day 9-11 Took On A Whole New Meaning

Do I still have any readers out there?? I suspect not. Give me a break - I'm a mom now. Blog?? What's a blog??

On April 12, a couple of really nice doctors cut a small hole in me and pulled out a very big baby girl. The whole experience was a bit surreal. The c-section was a possibility. A few days before her birth, a sonogram revealed a very large baby. My doctor wanted to induce labor that day and see how I progressed. I freaked. That day??? I mean I know I had been pregnant for nearly 9 months, but have a baby that day???? Was she kidding????? The little coral outfit I bought for her coming home didn't fit anymore and she wasn't even born yet! My glider nursing chair still hadn't come in at Babies R Us!! That day??? The sonogram showed that Anja was big, but was fine, so we waited out the weekend. I'm convinced she had no interest in coming out anyway. I remember bits and pieces of the surgery: I remember the nice anesthesiologist who kept leaning over my face to give me the play-by-play of what was happening. He always appeared in my vision upside down. After every thing was over I realized that I was really thankful that he said "Oh look, they already started" instead of "OK. They're going to start now." I remember that the nurse took my glasses away before the surgery started, so when my doctor brought Anja over for me to see, she was just a blurry blob. I kept throwing up after the surgery, so I'm not even sure how long it was before I saw her up close, got to hold her. Looking back, it feels as though it was a really long time.

When she was born, she weighed 9 pounds 11 ounces. And 21 inches long. She wasn't petite. At the pediatrician's office a few days later, I was told she was the size of a 2 month old.

She wasn't petite but she sure is beautiful. I have a little song I made up for her about how I went to the baby store to buy me a baby with big blue eyes, dark brown hair (she has lots of it!), fuzzy little ears, moonman toes, and an extra chin, but the guy working there said they didn't sell babies like that, so I ran home and told Daddy that I wanted a baby with big blue eyes, dark brown hair, fuzzy little ears, moonman toes, and an extra chin, so that's what I got. She is starting to smile with regular frequency too; she likes the funny noises we make and she likes when I tell her that I put a clean diaper on for her to poop on (a la Triumph). And she likes when I tell her about how the injured prize-winning horse limped back to his stall after surgery and munched on some hay. She coos too; we move her chin around when she lets out a big long vowel, and it sounds like she is trying to say words.

I'm tired most of the time, so blogging is dead last on the list of things to be done. I'm just finally getting her birth announcements out to unsuspecting friends who figured we would never be parents. I have blog entries planned in my mind, mostly formulated at 4 a.m. feedings - check back weekly, I'll get them out.

Oh, I know; someday I'll get around to changing the ticker.

The List Begins

Over the past week, many students have walked out of local high schools to protest immigration reform. There are critics who propose that these students are simply looking for a day off, but considering the number of immigrants living in our south Texas city and the fact that they have offspring, I highly doubt it. These lucky students are being rewarded for their expression of free speech with three days suspension. I thought we were supposed to be teaching children how to develop and express independent thoughts and ideas, not just become drones in a society where others tell them what to think. Perhaps I'm wrong, but I highly doubt that too.

Also during the past week, parents residing in a local school district appeared at a school board meeting wanting to ban Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale, an assignment for their high school age children. I have never read this book by Atwood, though I have read other works of hers, but it apparently offers a fairly dismal (and fictional) look at the future, especially in the treatment of women. This is certainly not Atwood's first adventure into this theme (check out Oryx and Crake). Apparently, some parents did not find it appropriate reading for their teenagers.

I think everybody falls into a trap of things we say we will always or never do as parents. I am not a fan of absolutes, but these two situations seem to merit some "nevers."

Things I will never do as a parent:

1. Suppress the creation of independent thought.
2. Suppress the expression of said thought (yes - I'm aware of the meaning of the term "consequences of your actions").
3. Protest a book that my daughter is assigned to read. Someone thinks it is a good idea, and that person is probably right. I don't remember any of my high school English teachers pushing the limits on required reading, though they were all good teachers. Well, that lady who taught my British lit class when I was a senior was a bit stiff. I did not read any meaty stuff until I got to college.

I just wanted to put that out there. For now though, I have a mean case of carpal tunnel syndrome in both of my wrists - one of the many joys of pregnancy that will hopefully go away soon.

Did you check out that ticker up there? More on that coming later.

When David Caruso Speaks...People...

It is my observation that people who watch crime dramas on TV tend to fall into two groups: The "Law and Order" group and the "CSI" group. I have always been a "Law and Order" fan with the general rule that if I do not see the crime I do not watch the rest of the show. I also tend to fall asleep before the final verdict is read. Lately, the sperm donor and I have been watching "CSI Miami" because we're both too lazy to see if anything good is on television on Mondays at 9 pm. This has really created amusement for us both because of David Caruso, who plays Horatio. I think Horatio is one of the main detectives for the CSI group; I don't know for sure because I generally quit paying attention after Horatio delivers his tone-setting line, which sets the theme for the entire show. Here is how you apparently set a tone for a certain situation:

1. Horatio always goes directly to a crime scene, where he is more often than not met by a hot female detective. So make sure you are always met by a hot member of the opposite sex when you arrive at your dramatic destination.
2. Make some astute observations about the situation. Always ask the hot member of the opposite sex for his or her opinion.
3. Before you state your tone-setting line, put on your sunglasses. This is essential. It doesn't matter if it is day or night. This draws attention to yourself, makes people listen.
4. Always pause mid-sentence for dramatic effect. If you are David Caruso as Horatio, you would say things like "This is what happens...when worlds collide" or "A dead body...can have that effect on you" or "In Miami...there is a new breed of criminal." If you're just you, try "The highway...is covered with cantaloupes" (sorry - local news story) or "I would like...pasta for dinner." You attract attention by putting on the sunglasses, you keep it with the dramatic pause.

The sperm donor and I await this line with great anticipation. Then break down in horrendous laughter and rewind it over and over on our DVR. Try it. I wish someone would develop a web site of David Caruso voice clips; maybe that's my next calling.

The End Of The Road

Pre-Hyptnotized Peter


What Office Space character are you?
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Here I sit at the desk where I have parked my professional belongings for many, many years. I say "parked" because I don't actually work out of this office; I'm usually running around a hospital unit, coming only to the office to check e-mail, grab a phone number, or pee (yes, my office has a bathroom). I hate this computer. A year or so ago I typed in "ADHD support group san antonio" into Google, because I knew such a thing existed, and a link popped up which looked accurate, but of course was not. And it had to be porn with a ton of stuff linked to it, so that I now am inundated with countless pop-ups for meeting singles and party poker. Since I am part of a larger network, I'm not allowed to download pop-up blockers and the computer help desk people sigh every time I call begging them to clean it up.

I think the computer needs to go the way a la Office Space.

Anyway, I have brought home two suitcases full of stuff from my office. The housekeepers here look a little annoyed at how quickly I can fill up a trashcan. All of the little Elvis pictures (from a desk calendar I received as a gift a few years ago) are down from the bulletin board and have been posted in random places on the unit where I have worked, mainly because my supervisor went onto one of her little mole-hill-into-a-mountain terrors not too long ago about unnecessary things on the walls. There is only one box remaining on my desk, waiting for someone who can carry more than ten pounds to take it to my car. I suspect I have a parking ticket on my car because I had to turn in my parking lot badge today and I refused to park in visitor parking.

Speaking of my supervisor, I did not realize she would not be at work today so I didn't say "so long and thanks for all the fish" yesterday. But, neither did she. The night shift staff was a little emotional this morning as they left work and said their good-byes. A couple brought some presents for Anja. One of my co-workers made me a giant cake; seriously, I think this thing is seven inches tall. She is worried that the middle layer of cheesecake is going to ooze out when we slice it, but I put it in the refrigerator a few hours ago, and I'm confident it will be fine. My co-workers are working on a scrapbook for me - they have all made their own page with comments about themselves, Anja, and me and put their photos on it.

I have been pretty detatched from my job for a couple of years; my pregnancy has only intensified that. My co-workers look utterly surprised when they realize I have no plans of returning. Working with people who are chronically mentally ill can be draining in its own way, but working with people who seem unable to separate their professional and personal lives is a whole other kind of drain. The patients occasionally say thank you, they seem genuinely pleased that I have been able to help them, and it is for them that I have stayed in this job for so many years. Many of my co-workers, however, work very long hours and gripe about it the whole time, but never take any action to change their circumstances. And don't think I haven't said, "Gee, if you're so unhappy, why don't you just leave??" And a couple have for better things. Now it is my turn to practice what I have preached, and it is less about leaving someplace where I am unhappy than it is about moving on to better things.

So, goodbye job. Goodbye co-workers. Goodbye patients, because it is them I will truly miss the most. I'm off to start my new journey.

The Real World

I watched the perennial '80s favorite "Say Anything" last weekend. I also kind of napped through it, unfortunately during Lloyd Dobler with the boom box playing "In Your Eyes." Was that not the most romantic moment for 17-year-old girls back then??? All I had was a geeky boyfriend knocking at my window, and I think he probably turned out to be gay.

But none of that is my point.

In the beginning of the movie, Diane Court makes her valedictorian speech about how all of the graduates are getting ready to enter THE REAL WORLD. Was going to college really entering the real world? For me, college was like high school, only I didn't live at home with my parents anymore. Looking back, that was anything but real. I believe that we as a society must have extraordinarily high expectations of 18-year-olds if we expect them to have a career goal. I had an idea what I wanted to do, which fortunately was tweaked some during four years of college, resulting in far less education with pretty much the same result. I think I kind of felt like Lloyd, who said,

"I don't want to sell anything, buy anything or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed... or buy anything sold or processed... or process anything sold, bought or processed... or repair anything sold, bought or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that."

I kind of know. But then again, I don't.

I was in graduate school when I think I first entered the real world. I was a young social work student, and I think I was on day two or three of an internship in a psychiatric hospital. I was sitting in a group therapy session led by a substance abuse counselor with a bunch of addicts. One girl, maybe nineteen or twenty years old, talked for the WHOLE session about her horrid history of abuse, rape, prostitution, drug addiction, and I can't even remember what else. I remember I was flabbergasted. I came home that day in tears and cried to the sperm donor that after a year and thousands of dollars spent in graduate school, I didn't think I was going to cut it as a social worker.

I've learned a bit in the twelve or thirteen years since I forced myself to go back to that hospital and that group the next day. I've learned how much that counselor sucked, how she never should have let that girl go on and on because there was probably not a soul in the room, including her, who benefited from hearing all of that. All that girl got was a bunch of pity, and she could have gotten that without spending money on a treatment center. She probably got it when she was working the streets or sticking that needle in her vein. And the only thing that pity could do was to reinforce just how low she had sunk. She didn't really live in the real world either - she lived in her drug-infested dysfunctional world. But what I learned was that the real world was simply the world in which I did not live. I had spent my life in the same kinds of environments with the same kinds of people, and on that day for the first time I entered the existence of someone with whom I simply did not know how to relate. I stepped out of my sheltered existence and into someone else's terrifying one, and that was real. I do it every day now, because it is the only way I know how to do my job effectively.

In about three weeks, I'm stepping into another version of the real world, in which I have never stepped before. I'm going to become a housewife, and in a little over two months, I'm going to be a stay-at-home mom. Ten years ago, I never even dreamed I would want to do this. But I'm dying to. I'm dying for a change that doesn't involve getting up every morning at 5:30, that doesn't mean twice daily encounters in rush hour, that doesn't put me face to face with people like that girl on a daily basis. And then I wonder, what will I do in the weeks before Anja comes when I don't have to get up before the sun each day? I can't sit around and watch soaps and eat bon bons each day. I have already announced that I will not be one of those stay-at-home moms who watches Dr. Phil and Oprah every day. Will there be enough to fill an existence that has never known this much solitude? Will I derive enough satisfaction in taking care of the two people who mean more to me than anything in this world? All of these questions are yet to be answered.

And I'm not glamorizing this stay-at-home mom role. I realize that soon my life will be consumed with diapers and breastfeeding and sleep deprivation. I know that the sperm donor and I may want to kill each other out of sleep deprivation and arguments about who is doing what. But I invite you to step into my world as it currently exists, a world that is different than yours. Then you can see just how desirable my new real world is.

Conversations

She squirms in the night
She says
Mama, let's go shopping!
That little coral outfit awaits me!
And I say
The stores are closed right now, little angel
We'll go shopping later

She squirms in the night
She says
Daddy, can you feel this?

Punt.

Daddy giggles
So she does it again

She squirms on the eve of her shower
She says
Mama, I live in a one-room efficiency
I have nothing to wear
I have no hair care products
And I say
The day is still all about you
Each and every day is about you

She squirms early the next morning
She says
All those nice people brought me all those nice things
They don't even know me
And we say
We've loved you since before we knew you were there
And we haven't met face to face yet

She squirms

All I Want For Christmas Is An Egg Nog Latte

Whatever happened to common courtesy?? Looking out for your fellow man? Is chivalry really dead???

Yesterday, I leave the house early for work because I wanted to go to the post office to mail a package on the fun new automated postage machine. You know what I'm talking about, right? It has the little scale and it automatically prints out your postage and charges your credit card in less than a minute, seemingly to prevent standing in the ultra-long lines during the holiday season. I thought I was leaving early enough to drop off my package, then go down the street to Starbucks for my coveted egg nog latte (decaf of course), then travel across the street to work. There are a couple of people in line in front of me at the post office and I'm thinking, this can't take too long, can it? What I failed to notice was that the man in front of me had eight packages. Yes. Eight. There are four things that were abundantly obvious about me, so see if you can visualize:

1. I have one package.
2. I am pregnant. I can no longer hide it. There is a bump.
3. Compared to the eight man, I'm dressed for work. I hate to sound catty, but he looked pretty homeless.
4. There is no one behind me waiting, and there will not be the entire time I'm there.

Twenty minutes people. I'm there for 20 minutes. Twice I asked the eight man if it were possible for me to step in for less than a minute and get my package sent, using the excuse that I did have to get to work. He looked at me as if I were speaking in Swahili. Oh, that's right. I was speaking Swahili and he forgot to stick his babel fish in his ear.

I got to work late.
Without my coveted egg nog latte.

I forgot to mention that yesterday was the only day this week I chose to go to work; I'm off the rest of this week for Christmas and to start painting Anja's nursery. So, at this point in my morning yesterday, I had found no good reason to have gotten out of bed at all.

All day I keep thinking I can skip out for a few minutes to run across the street to the Starbucks to get my coveted egg nog latte. And it never happens. It's so busy at work I can barely see straight. So I think, I'll leave a little bit early to get my coveted egg nog latte on my way to my standing 4:30 appointment. A caseworker coming to my hospital looking for me threatens this because he won't stop talking (and can't seem to determine that I haven't started listening), but I manage to walk out at 3:55. I'm relieved that the drive through line at the Starbucks isn't too long. So I tell Luis at the drive through to start working on my coveted egg nog latte and I sit back in my car and wait. And wait. And wait some more.

??????

Just past the window at the drive through is a trash can. And there is this woman in her humongus SUV, having just picked up her four drinks, parked at the trash can. The four woman is shoveling gallons of garbage out of her SUV into the trash can. Seriously. She is cleaning her car into the Starbucks drive through trash can. What she hasn't and doesn't figure out is that her SUV is so long that the man in the car behind her (and in front of me) cannot get to the drive through window. So we all sit and wait for four woman to clean her car.

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes that I am in the drive through. But at least I have the coveted egg nog latte. And it's warm. And Anja danced when I started drinking it.

But that's not all.

I offer to go to the nearest Chinese take-out place to pick up some dinner. I call in the order, find out it will take 30 minutes, so I decide to use the extra few minutes to run into the neighborhood Ross Dress For Less down the street to pick up a few last minute Christmas items and some maternity jeans. I takes me maybe ten minutes to collect my purchases and get in line. I know it's the holidays and the retail world is crazy, but is it possible for Ross to have more than two cashiers?

No.

Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of my life in line at Ross and I have moved maybe 6 inches in line. By the time I abandoned my mission (ten minutes after I was supposed to pick up my food), the three people in line behind me all knew how far along I was, that I was having a girl, and that her name is Anja. The girl behind me told me that she is seventeen years old and that her mother is 6 months pregnant and how strange it will be to have a sister born at her age. They were all very nice and certainly had gallons more patience than me.

When I got home I found the one thing which made the whole day worth living. The sperm donor stood at my door way with a big smile on his face. He later went out and got me pie and heavy whipping cream (for pie a la Vicki, of course). And today, I have countless reasons to get up out of bed. One of them went to work today, but tomorrow we're going crib shopping. Three of them are covered with fur and are in bed with me right now. And one of them - the beloved jewel - has been squirming around in my belly all morning.

Do I have a point here? Make your own. I'm going to go get another latte.

It's A....

I know, I know. My mother says my blog is boring. The trailer park goddess said my blog was slowly resembling that of the sperm donor's. Lunatic girlfriend said she checks my blog every morning when she has her coffee, and what a disappointment it is to find nothing.

I'm not blog-resistant. I think I've been blog-avoidant. So I wrote a couple of posts ago about how I was going for this Ultrascreen test to rule out Down's Syndrome and a couple of other chromosomal disasters. And I think beforehand, "What are the odds that something will come back positive? That's not going to happen to me." And it's not that the test came back "positive"; it's not that black and white. If the normal incidence of Down's Syndrome for my age is one out of every 200 births, my risk is one out of every 191 births. That's the risk of any 37-year-old woman. All I wanted was a healthy child, so the thought that something might have been wrong, even the slightest little chance, was terrifying. And all of the reassurance in the world didn't matter; I was convinced my baby was going to be that 0.52356%.

So, off we went for the amnio. The fun part about the amnio (if one can call any of it "fun") is the lengthy sonogram the precedes it. We got to see a brain, a heart, some kidneys, a stomach, some arms, some legs, and all kinds of other baby anatomy, all of which is on videotape too. The baby even waved at us, and made some funky Spock gesture with it's hand. I didn't see any of the amnio. Thank goodness because the sperm donor said the needle which went inside my stomach was quite large. It didn't really hurt, thanks in part to the little numbing injection which came first. It really more felt someone was pressing down really hard on my stomach. And then it was done.

Didn't Tom Petty sing "they say waiting is the hardest part?" We knew the results would come back in the next couple of weeks, which bordered dangerously close to Thanksgiving. There were several clues that everything would be OK. First, on the sonogram our baby appeared to be about one week ahead of schedule; babies with Down Syndrome tend to be small. Second, my regular OB explained that there is a preliminary test that is conducted on the amniotic fluid which essentially says everything is good or something is wrong; it just doesn't specify exactly what is wrong. She explained that the results of this test are usually available within a week and she is notified right away if something isn't right. I saw her about one week after the amnio and she hadn't received the "something is wrong" call. But all of the reassurance in the world can feel like no reassurance at all. It doesn't change the fact that we still have to wait for a little printout with little pictures of genes to know whether or not things are OK.

Two days before Thanksgiving we got the call. The voice mail from the doctor's office said to call back as soon as possible because she had really good news. I don't think I realized how scared I was until I became aware of how relieved and thankful I was. They also confirmed what we suspected all along.

It's a girl.

We like Anja. Maybe Cecilia for a middle name - that's the sperm donor's grandmother.