The Aftermath

Thanks to you, my blog friends, for keeping up with this saga and for your cheering on :). We're happy to have been spared by the tree gods too. All four of us.

Baby P is still sleeping in her car seat, so I'm currently viewing the Spring collection from Precocious Toddler. The highlights are fuzzy pink scarf, jeans so big the waist falls down and dancing skirt with built in shorts. Uneven pink rubberbanded pig tails will be all the rage.

This is as deep as it gets for a while. I'll probably be on blogging hiatus. But I'll still try to check all of your sites. I do, after all, need something to do with those 15 minutes of free time every day.

Happy President's Day!

When a tree falls in the back yard

The domino effect is set in motion.

It was about 8 a.m. on a Wednesday morning and the wind was blowing almost hurricane force. I was on the phone with my husband who was telling me I shouldn't be driving the toddler to nursery school in that weather. Knowing that I rarely listen to anyone's advice, he was asking me whether I had decided yet about taking her. I didn't know, but I did feel a little anxious at the prospect of forging through the wind with my nine months pregnant belly and a toddler at my side who just might be light enough to be carried off by the wind.

I was looking out our bedroom window and glancing at the weather report when I saw the trees lining the entry to our back yard swaying so fiercely they started to bend. Crack, crack, CRACK! I saw the biggest tree in the yard coming down fast in 3-D heading straight toward the bedroom window.

I jumped up from the bed and let out a little shriek as I saw the tree fall in both the Southern and Western bedroom windows, pulling down all the wires attached to the back of the building. The power went out. The phone went dead. My heart was racing as I nervously approached the windows to see where the tree had landed. It missed the building corner by about one foot. Its massive trunk spanned the entire path to the back yard, laying at a southwest diagonal.

We were staying home that day. I snapped at the toddler many times as her curiosity drew her to peer out the back windows at the monstrous tree corpse. The wind was still howling and I heard a lot of cracking and whistling. I thought how ironic it would be to have a tree kill me after surviving nine months of pregnancy. More importantly, I thought how I might have to kill someone else if my lovely girl met that fate.

So we waited for Con-Ed to come and restore our power. We waited all day and all night. The refrigerator was warming up and I cooked stew by candlelight to use up the food before it spoiled. We waited two more days for the power and the super tried to relight the boiler a few times to give us bursts of heat and hot water.

Finally on Friday late afternoon we were restored. That night we went through all the food and got rid of almost everything. Except for some frozen stuff which we had "preserved" by boxing up with ice packs and such and leaving on our fire escape. There were some cheese enchiladas which were still very cold, although not frozen. We ate them.

At 4 a.m. I woke up and had terrible indigestion. I knew I shouldn't have eaten those enchiladas. After a few Tums and some pacing, I tried to go back to sleep. My stomach just wouldn't calm down. After a couple of fitful hours, I gave in and sat up. Contractions were coming again, just like they had been on and off in the last couple of weeks. But they kept coming. I couldn't really be in labor, could I? I tried to sleep. I really wanted to sleep and I felt like total hell.

Little Beauty came in to wake us up at her usual 7 a.m. witching hour and my husband went with her to the living room. I didn't want to alarm anyone, but I felt sick. Finally around 9 he came in and I told him the story of my unhappy tummy. Oh and by the way, I was having contractions. He went out for Pepto Bismol and fetus was going crazy. I wanted to puke or something just to get those cursed enchiladas out of my system. I barely ate anything. We had no decent food.

Finally we realized that this was the real thing and that I was going to have to endure giving birth with tomaine poisoning or whatever it was. Jesus. As if it's not bad enough. By 12:30 I acquiesced and let my husband call in the reinforcements to watch our daughter. The pain was getting intense. 2 p.m. came and I was almost in panic mode, ready to kill the reinforcements if they didn't show up soon. They did and we rushed off to the hospital, contractions coming one on top of another.

We were admitted and I was hooked up by 3:30. After a very rough couple of hours, our new baby was born at 5:24 p.m., Saturday, January 21st. A beautiful girl, 8 lbs. 2 oz., 20 inches long. And we went with a "P" name--an amalgamation of two names that we liked. She's a lovely baby and big sister is adjusting a little more each day.

Now we are four.

The End is Nigh

I was reading one of the books I bought several months ago for entertainment and the second page was already deep into 16th century English dialogue. There's a little mention of one character's end being nigh. So I though it an apt way to describe my pregnancy--despite all the dramatic plot points, the end is nigh.

The baby did turn around (thank God or whoever else you want to credit) after we employed lots of different turning techniques. Who knows if the baby just decided to turn on his/her own or whether one of these strange things made the difference. The lingering smell of moxa has almost cleared from our master bathroom (um, it smells like an illegal substance, actually, so we'd like it clear before all the relatives come over to coo over new baby). We've thankfully put away all the hot/cold packs and various headphone-for-lower pelvis contraptions.

According to the latest doctor's visit, the baby has not only turned, but has now firmly wedged his/her head into my pelvic outlet so there shouldn't be any more crazy gymnastics. Although, I must say baby still enjoys a good moonwalk over my lungs and such. I'm at least 1 cm dilated (probably more by now given the increasing number of contractions), so the clock is truly set. I just don't have any clue when the alarm will ring. Very soon, I suspect.

The official due date is January 31st. If I make it that far I will be very surprised. But I am so relieved that the baby has come to realize the benefits of exiting the right way that I'm not even that worried about labor anymore. I know, I'm delusional. But, hell, the chances of it being any longer than last time are pretty slim, so I know I can get through it.

Anyone got any good baby names? I can't really reveal anything, but let's just say that we're stuck with a couple of nasty little letters to work with. The worst one is "P".

Flat cakes and belly bulge

A lot has transpired since I last wrote here. I'm 37 weeks pregnant now which means I have about 3 weeks to go, theoretically. The baby had finally turned head down, the way it should be for delivery, and then there was the last two weeks.

I've been feeling a lot of activity--kind of an excessive amount. It hasn't been too comfortable either since the body parts are getting larger and my belly is stretched taut, I mean almost snapping taut. I didn't believe that it could be more so than last time, but it's about three times worse and my skin will forever be showing it. Sigh.

Anyway, we were pleased that the baby had finally turned down to prepare for his/her grand entrance (or exit, however you look at it). Then we got into a little fender bender where we were rear-ended in stop-and-go traffic. It really wasn't a big deal, but we had to go to the hospital since I am 9 months pregnant and all. After being sent to a second hospital, sent all over the place to find the emergency room and finally directed to the maternity unit, we waited another couple of hours to be seen. They made us sit there for a few more hours while I was given an unnecessary series of treatments including two hours of fetal monitoring, an hour of IV fluids, an internal exam and an ultrasound. Everything was fine. The baby was head down, no bleeding, no signs of trauma.

We carried on with business as usual, confident that all we had left to do now was wait. We had a regularly scheduled appointment a couple of days later where we were offered more fetal monitoring. The doctor must have forgotten or the nurse did or something so after a good bit of waiting we decided it must not have been that important and left.

So we arrived at last week's doctors appointment in good spirits. Our main concern was presenting our birth plan and reviewing it. We did that and were feeling good about the impending birth. Then came the internal exam, my most favorite part of any checkup.

"Hmm," said the doctor.
My face dropped. This is never the reaction you want to hear with 4 weeks left to go.
"Is something wrong?"
She poked further inside.
"Ouch!" I said.
"I know," she replied, "I just need to feel here for a minute."
She removed her hand and peeled off her gloves.
"Well," she started, "I don't feel a head. I feel some smaller parts."
"I can tell you that I have noticed a lot of activity and larger bumps than last time I was pregnant."
"Yeah," she said airily. "I'm gonna have them do a sonogram today just to make sure. You can get dressed."

I sat there for a moment in my oversized paper towel, taking it all in. I looked at my husband, both of us with knitted eyebrows. "Crap," was all I could think. I knew something seemed weird.

Yes, there it was on the sonogram: baby butt down, head up. I knew what that meant. It meant they would want to perform a C-Section. I knew it meant worry and anxiousness, surgery and long recovery. I knew it meant that I would probably not get to hold my baby when it was born and that I might have some complication or trouble healing that would interfere with breastfeeding. I knew it meant I would be shaking in my boots wondering whether the anesthesia would trigger some strange relapse of my childhood epilepsy. I tried to hold them back, but as soon as that technician left, the tears were rolling down my cheeks and the snot was enlarging my nose.

We talked a little more with the doctor and found out that not only was the baby breech (again)
but that I have an anterior placenta, meaning that it's attached to the inside of my belly instead of the back wall of the amniotic sac (as it shows here).

That means having an external cephalic version (where they numb up your uterus, grab the baby's head from the outside and turn him/her into the pelvis) would be much riskier and ill advised.

So what have I been doing then? I have been: to the accupuncturist to burn mugwort next to my pinky toes, sitting with baroque music piping into my pubic area whilst holding a heat pack below and an ice pack under my breasts, laying on my back at a 45 degree incline to raise my hips in the air above my head, putting my head down low and raising my butt in the air while on my stomach side and trying to sit as staunchly upright as possible at all times.

I remain optimistic that the baby might turn before delivery. I'm doing what I can to encourage him/her to do so. In the meantime, I'm trying not to sleep all day long because my almost three-year-old needs her mommy still. I know it's not the end of the world if I end up with a c-section--lots of people do. But for me, it would be a very disappointing end to a long pregnancy. However it may transpire, I will soon get to meet the fiesty little one who's already made an indelible mark on our lives.

I saw Superman

I was taking advantage of cutiest-tootiest's nap time a couple of days ago and decided to do a little shopping for the imminent arrival. I went to a store called Crib and Teen City. Not the most creative of names, in fact a little odd, if you ask me, but it does imply that there will be lots of cribs and the like inside. It's in a weird little building with one other store that's situated a little too close to the street, so it's awkward to get into their driveway. I had to circle back once to figure it all out. I went inside and a salesman approached with the usual, "May I help you?"

"Do you carry bassinets or something like that, smaller than a crib?"

Blank stare. "We have a lot of cribs, why do you need a bassinet?"

A little put off by his assumptive air, I replied "I already have a crib, which is now a toddler bed, so I need something for this one," pointing to my red-clad protruding belly.

"Oh," he said, "the only thing like that is a changing table." I wonder if this man has been taking too much medication. "Maybe you need some other furniture for the room?"

I felt a little badly for the guy. I used to work in retail and I know what a complete horror show it is, especially when there's no customers. His face and awkward transition tell me he is desperate to sell me something. Anything. "Do you have low bookcases, the kind where she can reach everything?" I offer, nodding towards the sleepyhead.

"No, just those kind," he says, pointing to a very tall, thin shelving unit. "You can try that unfinished wood store down the street. Or anywhere, really."

"Okay," I say, with my characteristically uncomfortable laugh. "Sorry you don't have the bassinets. Thanks, anyway."

His face drops a little and he leans on the railing next to him. "Okay, thanks for stopping by."

I went outside and noticed that the neighboring strip mall is connected to this parking lot, so I decided to take a stroll over there. There's a swimwear shop--nope, a discount drug store--maybe later, a beauty salon for the well-heeled older lady, a kitchen remodeling shop and a couple of restaurants. Food. Yes, food is good. The Italian place had a $7.95 lunch special, so I decided to try it.

Upon entering a maze of doors, I am confused by the sheer amount of mirror images reflecting back at me. I know they like mirrors in these old-fashioned places, but this was actually impressive in a garish sort of way. An entire wall was covered in mirror glass with faux columns separating it into sections. It was so clean and well-placed in terms of lighting that it really did make the restaurant appear twice the size. I had to check the faces seated near me and then their reflections in the mirror to confirm that it wasn't.

They seated me in the back since the size of my belly and the presence of my stroller might scare away the geriatric regulars. Did you know that pregnant is embarazado in Spanish? Maybe Italian too, ay? Anyway, so I was there in the back enjoying a very simple, but fresh and nice capellini pomodoro and to my left I see a very imposing figure perusing the menu. They seem to know him at this place. Without being too conspicuous, I let me eyes wander bottom to top and I am stunned by his face. Nevermind that the man is about 6'10" tall and is dressed not unlike the Brawny man, it was his face!
His face was the closest human replica of the comic book drawings of Superman that I've ever seen. Superman lives in Scarsdale! Really, I didn't know people could look that architectural. He looked like the ideal worker that they used to draw in the 30's. Like Atlas. Almost like an ox, actually. I had to stop myself from staring. I wanted to take a picture, just a little snap with my cell phone or something.

But then I thought this poor guy (they called him Brian, I think) probably has been plagued by hero-worshippers his whole life. Maybe even asked to save somebody. I could see by his rough hands, style of dress and the gigantic portion of pasta he was finishing that this man was working hard to make his way. When his bill came and I saw the way he spread out the change on his hand to count it methodically and individually, I realized that Superman always relied on instinct and super brawn. In real life, that and a quarter get you a phone call.

Parking in reverse

It's getting kinda hard to back out of parking spaces because my side-to-side rotation is very limited. I have to use my mirrors more and go very, very slowly. Otherwise I get some nice kicks in the side and shooting pain to boot. So it was suggested to me that I start going in backwards so that coming out will be forward.

I've seen people do this many times and I still think it's bizarre. Why? Why would anyone want to try to align perfectly with a parking space using the back end of the car instead of the front? The only thing I can think is that it's like doing the crossword puzzle every day. Instead of sharpening your mind, maybe this sharpens your reflexes?

There's a guy who parks backwards every day in our lot. I've cringed watching him reverse park his Ford Taurus several times. It looks like he accidentally presses down on the gas pedal instead of the brake, causing him to zoom backward so fast that he might run something or someone down if it weren't for the grass median. He seems proud of himself.

I think I'll stick with the front end first.

Annoint my head, annointy, nointy

Getting onto certain talk shows puts a star in the artist caste. One of these shows is Charlie Rose. I love Charlie, I really do. My first boss in New York was friendly with the producers of Charlie Rose and used to send them faxes all the time with publicist speak and salutations like "lovey". That's when I first became aware that there was a person named Charlie Rose who had a floating table in blackest space where alien life forms from various media would land.

I think some of the interviews are pretty insightful and/or incisive, some are the usual worshipper fare and some of them surprise the hell out of me. Like last night's interview with The White Stripes. The White Stripes? What in God's name were they doing on Charlie Rose? I mean I know they get tons of buzz and rave critical reviews, but aren't they a bit, I don't know, gothic or something for Charlie Rose? Just seeing them sitting there like this was going to be an intellectual discourse about their innovative technique made me blink a few times. (Side note, why does Jack White want to look like the spawn of Satan and the Pillsbury Dough Boy?)


What scared me even more is that Charlie Rose was practically genuflecting in worship of them. Isn't Charlie Rose a little mature for their sort of thing? I would think somebody kind of brought him up to speed on who they are (hell, I'm not even cool enough to know more than a couple of their tunes), but he was seriously smitten. And what's up with the two White Stripes, anyway? What a weird kind of relationship they must have.

Meg White seemed shallower than my daughter's bath water and Charlie didn't even try to draw her out much. I'm still giving her the benefit of the doubt, but her portion of the interview was kind of like, "I just want to reach people and feel their energy. I do whatever Jack wants me to do."

So, Mr. Rose spent most of the time wanting to know how it was for a God like Jack to dwell on this earth with mere mortals. I have to admit that Jack did seem pretty smart. Weird in kind of a scary way, but smart. Did you know that he produced Loretta Lynn's recent album? Yeah, it was one of those shows.

It happens to everyone

I've never been a big fan of crude humor, save for a few hilariously funny movie scenes (Dumb and Dumber) or snippets from novels (Grapes of Wrath). In general I find toilet humor or sexual humor to just be stupid. I think it's because it's all been recycled a little too much. Plus, I'm kind of a snob, anyway.

So translate my mild disgust with, uh, natural urges to real life. I hate all the noises associated with bodily functions, my own and especially other people's. I'm not talking about sex noises. That's a whole 'nother realm altogether which is more of a...keep it on the DL issue. I mean that I hate when people's bodies make telltale noises that say something's just not right in here. When someone has a chronic cough or throat clearing issues, I'm often thinking, "God, can't you do that somewhere else?" Pretty snotty, right? Don't get me started on things that people can control like chewing loudly with open mouths. Eeewwww.

I think my mom sort of fostered this sensitivity to noises because she was always, always making a big deal about manners, particularly table manners. Over time, I myself became accutely aware of all the sounds of impolite eating. Now I can't even stand when people drink too fast and you can here glugging and liquid traversing the esophagus. I often point out to those closest to me when their noises are putting me off (you know, when they're horrendously ill, suffering from allergies or in need of the Heimlich Maneuver). I displayed my full caretaking capacities this very night when I sent a sick family member off to fend for himself because I couldn't take his sinus' soliloquy anymore. I'm a nurturer, can't you tell?

Funny how instincts work, though, my daughter's noises never bother me. In fact, I find them all endearing. But one day I'm sure I'll get my come uppance, as they say, when this same girl will be nauseated by the wiggling of my dentures and the tap-tap of my cane when I come over to her house for Thanksgiving dinner in 2050.

I always listen to the words

So I was very proud of myself for reopening a story that I'd previously written. For whatever reason, it had been on my mind lately and I kept thinking that it just had something. A nugget of brilliance, if I do say so myself. But you have to do some serious mining to find it.

It's been resting now for a good six months, so I figured I could be more objective about it now. I tend to fall in love a little too much with my own description (this is where I excel), so I need the resting period in order to stop cooing over accidental, but lovely alliteration and the turn of the phrase. I don't know why my brain works this way, but I've always been a sucker for words. I like clever and sometimes I get too rapt in the melifluous words to see that the whole piece needs CPR.

I opened the piece as it was last revised. I had a time limit since my daughter was at nursery school, so I got right down to business. I turned on the comments to give myself a good talking to. The first page was great! Man, it had a catchy opening, the dialogue was good, the description was right on. The characters were taking on a personality. I was grinning to myself, thinking, "You see, you were right! This one is good. It has something."

Then there was the second page and the third. Still interesting, some great elements, but I already had to insert a few comments. Then the plot began to escalate and the climax was coming (oy, please don't go there) and things were starting to get, well, a little ridiculous. This story was a spinoff of a larger idea which I had never fleshed out and somehow I guess I figured the whole world would know that when reading it. It made no sense whatsoever! G-sus.

The comments couldn't even keep up anymore. I realized I had worked my lovely story into an almost undoable, tightly pulled knot. There was action and suspense (are you surprised?), but no freakin' basis in any kind of reality. What was I thinking? I'll tell you what. I was thinking that I liked my own words, who needs plot anyway?

Now I am still trying to figure out if I can salvage something good from this conundrum. I might be too lazy to write the whole long story that I originally dreamt up. (I don't think dreamt is a word, but I like it. My grandma says words like that.) Anyway, at least I cracked the cover after a very, very long hiatus. I have to put the little math/science nerd that lives in my brain to work on this puzzle. As most of my deep thoughts and ideas in life, I hope the solution will appear in my sleep. If not, at least in the shower.