The New Girl

Birth Story.

I had just taken my last dose of [voodoo medicine] homeopathic remedy to induce labor.  You have to take, like, six doses over 12 hours and at 9pm on September 26th, I'd finished it, told my husband (with my tongue in my cheek) that my labor was going to start aaaaaaany minute and went to curl up in the basement and watch some tv.  For the life of me I can't remember what I had on but about 5 minutes in I felt a strange, *popping* kind of kick.

And then I felt a slow, spreading warmth and thought, 'Oh, holy shit.'

Even though I was officially overdue, I hadn't packed a hospital bag.  (I had a feeling that I was going to be significantly overdue...don't ask me why.)  My daughter was in bed asleep.  My husband was upstairs on the computer.  I walked up the steps, into the bathroom, sat down on the toilet and had a fucking panic attack. 

'Um. I think my water just broke,' I yelled out to my husband, effectively passing my panic right along.

After what seemed like an hour of bumbling around, trying to figure out what to do, my brain took over and I directed The Man to call his mom while I called my midwife and started to pack a bag. 

I had yet to have a contraction.  

My midwife advised me to go to the hospital, since I was GBS positive and they needed to start the anti-biotics.  I was happy to go, as the labor with my first progressed pretty rapidly and I had some fear that I wouldn't make it on time.  (My sister had given birth to my niece and her labor was so fast that the midwife almost missed it. It, uh, was a home-birth ANYWAY but I was glad that *I* didn't have to deliver the baby.) 

Anyway.

The Man and I got into the car when my MIL got there and off we rode.  My sister was meeting me there.  (The Doula was out of town and in retrospect, it was so, SO great to have The Little Sister there. SO.)  All the way to the hospital, I thought of my daughter.  I wept for her, a little, knowing that when she woke up, her whole world would be different.  We had prepared her as well as we could, of course, but I already ached for what she was about to go through.

About a minute away from the hospital, I had my first taste of memory.  The contraction was slight and easily managed but it brought back a visceral, physical memory from deep inside my body.

'Oh yeeeeah, I remember this shit,' my body said, 'this shit huuurts.'

We got settled into the room and my sister came and the nurse was asking me questions and talking about the iv antibiotics and blah blah.  Then she asked if I'd saved the pad because she had to see if my membrane 'had really ruptured.'  She said this in a way that made me worry about whether or not I'd misinterpreted the event.  Like maybe I'd just been peeing my pants for the last 15 minutes.  She got the long ass q-tip and lo, the water had broken.  She checked me and told me that I was 2cm dilated. 

'It's going to be a LONG night for you guys,' she said, 'we're not going to see that baby until tomorrow morning.'

This was the first time that I tried to tell her that my last labor had progressed quickly.  I also tried to communicate the feedback I'd gotten from the nurses last time.  They were all, without exception, shocked at my behavior during labor.  Quiet but joking almost throughout.  I wanted both the staff and my midwife to know these things, in case it was the same this time.  The only reason that I hadn't had my daughter within 6 hours, start to finish, was because I pushed for OVER THREE HOURS (and I was still joking then, em effers.)

The nurse asked me if I wanted something for pain and I declined, telling her that unless the labor was long and unproductive, I didn't want medication.  The contractions weren't really difficult at that point.  I asked when she was going to call my midwife.  She smiled at me like I'd said something endearing.

'Oh,' she said, 'I won't be calling her for a WHILE yet.  When it gets closer I'll give her a call.'

This was about 11pm.

They came in and hung the antibiotics and I found out that my blood pressure was elevated (AGAIN) and so, I had to wear the fetal monitor OF DOOM constantly instead of intermittently and I was PISSED but RESIGNED and so I just moved whenever I felt the need to and the nurses had to come in and rearrange it and they weren't as sweet about it as the nurses at the last hospital but oh WELL, right?  SORRY, thems the BREAKS, OB nurses. She also asked me about 1229489 more times if I wanted anything for pain.  Something that doesn't bother me at all right now but at the time, made me inexplicably annoyed.  It was almost as if she'd never seen anyone like me before.  Like she thought she knew me better than I knew my own self. Like she just knew better.

My sister considered going home and then coming back later (since it was going to be so long and all) but she had a feeling that it wasn't going to be as long as the nurse thought and so she stayed.  I felt the same way but since I'm the sort who's inclined to 'Not Get My Hopes Up,' I tend toward the, 'Well, it COULD take all night, I suppose.'  

I was still joking, even though the contractions were getting more intense.  I looked around the room and I was Tweeting, my sister was texting and The Man was updating his Facebook status. Ah, technology.  At one point, the two of them (neither one a doula, obv.) were trying to time my contractions.  As the pain set in, I'd let them know and then while I'm 'Going Inside' trying to 'Breathe Deep The Giving Of Life' and all that shit, I hear them whispering to each other. Talking out the sides of their mouths, quiet-like, thinking that I can't hear them while LOST IN THE PAIN OF LABOR.

The Man: 'Are you supposed to start timing from the beginning of the contraction to the end?'

The Little Sister: 'I think so. Or. I don't know. I'm timing from the beginning until the end, you're supposed to time how long in between.'

TM: 'So, should I time from the end of one to the beginning of the next? To find out how far apart they are?'

[pause]

TLS: 'Hmm. I think so.'

Me: 'You both KNOW I can HEAR you, right?'

About 1:00 am or so, the contractions started to get more intense. I told my [crack-pot] cracker-jack team, who sat, one with a book, the other with a smart-phone, continuing to joke and loaf about, despite the dramatic increase in crampiness in my uteral region. It is a weird thing about a big experience like that, maybe, but I was shocked on a couple occasions that they couldn't, like, read my mind or intuit the change in my internal state. I know that's ridiculous, really, but it's kind of when a little kid presses on her bruise and says, 'Doesn't that hurt?' I had to actually speak. Out loud.

'Hey. I could use a little...you know, labor support over here.'

They both jumped up and it was about this point that The Man started to resemble one of those life-sized, movie house cut-outs of himself. He stood at one side of the bed, ashen-faced, and tried not to panic. My sister leaned in, comforted and did what a doula would do. The pain was still managable with that support and I recall that hour or so passing pretty quickly, despite the jump in intensity.

I wanted to sit upright and since it had been hours since I'd seen ANY medical professional, I got out of bed and planted myself in a rocking chair, monitors in place. The intensity of the contractions steadily increased and I distinctly remember thinking that if I wasn't progressing, if these contractions weren't productive, I'd skip the epidural and go straight for the cyanide.

Ahem.

Anyway.

For whatever reason, when each contraction would roll through, I would grip The Man's hand in mine, put my forehead on his forearm and push my head against it, like I was trying to snap that fucker in half. I'm so not kidding. I'm chuckling as I write this but at the time, it seemed like a completely logical pain reliever. So, there you are.

The contractions were getting longer and longer with shorter rest in between and at about 2:50 am, I looked at my sister and asked, 'Dude. Am I going through transition in this fucking rocking chair?'

About that time, the nurse came in. I don't remember if she asked me how I was doing or whatever. I just remember asking if she called my midwife yet.

'No, not yet. I'll call her when you get closer,' she said.

'Yeah, but..'

'We'll hang the second bag of anti-biotics at around 4.'

'Yeah, but...these contractions are getting pretty strong,' I said, 'Are you going to check me?'

'We don't like to check too much if you're GBS positive. I see that your contractions are getting more intense on the monitor. When we hang the next bag of anti-biotics, I'll check you. So, unless you tell me that you have to push, I'll see you in a little bit.'

And then, she left.

My sister said, 'She's not making it until 4. She's going to have this baby before then.'

I was starting to believe her and abandoned all thoughts of a cyanide capsule.

Around 10 minutes after 3:00, I felt like I had to pee. I'd felt that way after each contraction and I decided to go. My sister went to get the nurse and while the details are muddied, I recall being half-in and half-out of the bed, the nurse at my side, helping me to the bathroom. And then she said, 'Now, don't you go having that baby in the toilet.'

And.

And I.

What?!

'That doesn't happen,' I said, but it was a question.

'Oh, yes it does, more than you'd think,' was her answer and then I realized that I was having another one of those moments when I thought others should be able to know my thoughts. Because suddenly, I wasn't going anywhere and I wasn't going to do anything.

Besides push out a baby.

The next few minutes were full of flurry and panic and flashes of motion and sounds. I was fully in the bed and gripped by such a fierce urge to push that I have no words to describe it. At some point, the nurse checked me and said something I didn't get, followed by, '...you are a 9, though,' along with some kind of injunction not to push. They were waking the on-call doctor, who was sleeping down the hall.

My mind and my body were in a battle, for sure, I was full of worry and panic, trying to hold in the urge to push and cheating--I couldn't help it--bearing down even though I was afraid I was hurting myself in the process. Not to mention, you know, no doctor, no midwife. I remembered my sister having to dance around in her bathroom and fight her own urge to push while we waited for her midwife--it was a home birth and it was the midwife or me and I remember hissing, 'You better cross your legs and keep them together because I am NOT delivering this baby!'

I had a true appreciation for her at that moment because as I laid on my side, trying not to push and failing, I couldn't believe she held out. I could feel my baby trying to get out of my body. I was  freaked out that I was only dilated 9cm and was afraid of rupturing myself and then, from somewhere, I heard one of the nurses say that if my urge to push was so great, I was probably a 10.

Okie Dokie.

Just the lack of the doctor, then. I looked at my husband and thought he might fall over. I was on my side, trying not to push but feeling my son's head descend, I could feel him coming out.

'He's coming!' I yelled, 'he's coming!'

And then, you'll never believe what my sister said.

She said, 'He's coming! They went to go get him, he's just down the hall!'

It was straight out of a movie, I swear, especially when I'm all: 'I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT THE DOCTOR!! I'M TALKING ABOUT THE BABY! HE'S! COMING! NOWWWWW!!'

Two seconds later, the doctor walked in and pulling on his gloves, he said, 'Uh. Can we--break the bed down, please?'

The rest took another minute, at the most.

One big, long, push and he was out.

Sigh.

The Little sister went with The Boy to the little grow-light table. The Man was still a cardboard cut-out, holding my hand. I looked at him, misty-eyed and worried. And the first words out of my mouth were these:

'I am SO GLAD I never have to do that again.'

 

 

The Great Temper Experiment.

I don't remember exactly what it was that pushed the point home, finally.  Pushed it in far enough for me to act on my realization.  I had an epiphany for sure, though.  (An Aha Moment, if you're partial to Oprah-speak.)  The way that it usually works for me is this: I suddenly realize something that I've known for a long time, even maybe forever.  It's like, in an opportune moment, I really see this thing.  I see it clearly and in a way that is sudden and complete.  Like lightening striking.

How am I supposed to teach my daughter to stop screaming and yelling when she's angry, if I'm all the fucking time screaming and yelling when I'm angry?

Bzzzzt.

I have long thought that my yelling and carrying on (in the parenting realm) was related to my own upbringing and an innate lack of patience.  But included in this Not-Too-Comfortable epiphany was this, here:

It's not Lack of Patience.  It's Lack of Impulse Control.

Bzzzzzzt. Bzzzzzzzt.

When the realization hit me that my ever-increasing-in-frequency episodes of over-the-top, in-the-fucking-red-zone, aggressive-yelling were, indeed, were more about a lack of impulse control than anything else, something in me clicked.  

Initially, it was more than a little humiliating, actually.  I can only surmise that is why it stayed outside my conscious thought process for such a long time.  But a few moments after that, it started to sink in. I was impulsively acting out my anger.  And that, I needed to fix.

So, I started with a decision.  A decision that will, no doubt, sound absolutely crazy to some of you but what can I say?  It's what I did.

I decided that the following day I was just...not going to act angry.  Even if I was.  I went from thinking that in order to have fewer angry incidents, I would have to do the hard-if-not-impossible work of cultivating more patience (HA!) to deciding that even if I was pissed off, I was going to deal with it internally.  I was not going to act angry.

Or, more like it, I was going to act 'not angry,' even when I was*.

As a therapist, I am incredibly adept (most often) with keeping my own feelings to myself.  It is a skill that I have honed over the years.  I'm actually very good at it.  For me to have a feeling and act on it impulsively, professionally, would be unheard of.  I am able to compartmentalize and stash away my own feelings for my later examinations.  I mean, I worked through two hard pregnancies and the death of my mother, all the while attending to the needs/feelings/problems of my patients when I was at work.

It's not a giant stretch to bring some of that talent to bear with regard to keeping in check my anger at my 3 year old kid.  

So, I don't remember what it was that flipped the switch but I remember when it was.  It was June 17th.  It was a Thursday and I was in the doctor's waiting room with my dad, looking at some parenting magazine with a bullshit(ish) article on 'How To Get Your Kids To Listen Without Ever Having To Endure A Tantrum EVER,' when the lights came on in my head. 

And I made my decision to Act 'As If.'

The basic premise being that, initially, I would 'act as if' I wasn't angry, allowing my brain to burn some new neural pathways so that eventually, I really wouldn't be angry at stuff that didn't need to make me angry.

I started that day and have been doing it every day since.

Here are a few things I've found so far:

1)  It was easier than I thought it would be.  Once I made that decision to act in a certain way, regardless of internal, emotional experience, it gave me a framework, I think.  Something concrete to do instead of flip my shit.

2)  There were many, many times that I wasn't even really, truly angry.  My anger wasn't, isn't, *real* anger.  Not the kind of anger that is founded on some reasonable action/reaction loop, anyway.  It's an impulsive, angry reaction, out of proportion to the situation at hand.  Given 3.4 seconds, I was able to chill and realize that she's just testing or testing or possibly even testing.  Like 3 year olds are supposed to do.  In fact, if I'm totally honest, I found myself 'trying to teach the importance of certain points' via the angry tone and scowl.  As if.

3) Me simmering the fuck down, in an of itself, helped her to simmer the fuck down.  Of course, it stands to reason that when your mother is visibly angry and yelling that you, as a kid, will feel...a lot of intense emotions.  I did a little thinking about-slash-remembering-slash-realizing how I used to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing (LAUGHING!) in my screaming mother's face.  It is counter-intuitive maybe, but I found that when there was less anger from me, there was more compliance from her (which, I imagine, is due to less anxiety and impulse to be oppositional when a stark line is drawn.)

4) The Out of Proportion Angry Responses were cyclical in nature, creating a counterproductive loop and also a larger pattern of communication.  Disrupting that cycle, that loop, that pattern, has resulted in a more peaceful cycle, loop, pattern and house.

5) There are benefits to slower, longer reactions. It was an unforeseen outcome that, while trying to keep in an impulsive action, I was slower to react and thus, took a little more time to work things through.  This afforded me some opportunities to actually negotiate and stay places vs. cutting and running when TLNG was acting up.

If I were a math person, I'd be able to calculate for you a percentage of reduction in episodes of Out of Proportion Anger but in my 'just-eyeballing it' kind of way, I'd say it's been nothing short of stunning.  They say that to make a new behavior a habit takes a good 6-8 weeks.  And we're close to that.  I've had slips and I'll continue to have them, I'm sure. 

Some days are harder than others.  But it's so much easier to recognize and regroup.

And it makes me feel much, much nicer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*It may go without saying but I'm going to say it anyway, just in case.  I'm not talking about not expressing valid or justified anger/upset.  I'm not even talking about not expressing annoyance or frustration.  I'm talking about a certain level of pissivity, an impulsive acting out of a rush of exaggerated anger.  It's hard to define it, really, as it's all on a continuum.  I know it when I feel it, though.

Through this experiment, I've found that expressing even my legitimate anger/frustration/whatever in a calmer, quieter way gets better results. Makes a better loop. It's a work in progress, I suppose.  I share it as another way of working through. And to close a circle.  If you have questions or comments, I welcome them.  Don't be shy. It's not like I'm going to FLIP OUT at you. HA HA HAAAA!

Beginning. Again.

After the birth of my second child, my body is, um, changed.  Not in the best way possible, you know. I'm looking to reestablish some semblance of self-control in the eating department, now that the sleep deprivation is lessening (ThankYouOhGoodGoodBabyThankYou) and get back to a fitness program. Namely yoga, weights and aerobic exercise.

I've been doing all right.  I've set some goals for myself.  I started posting at Balancing the Scales again (if it's not your cup of tea, I totally understand. If you ARE into health kicks and meatless meal talk, though, I'd be happy to have you visit.) 

I'm trying to [get out of shopping and buying new but big and expensive clothes] get back into my pre-maternity clothes.  I'm trying to work out the stiffness and the aching that comes (for me) from too little activity and zero stretching, plus the repeated movements and fookact body posture that comes from hanging out with little kids all day and looking into the cute, cute nurser's eyeballs. (I think they may be turning brown! Whoop Whoop!)

I also decided to run a 5k.  I am not a huge runner or a fan of running mile after mile [without the motivation of someone, say a knife-wielder, chasing me.] But I think a 5k is cool.  I'm going to try the Couch to 5k program. (I only have 7 weeks, though, so we'll see.)

Plus, there's this: The Man is going to do it.  And since having kids, especially the second baby, still being so small, there is very little we do together.  We even put them down separately now.  He said something casually and offhand, in the middle of a regular old conversation, that stuck with me and has been festering a little inside me.  He said this:

'We basically are living separate lives now.'

You know? That shit is kind of right. But it gives me the Hobby Jobbies* to hear it, out loud and matter of fact like that. 

And so, I'm going to train and we're going to run it together.  I'll be running and there won't be a knife-wielding maniac behind me. 

It'll be The Man.

'Cause I'm gonna smoke him.

*Hobbie Jobbies (heebie jeebies) are what The Nephew gets, as he explained, 'when something is Spokey' (spooky.) Oh, how I LOVE toddler-speak.

I'm Still Waiting For My Award. I Hope It's A Trophy.

A little over two years ago, I had a meds-free delivery.  It was a conscious choice that I made for a number of reasons, all of them personal, none of them having to do with feeling superior to others, liking pain or being a martyr or being irrational or crazy.  It wasn't even a decision I made hard and fast before I delivered.  Not knowing what to expect, I kept my mind open to the possibility of the option for medication.  It's not something that I ever really talk about or even mention, unless someone asks me the direct question (not unlike my practice with regard to not eating meat, which I tend to leave out of conversation, unless doing so would have some practical effect--[leave me with absolutely nothing to eat at a meat lovah's bbq] cause embarrassment and/or inconvenience to a host, say.) 

When I was pregnant, the question would inevitably come (which, why's that again?) about whether or not I was going to get an epidural.  Initially, I would phrase my thoughts thusly, 'Well, I am hoping to go without it, but I'll see what it's like.'  The range of responses that I received from other women ranged from 'Doubtful Wonder' straight through 'Condescension' and right up to 'Ridicule-slash-Mockery.'  Although I'm not easily insulted or offended, I took to rephrasing, to avoid the general discomfort of the sitch, there.  I became completely non-committal (I LOVE to not-commit!) and so, while I still got the occasional, 'Yeaaaah, when you're in there, you'll be SCREAMING for that needle!' there just wasn't enough for most people to grip onto when commenting on my *non-plan-plan.*

In the circle of Women I Know Who Have Birthed Children, even those included in the Many-Degrees-of-Separation-Game, I personally know five mothers who have made the choice to deliver without meds.  A very small minority.  Of course, there could be more, those who, like me, don't really talk about it in passing or enough that I would be aware of their choices.  Of course, it stands to reason, then, that I have met loads of women who have chosen to avail themselves of medication.  I don't know the actual percentages, but I can't imagine that the two numbers are even close.

What's my point, you ask?

Fair question, you.

And I'm sure you're glad that I'll be getting to one.

Anyway.

I am aware, from the many posts I've read on the topic that there are some people who *advocate* for a natural childbirth, who are *judgy* and *scary* and *evangelizing* this choice as if it were religion.    I've seen the crazy websites and heard about the 70's natural birthing videos, complete with mad amounts of pubic hair and orange juice. I haven't ever met one of these people, personally, though. 

What *I have* encountered is some weirdly intense resentment-like against people who Don't Opt for Medication.  Posts or comments in threads where I read about how people who Don't Opt for Medication are Judgers who think that they are better mothers than others, or who are just crazy, going through the equivalent of major surgery without an anesthesia, or (this one makes me chuckle) who are unaware that you don't go home from the hospital with an award for not taking meds.  None of these things were aimed directly at me, mind, and I haven't commented my views on posts like this.  (I wouldn't necessarily tell a person spouting this to me in the flesh, either, unless it would seriously come back to embarrass them if I didn't...I'm not really into embarrassing people, if you hadn't gathered that already.)

I just wonder how much of that rhetoric is a result of an actual, offensive conversation with a Natural Childbirth Zealot and how much of it is just easy to tap into for the sake of conversation or viewpoint comparison or whatever?  How many people actually bump into crazy women, spouting the EVILS of medication to them?  I'm not saying that it doesn't happen.  I'm not saying that I haven't seen the [Crazy Person] Naturovangelist who is spouting ridiculous statistics regarding the DAAAANGEROUS (completely safe) MEDICAL INTERVENTION (commonly/routinely used medication) in the comment section of a balanced post on the topic.  They always seem to me WAY in the minority, though, and mostly like any other kind of [radical weirdo] Dissenter whose comments aren't based on Logic and Reason. Or even Common Sense.

And, perhaps, if I WOULD speak up, if I would put forth my own ideas which have nothing to do with [illogical craziness] telling others what they should be doing, it might go toward re-framing their ideas about 'What kind of crazy woman would want that kind of paaaaain?' 

Like I said, I'm not easily offended or insulted and so I read the Natural Childbirth Option-Bashing with a grain of salt.  But soooometimes, (in any situation, really) I feel like the people crying the loudest about how they are Being Judged by Others? Sooooooometimes? Are also the Judgiest.

Of course, it could just be me.

I'm WICKED CRAZY.

So, It Turns Out That, YES, There IS Something More Mundane Than Complaining About The Weather.

And that would be Complaining About [My] Your Pregnancy.  I have been living in the land of [feeling like a hot, angry, rhino] Uncomfortably Pregnant and all I have is a LITANY of complaints/gripes about it.  And who really wants to read all that shit from me?  Anyone?

Anyone want to hear about the trying to roll over in bed (HA. HA. HAAA.)? Or the Posterior Pelvic Pain that feels like my legs are going CRUMPLE beneath me as I stand up? Or the HEAT WAVE that is threatening my sanity? Or the slowness? Shortness of breath-slash-energy-slash-motivation-slash-uh-HAPPINESS that's settled over me? Or about the [complete denial that an effing BABY is coming to live here SOON] lack of overall readiness? Or about parenting a soon-to-be big sister who has taken to crying at the gym kid's club (again) and who wants only me (again) and who is fighting sleep and not napping well, (again threatening my sanity)?

Trust me that I know if you WANT to be pregnant or you WISH you were pregnant or you're TRYING to be pregnant or you LOVE TO REMEMBER being pregnant that this could, and probably does, sound like ten kinds of awful. I KNOW that. I EMPATHIZE and I'm sorry.  But the way I feel now, it's like how 'eating everything on your plate' won't take care of the kid's starving in China. Or Africa. Or whatever the fuck that saying is.  I mean, I want for you to be pregnant, too.  But that doesn't make it any less of a subjective/relative pain in my ass, if you know what I'm saying.

The first time around, I lamented and grieved the difficult pregnancy.  I felt like it was a loss, in a way and I felt envious of those who had wonderful, awesome pregnancies.  At the same time, I had some guilt(ish) feelings about hating mine so bad.  This time around, I feel no guilt or shame declaring what is my basic loathing of this state.  I know, now, how very little pregnancy has to do with mothering the being that you convey into the world. 

There are some consolations, though.  It was a little cooler today.  I like to feel the baby move in there.  And I finally figured out a posture (a description of which I will kindly spare you) in which I can pee fully enough, so as not to feel done, only to continue (without my knowledge or consent) upon standing.

We also went and bought two gallons of blue paint for the [office] baby's room.

She's going to have a baby brother, yo.

Fun Fact Friday: 'A Not-Perfect-But-Still-Pretty-Solid-Ten' Edition.

* Ten years ago today, I walked down the aisle (of an honest-to-goodness church) to meet The Man who was standing up front, waiting for me.  We had been dating for about 4 years before we got married, so I wasn't really nervous the day of the wedding.  The night before, though, we got into the back of my parents' car to go to the rehearsal and we looked at each other with matching EXPRESSIONS OF TERROR. For some reason, it was SO much more anxiety provoking than the actual WEDDING.

* It was raining in the morning but the weather cleared while we were saying our vows.  I swear.  A ray of light came through the stained glass windows and I LAUGHED.  I also slipped while I was on the altar, walking back to my seat.  I heard some gasps from the guests so it must have looked scary.  The videographer edited that out of the tape, though, which--of COURSE he would but I ALWAYS think about that now.

* When we were exchanging rings, I made the sound of a jail-cell door closing when I pushed the ring all the way down on his finger.  Caaa-CHINK.

* I haven't seen my wedding video in years.  As in, [I lost it in one of the moves] I can't FIND it.  On that wedding video, I [procrastinated, as usual] didn't get the songs to the guy in time and so they put their own in.  I am NOT KIDDING when I tell you that the montage of the wedding at the end of the video is set to THIS TUNE.

* I had SEVEN girls in the bridal party and I heartily regret one of them.  It was someone I asked out of a sense of obligation and it SHOULD have been my BFF in her spot.  I even felt that at the time of the wedding (especially when the bridesmaid came to the rehearsal dinner in a black-and-red-lace-up bustier) and so now when I look at pictures of the line up, I just want to photo-shop Kristen's face over [the guilt-inducing-unfriender] that one girl's.

* Although we disagree on lots (and lots and lots) of things, The Man and I both tend to rank LOW on sentimentality and/or need for ROMANCE, which makes days like Valentine's Day and anniversaries much, much easier. Tonight, we'll go out to eat and call it a celebration.

* The worst thing about The Man is his tendency toward [leaving little fucking scraps of paper containing VITAL INFORMATION all over hell] clutter and his general disorganization.

* The best thing about The Man is that he is a TOTAL come-through guy.  At/On/During any critical/important occasion where you would imagine needing or wanting a supportive spouse or friend,The Man is that guy.  For big things like the wedding or the death of my mom, down to not-so-big but still important things like, moving into my own office or detailing my recently separated friend's car for her--he is one dependable, supportive em-effer.

* Even during the hardest times of our relationship (many of them have been over the last two years, heh, go figure,) I have never, not even once, not even for a second, thought that perhaps I made a mistake all those years ago. The Man is the only man for me, of that I am completely sure.

Go ahead, you can say it.

I found The Love of a Lifetime. 

Non Sequitur (And Non-Sensical) Observations Of #Blogher 09

* Being as All About Meeting People as I am, I approached Blogher as (mainly) an opportunity to spend some time with an old friend, meet in person friends/buddies from the internet and to express my fondness for a list of bloggers whom I've loved from afar.  AKA: a mostly social event. 

* Being a Hobby Blogger who doesn't even participate (yet?) in an ad network, I know relatively little about the business-end of blogging.  That's not to say that I don't appreciate it or that I wouldn't love to be more inclined to get involved in that way.  Some of the bloggers I admire most make part or full time livings from the blogs that they write.  I found that this in no way diminshed my enthusiasm and/or my experience of Blogher.  It did leave me unprepared for the interested question that I received a couple times, 'What do you write about, TNG?'  To which my answer was, 'Uuum. Nothing, really, since you put it that way.'  HA HA HA!  Not a Good Brand, right there.

* You may have read about Hashtag-gate of '09 and this is what I'll add to the thoughtful and frankly fascinating (to me) discussion: every single time I hear someone say Hashtag, I immediately sing it in my head to the tune of Weezer's Hashpipe. [I got my Hashtag. Du nuh nuh nuh, du nuh nuh nuh.]

*  I had the opportunity to speak with my first, real-live PR person.  And you know what?  She was a PERSON!  Just like US!  I think that she even has a blog somewhere.

*  There were a few situations which made me feel like I'd stepped into Weird World.

*  The first was the Feeding Frenzy that was the Swag-Bag-Grabathon.  It's been talked to death, I know, on Twitter and other blogs but I gotta tell you, it was, um, disturbing.  It literally made me uncomfortable.  (And not for nothing but for the most part? A trip to CVS with a stop at the grocery store (I got two KIWIS!) would net you most of the interesting stuff that I came home with.)  I guess, for me, the bags were supposed to function as like, thank-yous.  Like party favors.  And what I saw seemed akin to a guest walking into your reception hall at the very beginning of your reception, asking if the candy/centerpieces are free and then collecting the lot of them and walking out, to you know, go hit the next wedding.  It was WEIRD.

*  The next was how some people act toward/respond to Internet-Famous Bloggers.  I know a few and let me say this: I'm not talking about fawning and/or proclaiming your love to said IFB (either from across the lobby or up close with socially approriate interruptions.) I'm talking about this scenario, which I personally witnessed MANY times, while talking to various IFBs:

I am in conversation (mundane, perhaps) with an IFB and a FAN approaches.  She interrupts without saying 'Excuse me' or anything remotely like it.  Mostly, she just begins to talk (and talks only to the IFB, sometimes standing between us, even.) At first, the FAN will introduce herself but then, THEN (here's the real kicker to me) will bring up and want to discuss IN DETAIL a topic/post/situation from the IFBs life that is completely incongruous to the real-life situation in which we are, you know, SITUATED.  Dead moms/babies at dinner?  Diseases and Injuries and Accidents at a cocktail party?  Separations and Divorces and Child Custody during the key note?  I GET that people get star-struck, but still, TRUST when I tell you: It was WEIRD. 

I was pondering this one during the whole weekend.  Is it just a variation on the celebrity thing?  Is this what it's like to be a famous person's sister?  Is it because the bloggers share sometimes super-intimate details of the struggles of their lives and so, people inevitably feel like they already KNOW the person?  That happens to me too.  Even so, here are some tips that will keep you from looking weird: When approaching an IFB, say 'Excuse me, I just wanted to introduce myself.'  Then introduce yourself to ALL the people standing there.  Then feel free to express your love for and devotion to them for their writing--tell them that the posts they wrote about the divorce or disease or death really touched you/moved you/changed your life. Get a hug, maybe.  And then?  Go get a drink and eat a shrimp puff for fuck's sake.  It's a PARTY.

*  I was completely oblivious to any kind of 'Mean Girl' behavior.  The place is big and people are circulating and even when I was with IFBs and FANS interrupted, there was graciousness in response.  To me, the experience is what you make of it, just like any other.  The people whom I approached were also gracious, real, funny women.  Jenny The Blogess?  Is down to earth and just as funny in person.  Yvonne from Joy Unexpected is EXACTLY how you think she'd be.  Kate from Sweet|Salty? Ahh. Inspiring.  Amy from Amalah is quick-witted and NICE.  I don't know.  I was awash in admiration.

*  There is some Wicked-Ass TALENT in the blog-o-sphere, yo.  The Community Keynote (alone worth the price of admission) showcased and highlighted a range of bloggers/topics that had me doing that cliched thing: I LAUGHED! I CRIED!

*  Almost every single blogger that I met was even more attractive than their avatars would have you believe.  Really.  They are a pretty (and handsome) bunch.

*  One of the best compliments I got all weekend was when Annette from Catnip and Coffee said this:

'You talk just like you write.'

Which is really, really nice person code for: 'WHOA! You curse like a SAILOR even in real life!'

Big.

During my last pregnancy, I was literally too sick to register the multitude of typical but 'lesser' pregnancy aches and pains as annoyances.  I remember the nausea, the barfing, the reflux and the no-eating with a small side of posterior pelvic pain, which I think I only registered because it felt like someone was impaling me through the ass with every step I took.  Due to the lack of nutrition and severe anemia, I was tired, slow weight-gaining and miserable.  I was also pregnant through fall/winter/spring, giving birth in early summer.

This time around, things are quite different.  I still have consistent digestive *issues* but NOTHING like last time.  I am slowly but steadily gaining weight this pregnancy and I will be pregnant (in my last trimester, gah help me) throughout the summer.  As a result, I am more *tuned in* to the kind of physical discomfort that oft heard tale of the first time around.

Plus, there's this: 

I feel Big.

I feel so big now that, as I enter my third trimester (already!) I am wondering how it's possible that the Biggest three months are still ahead of me.  I have to scoot sideways in bed before I roll myself over and get up.  I have to make room for my belly when I lean forward.  I stand so far away from the sink when washing dishes, that I bend from the waist and rest on my elbows. I lumber upstairs, slowly, and sit down to catch my breath when I get there.  It is wearing on me.

And lest you think that I am [complaining about this] writing this out of concern for my current (or post-partum) waist line, fear not.  I am relatively unconcerned with the actual numbers on the scale or the way I look.  (At least so far.)  The sensation of being Big and the labored, physical maneuvering that I employ to move around conjure for me an all-together different type of discomfort.  It is a re-enactment, very familiar.  For years and years I awkwardly watched that kind of maneuvering, adjusting and compensating from the sidelines. 

It is how my mother lived her everyday life.

My mother was a Big person, in every sense of the word but it was her physical bigness that drew strangers' attention.  As I imagine that it is with obesity in general, I watched as my mother grew out of her individuality and into 'The Fat Lady' in the eyes of strangers.  She became invisible to them.  And then, as she kept gaining into the territory of morbid obesity, there came a (very sharp) point in time when she became visible again.  I can't adequately describe the painfulness of the experience of standing across a crowded restaurant lobby, watching one adult nudge her companion and then nod in the direction of your mother, making a face that should be reserved for the occasion of realizing that you just stepped into a pile of dog shit with your bare foot.  It is one of a hundred painful memories that I don't like to think about.

Watching her struggle with her weight, not just emotionally but also physically took up such an enormous part of my core being that when she died and that died along with her, it left me feeling lighter.  Like I could breathe deeply for the first time in a long time.  Gone was the (unrealized but perseverative) worry that she would be incapacitated and that we wouldn't be able to care for her at home.  Gone were the restrictions, the inconveniences, the awkward situations.  The pain, the awful, chronic, throbbing pain that I felt for her, for us, when we were together.  And although it was and still is desperately hard to let go of my mother, letting go of all of that other stuff proved a much easier task.

*Poof*

Gone.

I believe that my mother's issues and struggles with her weight (which were a portion of the sum of her issues and struggles in general) affected me and my attitudes and ideas from the earliest possible time.  I could probably write a memoir.  If I actually liked to remember this shit.  Maybe one day.  But not now.  I've worked through a lot and like I said, letting it go wasn't all that hard.

Until now.

Now, I have these unbidden and uninvited images flashing from wherever it is that I stuffed them, right on into my consciousness.  An unforeseen side effect of pregnancy.

Like the posterior pelvic pain isn't enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Guys, I'm turning off the comments because it's all too...I don't know.  Full of awk and ick.  If you are so inclined, you are welcome to email me...I don't mind hearing what you have to say or having a discussion about it, I just don't want you to feel obligated to say something here, in the comments.

The Under-Achiever's Guide To Potty Training

1) Decide that you have until your child is AT LEAST two years old, perhaps two-and-a-half, before you even CONSIDER how to begin potty training.

2) Chuckle when your 1 year old becomes a little obsessed with watching everyone in her family (immediate AND extended) use the Pot Pot (baby-French for 'Potty,' pronounced poe-poe.)

3) Nod in detached response whenever your 13 month old announces that her cousin is going 'pot pot.'

4) Find it mildly amusing and highly entertaining when your 14 month old takes every. single. dolly-slash-stuffed-toy that she has and puts it on the dolly-sized pot-pot.  And makes a 'pee-pee' sound.

5) Scoff (gently) when your Over-Achieving Sister suggests that your 14 month old might be *ready.*

6) Take your Over-Achieving Sister's advice and put your 16 month old on the pot-pot [every 25 seconds] when she so requests, even though she's NOWHERE NEAR two-and-a-half.

7) Shake your head in amazement when said toddler actually puts some pee in the toilet, on consecutive days.

8) Continue to whip off toddler's diaper in response to requests to use The Pot, only to rediaper her after she's [read her entire library of books] taken a moment to try.

9) Look at going to The Pot as an activity.

10) Allow your Over-Achieving sister convince you to receive from her a pink, mini-pot.

11) Respond to your 17 month old, when she requests to use The Pink Pot.

12) Continue to shake your head in amazement, as she continues to 'Put some pee-pee in the pot-pot' on a semi-regular basis.

13) FALL DOWN DEAD when your 18 month old POOPS IN THE PINK POTTY with absolutely no encouragement or direction from you.

14) Realize that this whole surreal situation is thanks to your Over-Achieving Sister, whose son has ALWAYS pooped in The Pot-Pot, because they began potty-training him when he was a teeny kinder, providing for your child the necessary [coolness-factor] visual cues to encourage her development in this area.  Thanks, Sis!!

Giving The (Ringed) Finger--The New Girl Style (Which Means 'A Little Late,' OBV.)

I have never been satisfied with the end-product of Flipping the Bird.  I mean, sure, it's satisfying to give someone the finger when [you're having a fit of road rage] they've almost KILLED YOU on the highway.  I'm saying, though, I have never been satisfied with MY own personal Flipped Bird.  My middle finger, while fine amongst its brethren, is reluctant to stand alone, as it were.  It resists its call to duty and refuses to stand straight unless the others make a half-showing.  Like this>> -1--  instead of this>>   _1__.  I know that some people prefer to Flip this way, with the middle finger surrounded by little stumps, but I am not among them.  I think it sullies the message.  Somehow, cheapens it.

It could be that I'm insecure after having lived with The World's Most Awesome Bird-Flipper.  The Man's fingers?  They were MADE to Flip-the-Bird.  The middle finger stands so straight, and proud and tall and ALONE.  Like a SOLDIER.  Or, a...a..Ship's Mast.  Or something that stands straight and all alone.  You know what I'm saying.  It's impressive, really.  In full-flippage, it would appear, to the uninitiated (and possibly mildly myopic) observer, that The Man had been the victim of some bizarre farming accident, in which his Middle Finger alone had somehow escaped unscathed. Remarkable.

Who cares about this? you ask. 

Well, fair question, you.

I was reading Swistle, who was reading Diary of a Modern Matriarch about the topic of Prop 8 and a way to 'ventilate' the negative feelings about how all that crazy-ass shit went down on the West Coast. There's so much to say about it, really.  But why waste the words when you can send a picture and link that fucker all over the internets?

You get the idea.

From me to Prop 8:

Those are all the wedding rings I had in my house, minus The Man's, who is at work.

So there you have it.

Consider it my PFLAG salute for the day.

P.S. If you're inclined to join in the Flipping, click the Diaries of a Modern Matriarch link and add your name.

P.P.S. OOPS! Forgot to link this guy, who, apparently had the fantastically irreverent idea in the first place.