Ridiculous

I know it's absurd. Honestly, I do. But ever since I finished the final installment of Harry Potter last night at the exhausting hour of 1:30, I've suffered from the deepest melancholy. Funny how a book can so pull me into it's world, so utterly blot out what goes on outside. And today of all days, I needed the escape.

The Jeep's window, which refused to work yesterday led to a discovery of a fuel line leak. Over $500 to fix that sucker. And then the call from "The Prick" at my old insurance company, from when I worked at The Really Big Company. It seems there's a state law that The Banker and I had never heard of that specifies that since The Banker's birthday was before mine and since he was employed at the time of Becca's birth, state law demanded that his insurance company provide primary coverage for Peanut and mine secondary. WTF?

Since my coverage was better than The Banker's, we'd opted to cover Becca under my insurance. When we decided I'd remain at home, we switched Becca and myself to The Banker's coverage. But now my old insurance company is trying to duck out of paying Becca's bills, due to this unheard of "state law." Essentially, the old insurance company is going to haggle with The Banker's insurance company over every cent it paid out since Becca's birth. But Becca wasn't covered under his insurance! And who do you think will be responsible for the charges that both companies refuse to cover?

I HATE insurance companies. And I hate that I can't turn to Harry, Ron, and Hermione to get my mind off all this shit. It looks like I'll be turning to Little Children--the latest book club choice--for a much-needed vacation from all this. 'Cause I seriously, seriously need a break right about now.

Taste of the town

Peanut has been tackling cereal for almost two weeks now, first rice and then barley. It's times like these where having four hands would be helpful: one to hold the spoon, two to hold each of Becca's hands--keeping them from her mouth--and the final hand to swoop in with a wet paper towel when her hands inexplicably escape my grasp and rush to her full mouth.

Still, it's so amusing to watch her, especially now that she sorta hums during the feeding and opens her mouth wide for the spoon like a guppy. Or a piranha (which is how she used to view nursing).

This past weekend Sister #1 and her husband were in town, and while the boys golfed, she spent the day with the Screaming Siren and me. She was busy snapping pictures as I gave Becca her afternoon snack of rice cereal to send to Sister #2, who's in Paraguay at the moment. In the midst of the feeding, curiosity got the better of me, and I tried a tiny morsel of the cereal.

"It's sweet," I say in surprise. "I don't know if it's the rice cereal or the breast milk I mix it with..."

Sister #1 comes over and takes the spoon from me, and before I can even utter an "Uhhhg" she tries a bit also. Slack jawed I look at her.

"What's in this?" she suddenly asks, eyes wary. Umm, were you not here, say TWO SECONDS AGO?!?!

And then it clicks. Her eyes bulge, face drains of color, and she runs to the bathroom retching. And like any good sister, I explode into laughter.

YES!!!

I had a suspicion all along, but now it's official:


I'm a Gryffindor!

A change in view

The other weekend my parents, The Banker, and Becca and I crammed into our car and drove to visit my dad's parents in Bella Vista. My grandparents had only seen Becca once since her birth and were anxious to see her again. With my Grammy fighting cancer and heart problems and my PopPop losing ground to Alzheimer's, we'd urged them not to make the drive to see us but to be patient and we'd make a weekend trip to visit. Finally we found the time in every one's packed schedules to make the trip.

I was on pins and needles about the whole thing. An infant in the car for HOW long? Hours at the grandparents' house? Dinner at a restaurant? And then a stay at a hotel? And a visit to my grandparents' church so they could show off their great-granddaughter? There were so many ways this could have gone badly.

But it didn't.

Becca was a champ, thoroughly behaving herself in a fashion she never does at home. She was happy, patient, and cute as a button. Why she can't pull out that attitude more for us, I'll never know. But the important thing is that the visit went incredibly well and meant the world to my grandparents.

I think the trip may have been harder on me than on Peanut. Stressful and tiring, yes. But it was more than that. My grandparents talked about moving into an assisted living facility, a decision whose time has truly come. But it forces me to look again at what I've been trying to avoid seeing---that my grandparents are old and aren't as invincible as a child thinks they are.

What's more is that my Grammy said that once they move what they'll need into the facility (whenever they get around to finding one), the grand kids need to come and pick out what they want from the house before it all goes in an estate sale. When I was young, there was nothing like going to my grandparents' house. There were so many cool nick-knacks, countless collectibles, and an assortment of tchotchkes. (Both my grandparents are serious collectors...er, hoarders.)

But somewhere, somehow, the allure of my grandparents' house started to diminish. I'm not exactly sure when it happened, but all their trinkets started to look, well, junky. And on this latest visit, as I looked around, I was hard pressed to find much that I would willingly haggle over between the other grand kids. It made me sad, how the sparkle of that house had dulled. I really wish I could go back and have that feeling again--that surge of excitement and wonder as I looked around at all their stuff--instead of the sinking feeling of much work ahead and a lot of sad, abandoned items at an estate sale.

Where did it go?

There are days like today when I miss the girl I was so much that it's a palpable ache and temporarily debilitating.

Who moved my cheese?

And milk? And all the rest of the gloriously lactose-laden foods? Becca's pediatrician has recommended I go lactose free to see if it will improve Becca's fussy periods--given the fact that they should have naturally subsided now that she's almost four months old.

The good news? She seems to have improved somewhat. The bad news? There are so many items off my diet, it's ridiculous. Back before children (B.C.), I could subsist on wine, cheese, and bread alone. Now that two of those have been taken away, I've begun to grow a bit grouchy.

But then you look at this and think, "Yeah, I could do this for a few months more."

Then again...

So I'm going to follow Trudi's advice on this one. I don't know who Trudi is, but maybe she's right. I need to vent. I need to confess. And I need to forgive myself. Because last night, a decision I made left Becca terribly ill.

I'm having a tough time balancing two of the requirements of my body: a source of food for Becca and the need to regain my old figure and get into shape for the upcoming hike up to Machu Picchu that The Banker and I are planning to take (again). If I work out too vigorously and consume too little (which is easy to do given how dang hectic my days seem to be), I don't produce enough milk for Becca. To boot, she currently suffers from a nasty case of acid reflux--the cause for our earlier emergency room visit and the reason she's now on Prilosec--so in general our evenings can be very rough. Read: much crying, achy tummies, and the rest.

Last night Becca was fussing during a feeding and crying while I tried to burp her--an indication she hadn't enough to eat. Since I had no milk thawed and seemed to be spent myself, I gave her two ounces of ready-made formula, which she'd had during her first couple of weeks to supplement her diet until my milk came in.

Within two hours she was vomiting up the formula. Once those two ounces had been expelled, angry yellow bile bubbled up, even while she slept, racking her poor little frame. We telephoned the on-call doctor and were told to freeze a teaspoon of regular Coca-Cola and give her a teaspoon. Apparently, it has anti-nausea qualities. After that stays down we were to try giving her an ounce or two of Pedialite.

I was less than thrilled to give a three-month-old soda, but the Coke came right back up, along with more bile than you could imagine an infant's stomach could hold. She was limp, exhausted. And it was my fault.

The Banker decided to go with his gut and gave Becca a little syringe worth of Pedialite slowly, slowly over an hour. It stayed down. Then we mixed some of the liquid with breast milk and let her sip on it a little at a time. Finally, success!

We've had three good feedings since last night, but the guilt lingers. This parenting gig is so damn hard. No one ever tells you that your best intentions can have the most disastrous implications. I feel totally out of my league time and time again. How did my parents make this look so easy?

On the fence...

So I'd high hopes that I could chronicle the ups and downs of this new phase in my life: the challenge of switching a cubicle for a burp rag, the oddities of breastfeeding, the new-found empathy for my mom...in other words, the joys and headaches of parenting. But I haven't really accomplished any of that. I rarely manage to post anymore and am wondering if there's a point to continuing with this blog. I was crappy at keeping a diary as a child and am not faring any better now.

That emergency trip to the hospital? Nope, failed to share that. The trauma of our first night away from Becca? Nothing on that, either. Maybe it's because I'm worn to the bone most days. Or perhaps it's because there are countless blogs that capture this chaotic lifestyle better than I ever could. I dunno. Whatever it is, I think I need to find some more energy and a drive to keep typing, because otherwise the dust and cobwebs will soon take over this tiny spot on the web.

A Lifestyle Change

So I called the really big company I work for and told my boss I wouldn't be returning. And maybe that makes me certifiably insane. After all, this really big company pays really well, has incredible benefits, and only accepts a tiny percentage of applicants. People work for years to get into that place!

The Banker and I'd discussed the potential for me to go back part-time (and my boss was sort of looking into it, in a really ineffective way), but it didn't make much sense financially. Sure, I'd be bringing home double what I could make in freelance in a month, but was that worth missing out on all of Becca's little amazing moments? Like when she started to try to put her binky back in her mouth all by herself? Or how she smiles so sweetly after blowing out her diaper? This is the good stuff, folks!

My boss and I are trying to find out if there's any work I can do from home or if I can come in and work on special projects. But in the meantime, I've got to do something I'm really, really crappy at doing. I've got to put myself out there and find some decent freelance gigs. And pronto. Zippy, my beloved 350Z, isn't selling as quickly as we'd hoped. And my brain is kinda turning to mush. So I need to establish this balance between mom and writer and editor. And see if I can bring in a few bucks along the way. Because this decision is going to require a major lifestyle change.

Where nowhere seems safe

One of our local malls was the scene of a "shooting rampage" today that killed three and wounded a handful of others. It's the mall where The Banker and I used to go and see movies while we dated in high school. And it's the very mall where we took Becca just last weekend for a quick trip into Target. We almost went there again yesterday for diapers, but she started to get cranky and we cut our trip short. It's so disheartening that no place seems safe anymore.

Rule of Nature #6

When you feel like crap and want nothing more than an hour or two of sleep, it will be the one day your infant refuses to nap. And for kicks and grins, the weather will suddenly get cold and all your pets will act like shitheads.

Work + Baby = ?

I'm taking Peanut into work today to show her off to all the lovely ladies I work with in cubicle land. Today is fitting for several reasons: it's Becca's sixth week out and about and it's also the final day of my paid maternity leave.

While visiting The Really Big Company, I hope to catch up with my new boss and steal a minute of his time, or at least set up a time to come in next week and speak with him. I'm going to dare to inquire about any part-time opportunities...yet again. If there are no openings, I'll give my two week's notice. Or at least I think I will. Maybe.

What am I doing?!? People work for years to get into The Really Big Company and I've found success there. On the other hand, I don't think I could leave our Peanut to be raised by strangers all week long. And I know The Banker would prefer for me to remain home, though he's in no way pressuring me one way or the other. Would I go out of my mind, or could I find enough freelance to keep me engaged should I stay home?

This is one of those major life decisions, and I wish I had an easy answer.

Rule of Nature #32

When you first attempt to take your colicky infant out to dinner, she will scream like a banshee and you will run into not one but two people you knew from high school...all while looking like crap and babbling incoherently from a lack of sleep.

A Lifetime in Review

I know I haven't posted anything about Becca's birth yet. Part of that is due to the demands of having a newborn at home and part of it is because I'm still trying to process the whole event. Portions of March 8th feel vaguely dreamlike and it's odd looking at pictures of the day. So I'll try to break it down as best I can, for my own memory as well as for the story I can relay to Becca one day.

The Banker and I checked into the hospital at 7 a.m. and soon after the doctor came in to break my water. Things turned funny when I realized the doctor was breaking my water on top of a pad that's identical to the potty training pads we use for our dog, Ginger. I looked at The Banker and we couldn't help but laugh out loud, much to the amusement of the doctor and nurse. As one wee-wee pad after another was soaked, we giggled about how Ginger had nothin' on me.

I was hooked up to a bit of Pitocin because Becca wasn't engaged far enough into my pelvis. In the back of my mind I kept worrying that I'd have to have a Cesarean, but we tried not to talk about the possibility. My mom showed up first as I slowly dilated from a 4 to 5. The contractions started small and gradually grew incredibly intense. My mom and The Banker stood on either side of me as I writhed in pain on the bed.

Unfortunately The Banker kept telling me when the contractions we coming in addition to when they were peaking and subsiding. I snapped twice at him that I knew when the contractions were coming, thank you very much. When he began to utter those fated words again, even my mom told him to shut up. After that, he was careful just to tell me when the contractions were fading.

By the time I was dilated to a 7, the contractions were peaking off the monitor--giving new meaning to "off the charts." I felt like I was being split in two and was struggling to maintain my metered breathing. The nurse said it would be the best time to have an epidural, especially given that things could roll into a last-minute Cesarean. I caved, even though I feared having the epidural. Part of me was disappointed--I wasn't tough enough to struggle through labor unaided.

But the epidural was an almost-instantaneous, incredible relief. The only thing that bothered me was that my legs felt tingly and while I could move them, I hated not having full control over myself.

By that time my dad and sisters had arrived and my utter relief spread to everyone in the room, lightening the mood considerably. Everyone felt more at ease, and we laughed and joked and watched TV (including the Oklahoma game for my dad) as the monitor became a constant map of peaks and valleys.

It's funny that during most of this time, I was more concerned with everyone else's wellbeing. I asked what the family wanted to watch, offered them snacks we'd packed, sent them off to lunch at around noon, and constantly apologized that this process was taking so long and was so boring. I think I was trying to keep my mind off of my own fears. I function that way: Denying that something big is going to happen until it actually occurs. While I plan and prepare appropriately, I guard my emotions by not fully comprehending what will happen until it actually does.

This lasted until I began to feel the contractions through the epidural, a sign that the Pitocin had really ratcheted up the labor pains (in addition to making my face and body swell) and that things were beginning to progress. It wasn't long before the nurse informed the room it was time to push and everyone but The Banker went to the waiting room.

I felt like each push got me nowhere, though the nurse kept encouraging me to continue. About a half hour in, the epidural began to wear off and I could only push so long before I would smack into a wall of pain and lose my breath. The nurse told me to quit pushing and she called in another anesthesiologist. This doctor was different than the first and as he swaggered into the room he informed me that what he had may not help me and that maybe I needed "to tough it out and just push through it." If I'd been able to talk, I would have shared some choice words with the idiot, but it's just as well that all I could do was weakly nod.

Thankfully the doctor was wrong, and the pain medication was able to take just enough of the edge off that I was able to continue to push. The pushing was so exhausting, and I uttered to the Banker that I didn't think I could do this. But almost an hour into it, the doctor said she could see the head. The Banker stood (safely) by my head, encouraging me to keep going and to keep my chin tucked to my chest. Much of what followed seemed surreal--suddenly the doctor and nurse let out a cheer and the doctor told The Banker the sex of the baby. "We've got a Becca," he beamed.

It's funny that after nine months of wanting a girl I was too exhausted to fully register the news. I'd been right all along but couldn't even utter a triumphant "yes!" The doctor put Becca on my chest and I looked at this little creature with bewilderment. I remember thinking how perfect she looked before the nurses whisked her away to be cleaned up and weighed. And as the doctor stitched me up and The Banker shouted out how big Becca was, I lay there and thought that, just like that, we were parents. Wow.

More Becca

Yeah, we're already camera happy. But can you blame us?

P.S. Thanks for the warm wishes everyone has sent via e-mail and more! It means so much to The Banker and me. I promise more musings later about lack of sleep, stumbling exhaustion, stress over no poopy diapers and more. This parenthood thing is one tough but incredible ride.

Welcoming Not-So-Little Rebecca

At 4:56 p.m. on March 8, 2007 we finally welcomed Rebecca Marie into the world! Weighing in at an impressive 9 lbs., 4 oz. and 21 inches in length, Becca was quite the big girl. Mom will never be the same. And that's a good thing.

Bed rest

So in the ongoing saga of NOTHING HAPPENING, I've been put on bed rest. My blood pressure was a tad high at yesterday's doctor's appointment and my overall discomfort convinced the doc that walking four blocks from the garage to my desk and sitting there for much too long was not in my best interest. Mmm. Afternoon naps! Reading! Oh, yes, and that dang freelance project.

It seems that while I'm ready in almost every way to go into labor, the baby's not engaged far enough into my pelvis to start contractions. So we wait--at least until the 8th when the doctor will break my water. The concern is that if the baby doesn't move far enough into my pelvis before or during labor it will force an emergency c-section. So cross your fingers the baby drops down far enough to cause me the significant discomfort that is contractions. Yeah, silly to be saying, "bring on the pain," but that's exactly what's needed right now. Let's please get this thing going!

And...still nothing

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

I've walked, cleaned, nested. You name it, and if it's a safe wives' tale for inducing labor, I've done it. But no more contractions--no sign the The Peanut is going to make his or her grand entrace anytime soon.

And I soooo don't want to have to return to work on Monday morning. Sigh.

Where things are starting to happen

Okay, so I'm only 37 weeks and 3 days along. But it seems I'm also dilated to 3 centimeters. The doctor has said she'll break my water the morning of March 8th--if I make it that long.

My holistic chiropractor "read" my body over a week ago and thought I'd go between the 23rd and the following week. The Banker thought she was full of it, but it turns out she may have known what she was talking about.

So will I languish at 3 centimeters for week after uncomfortable week? Or will this 7-plus pound baby spring for a February birthday rather than a March one? Stay tuned...

Where are the warm fuzzies?

So the really big company I work for just underwent a major internal overhaul. Each employee had an individual meeting yesterday, but it wasn't until this morning that an e-mail was sent out detailing all the changes.

I guess I must have been pretty naive. I thought workers would just be shifted about, allocating the talent to the company's current needs. I didn't see the demotions and forced retirements coming. Happy Valentine's Day indeed. And considering the company I work for, the irony is that much greater.

I've been assigned a new line of work within the company--work that I should be thrilled about. It's highly visible, it's creative, and it’s a strong position. But I'm working for the woman who outted my pregnancy against my will at a staff meeting. And while she was incredibly friendly today, I can't help but be wary.

All of this coincides with Tuesday's trip to the doctor. The baby has dropped, suddenly I'm measuring big, and things are beginning to soften--all of which indicate this labor thing could start sooner rather than later.

Talk about being in limbo. When will I go into labor? When will my job transition take place? Will my odds of part-time work improve any? And will I want this new position when it's all said and done?