Healing from the inside out:

A post in which I attempt to avoid using the word "breast."

This week is better than last week.

I seem to be healing fine from my surgery. I've had to return every day to Kaiser to have a nurse repack and check my wound. I'm not a huge fan of this - going to Kaiser is a hassle. At first I was pretty pissed off about it but I'm trying out an attitude adjustment. I need to be more positive. It's true that at first it hurt me to repack it but as time goes on it takes less time, and hurts less, and the nurses are all good at it. And they all say it's draining nicely and looks to be healing. They have to repack it because the surgeon didn't close up the hole: I have to heal from the inside out. I did cry the first couple of times, but I'm not sure that was from pain. Just frustration that this has happened to me. But that's what I'm talking about - changing my attitude. I'm really lucky it wasn't worse, that there were no complications, that my family was able to come and be with me and help with the baby - lots of people have worse stuff to deal with, and here I am, with a loving family, beautiful baby boy who I can still nurse. I'm not going to complain anymore.

This week we started Jules in daycare. Even though I don't go back to work for two more weeks, I wanted a chance to adjust while I can be around the house and not all the way in East LA. He's going to go twice a week (he'll spend two days with his dad, two days in daycare, two days with me solo, and one day with me and his dad). It will eventually be a long day for him: Patrick will drop him off at 6:30 a.m. and pick him up by 6:30 p.m., unless he can adjust his schedule and leave a little earlier. I hope he can do that. Yesterday was Jules' first day. I stayed for the morning so I could check things out, and nurse him (to save my precious milk supply). We've met the teachers before and seen the place but I wanted to see how things really go. I stayed until about 11:30 and then I had to go to Kaiser. His class (the Infant room, of course) has about 6 other babies, all older than him (the next youngest is about 5 months, I think), and two teachers (other teachers help cover breaks or if they need help). The other babies are cute. I really enjoyed spending the morning there. While I was out, I called and his teacher told me how he was doing. Leaving him yesterday surprisingly wasn't very hard, and after I did what I had to do, I picked him up early and brought him home. His teacher told me he was a good boy, and I believe her. He seemed very happy.

Today we're doing it differently, though. We tried our "real" routine - we got up at 5 a.m. and I fed the baby. That takes about 45 minutes. Patrick got ready for work. When I finished feeding Jules, I brushed my teeth and got dressed. No shower. This schedule already needs tweaking! Also I'll have to have clothes ready because when I go back to work, I'm only going to have 15 minutes, 20 tops, to get ready. Then Patrick got the baby in his car seat, got the bottles and stuff he'll need for the day, and took him to daycare. I followed in my car to make sure Patrick got him checked in and settled okay (of course, he did). Then I LEFT.

That's right, I'm sitting on my couch in a baby-less house. It feels weird. I've already thought through how I'm going to spend my day: in about 30 minutes, as if I were at work, I'm going to pump some milk (before that I need to start a load of laundry). Then I'm going to clean out all the ancient toxic household cleaners under the bathroom and kitchen sinks. We're going natural. Then, as it gets closer to the time I need to go to Kaiser, I'm going to take a shower. I can't get my bandage wet unless it's right before the nurse is going to change it. This shower is going to be such a luxury! I feel guilty looking forward to it. We have to do a whole day of daycare, though so we know how much milk to send him with when I'm not all the way at work. Yesterday he only had time for one bottle (though I sent two) before I picked him up.

After Kaiser I might go out for lunch. I'm thinking Subway but it might be nice to go somewhere and sit down, and read a book. Maybe my favorite Mexican place, which is close to Jules' daycare. I'll stop by and check on him and try to control my urge to take him home.

Well, an alarm is going off in the bedroom that has never gone off before (7:30 is a weird time for me to have set an alarm), so I guess that's my cue to stop wasting time and get started on my chores. If I have to be away from Jules I want to make the most of it and do the things that are hard to do while I'm focused on him. Otherwise I'll just sit around today and mope.

Thursday

Hey, so let the breastfeeding/boob stories continue!

Thursday I returned to Kaiser to be checked, and Dr. T decided that yes indeed, there continued to be infection, which meant that further action (surgery) was necessary. It was about 4:30 p.m. when he made this decision.

Thing to remember: I (stupidly) thought whatever was in store for me would be nothing more than a in and out procedure.

Dr. T sent me to Emergency; apparently this is how they do it. Patrick met me there. I told him to wait for me for an hour and if I wasn't done by then (ha ha! Seriously, I had no idea) to take the baby home. They let me nurse before they checked me in, but since I didn't know I was going to be staying, I didn't have my breast pump with me. After they checked me in, they took me back to a bed, and I proceeded to hurry up and wait. Within 20 minutes, I was crying. I missed my baby. I haven't been away from him for that long since he was born. After an hour, Patrick came back and said he was taking Jules home. It didn't seem right to make them wait in the waiting room with all the sick people.

It took the doctors awhile to check on me, and while I was waiting, my sister and brother were texting me. Angie asked if she should come to be with me and at first I said no but the more I thought about it, the better having someone with me sounded. They both decided to come.

Finally, after a nurse came and started an IV of antibiotics (and made me take a pregnancy test!), an ER doctor came to look at me. He was nice enough but unfortunately he had a huge, disgusting booger in his right nostril. It was grossly distracting. He wasn't a surgeon, he was just there, I guess, to assess my situation. Later a surgeon came to check me out (I had been asking the nurses for water, which they refused to give to me. Well, they didn't "refuse," they just neglected to get it. Eventually one of them explained that they had to wait to see what the surgeon said before they could give me anything to drink). This guy pissed me off, because he said things about breastfeeding after the surgery that weren't right. He told me that I should wait 3 days afterward to breastfeed, that I should pump and dump all my milk during that time because I didn't want the anesthesia to get into Jules' system. He said that there was a possibility the infected fluid could get to Jules while he was feeding. Now. I've been reading all about this abscess thing for awhile, and though by this time they had started an IV of antibiotics that I hadn't yet checked out (I did later), I knew that what he said about the anesthesia, about breastfeeding, was wrong. But I didn't say anything. I just sat there and stewed.

My brother and sister got to the hospital right before they took me to the OR, just in time to collect my "valuables" (cell phone, eyeglasses, car keys, wedding ring). My brother went with me to pre-op where things suddenly got very serious.

I still thought this was no big deal. But when you're lying in a bed with an IV in your arm, and an anesthesiologist suddenly shows up, hey, things have progressed wildly beyond "in and out." I'm not telling the story very well - at some point someone, another surgeon, showed up to explain what was going on and that my abscess needed to be drained and that I might have to stay overnight in the hospital, but I don't really remember when that happened. The pre-op nurse (a dude named Rudy) was nice, and he tried to find a breast pump for me in Labor and Delivery but amazingly, they didn't have one. My sister went to my house to get mine but I never used it. Later, when the anesthesiologist came, a youngish Asian guy, he was really nice. He told me that though he wasn't sure about the antibiotics, he was positive that once I woke up, it would be safe for me to breastfeed. This jived with everything I read. He was the first person to understand how important breastfeeding is to me.

My brother hung out with me in the pre-op room , and I tried to be calm about the whole thing, but look, I've never had surgery before. I've never had anesthesia before. I was scared.

The good part is, when it was time to get the thing started and the anesthesiologist came back, the last thing I remember is him telling me, "this might sting a little." It did. And then I woke up sometime later.

At this point I should ask my brother to write about what happened because all I remember is someone saying I could go home. I don't know what time it was. I don't remember getting dressed. I do remember Rudy pushing me in a wheelchair downstairs. My sister drove me, Dan drove my car.

I hada big bandage on my breast, taped down with what felt like all the tape in the world. Dan said they told him I was supposed to go to general surgery on Friday to be checked... or maybe this was on one of those after visit summary sheets Kaiser is so fond of? I don't remember. Anyway, we went home. Patrick had fed the baby one feeding from my precious frozen supply, and one feeding of formula, but I was still a little out of it and not 100% sure I should nurse, so I did a dumb thing: I pumped from the breast that hadn't had surgery, and I threw it away. I wish I hadn't done that. Overnight I leaked a ton of milk.

So Kaiser, apparently wanting to dope me up, prescribed an antibiotic (safe while breastfeeding) and some pain medication (Norco; not recommended while breastfeeding). I chose not to take the Norco, and instead am relying on good ol' 200 mg of Advil. I haven't had much pain. I also haven't had a shower.

On Friday, my mom and dad and Dan came over (Patrick had to work). My mom and Dan watched the baby, my dad took me to get checked. A nurse "repacked" my wound, and let me just tell you, that sucked. She removed and replaced what felt like 100 feet of gauze-y stuff. Saturday I went back by myself which may have been a mistake but I survived. Jules too.

Anyway, that's it. There are more details I could tell you about but I think I'm okay now. I hope.

Never-ending adventure

So I know the following won't be of interest to most people, so if you're not interested in breastfeeding, you have my permission to go away and do something else instead of reading this. Personally, my thoughts lately have been on almost nothing else for the past 9 weeks, but I understand that it's a big world out there with other things to do.

I'll just be blunt: I think I have mastitis. What's that (wait, I thought the only people left were those with familiarity in the topic)? It's a plugged milk duct.

I'm so bummed about this. For one thing, it tool me a week to put two and two together. For another thing, I'm bummed that of the three doctors, including my mid-wife, plus a lactation consultant, who, upon hearing my complaints (fever, chills, achiness), not one of them, knowing I am breastfeeding, asked about my breasts or even looked at them (fever + chills is one of the main symptoms). Maybe that's not fair. But I did try to get help, and instead I got a couple strong prescriptions for a skin problem I don't have, a diagnosis for a bladder infection I also don't have, and I was told that my right breast just "doesn't produce as much milk as the other one." Right. You think it's because there's a blocked duct?

And because this process took so long, I've been worrying that there will be complications, like an abscess, which could require surgery.

But, on the plus side:

1. Feeding the baby, since getting help last week, continues to be pain free.
2. My faith in my primary care physician is restored. She's 8 years younger than I am but a sweetheart, and much more thorough than most.
3. The nurse got me an appointment for today in rhe breast clinic, so I don't have to wait anymore.
4. Jules is smiling and cooing and talking to us so much, he's such a happy baby! Being tired and achy and having this stupid lump? Whatever. I want to play with my son.

Not shown: 1 small bottle of Advil.

2 months old today!

Well, we made it - it's been 8 weeks since we brought our little guy home and as people say - time flies! I'm shocked at how different he is now. He's still pretty sleepy but staying up a lot more during the day. He has tummy time and smiles and even sometimes laughs - his smile is super cute. More than one person has commented on how serious he can be, and how "intense" his little stare gets. We joke that that's when he's "sucking your soul." He has lots of fans, including all the nurses at the Kaiser Downey OB department. And my midwife thinks he's the cutest.

When Patrick goes off to work, I'm usually feeding him, so when we're done, I cuddle him up in the bed with me and try to get a little more sleep, but usually at that point (7 a.m.) he's over sleeping, and ready to play. We hang out on the bed and he "talks" to me. It's very sweet. I love kissing him! He tries to kiss me back but his kissses are like round holes of sticky. Still: very, very cute. And today we tried something that a friend had suggested: even though I usually give him a bath in the evening, today I took a bath with him. He loved it! I didn't get very clean but we had fun.

After discussing my issues with breastfeeding with a couple of friends, and getting a lot of good advice and direction, this week I saw another (non-Kaiser) lactation consultant. She really helped us turn it around - I have a new technique for getting him latched that doesn't hurt at all. It's a little time consuming because I don't always get it right the first time but it's only been a couple of days - I think we'll get the hang of it. She assured me that when he gets bigger we won't have to do it that way anymore. I really don't care: no pain is awesome. She also assured me that his size is fine. She thought we were doing a good job, and she kind of fell in love with my baby - he has a way with people! And thanks to her (her name is "Ellen"), we're off that horrible "every two hours" schedule and on to an "every 3 hours" schedule. What a difference 1 hour makes, and I am not being funny.

Otherwise, we've been trying to stick to our daily routine of laundry and making the bed and cleaning the kitchen (I keep telling him I couldn't or wouldn't do any of that stuff were it not for him and his "help"), but this week was a little screwy - two doctor's appointments, visits from family... Next week I'll try to keep things calmer. He doesn't have his 2 month check up until next Wednesday but otherwise I'd like to stay around the house.

It's been raining here for the last couple of days and while I do love the rain and haven't really had to drive at all in it, I wish it would continue. Though: I'm cold!

Here's a photo of the three of us. My little family! Ignore my messy hair please.

Tuesday

Today was hard! Patrick switched days with a coworker so he couldn't go with me to my appointment with the lactation consultant. Jules was sweet all morning and for the drive there, and just when we got to Kaiser and I was getting all cocky about my parenting skills, he lost it in the parking lot and continued to lose it all the way to the office. I found a bathroom and changed his diaper but he was still pretty mad.

At my appointment, the consultant (her name is Ruth) weighed him and then had me feed him so she could weigh him again. She wasn't super happy with his weight. At his last appointment with the pediatrician, she noted that he was small but wasn't concerned.
Ruth, however, is concerned that I might not be making enough milk.

It's true that I've been having trouble with one side but he continues to eat and poop and pee, and though it hurts like he'll sometimes, I keep feeding him from that side. I have no choice, I know I have to. I saw my OB a couple weeks ago about the pain, and she wrote me a prescription for ibuprofen, which mostly helps. Ruth said that she thought it was only because I'm so determined to feed him that he's gained but that he should be doing better.

I was bummed. I mean, I can take fenugreek to increase my milk, and she can write me a prescription if that doesn't work, but, and this might just be me being tired, as nice and helpful Ruth has been, I kind of felt like I am failing to Properly Feed my child. I'm sure that wasn't her intention, she wants to help, but I got upset.

Anyway, I bought a pump, which I will need when I go back to work. I need to practice using it. I came home and took my ibuprofen, fenugreek, and prenatal vitamin, and a little while later, fed Jules. But now I'm questioning if I'm doing it right and worried he's going to be hungry. She also gave me a nipple shield to try for the pain, and it worked in her office but here at home, Jules hated it and kept crying so I sucked it up and took it off.

Patrick is on his way home, and I'm glad.

6 weeks old

On Friday, Jules had his six week birthday! But before I write more about him, I just wanted to say that I've been reading and thinking a lot about the earthquake, tsunami and horrible situation at the nuclear power plants in Japan - a little while ago I saw a photo at the Washington Post website of a little girl being tested for radiation, and that photo really horrified me and touched my heart. I'm hoping that the people of Japan can have some peace, rest, and a safe place to live very soon. You can help by making a donation to the Red Cross. http://www.redcross.org/. Or text REDCROSS to 90999 to make a $10 donation using your phone.

These last couple weeks since I last wrote have been wonderful. I'm feeling like I'm finally starting to get a handle on being a mommy. Jules and I have our quiet days where we make the bed, do laundry, eat, and hang out, and then there are days when we have visitors, and those days are nice too. He's staying awake a little more during the day, and that means tummy time! He's been letting me take a shower, which has been a treat. We got as a gift a bouncy seat for him, and I put it in the bathroom and let him sit there where I can see him from the tub. I also discovered that he likes sitting with me on the swing in the backyard (not a kiddy swing). And we've been going for walks around the neighborhood using the Baby Bjorn or the stroller.

He seems to be changing his schedule, and he's been a little bit of a grumpy guy in the afternoon. I'm pretty sure that's normal baby behavior; I'm just glad he's not having full-on crying sessions or colicky symptoms. He's also been super hungry - breastfeeding has gotten a little easier, and though I love the closeness with him, it's still pretty painful. On Tuesday I have an appointment to visit Kaiser's lactation consultant to buy my breast pump. I think that will help. I just hope I didn't wait too long - I think I was supposed to start pumping three weeks ago! I don't know, I read so many things, it's hard to know sometimes what I'm "supposed to do." It will be nice for Patrick to be able to feed him and I know they'll both enjoy it.

Here's a photo I took this morning. He's super cute, if I do say so myself.

4 weeks and 1 day old

Yesterday Jules reached the 1 month mark, and his day was pretty exciting:

He's still on this crazy every-two-hours feeding schedule, so I was up with him every two hours (did I mention he's hungry EVERY TWO HOURS?) all night until 6:30, when Patrick left for work. Then the baby and I broke rule no. 1 ('no babies on the bed:" it's my rule and I can break it if I want to), and I discovered that Jules loves the bed, where he and I snoozed for a couple of hours peacefully, and, safely. Gosh he's sweet. He lies there on his back, with his head turned to me, and I curl my arm around him protectively, and we both fall asleep.

After that, I put the Moby wrap on, inserted my baby, and got some stuff done in anticipation of the arrival of the Merry Maids at 1 o'clock. What stuff? I washed all the bedding (requires doing 3 loads of laundry), I loaded the dishwasher and/or washed the dishes, and I got myself and my boy dressed so that we could go before they got here.

I took him to visit his cousins and his Aunt Stacey, and we hung out with them for awhile, where we watched HGTV on their giant television, he was admired by his cousins, held by his aunt, and had his diaper changed by me in big boy Matthew's cool room (that kid has neat stuff). Afterwards, we drove in the rain to the post office so I could buy stamps for his birth announcements (is it lame to send birth announcements after a month?), which I ordered last week from Tiny Prints and thought weren't going to come until March but they were rad and got them to me a week early, and without any extra charges or my even having to ask. They also came out really great, and maybe I will share them with you later.

Then we got something for me to eat, came home, and watched TV, addressed birth announcements, and napped (guess who did what?) until his dad came home. And the 1 month birthday celebrations began! No, not really. He was going to have a bath (and get his hair washed for the first time!) but it was just too cold, and I was tired. Yes, everyone has told me to "sleep while he sleeps" (which he's doing right now, in the Moby wrap) but to be honest, I just can't make myself do it. There are other things to do. When I told Patrick all the things I had done while wearing the baby in the wrap, he was kind of surprised. I won't lie to you: before we had the baby, on a rainy cold day like yesterday, if I had been home with nothing to do except wait for the maids, I would've pretty much done nothing. I wouldn't have done laundry or cleaned up the kitchen. I would've sat on the couch and watched reruns of "America's Next Top Model" or something like that. It's interesting that now it means something to me when I make the bed. I don't always get to take a shower, but I've made the bed every day since the baby came home (unless Patrick has done it), and I like that. Not being a slob anymore seems to be a nice side effect of becoming a mother. Patrick's been the same way. It's kind of weird, but good.

So the other day I received a card in the mail from my mother. She likes sending cards with spiritual messages and bible verses. In the past I've sort of ignored the messages and just thanked her for thinking of me. This card, however, was perfect in every way. She picked the perfect verse to send us, and though I'm always going to be a little suspicious about religious stuff in general, I really liked this card. Also, I think I get my corniness from her. Fine, whatever.

On the outside it said, "God wants you to remember: He is for you. He loves you. He believes in you. He will not fail you. He will provide for you. He will bless you. He will give you rest. (Mom underlined that part, and the next:) He will strengthen you. He will answer you."

I mean, jeez, rest and strength? What else do new parents need?

Here's the verse she hand-wrote on the inside, after her personal message for me and Patrick:

"We shall not all sleep but we shall all be changed." I Corinthians 15:51

Now, I think that verse is actually referring to the rapture but boy was it appropriate. It also reminds me of that line from the U2 song "Bad," where Bono says he's "wide awake" and that he's "not sleeping." I don't know what the hell Bono is talking about in that song, but I bet it's about Jesus (even though Wikipedia says it's about heroin; you have your opinions, and I have mine), and it seems like Bono and my mom are telling me the same thing (did I just write that? TOTAL CHEESE! Well, I told you I was corny. Still, I'm not going to delete it, even though I'm wrong about Bono's meaning. I both love and am driven crazy by U2, and I know my interpretations of their lyrics are juvenile sometimes, but those big gorgeous dumb guys know what they're doing, or they did, anyway ["Achtung Baby" and everything that followed: yech]). In one month the big change to our lives that we were told about and anticipating but not really able to conceive has happened. Patrick and I are now parents, to this gorgeous little boy. Our hearts are now attached to him. We've changed. I have changed. Mom was right.*

Happy one month, my little guy! We love you!

*Bono, not so much.

Wearing my baby

Today Patrick bought me a Moby sling wrap for wearing the baby, and after taking about a half hour to figure out how to tie the darn thing, I've been wearing a very sleepy baby with much success ever since.

Things I have done while wearing the baby:

• Started this blog post
• Facebook
• Watched "Gilmore Girls"
• Randomly strolled through the house, picking up trash and, hey! throwing it away
• Ate the rest of the blueberry tart from last week
• A little dance

This thing is cool. I think the kid has gone poop, though, and I'm not sure I can get him out alone - Patrick's out in the garage doing something loud.

I'm a goofball, which is clearly evident in the photo below.

Check it out for yourself at http://www.mobywrap.com/.

Two weeks in...

It's been two weeks since we brought the baby home! We haven't dropped him yet! The week went by pretty fast. To be honest with you, I don't really remember what I did earlier in the week - my brain doesn't seem to function beyond Wednesday.

Wednesday stands out because we had originally planned to go visit with my parents and Patrick's mom, but got a couple of miles on the freeway before the previous days' lack of sleep caught up with me, and I begged Patrick to turn around. There was traffic, we weren't going to make it at the time we'd planned for, and I was just exhausted and overwhelmed.

Instead, we called my parents and Patrick's mom, canceled the visits, and went home.

That afternoon we made an appointment for me to see the lactation consultant at Kaiser so that I could get a little help - Jules was doing okay but breastfeeding has turned out to be a little painful for me, so I wanted some advice. I realize that it does tend to hurt at first, and so I'm hoping that we will be able to past this, but on Wednesday, I was pretty upset about it. The lactation consultant is also, of course, an RN, and she eased my new mommy fears about a few other things that I had been (needlessly) worrying about. She advised me to "relax." Gee, where have I heard that one? She had a lot of good advice about the pain, and made some suggestions about positioning, and though it still hurts initially when he gets started, I'm hoping it will be better after this week. To aid in relaxing, I was advised to abandon recording the baby's feeding times (this was encouraged while we were in the hospital; I continued with it probably longer than necessary. It was making me nutso) and to 100% feed him "on demand." Understanding that I have maybe some anxiety about this kid's eating habits and my ability to feed him enough, she suggested we come back after the weekend to have him weighed and to determine I "did everything right." <-- Not her words. We do that later today.

We rescheduled the visits with our parents for Thursday, and it worked out much better. They all had a great visit, and I got Tito's for lunch. Thursday also happened to be my birthday, and it was a nice quiet way to celebrate.

On Saturday, my friend Missy and her daughter Hailey came to visit me and the baby, and Missy brought cupcakes from Hotcakes, my new favorite bakery in West LA. It was nice to see them, and to visit for awhile. Jules was perfect, and slept in Missy's arms for the entire visit.

Yesterday, Sunday, my family all came to visit and to really celebrate my birthday. My mom and sister helped show me how to give Jules his first bath, which was a little traumatic for him, but he was warm and cuddly afterwards, and he slept great last night, so all in all, it was a success.

This is Patrick's last week of vacation before he goes back to work... I've been so thankful that I've had him with me, he's been a great help, a wonderful daddy to Jules, and the best sandwich maker ever. After this week I'll have about 9 weeks with Jules before I have to go back to work myself. I'm not ready to think about that yet.

Here's me and Jules, from sometime last week. I think I took the photo on Friday.

A week of having a newborn

So I think I'll keep writing this blog a week behind the events which I'll be relating. Does that make sense? Anyway, it's the only way I think this is going to work. It's Tuesday, and we've had JP home with us for nine days. He seems to be liking us, though he's quite the serious boy. At any rate, he hasn't started packing his little bags...

On Monday of last week, he had his first doctor's appointment, and we met the pediatrician Kaiser assigned to us. I was a little apprehensive about having no idea about this person, but she turned out to be really great. We liked her right away. JP had a touch of jaundice, or his test didn't satisfy the her, so she sent us home with instructions to fatten him up... in 24 hours. At first I was pretty upset abut it, and as a new mom, I guess I get a pass on this, the first doctor visit... okay, so I'll be straight with you: I cried. I didn't cry at the delivery: at this, something I learned later happens to most newborns, I cried. I talked to a bunch of people who experienced this same thing, and one good piece of advice that I got was to (carefully) expose him, in small doses, preferably through the window, to sunlight. So we dragged a comfortable chair into the kitchen (the room that gets the most sun), and I nursed him in there. She also wanted me to supplement the breastfeeding with an ounce of formula, delivered via eyedropper, at each feeding, so we did that. Patrick helped a lot with the formula.

The next day we took him back, and he was tested and weighed again, and this time he came out clear: no jaundice. I know it wasn't as big of a deal as I originally thought it was, but I have to admit, I was very relieved. He's such a little, sleepy guy, and oh so cute: I just wanted him to be OK. And: he was.

It took us a couple of days to get a rhythm down with the breastfeeding. I did great in the hospital, but for some reason once we came home, I seemed to lose my way for a day or two. It started to hurt. On Wednesday, I was having a really hard time with it - JP seemed to be hungry every hour, and I was really frustrated; the plumber was here (our toilet was backing up), making a bunch of noise, and I was sitting in the baby's room, losing it. Then the doorbell rang, and I heard Patrick talking to our neighbor, Terie, who had had the perfect idea of stopping by our house with a casserole and non-chocolate sweets.

Terie is a Labor and Delivery nurse, a sweetheart, and the best person, at that exact moment, to have dropped by. Her timing was truly excellent. I called to Patrick to ask her to come into the baby's room, and she did. She sat there with me for at least a half hour while I cried, and she explained what was going on, and then she explained that that's how it just is... and that it would get easier. She gave me some tips for making it feel better, and had so much good information that she made me feel like I could do it.

After that, JP and I had a bit of a breakthrough in the breastfeeding department. It still hurt (and still does) but it's a lot easier to deal with, and we're both doing much better.

Since then, we've discovered that our boy's favorite activity is to sleep. Boy, he's a sleepy baby! I've had to re-read (a couple of times) the section in the "What to Expect the First Year" book on sleepy babies to reassure myself that he wasn't sleeping too much, but it seems that 10-day old babies... just sleep. He's very good at it.

Speaking of the "What to Expect the First Year" book... that book has been a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, I know nothing about babies and so having a book like that is really handy. On the other hand, I find that sometimes I look one thing up and I end up reading something else, or the answer is vague, and I end up either more confused or freaked out about another issue... and I know I'm getting a little wacky with the new mom business (and Patrick does his best to reassure me that everything is OK)... but I think I'll settle down, eventually.

The big news is that a couple nights ago, I was finally able to stop setting alarm so that I could wake up in the middle of the night so that I could catch his hunger cues before they escalated to crying - my friends were starting to make fun of me. Last night I got 5 hours of sleep in a row, and felt like a million bucks. And I know he's eating enough because he's had much success in the wet/poopy diaper area and we're getting in all our feeding sessions.

I'll admit that there are still some things about him that are mysterious and that are probably 100% benign but they still worry me (for example, he's started making a funny little noise while I'm feeding him), but since he seems happy, and is eating, pooping and peeing enough, doesn't have a fever, and/or displaying any signs of distress... I'm going to assume it's okay and not go hunting all over the internet or in that darn book for an "answer." I'm not sure I agree with Kaiser scheduling him for the doctor once the first day after you take him home and then not again until three weeks later (seriously, they let us just take this kid home without confirming that we know what we're doing!), but we haven't hurt him and I've been assured that we can't "break" him... so we're okay.

Today I found out that the school I was hoping would take him for two days a week has a waiting list of about six months to a year. Since we applied in September, you'd think that might've been something they told us a long time ago, but nope. I've even called before to find out about this, so I don't really know what's going on. I know there are other schools but this one is for County employees and right across the street from Patrick's work, and we very much liked it the time we had a tour. We have a couple of other options but I don't like having only two months to figure it out. On the other hand, I wish I could just stay home. Maybe I'll start buying lottery tickets.

Well. I'm learning that motherhood involves lots of worry, an unimaginable sense of responsibility, almost instantaneous true love, and NO SLEEP. Patrick's going back to work after next week... so I'd better live it up while I have him here.

Here's a photo Patrick took of me while we waited for the doctor last week. I look a little tired, and a lot stunned. This little creature needs me... and I need him. I can't believe how quickly that happened.

One week ago yesterday - updated paragraph

I'm so silly: when I posted the story below, I left off one key detail. Here's the corrected paragraph.

Once there, we flew up to the Labor and Delivery section, where the same lady I spoke to on the phone was manning the front desk with another woman. They were checking in another patient, and I tried to wait calmly with Patrick in the waiting area, but I was super uncomfortable, impatient, and a little annoyed. I believe I said to Patrick, "Why are they making me wait?" This area is supposedly a holding area where they evaluate you and you wait in a litte room until the doctor or midwife says it's time to go to the actual delivery room; it's where I would've waited if I'd come to the hospital two hours earlier. Instead, they took about 15 minutes to get me in a room, on a bed but it felt like forever. The two nurses were kind of funny - they were nice enough but not very speedy or good at getting me checked in. During that time things had definitely escalated. I was asked if I wanted an epidural, and I have to be honest: I said yes. Patrick asked me if I was sure and I said yes. I always said I'd try to do without but that if I needed it, I'd get it. That was my thinking, that I needed it. The woman who was going to be my midwife came in and checked me, and I was 7 cm dilated, and there went the epidural. The midwife didn't think there was going to be time. And so my drug-free labor began.

One week ago yesterday...

Patrick and I are home with our new little baby boy, born last Friday night. Before we left for the hospital, I started writing down the events of the day, which, as you shall see, started very early in the morning. I wrote the rest in fits and starts all week. I can't say it's well done or ready for publishing to my blog, but I'd better do it while it's still relatively fresh.

Friday, January 28
9:24 a.m.

Hey, so, at 3 a.m., I think we got the show started.

I stayed up pretty late (around 11 p.m.) Thursday night, watching TV. I knew sleeping would be hard, because I'd been having a hard time all week, and I just didn't want to even try. Patrick went to bed (he said he was "taking a nap") at 8:30, but I stayed up watching old first season episodes of "Weeds" on Netflix and reading in the baby's room.

When I finally went to bed (Patrick woke up, which is good, because he'd crashed on top of the blankets in the middle of the bed), I wasn't really all that sleepy, so we stayed up and talked for awhile. Then the cats had a huge, fur flying fight in the living room, so I had to come out and squirt Franny with water (we didn't see the fight, so it can't be proved that she was the instigator, but chances are good it was her). Anyway, all I'm saying is, I didn't get to sleep right away. Patrick had to get up early for work, so he rolled over, but I was feeling a little uncomfortable, so I cuddled up with a bunch of pillows and tried to relax and fall asleep.

At 3 a.m., I got up to use the restroom, and realized that what I was looking at was probably what I've been reading described as "bloody show." Kind of a disgusting name but it's kind of a disgusting event. I'll spare you the details. We weren't sure what to do at this point, so we waited a little while, and then we called Kaiser's Labor and Delivery department at the hospital, and the nurse I spoke to explained that I didn't need to come in unless I had a gush of fluid, or contractions 4-5 minutes apart for an hour. I hadn't felt any contractions at that point, and the stuff happening down below certainly wasn't a gush, so we put some towels on the bed and tried to get some sleep.

Once I lay down, though, I started feeling what I can only describe as extremely mild, short (less than 10 seconds) menstrual-type cramps. This went on, at no particularly regular intervals for a couple of hours and then I fell asleep... only to be awakened by Patrick's alarm at 6:15. We had decided, in the middle of the night, that he would go to work, but try to get someone in to cover for him so he could come home. He'd been joking all week that I shouldn't go into labor on Friday because his subordinate would be out of town... I think we'll stop making jokes like that about stuff, in the future. (Patrick has two subordinate positions beneath him but one of them is a new hire, and he doesn't start until the third week of February.)

He went in, made a few phone calls, rounded up coverage, which involved his department's chief deputy, which is kind of a big deal. Luckily that guy is Patrick's former boss, and a nice man. Pat came home after about an hour, with a breakfast burrito for me, which may or may not have been a bad idea. I'm hungry but perhaps a lighter breakfast would've been better. It was good, though. I got up early because, coincidentally, we have a visit from the refrigerator repairman scheduled for today between 8 and 12. I'm glad Patrick's here. I wasn't looking forward to having to ask that guy to take me to the hospital.

I stopped writing at this point.

As the day progressed, so did my labor symptoms. Patrick and I hung out, and then I tried to rest. I probably should've started writing this earlier because while I know that sometime between 1 and 2 p.m. I started having real contractions, I don't have any memory of what they felt like. I stayed in the bedroom, sort of timing them (at this point there was about 15-20 minutes between each one). At 3, I went out into the living room and told Pat we'd better start seriously timing them. I had been told the old 4-1-1 rule (four minutes apart, lasting one minute, for 1 hour) for how you would know when to go to the hospital, and my contractions at this point were about 5 minutes apart. I used some of my Lamaze training and tried out the positions we'd been told to use to help alleviate the pain. The one that really worked was putting one foot up on a chair and stretching - that one helped a lot. At 4, after an hour, we called Labor and Delivery again. I told the nurse the deal, and she said, "Oh, that sounds like active labor! You'd better come in." Then she asked me a million questions, and I started to have another contraction, so I told her I had to put the phone down. When I came back she was all, "Oh, yeah, you're in active labor." I'm not sure if this qualifies as a "well, duh" response for her or me. She started asking me more questions, but she would take forever, which was a bit annoying, to be honest, if I was supposed to be going to the hospital.

Anyway, once I finally got off the phone with her, we grabbed my bag and got on the freeway. It was Friday, at 5 p.m., and I was worried there would be a ton of traffic, but Patrick got us there without driving like a maniac, in 14 minutes. During that time, I had 4 contractions (plus one in the parking lot). Let me tell you: you do not want to be having contractions in the front seat of a Mitsubishi Endeavor on the 605 freeway.

Once there, we flew up to the Labor and Delivery section, where the same lady I spoke to on the phone was manning the front desk with another woman. They were checking in another patient, and I tried to wait calmly with Patrick in the waiting area, but I was super uncomfortable, impatient, and a little annoyed. I believe I said to Patrick, "Why are they making me wait?" This area is supposedly a holding area where they evaluate you and you wait in a litte room until the doctor or midwife says it's time to go to the actual delivery room; it's where I would've waited if I'd come to the hospital two hours earlier. Instead, they took about 15 minutes to get me in a room, on a bed but it felt like forever. The two nurses were kind of funny - they were nice enough but not very speedy or good at getting me checked in. During that time things had definitely escalated. I was asked if I wanted an epidural, and I have to be honest: I said yes. Patrick asked me if I was sure and I said yes. I always said I'd try to do without but that if I needed it, I'd get it. That was my thinking, that I needed it. The woman who was going to be my midwife came in and checked me, and I was 7 cm dilated, and there went the epidural. The midwife didn't think there was going to be time. And so my drug-free labor began.

I was in a bed there for about 15 minutes, and during that time, those two nurses couldn't seem to figure out how to check me in. It was almost funny, and mostly annoying. One of them tried to tell me I needed to sign a form at the desk, but I told her, and the whole room, "I'm not getting up again," so she brought in a laptop on a rolling cart for me to sign electronically. That didn't work out (Patrick said it wasn't hooked up properly). Anyway, what all that meant is that I was not registered until I had been in the delivery room (I think Patrick ended up signing something) for quite some time. My not being registered even delayed me getting my IV!

I was then taken at what I realize was more than just a regular old brisk clip to the delivery room, and on the way, I was pretty much curled up in a ball on the left side of the bed, trying to keep my arms inside while they turned corners, having more contractions.

Patrick and I took a tour of the hospital and the labor and delivery section last week, and while I had been impressed at the time of the tour with the gorgeous room I would have my baby in, when it came to the time, it really didn't matter what kind of room or what it looked like: I didn't even notice. And, without my glasses, I don't really even know what the midwife looked like. She was soft-spoken, African American, and very nice, but otherwise, nope, wouldn't recognize her if I walked into her. My nurse's name was Le, and she spent the most time with me, answering and asking questions. She was at my side pretty much the whole time, which I think might be unusual but I'm not sure. And during the whole thing, Patrick was there, talking to me, keeping me calm, and holding my hand.

Le said a couple of things to me that were interesting during the contractions: she told me that I was doing fine, and that I shouldn't get "out of control" because it would be better for me and the baby. I asked her what she meant by out of control, and she explained, flailing around and screaming. I didn't do either one. I moaned quite a bit, of course, but during the contractions I tended more to curling on my side. I am ashamed to say I don't think I did any of my Lamaze breathing during the contractions. That stuff, aside from the stretching I did at home, kind of went out the window. Oh, maybe not: Patrick probably used the Lamaze training more than I did, because he did a great job keeping me focused and (mostly) calm.

When it was time to push, I'd been having contractions at the hospital for about 2 hours. It didn't feel that long and I only know because I knew what time it was. My midwife came in, all suited up in her (as Patrick called it) welder's mask, and Le got to work on my right side (Patrick was on my left). For some reason I felt more comfortable talking to Le instead of the midwife; I guess I recognized that she had a lot of work to do. The midwife told me when to push, and Le counted. I was a terrible pusher. They wanted three pushes per contraction but I couldn't do it. I managed 2 most times. Pushing went on for about 30 minutes. I remember saying to Le, "Le, I don't like this," and I kept apologizing for making (ahem) messes she had to clean up. I also said, toward the end, "Le, I can't do this anymore." It was hard, and horrible, and while of course I've forgotten what it really felt like, I do remember being scared and hurting, and wanting it to be over. I also surprisingly felt sleepy, like, "Oh god, I just want to sleep." Nobody really said to me anything about seeing the baby's head or anything: for all I knew I was going to be pushing forever. I was also doing a bad job of keeping my thighs open - I kept wanting to keep my legs together. The midwife had to admonish me a couple of times.

But then, they told me I needed to give some really big pushes, and I tried, I really did... and that's when I had the baby, which felt like a huge relief, and I felt a hundred times better. They put him on my chest, and I said something that's just between me and the people in that room, and then I said, "Is he okay?" Le said yes, and Patrick and I cried, and then they took him away to check him out and I had to deliver the placenta, which, to be honest, was even more disturbing than delivering the baby, though, I wish I had remembered to ask to see it, because I've been curious about that thing all this time.

Another nurse came by to wash the baby up, and Le had work to do on the computer, and the midwife congratulated me and then left (I thanked her, of course), and then they finally got around to having me sign a paper I was supposed to have signed before I went into labor (my experiences with the Kaiser nurses after those first two were perfect; every nurse except those ladies was professional and sweet and took extremely good care of me. I don't know why the B team was on in that other room that night, but they were the only ones who were even a little incompetent).

We stayed in the hospital through Sunday afternoon, and my parents and brothers and sister came and visited us, and Patrick's mom, and his brother and his wife (his other brother and his wife were sick and so couldn't come). It was nice to be taken care of and have room service for meals, and a nurse to check on me and the baby. When it was time to go home, Peggy, the very nice charge nurse that day asked me about my stay and care. I told her how excellently everyone had treated us, and said I was trying to figure out which one I wanted to come home with us. She laughed. To be honest, I probaby would've picked her, if it had been possible, though there was a little Filipino nurse named Annie who I liked just as much. Annie kept bringing me extra juices and cookies, and offering Patrick coffee. She was very nice, and helpful with the breastfeeding.

We've been home a week, and getting used to the baby's schedule has been a little stressful. Breastfeeding is hard work. Patrick is home, and helping out a lot. We've got a lot to learn. I've gotten overwhelmed and freaked out by my whole new life, but I've also looked into that little face and felt something I never, ever felt before. We didn't know what to expect, but we're loving our little boy, and we're so proud and happy to have him.

His name is Jules. He looks just like his daddy.

I'd better go, it's almost time to feed him.

Couldn't sleep last night

I didn't sleep all that great last night, but I wasn't all that upset about it for some reason. I tossed and turned a little bit, got up several times during the night to use the bathroom, and after being up for about an hour, I wrote a few emails on my iPhone to a friend. It was some okay writing, so I thought I'd share my thoughts with my friend, with you. Nothing earth-shattering but I haven't been blogging much, maybe it's because of Facebook, and I wanted to prove that I have been writing something, even if it's just silly little emails.

Here are the highlights:

2:58 a.m.
Moony moon moon. What a gorgeous night.

We had a giant (really, really) raccoon in the backyard on Monday. He was fearless, snuffled his way all over the yard. Franny and Dora went nuts.

I can't sleep. Obviously.

Sent from my iPhone

3:28 a.m.
Dora just cruised by. She's such a little princess, in her teeny tiny kitty-cat high heeled shoes. She didn't stay long, I think she was checking on Patrick, making sure I'm treating him right. She lets me pet her more these days but he's her man.

Franny is no princess. She's a pest, a circus performer, a screen door climber, a giant stomach (we call her Sto-Match), babycat, a perfect small headed Magic Cat. She's the world's worst hunter of the cat kingdom, but so enthusiastic about it, you hate to point that out. I love her and hope she lives forever. Yesterday I was sitting in the baby's room, in my new chair, with her on my lap, and she was trying to eat my shirt buttons. I think she's a genius.

Pregnancy hormones right now have me all smoothed out. I'm pretty happy; I feel good about things. I worry that after the baby comes I'll get depressed or sad, which I know happens to people and is perfectly normal, and that I won't be a Good Mother, but even the worry has no sharp edges. Right now I feel great, and I see that continuing. I just wish I could sleep.

3:47 a.m.
Tonight I made Patrick rotate our mattress because somehow the giant mattress label was at the top of the bed, and I could feel it through the sheets, and it's been bugging me forever. But when I woke up about an hour ago I realized it's because now I'm sleeping on his side of the bed, upside down, and that's weird. And now I'm hungry.
Yawn.

There was a fast-food Mexican place in west LA on or around Olympic and Bundy in a minimall next to a 7-11 that I can't remember the name of that had the best taquitos. I want some now, with the fluffy guacamole they made, and sour cream, and a large Dr Pepper. I think that joint closed at least 5 years ago, probably way more. The French bistro on SM Blvd that me and Frederique used to go to closed. I just discovered that tonight. They had a yummy warm beet salad. And made terrific gin & tonics even though I had no idea what a good gin was (Frederique would choose for me. Usually Tanqueray, I think).

Well since I could do this forever I'd better try sleeping again. I wish you could hear Patrick snore. The light on my new clock radio can be completely turned off. That seems like an innovation clock radios could've made years ago.

At this point I guess I fell asleep. I slept hard, and for a long time - I didn't wake up until the phone rang, at around 10:45. I don't even remember waking up when Patrick went to work, and I always wake up when he goes to work, for my goodbye kiss and to tell him to have a good day and to not drive like a maniac. The phone call was from the repair people who are coming out to fix our refrigerator, which hasn't been staying cool. I've got a ton of yogurt going bad. They're not coming until tomorrow, so I need to clean the thing out, and I haven't been looking forward to it. And now, though I have eaten a banana, I need to get dressed and figure out what I'm going to have for lunch.

I have no cutesy closer for this post. Huh. 

I haven't blogged in ages (a week?) and I thought I'd better check in before anybody thought I'd gone off and had my baby or something, because, nope, I'm still here at 38 weeks and some days.

I'm still feeling great.

I had a check up today, where the doctor did a quickie ultrasound to verify that little no-name (more on that in a second) was head down, as she suspected (he is). It was a trip to see him, all blown up and big now. He's practically real, isn't he.

So see, we thought we'd come up with a name, but it turns out that that name was one of (if not the) most popular name of 2010 (yep, you guessed it, unknowingly we'd chosen "Aidan"), so now we've turned back to the drawing board. Time's getting short, though, so we better figure this out. Soon.

The baby's room is mostly ready for him (he needs pictures on the walls and decorative items; it looks a little plain), we successfully installed the car seats in both cars (and had the Lakewood Sheriffs examine to make sure we did them right), my hospital bag is finally packed... so we're ready to go.

I've been off work for about a week and a half, and I have to admit: I love it. Loving it. Could not love it more. I haven't had such an extended amount of time off in forever, and though I know it will all come to an end when the baby comes and my new life begins, I'm really enjoying it as much as I can.

So. I'll keep you posted on what happens next.

Driving lesson of the day: merging*

When merging, one should remember the following simple rule:

The car in front, stays in front.

This means that if you and I are in a two lane on-ramp merging to one lane on the freeway, and the front of your car is ahead of mine, you win. I don't care what lane you're in. On the other hand, I'm in front of you? I win. If you speed up to pass me, and then you're suddenly thrust into the existing traffic on the freeway, and then have to slow down, and now I have to brake because you have a need to BEAT ME, that's suddenly a dangerous situation for everybody. Quit it. There are spaces for your car if you are courteous, watch the flow of traffic, and use your head.

Other important things to remember:

1. Match your speed to the cars already on the freeway. They're the real winners; you're just some loser joining the party after the fact.
2. Speeding up to pass me makes you an asshole. "Ooh, now you're in front, asshole," will be the thought in my mind. That extra 10 feet wasn't yours to begin with, but now that you're there, Ima let you keep it, since it clearly means more to you than me.
3. You being an asshole doesn't change the way I drive. Knock yourself out.
4. If you're already on the freeway (congratulations! you're a winner!), stay out of the far right lane unless you're getting off or otherwise have a real need to be there. You make merging that much harder for the losers trying to get on the road, and you're just in the way. Get over. Pay attention.

Last but not least:

Use your turn signal for every lane change and every time you turn. If you're pointing your car at me, I need to know about it. And then, just like you turn off the light when you leave the room (should turning on or off a light in a room ever be a matter of life or death), turn it off when you're done.

Thanks!

Drive safe!

*I possess no qualifications for writing this piece except that I love to drive, and I do it a lot. I've never been in a major accident. I put over 18,000 miles a year on my car, and I do it all armed only with an 80 GB iPod Classic (black). Also, my brother-in-law works for Cal-Trans (<-- not a qualification, but I just thought I'd throw that in).

P.S. Today's post was inspired by Cheap Trick's album "Dream Police," which I started listening to last night on my way to my breastfeeding class, but finished this morning on the drive in to work. "I Know What I Want" is pure, no. 1 driving music perfection. Try it.

Re-reading a book

I first bought and read this book about 18 years ago. I remember picking it up from the tiny Parenting section we had at the Crown Books in the Culver Center, and standing there for about 2 hours straight, reading it. Maybe I didn't read it all in one sitting (or standing) but that's what I remember.

It was the first Anne Lamott book I'd ever read... I'm not sure what drew me to it, but whatever it was (the cute little baby on the cover, maybe!), I really enjoyed it. I think she wrote it before her full-on conversion to Christianity, though I'm not sure if she was still an alcoholic at the time. Anne Lamott has a voice that I really admire and that has always made me laugh and think. When I found out all those months ago that I was pregnant, one of the first thoughts I had was to re-read this book, but for whatever reason, I put it off. This book is about her experiences with her son Sam, and she makes having a little baby boy feel very real and terrifying, and doable, in a crazy way.

Tonight I finally resolved to get to reading. Or I should say, re-reading.

I'm ready for my tesseract now, please.

I know I've got a reputation as a chronically late person, so it may surprise you to learn that I am capable of (and indeed, compelled to) keeping track on a mile-by-mile basis of the minutes required to complete my commute every morning.

It's about a 20 mile drive from my home to work, and so herein starts the (often incorrect, it should go without saying) calculations. You might think, if you live anywhere other than Los Angeles, that a 20 mile drive, most of which is conducted on the so-called "freeway," would take anywhere from 20-25 minutes. I mean, 60+ miles per hour seems like a reasonable speed, especially at 5:30 in the morning, right?

Duh. You would be wrong. Dead wrong. And I would be late, which I am, almost every day.

(Even Google maps says this is a 30-50 minute drive, so clearly I am delusional in my insistence that this drive should take 20 minutes. CLEARLY.)

For one thing, the first 1/2 mile of my commute through my neighborhood requires me to either drive out of my way down my own street to make a somewhat illegal left turn across four lanes (four usually empty lanes, but in the rain and/or fog we've been having, to say nothing of the blackness of the mornings and the death wishes of some of my neighbors, those four lanes are treacherous) or to wait three minutes for a light to turn green. On my schedule, three minutes is a lifetime. This light likes to mess with me, sometimes almost about to turn... and then at the last minute, it changes it's mind and stays red. If you watch the opposite traffic signal, or the "walk" sign, you will see it blink, blink, blink, turn solid, even the street light itself turns yellow, as if to say, hey, cross traffic, slow down, this little lady wants to - nope, staying red for two more minutes, sorry. I've been tempted to run that red light when I'm particularly late and the morning is particularly solitary, but no, I would never do anything quite so irresponsible. Oh no. Not me.

After that, I'm finally on the freeway about 3 miles later, and that particular freeway has a surprising reputation, at 5:30 in the morning, of being pretty free flowing (if there's traffic here and I've left later than usual, it's at this point when I start thinking about calling in late to work). I spend the next 7 or 8 miles speeding along at a nice clip, watching the clock the whole time, knowing that at this pace, I could be at work in... 15 minutes? (My lack of math skills being well-known by now, I'm sure, so bear with me.)

It all sounds doable, and thinking positive is certainly a skill needed for navigating the roads of Los Angeles (and avoiding road rage and/or high blood pressure), and so for a few moments, until I come to the connector from that freeway to the next, I'm pretty confident and emotionally prepared to be on time (being on time requires advanced planning just as being late does) - driving in freeflowing traffic will do that to a person. But then - the connector. That blasted connector. It goes around and then under the freeway you just left (and there's a big white bird-like image painted on the underside of that freeway; I haven't had any luck finding out what that's all about, so if you know, email me, because I've been curious for about 3 years), and there's nice green foliage/weeds on either side, which you have plenty of time to observe, because most of the time, you're going nowhere fast. The next freeway is older and narrower and more heavily traveled and the merging skills of some of the other drivers on the road leave much to be desired, so it could take awhile to finally be moving along with the rest of the world.

These past few weeks, when my fellow commuters have obviously taken some time off, changing from one freeway to another has been a breeze, a delight, an exercise in making a smooth steady left turn to the left (what, you think you can make a smooth steady left turn to the right? What are you? High?), changing directions from mostly north to slightly more north, and west, but on normal early mornings, sitting on this interchange or whatever the dudes at CalTrans would call it, which is, I'm sure, less than half a mile in length, becomes the point when all my careful calculations, my plotted speed, my joyous inner voice whispering "I'm going to be on time!" become "Oh, shit, I'm totally late."

And now the mathematics begin running backward, in that way that it does for those of us who read "A Wrinkle in Time" and only pretended to understand the science behind it all (or I should say, pretended to pretend, as that book, and everything in it, including the famous tesseract, is totally fiction). Now my countdown changes from, "I have 8 miles to go, and 12 minutes to get there," which is a positive, to "If I can continue at this speed [usually 35 miles an hour once I've merged onto the new freeway] I will only be 10 minutes late, but if I can speed up to 60 in the next 3 miles..." to "I will be on time to work if I can get this baby up to 120 miles per hour."

You should know: I drive a 6 year old, four-door, 4 cylinder Honda Accord. I believe the speedometer goes up to 120, but I've never taken it past 90 (or was it 95?), so at this point, that 120 miles per hour is all theoretical. Anyway, the amount of road necessary for that manuever would be wasted. And now I'm all, "Okay, I'll only be... five minutes late..." "I'm only 8 minutes late..." And there starts another typical weekday morning. This is my routine four days a week, pretty much every morning. The drive home is another story, and usually takes longer.

However, on a personal note, I only have 6 more days of work until I'm off on maternity leave, and as long as the baby doesn't come early, doesn't come while I'm on the road, or at work, I'm pretty excited about that (the hospital is almost exactly at the mid-point between home and work, but I've read that driving while having contractions is a bad idea, go figure). Also, it would be so lovely to sleep past 7 for like 10 days in a row.

Because I know when those days are up, and our little baby comes to stay, we won't be getting any extra sleep at all. And I'd like to stock up while I can.

I think Oprah stole my haircut. Or am I wearing a wig?

Granted, I could spend a little more time on my hair to get it this shiny and under control, and also, I think I had this haircut originally in 1984 and hey, I don't look this good in orange, and to tell you the truth, I really hate Oprah most of the time - but this is my haircut. Somebody at the Aveda salon in Long Beach must like Oprah because this is the exact haircut I had last, and while I kind of like it most of the time, I've made a personal committment not to get any more haircuts until all these crazy layers grow out.

Reality shows: drug rehab

I have no idea who this woman is.
I did a Google Image search for
Frankie Lons, and while this sort of looks like the
woman on Celebrity Rehab,
how would I know if it wasn't?

There's an article in the LA Times about Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew on VH1, and Intervention, on A&E (click on the title of today's post and you'll go to the article). It's not a great article (What! the LA Times wrote a superficial article?), but it reminded me that I've been annoyed by these shows a lot lately. Not so much Intervention; my only complaint with that show is that I'm usually watching the last three minutes wondering how they're going to fit everything in (and yet they always do). I have no business commenting on addiction or recovery, but I watched "Celebrity Rehab" this weekend, and saw an interaction between Shelly Sprague, one of the people on staff at the recovery center, and one of the so-called celebrities that really bugged me.

The "celebrity" in question was Frankie Lons, who is always referred to as the mother of somebody apparently more famous than she is (but I've never heard of either of them). The celebrities were having lunch at Tender Greens with Bob Forrest and Shelly in Hollywood, where they had been taken, apparently in an attempt to intermingle with real-world temptations (not at Tender Greens; I'm talking about being in Hollywood. I recently went to Tender Greens in Culver City and I think I fell in love. I'm ready to go back. So for me, showing the celebrities at Tender Greens was a trigger. Oh, those tricksy rehab people!). One of the actual celebrities, Leif Garrett, did have the reaction I think Bob was expecting, and he tried to, I don't know, order a beer or walk out. That was sort of underplayed so that the following could be focused on:

While they were eating lunch, Frankie wanted to know why she couldn't have a non-alcholic beer, and instead of answering the question, Shelly got confrontational with her and responded "That's a question only an addict would ask."

Maybe so, Shelly, but why don't you also explain it to her instead of just being sarcastic and dismissive? Maybe Frankie doesn't understand that there actually is alcohol in so-called "near-beer"? Maybe she still doesn't understand her addiction or what her reaction to near-beer would be? Maybe there's a better answer, like explaining why it's a bad idea or why you think that's a straight up dumb question? I don't know if there was a deeper conversation off-camera, but what was shown was antagonistic instead of helpful.

The show has been getting on my nerves not only because I think the experts are terrible listeners or because I question the celebrity status of people like Frankie Lons or Rachel Uchitel (or Jason Davis, or that guy who was on TV a long time ago, or that other guy named Jason), but because I wonder how much help these people are actually getting, which makes the whole thing feel like a waste of time. Seeing the story of that guy Jason Davis isn't helping anybody, and neither is Rachel Uchitel, who suffers from "love addiction" (also, apparently she has a degree in psychology, which proves a point I'm not going to make right now). These are just people who want to be on television. I truly believe that.

Drew has been annoying me for years on Loveline, where he's often super impatient to the slow-ass kids who call in (it's true that some of those kids need help forming a sentence, but Drew's on-air persona has become cranky and mean; his own perceived "celebrity-dom" seems to affect his ability to actually talk to people in a non-condescending manner). He brings some of that confrontational style to this show, and while I think these adults should be able to handle it, so many of them are stunted and helpless in a way that's sad and a little disgusting that I think his attempts to get smart with them backfire because they're too stupid to get it.

So there you go. Rather than attempting to write a closing paragraph that's clever and insightful, I'm just going to end this post abruptly and by calling the hapless celebrities on "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew" stupid. I feel great about that decision.

This is strangely timely, but only my friends on Facebook (Cindy!) who have been paying attention to my status updates will understand why.

The woman upon whom Liesl von Trapp in the movie "The Sound of Music" was based died yesterday.

(That sentence right there is proof of why I'm not a professional writer. This one, too, perhaps.)

Click on the title of this post to read the article.

For my photographer friends,

The NY Times posted a story about the end of Kodachrome film and processing that's very interesting. Not enough pictures, but still, good.

Click on the title of this post and you'll be taken to the story.

My morning reading - updated

A while ago, I read a few articles in the LA Times about a little girl named January Schofield, who has a serious and severe mental illness. The Great and Mighty Oprah also did a segment on her, and I'm sure other news organizations as well. The story made me sad because she's so young and because her family seems so dysfunctional (her father, for one, seems a little bit to me like a publicity hound; he's supposedly writing a book about her, and he keeps a blog about her in which he writes disturbingly personal details about their lives). Anyway, every once in awhile I do a google search to see what's going on with her, if anything.

Today during that search, I happened upon a blog called "Incorrect Pleasures." I've only been reading it for a little bit, so I have a very light grasp on the author's point of view, but she (?) wrote about Jani (January Schofield's nickname) in an interesting way from a perspective that I don't know anything about (the author says she has a condition called "synesthesia," and suspects Jani might have it as well). The author of the blog makes a lot of statements that sound logical and scientific but I don't know enough (anything) about the subject or her to be sure if they're true. That said, it's definitely interesting reading.

One of the other topics the author writes about is Syd Barrett, and though I know I told you that I wasn't really interested in Syd a few days ago, I've just started reading her piece on him, and it's pretty good.

I love this quote, which actually made me laugh, and made me want to tell you about what I've been reading:

Pink Floyd went on to become massively popular and commercially successful, their style evolving towards progressive rock, a popular musical genre that would enable millions of dim young men with limited prospects to experience the feeling of intellectual exhilaration without the necessity to read, learn or do anything much.

I'll keep reading and let you know what I think at the end.

Conclusion:

It was definitely a very good, thought-provoking article. The author (who uses a pseudonym for the blog and so is anonymous) appears knowledgeable on lots of subjects related to mental illness and autism and that kind of thing, and I only say "appears" because these are subjects that interest me but in which I am not qualified to judge anyone's qualifications, if you understand what I'm saying.

As I said before, the name of the blog is "Incorrect Pleasures," and here's a link, if you're interested. She writes on many subjects, and I think I'll be back for more soon. I am now totally interested in synesthesia. It's fascinating. Here's a Wikipedia listing of people who have/had it.

This is awesome

From the NY Times, a post about a scammer, two lovers (maybe), and a poem that will never be.

http://pogue.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/12/23/a-day-with-an-e-mail-scammer/

He's gotta ticket to ride

Last week my iPod was acting funny and started playing songs from my mother's playlist, which it has been specifically instructed (over and over again) not to do.

Mom's music runs along the lines of her favorite praise & worship recordings, Sandi Patty, Don Moen, old-school country, Marc Anthony (don't ask me how he got in there but she loves him, especially his hit "I Need to Know," which shows up in my Top 25 Played playlist all the time), and that sort of thing. When I bought her iPod, I also loaded it with stuff my boss recommended. Some of it my mom likes, and some of it she doesn't (she wasn't impressed with Il Divo, for example, and I really don't think you can fault her for that). For laughs, I included a Carpenter's disk (my boss lived in Hollywood in the 70s, and I think that has something to do with her taste in music. She's also a big fan of Heart, CSN and, other gems from that time period). I think it's a best of CD but I don't remember the title.

Anyway, while my iPod was punking me, the Carpenters' cover of the Beatles' "Ticket to Ride" came on.

Apparently this was a hit song for them, and all I can say is, were all those people drugged? Incapacitated? Hooked up to machines? Unable to choose for themselves?

Most of us know "Ticket to Ride" as an upbeat song about a breakup, right? Sure, "upbeat" and "breakup" are probably words that don't belong in the same sentence, but John and Paul did a good job bringing the whimsy (though according to Wikipedia, Paul didn't do much writing as far as this song is concerned; I'll leave that argument to their heirs and the Beatles scholars).

In her version, Karen Carpenter successfully sucks all the fun out of the song, and I swear to god, as I was driving down the 5 freeway when it came on, I got a little scared. It's really a creepy version.

The way she sings those lyrics, I couldn't figure out if she was glad the guy ("the boy that's driving me mad...") had split on her, or if maybe, just maybe, she had something to do with it. I mean, at the end of the song, I started thinking maybe Karen was considering killing him.

Wouldn't it make the Carpenters a lot more interesting if Karen had secretly been a serial killer? Seriously, I could get into that story.

And after all we're only ordinary men.

Over the weekend, I read the book "Comfortably Numb: The Inside Story of Pink Floyd" by Mark Blake. I've been on a bit of a Pink Floyd tear lately, and I wanted more after watching a couple of documentaries on Netflix (which I had actually already seen).

I chose this one because it gets great reviews on Amazon (one reader said "This is by far the best book on this band," and if that's not a plug one shouldn't ignore, I don't know what is)... and because the library had it.

I know. I'm not very discerning.

Anyway, aside from the documentaries, this is the only book I've ever read on the Floyd (I love referring to them now as "The Floyd;" it makes me feel very English for some reason, and a little old, which is surprisingly not bothering me in this case), and though the library is still currently holding a copy of Nick Mason's memoir ("Inside Out"), I'm not sure if I'm going to pick it up.

Why?

Well.

Mark Blake clearly did an excellent job researching and compiling information and interviews and quotes and stories from all sorts of disparate sources, but there's a lot of repetition, a ton of unsubstantiated opinion, and a lot of tiny little anecdotes that never really add up to anything. Also, when the guy had to write a sentence from scratch, I wasn't all that convinced he was up to the job. I mean, I don't want to sound too harsh, but there could've been some better editing going on.

Also, though I guess for most fans, and for the band themselves (so I realize that what I'm about to say is probably going to piss somebody off), it's true that the important character in all the Pink Floyd history is the ghost of Syd Barrett, and while I think Syd's story is tragic and the early stuff interesting and I see that his presence was inspirational and integral to the band and their writing... the truth is I'm just not very interested in him (well, look who needs an editor now?). It seems like a huge waste, what happened to him, and it's nice that the band took care of him financially after (rightfully) kicking him out and getting on with it, and Roger Waters obviously needed a subject to obsess about... but the guy, as cool as he was, wasn't a genius. Those early songs are fun but not the best stuff Floyd ever put out.

(Yes, I am imagining you throttling me, you 21st century music nuts who are discovering "Bike" and "See Emily Play" for the first time, or you people who are cooler than I am who find that stuff fascinating. I thank Jay Schwartz for that mix tape he gave me in the 10th grade that I'm sure I've talked about before, for introducing me to the early songs, but I'm sorry, "Candy and a Currant Bun" didn't change my life or anything.)

So to spend almost half the book talking about him, telling what felt like an endless number of stories about Syd and his antics and his wardrobe and his girlfriends and his painting and how beautiful he was and how people were into him (Mick Jagger!)... it just got to be too much. I went into the book curious about him and came out overwhelmed with information that may or may not even be true. Now, I'm probably the exception, I get that. You might like to read a hundred stories about his ghostly appearances at Pink Floyd gigs after David Gilmour took over, or how he shaved off all his facial hair or how he showed up at the studio while the band was recording "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" and nobody recognized him, or how he was supposedly locked in a linen closet/bathroom by his flatmates... but those stories don't add up to any real insight. The guy had nothing to say for himself and just one interview or snippet of first-hand clarity would've been worth all the stories about him not succeeding in the studio after he was ditched by his mates. And yes, I get that this lack of information is what makes everyone fiendish for more. But not me. The guy lived, he died, and he chose never to say anything for himself, and that's done. The rest of it is just... stories. He's a character, and yeah, that's interesting, but in the end you get nothing because it could all be made up or misinterpreted.

So.

After that part, I hoped the book would supply meatier descriptions of the recording process (how they actually did all that stuff, with the tape all over the recording studio, the technical stuff), or the creative processes that the band went through, but nope, other than saying (rather relentlessly) that Roger Waters is a workhorse (and probably a bullying asshole), and that David Gilmour (who comes off as passive-aggressive) isn't, and that Nick Mason couldn't handle a lot of the drum parts and bought a lot of cars, and that Rick Wright wasted a lot of time not being in the the studio by being "depressed about his failed marriage[s]," not a whole lot of insight occurs in this book. You could pretty much get that information from watching a 45 minute documentary on the making of "Dark Side of the Moon" (and Mark seems to get off on the fact that for the re-release, they added a "The" in front of the album title). That they don't get along and bitterly argued and and pettily kept score about who was more instrumental to the band's recordings and still acted like children with a shiny toy ("Pink Floyd is mine, it's mine I say!") in their 50s and 60s... well, that's nothing new.

The truth is, I'm a fan, but I guess not a very loyal one (I own nothing past "The Wall," though I did listen to "The Division Bell" a lot when it came out because Drew liked it). I think the superficial information I had before reading this book was really all I needed. I listened to the early songs like "Arnold Layne" and "Scarecrow" on the way to work just to brush up... and then decided that "Dark Side of the Moon" was more appropriate for a rainy commute, and when I arrived at work this morning with "Time" ticking away, having read this book made me no more and no less happy with what was blaring out of my car's speakers.

Lamaze, a dream, and a little man with a gun in his hand

Patrick and I started taking Lamaze classes last month - there are five classes, each three hours long. Three hours seems a bit excessive, since the classroom is small and the chairs are uncomfortable, but the information is really great. We've been to three of them. It's actually fun, and very interesting, and I love the teacher, who is enthusiastic, caring, funny, remembers all our names each week, and says "underwears" instead of "underwear." You might be surprised at how many times she has to reference one's... underwear during the course of the class. Or maybe you wouldn't be.

We've seen, I think, 4 birth videos, all with varying degrees of gore and guts (shown in progressive order), and it's smart the way the class is laid out. We've seen real live births; they started out with a nice over-the-shoulder view where everything went perfectly, and moved on down the line, so far, to one where variations on the perfect birth occur. There are about 12 couples in our class, and aside from one dude who insists on chatting with his pretty wife/girlfriend while we're trying to listen, it seems like a nice group of people. We appear to be the oldest people by about 10 years but I could be wrong; I really need to get my color done.

Anyway, last night I had a dream about being in labor. I was in the hospital, with two nurses, a younger one and an older one. They both had reddish hair, so I could be thinking about my neighbor Terie and her daughter Kacie, who are both nurses in real life, and people I wouldn't mind having around when the real thing finally happens. Patrick was napping (that snake!), and the two nurses were walking me around the room, while I swayed back and forth every once in awhile. My back was hurting in real life too yesterday (and this morning), and that motion seemed to help. It appeared to be very early in labor, or I was doing everything right, because I wasn't in a lot of pain or anything. The dream didn't go any further, it was just that one little part of it. There was no pushing, no strain, and no baby.

I liked having that dream, though, because even though the Lamaze is supposed to be calming us down about the big day, and showing us coping mechanisms for the pain and teaching us that we don't need to be afraid of it, the truth is, I'm still pretty scared. Emotionally I've kind of been a wreck this week (my sister-in-law asked me last night in between numbers at my niece and nephews Christmas program if I've started crying at TV commercials, and the answer is a huge YES, though, to be fair, I kind of did that before I got pregnant. But yes, pretty much everything elicits teary eyes from me right now, especially the aforementioned birthing videos we watch in Lamaze), and I'm afraid I'm going to be a big baby, unable to get the job done without a big freak-out. I'm sure that's a natural thing and not a sign that I'm a bad person or going to be a bad mother, but knowing that one's fear is normal doesn't really help alleviate it, if you know what I mean. Seeing myself, if only in a dream, if only in a moment absent of distress, calmly performing my Lamaze positions was a good sign. I need to get in "I can do it!" mode. I have 7 weeks to get there.

The rest of my dream was me accompanying some young woman I knew briefly in my 20s named Chelsea (I kissed my ex-boyfriend for the first time at her house; there were about 5 of us hanging out drinking beers and, for some reason, playing tag) to her ancestral home, which was a huge beautiful mansion, where the people living there refused to admit us and made us use a side entrance and told her she wasn't welcome there, and then we left in a huff and drove to Hollywood, where we went to a blues performance by Patrick's friend Art Harris, an amazingly talented guitarist and singer who goes by the name Artwork Jamal. You can check his website out here. He's incredible.

And, as just an aside, today I was smart and brought in my iPod and earphones and I am going to drown out the incessant chatting of one of my co-workers with the Minutemen! Patrick loaded my iPod with 4 of their albums (The Politics of Time, Buzz or Howl Under the Influence of Heat, the Punchline [my favorite; I love the title song so much], and What Makes a Man Start Fires). I can't wait. In fact, her voice is filling the room right now, and this seems like the perfect time to start Operation Drown-Out... I think we'll start with Buzz or Howl. I listened to the Punch Line while sitting in traffic.