Back on the Smack

Well that didn't last long now, did it? I'm back on the Reglan after realizing that the nausea rendered me completely imobile. Still vaguely depressed, still tired as whatever, but it's only for a few more weeks. In the meantime, if you need me, I'll be in my basement room with a needle and a spoon, etc.

Dream A Little Dream

Oh the hormones. Horror moans, if you will. The good & plenty pregnancy dreams have arrived.

So far most of these wacky visions seem to be falling into distinct categories. First, there are the ever-popular "People I Hung Out With In High School" dreams. I'm getting ready to go out with girls I haven't talked to in ten years. Or my favorite the other night--I was down at the track for some kind of high school alumni meet, watching Craig Prindle run the 400 hurdles. I turned to my friend Matt and said, in all seriousness, "This race is total bullshit. Now the steeplechase, that's crap too, but at least then they let you get a little wet, you know?" Um...what?! While it's true I did occasionally piss in the coach's Cheerios enough that he put me in the 400 hurdles (and for those of you who have never run this race, let me assure you it IS total bullshit), I don't actually believe that the steeplechase is somehow easier because you get to jump in the water. I ran the steeplechase once at track camp in Ames. As I recall, running in wet shoes was not the highlight of my day.

And then there are the ever-popular, always-awkward "Vaguely Inappropriate Co-worker Interlude" dreams. I think everyone has these at some point, regardless of whether or not they actually acknowledge them. These little gems fall in line somewhere between "Smooching the Boy I Had A Crush On In School" and "Making Out With Joe Perry Of Aerosmith" (although it is permissible to substitute another individual in the rock star category if you must). While these naughty little bits can occur at any time, they seem more prevalent during pregnancy. I have consulted friends on this and they agree, but none of us understand why. Why? I blame it in part on the unchecked hormones and in part on the ego (or do I blame the id?). It's like the subconscious is trying to keep us from going totally off our shit. I mean, in real life I may feel bloated, weepy, and big as a house, but in these dreams I am always irresistably beautiful, witty, and still a size 2. Sigh. Is it nap time yet?

Last night's theme seemed to be "Dreams In Which The Dead Outnumber The Living." My friend Monica and I were hanging out with Russian figure skating greats Ekaterina Gordeeva and Sergei Grinkov (I loved these guys in the 80s). After awhile Katia and I wandered away from the other two and before long I glanced back to see Moni giving Sergei her phone number. Oh no! Should I tell Katia that Moni was trying to seduce her husband? Well should I? Ah what the heck. Since Sergei Grinkov died in 1995, and Moni passed away in 2001 I decided to just let it go. I woke up briefly, then fell into a dream about my grandmother's house. While we took shelter from an impending tornado, she began going through furniture in her basement, then decided that maybe the little green library table and Tiffany lamp should be moved back upstairs after the storm. But Grandma Seitz also died in 2001, and we sold the house the following year, so really there was no furniture to move. These resurrection dreams are the best, and they are also the worst. Always there is the waking moment, that first eyelid flutter, when you blink back the dream. Did I just? Are they? But they're not. Always you wake to find that they're not, no matter how much you wish it.

Postcard from Hell

Recently it was pointed out to me that I have been delinquent in my posts. I didn't realize just how long I'd been out of the loop until I logged in this morning. Allow me to update you on my most current downward spiral.

About two weeks ago I began taking a medication to help control my nausea. One morning I called the nurse at my OB's office and said, "How much of this can we fix and how much is just First Trimester Tough Tootie?" I was reassured that my symptoms could certainly be managed, and the nurse offered to phone in a prescription for Reglan. Sounded good to me. And for the first few days, it was. It was awesome. Those of you in regular contact with me got to (had to?) listen to me run down the somewhat humorous list of possible side effects. (Note for future reference: I'm thinking that when a medication comes with 5 [five] extra little warning labels plastered to it, to the point that they had to overlap them to fit them all on the bottle, I'm thinking that perhaps one should reconsider taking said medication unless absolutely, unquestionably necessary. I'm thinking.)

Anywho, two of my favorites are:

Taking this medicine alone or with alcohol may lessen your ability to drive or perform hazardous tasks. [Alone OR with alcohol? That's helpful.]

Call your doctor immediately if you experience new or worsening feelings of anxiety, sadness, depression, restlessness or confusion. [So, my stomach will be settled, but I may become suicidal.]

But I took the stuff for ten days anyway. At first the relief from intestinal symptoms was wonderful, and I was sure no side effect could take away that euphoria. But now. As funny as those potential side effects seemed when I first read them, it never really occurred to me that I would experience any ill symptoms. Truth is, the Reglan made me so tired that it was hard to function, hard to take care of myself let alone Lucas. And for those of you who have been pregnant, you know how exhausted you feel during the first trimester anyway. Multiply that times about five. And while I'm not exactly suicidal, I seemed to have developed a general apathy toward things. I don't care if I shower, don't care if my clothes are clean, don't want to go to work, don't really want to stay home, don't really want to do anything. So I quit the Reglan cold turkey.

We'll see.

[To be continued...]

A New Hangover Every Day

Ah, the joys of the first trimester. When I was pregnant with Lucas, I didn't get to fully enjoy the perils of the first twelve weeks. It was holiday at Victoria's Secret, and we were a manager short most of the time. Looking back I realize I survived on pure adrenaline--driving to the mall at 5:30 in the morning with a death grip on my travel mug full of chocolate milk--there's no other way to explain it. I just didn't have time to feel wretched. Oh sure I was tired, but it was Christmas in retail. That comes with the territory. And the mild nausea? A portion of that, too, could be explained away by the long lines and psychotic customers that go hand-in-hand with a mall holiday.

But this trip I have plenty of time to feel the burn. I consistently feel like ass until about three in the afternoon (also the time Dr. Phil comes on...coincidence?). Don't get me wrong, I'm not hurling into a bucket or anything, but each morning I wake up feeling like I might have had one too many "liquid cocaine" shots at the club the night before. I mean let's face it--pineapple juice, amaretto, and tequila should not travel in the same circles. But I digress.

I wake up a little groggy but manage to stumble down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I remember (seemingly anew each morning) that I am unable to make a pot of coffee. So instead I dig through the cupboards to find the saltines--Oh, miracle food! Oh, manna!--and I pour a glass of ice water. Once the three of us have settled on the couch, I start to pray, "Oh God," I say, "Oh God, oh Gaaaaaahd..." Now if this were truly a hangover, a Spicy Chicken Sandwich from Wendy's would fix me right up, but since chicken is one of my many first trimester food aversions, I do my best to keep this automatic response at bay. After choking down a dozen crackers or so, I begin to feel better. Soon I am brave enough to go retrieve the baby from his crib.

Once Lucas is up the morning becomes one big, stumbling lurch toward his morning nap. The smell of his breakfast makes me nauseous, the lavender in our dish soap, the bathroom cleaning supplies, the "fresh citrus scent" of improved dry Swiffer cloths. But I power through somehow. The baby's hair still smells sweet, as does his signature blend of lotion, oatmeal and formula, so I spend the bulk of my time cuddling with him, reading "Moo, Baa, La La La" until we are both exhausted.

Lucas goes easily down for his morning nap around 9:30, and it's time once again to forage through the kitchen for something that doesn't make me want to throw up in my mouth. Ironically, what settles my stomach is Beef-A-Roni. Sometimes Raviolios. What are the odds? That which sustained me through sack lunches in elementary school makes a surprising, if retro, comeback as a pregnancy super-food! And no, I don't bother to read the list of ingredients on the label. I know it contains MSG and probably lots of other vaguely frightening, medicinal-sounding things, but come on. It's Chef Boyardee. He wants to be our friend.

SPS or Shitty Parent Syndrome

Lucas and I have just returned from my friend's daughter's first birthday party. Lucas is two weeks to the day younger than the birthday girl, and, while he behaved like a champ, the party has taken its toll on me.

First of all, eleven-and-a-half months is a horrible age to try and take the boy anyplace that doesn't have baby gates or shopping carts. Today, at least, my friend's house had neither. While Lucas is walking-ish, cruising easily along furniture and taking five or six free steps at a time before plopping back down, he is not walking efficiently enough to remain upright for a helpful length of time. He is also at the age where everything on the carpet must be tasted. At our house this includes but is not limited to: cat hair, human hair, loose threads, blades of grass, hair balls, crumbs, and electronic equipment. So I spent the better portion of the party holding him. Last time I checked, Lucas weighed about 1/5 of what I do, and that gets heavy after, oh, say, the first hour or so. Don't get me wrong--we "played" in the yard (read: crawled in the grass while Mommy ran interference between hand & mouth), and he had a great time climbing the stairs. But there were a lot of people there, a lot of kids in the preschool range, and when I put him down he tended to get underfoot. So I carried him, and now my back is paying for it. Keep the change.

Still, the party was fun, and the birthday girl performed angelically. Everyone kept asking if Lucas wanted anything to eat. "Are you SURE?" they prodded.
"Oh yes," I said, repeatedly, "he ate right before we came," which was mostly the truth. Partly. And I restrained myself when someone tried to hand him a Wheat Thin. I wanted to ask if they were trying to kill him, but I didn't--my brand of restraint. Ever since the incident a month ago--two months?--when Lucas choked on the Fruit Puff, Mommy has been gun-shy about self-feeding solid (especially crunchy) foods. I don't mean "choked," as in "he gagged a little and threw it up." I mean CHOKED. As in, it completely blocked his windpipe, he turned red, then purple, and only after four solid blows to the back did the offensive Puff fly across the dining room table. My aunt was visiting at the time, and during the brief crisis I actually had cause to say, "He's not BREATHING," which would have been followed by, "Call 9-1-1!" had the Puff not flown free as soon as the words were out. [By the way, it's good to know that no matter how long it sometimes takes to strap a squirming baby into his high chair, it only takes about point-zero seconds to whip him out of it when he's choking on a Fruit Puff.]

So when we got home from the party I put Lucas down for a nap and immediately started crying. I will blame this in part on my surging pregnancy hormones. "I am a SHITTY PARENT!" I wail. This is internal dialogue, incidentally--don't want to wake the baby. He's developmentally delayed in food! And he's not talking yet either or doing any gimmicky baby stuff. My friend Jim's little boy, Noah, is just a few months older than Lucas, but I think by this age he was waving and blowing kisses and who knows what else. Ah! We have failed the boy by not teaching him pony tricks! SHITTY PARENTS! I mean sometimes, if the moon is in the second house, and you do it for him a few times first, if you ask, "How big is Lucas?" and answer, "Sooo big!" while stretching your arms above your head, sometimes he's imitate you on the "So big" part. And Lucas reaches for people and things, but he doesn't point. And he can clap when he really feels like it, but he doesn't do peek-a-boo. Is it possible our boy is simple? What if--oh, ass-biting irony of ironies, Alanis--what if Lucas is speech delayed? Is that even possible?

As you have likely concluded, the biggest challenge Lucas faces at this point may well be the fact that his mother is a bit neurotic. Perhaps I'm just feeling slightly overwhelmed knowing that another is on the way when I haven't completely figured out what to do with this one yet. Oh Lucas. Oh, Angel Baby, please be patient with me. And I promise--cross my heart--none of this has anything to do with the fact that you still don't say, "Mama."

Em Oh Em

Last night at Barnes & Noble we hosted author Alex Kava, whose real name is apparently Sharon, but who initially had problems being taken seriously as a female thriller writer. Understandable, I suppose, as Sharon really seems more PTA president than intrigue inventor. So she began submitting manuscripts under the name Alex ("a name [she] could live with") and had better luck, though her mother apparently has never really gotten used to the idea.

This started a conversation about mothers, specifically our mothers, more specifically how they deal with (or don't deal with) our writing and the things we write about. Alex, for example, was raised in a devoutly Catholic family but recently (or, perhaps, "so recently") has had to murder a couple of priests in one of her books. Awkward. So when I got home last night, I pulled out my old manuscript and re-read some of the poems in which my mom appears. One in particular I remember she had a strong reaction to, "Oh honey," she said, "I like this," and got all misty-eyed. (This rates as a "strong reaction" as her usual response to my writing at the time was, "Oh.") At any rate, I thought I'd throw it up here, so to speak. More on this topic to come.

I Couldn't Want Another Life

Of course this is a lie. Even telling this
I've failed at something.

In the yard, my mother battles the cold--
there are seeds to be planted. She doesn't

ask for much, trowel and water.
All I want is common ground, roads

open in winter, dress across my hips
in summer--nothing more.

It would be difficult without her,
left alone with my grief.

And her face. In the garden she is simple.
Never mind her life--it's laced with sweat.

Truth is like dirt. It is what it is. In the garden,
knuckles bleeding, my mother on her knees.