Okay, folks, I'm trying to change my ways. In addition to taking extended vacations from Vera Lynn, I am also notoriously wretched at giving up the rest of the story when I leave you hanging. Case in point: Alex's misshapen head. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. I will do better. Granted, I'm still not going to wrap that one up just yet, but I will take a minute to expound upon my sado-masochistic labor experience. Oooh, it hurts so good...
I have to admit, Libby handled herself with a certain amount of grace.
By the time I got to the hospital that morning, she was already hooked up to the Pitocin. Libby, her birth coach Cheryl, and her husband John (Ron's brother) were playing Uno. You remember Uno, right? You draw until you can match either the color or number, you get Skipped, Draw Two, go Wild, etcetera. They had combined 2 or 3 decks to make this monstrous, obnoxiously thick stack of cards that never seemed to get shuffled properly. Or I am just shitty at Uno and a sore loser besides.
So as morning became afternoon, we watched the clock. And time. Crept. Slowly. By.
I looked through the magazines I had brought along. I made and re-made my grocery list. I ate cups of Kozy Shack pudding from the visitors' fridge in the next room. I got my ass kicked repeatedly at Uno. Then finally, a little after six in the evening, things started to get interesting. The contractions were actually starting to hurt enough that Libby didn't feel like playing cards (I think they had ramped up her Pitocin by this point, since she had progressed only about 1/2 a centimeter all day). Since she wanted to go without painkillers, I suggested we go for a walk. "You should try to get up and move around," I said, "That's what helps get the baby down into position."
No dice.
So I got the big blue birthing ball out of the closet and sat down on it just past the foot of her bed. "Do you want to try this?" I bounced, "It's rather entertaining." I grabbed onto the end of her bed and took a few exaggerated hops. "Needs a handle, though," I added.
Still nothing from the bed.
"Come ooon, Libby," I tried again, "Maybe it would help you pass the time?" I shrugged innocently up at her and smiled.
She didn't go for the birthing ball, but that folksy little maneuver did get her to agree to a brief walk down the hall. Once we returned to the room her night nurse came in and basically told Libby in no uncertain terms that it was wonderful that she wanted to have a natural birth, but in order for that to actually happen she was going to have to get much more active (read: You're gonna have to get off your ass, Sister). It was roughly at this point that Libby opted for pain meds. A choice for which we were all grateful.
Next thing we knew, she was ready to push, and at 10:50 p.m. (after 3 little sets of 3 shoves), Hayden Charles Lee emerged. And I got to watch the whole thing, too. That was cool. I didn't watch when Lucas was born because I decided that I didn't need to see something that size coming out of my body. To be honest, I wasn't completely sure I needed to see something that size coming out of ANYONE's body, but Libby reminded me that I'd never have one "that way" again, so I decided what the hell, right? You only get so many chances in life to watch something like that. Actually, it was cute. Libby actually said, "I'm not sure what your comfort level is, but you're welcome to stay." To which my internal dialogue responded something like, She's not sure what my comfort level is? Has she met me?
So anyway, Baby Hayden has arrived. He was 1/2 an ounce heavier than Alexander was at birth and exactly the same length. I can't believe my little guy was ever so tiny. So delicate and curled into himself. So still. Already I can't remember those days. And in a way I'm grateful. And in a way I'm sad. And in a way, I'm considering having another one.
29 July 2007
22 July 2007
Touche
En route to the hospital I got behind a white Chevy pickup truck with the following window decals:
My truck has balls.
(So I checked, and yes, there were the requisite faux-nads dangling just below the hitch.)
and
My other toy has tits.
Neat, I thought. Good for you. And then I noticed his vanity plate:
Guy.
My truck has balls.
(So I checked, and yes, there were the requisite faux-nads dangling just below the hitch.)
and
My other toy has tits.
Neat, I thought. Good for you. And then I noticed his vanity plate:
Guy.
17 July 2007
Slap & Tickle
My sister-in-law, Libby, is scheduled to be induced this morning, and I am going along for the ride. Partly to support her (yeah, yeah), and partly to welcome my new nephew, whom they plan to name "Hayden," but mostly (mostly) for my own perverse pleasure. See, I really want to watch someone else's labor experience. Of course I haven't told Libby this, because there's just no gentle way to say, "I'm coming to the hospital because I want to see what's going to happen to you." That just seems mean. And Christmas would probably be awkward.
But I am so curious that I can't help myself. She has this insane idea that she's going to go sans epidural, which I of course think is insane. To me, wanting to "fully experience" a "natural" childbirth makes about as much sense as the desire to "fully experience" a "natural" appendectomy. Not to mention the fact that I was present for a brief period during Libby's early labor with her first child, and from the onset she was writhing around moaning & carrying on...I've got 20 bucks that says, "Epidural by noon."
So to summarize--Libby/labor, Me/vaguely disturbing S&M-like fascination with birth process.
I'll let you know how it goes...
But I am so curious that I can't help myself. She has this insane idea that she's going to go sans epidural, which I of course think is insane. To me, wanting to "fully experience" a "natural" childbirth makes about as much sense as the desire to "fully experience" a "natural" appendectomy. Not to mention the fact that I was present for a brief period during Libby's early labor with her first child, and from the onset she was writhing around moaning & carrying on...I've got 20 bucks that says, "Epidural by noon."
So to summarize--Libby/labor, Me/vaguely disturbing S&M-like fascination with birth process.
I'll let you know how it goes...
15 July 2007
Fear Not the Giant Freak Head!
I'm just trying to get your attention long enough to let you know that I am coming back. No really, I mean it. Not another hollow promise. Daddy really will buy you that pony. It's just that I've been super busy helping Lucas throw dirt clods at the house and coaching Alex on his tummy to back roll (though he remains unconvinced that my method is more effective than his--shrieking in limb-servered agony until Mommy scurries in to flip him back over).
Anywho, as the week progresses I encourage you to check back-posts, since my first order of business will be clearing out my draft file. See, it's not that I haven't been writing as much as it is that I haven't been finishing. So no guarantees on quality. No rose garden either. Stay tuned...
Anywho, as the week progresses I encourage you to check back-posts, since my first order of business will be clearing out my draft file. See, it's not that I haven't been writing as much as it is that I haven't been finishing. So no guarantees on quality. No rose garden either. Stay tuned...
14 July 2007
Rock the Vote or A Few Words on Sexual Politics
Okay, so now Jim is moving to Denver, and I am sad.
I mean like embarrassingly sad.
I mean like the summer after 3rd grade when Amy Harrison moved away to Texas, sad. Somewhere in a drawer I still have a photograph from the last afternoon she spent at my house. I remember we curled our hair all fancy and put on flowered dresses. In the picture, she is standing next to my parents' bird bath smiling and holding a sign--green magic marker on loose-leaf--"Bye-bye Amy Harrison 1981," it says (my idea, I'm sure). I never talked to her after that. Back then there were no cell phones, so no free long distance calls between Iowa and Texas. There was no email. And at 9 we were still a little young for productive letter writing. So that was the end of that. Full stop. Bye-bye Amy Harrison.
As for Jim, he was the first new person I met when I moved from Minneapolis to Omaha in 2003. At the time he was the acting manager of the Barnes & Noble store I was trying to transfer into. My initial impression of Jim was that he was kind of a dick, actually, which he may have been (and still may be, though I've apparently grown accustomed). Regardless, over the past few years we've become friends. We've bonded over our shared sordid past in retail management, our affinity for eclectic music, the fact that we've lived in the same cities during opposite years. My son, Lucas, and Jim's boy, Noah, are only a few months apart in age. Jim gets my obscure pop-culture references, my seemingly random Seinfeld remarks. He is capable of volleying repartee when properly engaged, he writes (or intends to). We are, in a sense, late-onset college drinking buddies. Only instead of college it's work, and instead of the drinking, well, we work (okay, so the analogy falls apart here, but you get my point).
See, as a general rule, I consider myself quick to gain acquaintances but slow to make friends. It just takes so much time to get to know people and honestly, at this point in my life, I already know a lot of people. The trouble is that most of them live too far away--Honolulu, Charleston, Minneapolis. And the few good friends I have here...well I'm sure they'll be the first to tell you that I am downright shitty about finding time to get together. I am just so stupidly busy juggling schedules--Ron's work & school, my job, the boys--that I rarely actually get it together enough to venture out with friends. I do, however, somehow manage to get my happy ass to work 3 days a week (most of the time), and although the store is not technically a social club, sometimes it may as well be.
Anyway, at this juncture I am unsure how to continue. The friendship, I mean, and that's part of what makes me sad. As what you might call a "late bloomer," I have always had good male friends. Until I started dating (my senior year of high school), I was always the sidekick, the one you took along so your mom would let you go out with that boy. And usually that boy brought along a friend too, a kind of pity pal to entertain the sidekick. Those pity pals became some of my best friends. In college, I was also often just one of the guys. I shot pool, tossed back Jack with no chaser, decreed killer Asshole rules. Trouble is that now, out here in the land of the grown-ups, there are certain expectations, a kind of Harry/Sally stigma to it all. See, if Jim were a girl and moving to Denver, it would be easy. I mean, you call, you visit, you have pillow fights, etc. But the whole boy/girl/married thing requires a different kind of etiquette. I mean I don't really think you call, do you? And I guess the pillow fights are out (not that girls actually do that--I just threw it in for the male readership). In a way, it kind of feels like 1981 all over again. Minus the fancy hair & pretty dresses.
But I'm not crying in my beer just yet. It is 2007, after all, and there is email. And Ron & I are going to be in Denver in September, so I'm sure we'll look Jim & Tracy up then. In the meantime, I did what you do to commemorate such important rites of passage (or what you did in 1987 at least)--I made him a mix tape. So life goes on. It's just that starting this week, work will feel a little more like WORK. Not that there's anything wrong with that...
I mean like embarrassingly sad.
I mean like the summer after 3rd grade when Amy Harrison moved away to Texas, sad. Somewhere in a drawer I still have a photograph from the last afternoon she spent at my house. I remember we curled our hair all fancy and put on flowered dresses. In the picture, she is standing next to my parents' bird bath smiling and holding a sign--green magic marker on loose-leaf--"Bye-bye Amy Harrison 1981," it says (my idea, I'm sure). I never talked to her after that. Back then there were no cell phones, so no free long distance calls between Iowa and Texas. There was no email. And at 9 we were still a little young for productive letter writing. So that was the end of that. Full stop. Bye-bye Amy Harrison.
As for Jim, he was the first new person I met when I moved from Minneapolis to Omaha in 2003. At the time he was the acting manager of the Barnes & Noble store I was trying to transfer into. My initial impression of Jim was that he was kind of a dick, actually, which he may have been (and still may be, though I've apparently grown accustomed). Regardless, over the past few years we've become friends. We've bonded over our shared sordid past in retail management, our affinity for eclectic music, the fact that we've lived in the same cities during opposite years. My son, Lucas, and Jim's boy, Noah, are only a few months apart in age. Jim gets my obscure pop-culture references, my seemingly random Seinfeld remarks. He is capable of volleying repartee when properly engaged, he writes (or intends to). We are, in a sense, late-onset college drinking buddies. Only instead of college it's work, and instead of the drinking, well, we work (okay, so the analogy falls apart here, but you get my point).
See, as a general rule, I consider myself quick to gain acquaintances but slow to make friends. It just takes so much time to get to know people and honestly, at this point in my life, I already know a lot of people. The trouble is that most of them live too far away--Honolulu, Charleston, Minneapolis. And the few good friends I have here...well I'm sure they'll be the first to tell you that I am downright shitty about finding time to get together. I am just so stupidly busy juggling schedules--Ron's work & school, my job, the boys--that I rarely actually get it together enough to venture out with friends. I do, however, somehow manage to get my happy ass to work 3 days a week (most of the time), and although the store is not technically a social club, sometimes it may as well be.
Anyway, at this juncture I am unsure how to continue. The friendship, I mean, and that's part of what makes me sad. As what you might call a "late bloomer," I have always had good male friends. Until I started dating (my senior year of high school), I was always the sidekick, the one you took along so your mom would let you go out with that boy. And usually that boy brought along a friend too, a kind of pity pal to entertain the sidekick. Those pity pals became some of my best friends. In college, I was also often just one of the guys. I shot pool, tossed back Jack with no chaser, decreed killer Asshole rules. Trouble is that now, out here in the land of the grown-ups, there are certain expectations, a kind of Harry/Sally stigma to it all. See, if Jim were a girl and moving to Denver, it would be easy. I mean, you call, you visit, you have pillow fights, etc. But the whole boy/girl/married thing requires a different kind of etiquette. I mean I don't really think you call, do you? And I guess the pillow fights are out (not that girls actually do that--I just threw it in for the male readership). In a way, it kind of feels like 1981 all over again. Minus the fancy hair & pretty dresses.
But I'm not crying in my beer just yet. It is 2007, after all, and there is email. And Ron & I are going to be in Denver in September, so I'm sure we'll look Jim & Tracy up then. In the meantime, I did what you do to commemorate such important rites of passage (or what you did in 1987 at least)--I made him a mix tape. So life goes on. It's just that starting this week, work will feel a little more like WORK. Not that there's anything wrong with that...
02 July 2007
The Weighting Game
My friend Jim is on a diet.
And not that I am bitter, but it's working. It's working to the point that I have threatened him with my leather punch. As in, "I swear to God if you don't get smaller pants I'm going to put another hole in that damn belt of yours!" Because he is constantly pulling up his pants at work. I mean constantly. Like if you just met him for the first time, you'd think it was some kind of tic for which he'd forgotten his medication. Which means that all day at work I am reminded of the fact that Jim has already lost more weight in two weeks than I have been trying to lose for 5 months.
Part of what bothers me about this is that I know how to lose weight. I've done it before--beer weight after college, baby weight after Lucas. I'm smart about fitness. I know what to eat/lift/run/you-name-it to get back in the game. But this time, for whatever reason, I just haven't been doing it. A conscientious objector, if you will. And I was starting to get comfortable at my new weight until this whole Fat Blast incident arose.
As I understand it, the whole thing was his wife Tracy's idea, and Jim is admirably playing the role of supportive husband. They've had such success that after a couple of weeks, I ask Ron if he'd want to do the Fat Blast Diet with me. "Sure," he says, "I'm feeling pretty flabby lately."
So the next day at work, I glance through the introductory phase of the program. Long story short, for the first 9 days it basically allows you to only eat fruits & vegetables. Sounds brutal to me, but if Jim "Beer & Artificial Fruit Snacks" Kaucher can do it, I'll be damned if it won't work for me. I deliver the diet information to Ron that night at dinner.
"It's supposed to be for the first 9 days," I say, "But I was thinking we could just do that part for like 3 days or something & then start phasing in the next foods."
Ron shakes his head and cuts into his steak. "No," he says, gesturing in my direction with the newly skewered meat, "If we're gonna do it, we're gonna do it. No half-assed crap."
Hmm. I'm thinking. This means no orange mocha frapps at work. No finishing the toddler's food. No cheese. No waffles. No thing. Period. I panic a little. Punt! "I'm not sure I can commit to 9 days," I say, "Let me think about it."
And a few weeks later I am still thinking about it.
Finally, last night, Ron & I visited the diet issue again. At this point, Team Lee seems to be on the same page regarding weight and fitness goals. Our shared plan going forward is--simply put--that we will not get any worse over the course of the next year. Is that a little sad? If we can just not completely go to shit, we reason, there will be plenty of time to deal with the issue next summer. Ron will be done with his MBA in May. The boys will be older. We will have more time to master concepts like "fruit" and "exercise." In the meantime, we will maintain. Main. Tain.
As I typed that last part, the phone rang. It was Ron, on his way home from Glenwood with the boys. He's going to drive-thru McDonald's to get a McFlurry for himself, and do I want one?
Yes indeed, I say. Make mine a double.
And not that I am bitter, but it's working. It's working to the point that I have threatened him with my leather punch. As in, "I swear to God if you don't get smaller pants I'm going to put another hole in that damn belt of yours!" Because he is constantly pulling up his pants at work. I mean constantly. Like if you just met him for the first time, you'd think it was some kind of tic for which he'd forgotten his medication. Which means that all day at work I am reminded of the fact that Jim has already lost more weight in two weeks than I have been trying to lose for 5 months.
Part of what bothers me about this is that I know how to lose weight. I've done it before--beer weight after college, baby weight after Lucas. I'm smart about fitness. I know what to eat/lift/run/you-name-it to get back in the game. But this time, for whatever reason, I just haven't been doing it. A conscientious objector, if you will. And I was starting to get comfortable at my new weight until this whole Fat Blast incident arose.
As I understand it, the whole thing was his wife Tracy's idea, and Jim is admirably playing the role of supportive husband. They've had such success that after a couple of weeks, I ask Ron if he'd want to do the Fat Blast Diet with me. "Sure," he says, "I'm feeling pretty flabby lately."
So the next day at work, I glance through the introductory phase of the program. Long story short, for the first 9 days it basically allows you to only eat fruits & vegetables. Sounds brutal to me, but if Jim "Beer & Artificial Fruit Snacks" Kaucher can do it, I'll be damned if it won't work for me. I deliver the diet information to Ron that night at dinner.
"It's supposed to be for the first 9 days," I say, "But I was thinking we could just do that part for like 3 days or something & then start phasing in the next foods."
Ron shakes his head and cuts into his steak. "No," he says, gesturing in my direction with the newly skewered meat, "If we're gonna do it, we're gonna do it. No half-assed crap."
Hmm. I'm thinking. This means no orange mocha frapps at work. No finishing the toddler's food. No cheese. No waffles. No thing. Period. I panic a little. Punt! "I'm not sure I can commit to 9 days," I say, "Let me think about it."
And a few weeks later I am still thinking about it.
Finally, last night, Ron & I visited the diet issue again. At this point, Team Lee seems to be on the same page regarding weight and fitness goals. Our shared plan going forward is--simply put--that we will not get any worse over the course of the next year. Is that a little sad? If we can just not completely go to shit, we reason, there will be plenty of time to deal with the issue next summer. Ron will be done with his MBA in May. The boys will be older. We will have more time to master concepts like "fruit" and "exercise." In the meantime, we will maintain. Main. Tain.
As I typed that last part, the phone rang. It was Ron, on his way home from Glenwood with the boys. He's going to drive-thru McDonald's to get a McFlurry for himself, and do I want one?
Yes indeed, I say. Make mine a double.
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