The other night I was standing in the living room trying to calm a cranky, gassy baby when all of a sudden Tobyjoe looked at me and screamed, “SCHOOL SUPPLIES!” Just like that, out of nowhere, SCHOOL SUPPLIES! Like he suddenly remembered that school was starting, like, tomorrow and Emory wasn’t prepared because we totally forgot to buy him school supplies.

“I never really got what I needed when it came to school supplies.” Toby continued.

“Like trapper keepers with cats on them? Or, better, unicorns?”

“Yeah. I had to ask other kids for stuff. But I’m going to buy our boy the best school supplies ever. I’m going to get him exactly what he needs.”

I married a man who daydreams about buying his son the proper school supplies. I married that man and I gave birth to a pretty amazing little person. I realize he’s only three weeks old and all he really does is pee and poop and eat and fart, but he makes some of the best farts I’ve ever heard.

This is going to be awesome.

My nipples are killing me. I won’t go into too much detail because my entire family reads this Web site. Let’s just say, I can’t even tolerate a hug at the moment without the feeling of a million heated daggers shooting into each nipple. It’s terrible. And I’m working on trying to figure out what is wrong and what I can do to help myself. Because of the pain, each drop of breast milk is handled as though it’s angel piss, really expensive, cancer-curing angel piss.

Last night Tobyjoe and I were dizzily wandering around the apartment mentally preparing ourselves for sleep. It was 8 PM. I had just finished pumping and was getting ready to fix a 2.5 ounce bottle for Emory. I put the bottle next to the sink and began washing out some breast pump paraphenalia. That was mistake number one. Mistake number two was thinking that Tobyjoe and I were of sound mind enough to multitask.

He washed his hands, and as he shook them off and I watched my freshly pumped bottle of breast milk topple over. Its contents sprayed all over the clean dishes, my pant leg and the rug below.

“OH MY GOD.” He began, his face contorting into a guilty mess. “I am SO SORRY.”

“It’s really ok. It’s not a big deal.” And I meant it. It was an accident. Sure, it sucked but embracing any extraneous emotion seems far worse an option these days. I can only handle so much emotion. (For example, earlier, when the bottom drawer to my dresser accidentally slid open, the same dresser drawer where we keep Schmitty’s ashes since we have yet to get a proper urn to keep him in, and Tucker came over to check things out, that scenario warranted a proper cry. But crying over spilt breast milk? I may be emotional, but I’m not quite a walking cliché.)

I looked around at all the white drops. They slid down the glasses before me and along the metal sink edge. They dripped down the counter and toward the floor. I knew this would happen sooner or later. There had been several times I fumbled an entire bottle of freshly pumped breast milk only to catch it right before it toppled over. But the first thing that crossed my mind were all my failures and insecurities. If I could just breast feed my son, this wouldn’t have happened. If I could just avoid using all of these bottles, this wouldn’t have happened. If I could just formula feed my child guilt-free, this wouldn’t have mattered.

If I could just…

It was only a matter of time…

For some reason the idea of facing each evening and the inevitable sleeplessness of it all scares the hell out of me. It causes me great anxiety, like it’s going to kill me or something. Which is stupid because I spent many a nights without sleep in design school and that didn’t kill me. The all nighters gave me a few bloody noses and a few weeks of undernourishment, but they never killed me. This is different. I am terrified of facing each and every evening, the unpredictability, the inability to apply logic, the total lack of control I have for something so necessary. Isn’t that stupid?

Anyway, I had a brainstorm last night. (Tobyjoe has actually been suggesting this idea for days but it never really sunk in. Or maybe I just wanted to claim it as my own.) We’ve decided that I would take the 9 PM until 3 AM slot and he’d sleep on the couch. And then he’d wake up and take the 3 AM until 9 AM slot and I’d sleep on the couch. Granted, I’m applying logic again. But it sounds good in theory, right? We’ll never get to snuggle, but at least we’ll be fairly well-rested, right?

This plan, while seemingly absurd, brings me a lot more peace as I face dusk. And I haven’t yet cried today. That’s a milestone, Internet. Could this work? I’m curious to hear what others may have come up with when dealing with the whole sleep factor. Or if I’m the only one dumb enough to try and plan my life around a newborn.

I am reminded of a great little interaction between a bartender and a customer from one of my favorite movies. It goes:

Bartender: “How do you make God Laugh?”

Customer: “I don’t know, how?”

Bartender: “Make a plan.”

Replace “God” with the word “Newborn” and, well, you get the point.

^{P.S. A pat on the rump to anyone who can tell me where the title of this post comes from.}

I finally got around to downloading some pictures from the camera.

I always declared (and proudly) that I wasn’t going to become one of those mothers guilty of letting everyone know how smart her kid is or how good looking he is. But, man! I think this kid is pretty darned cute. Biased as it sounds, he’s really easy on my eyes. I could stare at him forever.

There are a couple more here.

In other news, Emory’s nubbin fell off yesterday evening. He was having some tummy time and the next thing we know there’s a fresh bellybutton staring us in the eyes. I’m excited about this. Now we can dress him in onesies! (Kid’s been living in diapers and kimonos for the last 17 days.)

Also, my jeans fit! Well, there’s still a roll of fat that dangles above the waistline and that roll of fat is covered in stretch marks (I am hot!) but who gives a damn! I can button my pants! Six more pounds to go to reach pre-pregnancy weight. Ten more to go after that.

Yesterday was the worst day yet for me emotionally. I cried for the majority of the afternoon. I was crying when Tobyjoe came home from work. I cried after he got home. And I cried during dinner.

I felt worse for a few reasons. My brother, who has lived in Brooklyn for as long as I have, left for China. He’s not sure if or when he’s coming back. He lived in the apartment I lived in when I first moved to New York. And for some reason even its vacancy makes me cry. I didn’t even get to say goodbye being wrapped up in my own life – bummed me out greatly. Another chapter closed.

My mother left yesterday after three weeks of keeping me/us company and reassuring me every five minutes that Emory is going to be OK. The house is empty. And I am free to cry more often. So yesterday the moment she left, that’s exactly what I did. I cried.

For some inexplicable reason, Schmitty’s death, which took place on April 21st, has come back to haunt me, like, it hit me going 4,000 MPH. From behind. Twice. I feel as though I gave up on him, let him die. It’s emotional vomit – gibberish – but I think about him all the time now. I would give almost anything to snug on him again.

So, there’s that. That could have something to do with yesterday’s funk.

In other news, Emory had his second pediatric appointment today. He has put on an entire pound since being born. He’s now 8 pounds 12 ounces. I was so proud. (He’s right in the middle as far as weight is concerned. We were very pleased as was our doctor.) He’s a healthy baby boy even though he’s getting most of my breast milk from a bottle. I’m still very perturbed about the whole feeding situation. But I’m so sick of talking about it, thinking about it, feeling inferior because of it, so I’m going to kill this paragraph immediately.

I have received countless emails from women over the last couple of weeks. They have all meant a great deal to me. And when I find the time, I plan on thanking everyone personally. You have no idea how much your words have meant. None. This has been and continues to be a very difficult time for me. I am talking about it with Tobyjoe; he’s aware of my sadness and checks in on me daily. I am taking care of my little one because I love him more than words can possibly say. I’m taking care of myself, although, I could stand to eat more. (Gotta find more foods I can eat with one hand, I’m afraid.)

I know that these feelings will one day end. But I want them to go away soon. I want my old self back. Perhaps once I can take Emory out, I’ll feel better. I can’t wait to take a stroll to the park with my boy. (When is that safe? I get conflicting information.)

I used to think we’d only have one child due to financial reasons, labor pains, or due to the annoyance of actually being pregnant. But in all honesty, I’m not sure I want to deal with this type of sorrow ever again. One child might just be enough for me after all.

^{P.S. If anyone wants to send a how to video or stop on by and teach me how in the hell to use a Moby wrap, I’d be forever grateful. I put it on with Tobyjoe’s help the other day and stuffed Emory in there and it seemed totally wrong. He seemed totally twisted and uncomfortable. And I like to worry about everything including my Moby wrapping skills.}

Emory is an awesome baby. He sleeps soundly and quietly all day long. And he doesn’t cry! Which had worried me enough to conduct numerous google searches and flip through the index of Baby 411 in order to find out why my newborn doesn’t cry. Most of the feedback I’ve found reads something like this: “Enjoy it!” OK, then.

He does scream, however. He screams like a monkey. There are three levels to his crankiness. Level 1 is the flailing of the arms. When the arms start to flail, we know Level 2 will soon follow. Level 2 consists of “ehh ehh ehh” sounds. And if we ignore them, the sounds become progressively louder. If we pick him up during Level 2, he immediately stops fussing. But if we don’t pay attention to him Level 3 is met, aka Level Critical, and the monkey screams begin. And if we’re not dead tired it’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.

Last night we went out alone for one last romantic meal before my mother leaves. She offered to watch Emory for a few hours. As we drove up to the restaurant and I put the car into park, I suggested we nap for two hours instead. But we pressed on. We ate at a place in Brooklyn called Marlow and Sons. I treated myself to one yeasty beer and we dined in all sorts of yummy foods. While we ate, Toby and I got to talking about Emory. He’s all we really talk about anymore. We discussed the Monkey Business. We joked about the sounds he makes, the levels he has, and the fact that he doesn’t cry. When we started discussing Level Critical, Tobyjoe acted out the monkey screams, hand gestures and all. He had me laughing so hard tears were streaming down my face, tears of joy.

I don’t know why Emory doesn’t cry. Maybe because Mama cries too much and there’s only so much crying that can take place under one roof. I do know that our son has his days and nights mixed up, which has caused us a great deal of anxiety when it comes to trying to get some shuteye. It also makes me cry more often especially when I’m looking the evening head on. Once nighttime falls everything changes. Level Critical is reached at quicker intervals. And I must admit we’re at our wits with the whole sleep situation, unsure of how to make him switch his days with his nights. I read that this gets easier and to sleep when baby sleeps, but I always find there are other things to do, like clean up after him, myself, and his father. Or wash the bottles that have piled up in our sink. Maybe feed myself every now and again, or pump breast milk and more breast milk and then a little more of it. (I pump every 3 hours for 20 minutes in a desperate attempt to get my milk supply up. Emory’s demand has passed my supply. He’s up to almost three ounces with each feeding and my boobs only produce about 2.5 ounces with each pumping. I have read that this changes. I found a forum for women who pump exclusively. It’s been a lifesaver for me. Thanks, Lori.)

I know I’m complaining a lot these days. Truthfully, I love being a mother and wouldn’t trade it for the world. I am still in bewildered awe over the fact that this little miracle came out of my body. And he’s so perfect. I can stare at him for hours. He smells wonderful and I know that he’s the single most amazing thing I will ever create. But perhaps all this writing will one day prove positive. I’ll look back at it and say, “We had a really hard time back then, Emory. But that’s all in the past now. All is good now.” And he’ll smile up at me when I sing to him and I’ll kiss his forehead and we’ll both know that everything is gonna be OK.

Murray has a bedroom. He claimed it the day he moved in. It’s right near the rear window that faces Manhattan. It’s down by the heater, tucked between the white radiator cover and the wall. It’s more of a corner than a bedroom but he doesn’t know the difference. And being a New Yorker, where square footage is a hot commodity, every little bit counts. It’s his bedroom. He brings stuff there. He steals napkins, crackers, muffins, crumbs, candy wrappers, candy, cookies, cheese slices, and pretty much anything else he can get his paws on. And nothing seems too heavy or unruly for him. He has a stuffed bear that he kidnaps and takes there as well. And that’s adorable. I have yet to get a decent photo of it, unfortunately. But you’ll just have to take my word for it. The stuffed bear is so big that once it’s in his mouth it covers his eyes and blocks his view. There have been a few times where he’s actually run into a chair leg or table leg on on his way to his room.

When we clean up, he gets very uppity if we go near his bedroom. And that breaks my heart. (It broke my heart even before I hopped on the hormonal roller coaster.) He looks at me as if to say, “What are you doing to my bedroom, Mama! Why are you taking away my collections?!” As much as I’d love to leave Murray to his crumbs, muffin tops, and candy wrappers, we’re not really given much of a choice in the matter. We live in New York City, after all. Leaving crumbs lying about is a surefire way to end up with bugs. And I hate bugs.

A few days ago, my mother was sitting at the kitchen table having some breakfast. I was picking up as much as possible while the baby slept. My mother made a funny sound. “He’s gotten into something again.” She said. I looked over to and found Murray on the small table that stands outside the kitchen. It’s about 3 feet away from his bedroom. The little thief had added something new to his repertoire, something a lot more important than a few crackers or a piece of candy.

Murray was stealing our money.

Remember when I said that we’d be getting rid of the TV set in our bedroom because I wanted to set an early example for my son? That didn’t happen. In fact, sometimes the TV stays on even when I’m not in the room. And I have watched shows I never thought I’d watch just to pass the monotonous time spent pumping breastmilk. The removal of the TV, along with a dozen other claims I made over the last 9 months, have made it onto The IdeaList.

1). I’m Getting Rid of the TV Set!

Not.

2). Cloth Diapers Are Great for the Environment and Cheap!

I said I’d use cloth diapers because I didn’t want to add to all the unnecessary waste that Americans tend to produce. I think my answer to all those who suggested that using cloth diapers wasn’t as easy as it looked was, “Yeah, well, this is going to be my job. I will find the time!” And I was really set on the cloth diapers. But we’ve been shipping more and more used Pampers to the landfill known as Staten Island. I simply cannot find the time right now to add cloth diapers into our daily routine. Cloth diapers will have to wait until we’re not going through diapers like they’re tissues. Seriously, at times we go through three diapers in under a minute. This phenomenon usually takes place when Tobyjoe is changing him. He’ll take the soiled diaper off Emory only to have him squeeze another pile of poo onto the new one that waits below. And then once that one is firmly in place, sealed and ready to do its job, Emory will squeeze out another pile of poo. I can’t imagine going through a Poop Trifecta using cloth diapers.

3). Diapers You Can Flush! Holy Shit!

And I said I’d give gDiapers a try. What a great idea! And flushable diapers are a great idea if you have running water and a toilet in your baby’s nursery. We do not. As a matter of fact, Emory’s room is the room furthest away from the bathroom. I can barely get to the diaper wipes let alone into the bathroom in order to flush and clean his gDiaper. They are a great idea in theory and in time perhaps they will work.

4). Plastic = Bad. Glass = Good.

Plastic has all sorts of chemicals in it, unnecessary chemicals that can be harmful to your baby. So we were going to use glass bottles. And we got some and they are awesome. Thing is, we have yet to introduce the glass bottle into our daily feeding routine. I currently pump using the yellow and plastic bottles that come with the Medela Breast Pump. I then transfer the breast milk into the Dr. Brown’s bottles my sister-in-law, Melissa, gave us. (These things are awesome for gassy babies.) Emory likes the nipples that come with Dr. Brown’s. Almost as much as he enjoys chewing on my nipples. He’s perfectly pleased with using the plastic bottles and their nipples.

5). I’M GOING TO BREASTFEED …

... like a champ!

Right.

Breastfeeding has been the single most difficult thing for me to work with after having a baby. It literally consumes the majority of my day. If I’m not cleaning pumping supplies, I’m pumping. If I’m not pumping, I’m applying Lanolin. If I’m not applying Lanolin, I’m wearing ice cold cabbage leaves. If I’m not paying attention to my boobs or actually using them, I’m thinking about what to feed them in order to make the produce better. My torso has become a farm and that farm isn’t making profit and I’m ready to fire its leader. Me.

My boobs have become the focal point of this operation second only to the baby. There are moments where I want to give up on breastfeeding entirely especially since my boobs are still producing dwindling amounts. I am so frustrated by the whole breastfeeding fiasco. And I’m quickly becoming one of those women who solely wants to pump. I was told by a lactation consultant, “I don’t care how he gets the food from the upscale restaurant, as long as he gets it. If it’s take out, then so be it.” Granted, I have received countless email letting me know that Emory will bring more milk to my breast, but I’m having difficulty getting him to latch on correctly and for longer than a few minutes at a time. He either falls asleep or just sits there with my boob hanging out of his mouth and I’m like, dude, wake up! There are things that must be done after I feed you! Breastfeeding is not as easy as it may sound. It’s not easy at all. I was kidding myself to think otherwise.

The IdeaList gets longer every day. Pacifiers? We use them. Fussiness? It’s rewarded with being picked up and snuggled on. And I realize that my intentions, while possibly noble, were not realistic for this new mother. I simply do not have the right number of hands, arms, and legs to make all of this happen. And there aren’t enough hours in the day to see to it things go off without a hitch. There’s always something to do, someone to feed, something to clean. And if I’m not doing one of the most important things, there’s sleep to catch up on. Sleep? Huh?

This is the most difficult job I have ever had. I have worked for tyrants. I have lost nights worth of sleep trying to finish up a design project, but nothing compares to this. I have served drunk frat boys at an all night diner. I have even cleaned up their puke, and that was still easier than this. And yet somehow I shower every day. I have no idea when or how that takes place. And I can never remember if I’ve brushed my teeth or combed my hair. And I have to change my diaper as often (if not more so) than the baby’s. I hate that I have to wear pads all the time and that the bleeding is still going strong. I asked someone recently how long I’ll continue to bleed and they answered, “Six weeks.” This magical six week mark will apparently bring with it true euphoria delivered on a baby’s smile.

And on top of all those things I said I’d do and have either failed at or have given up on, I’m battling with the Baby Blues every single night. There are times where I ask myself if I can actually do this at all. I worry he’s entirely too fragile for me to care for. I worry I’ll screw up somehow. And that makes me feel worse. So every day I set aside a little time to cry. And somehow that makes me feel a little better, a facial shower preparing me for another night. And somehow it works.

Somehow.

Tobyjoe got me a new computer. I now am the proud new owner of a MacBook. It’s white. It’s lovely. It smells amazing. It also means that once Emory is big enough, I can visit local coffee shops, write, and hang out with actual people and not daytime TV personalities. Oh, and I do still have work to do. Work will be done as well. I’m so happy about the new laptop. The last time I got a new computer was in 2000. I bought one of the first edition TiBooks, which is slow as hell and retired two years ago. I have been working on a desktop since then, which has been great, it’s super fast, but being confined to the apartment all the time is a bit frustrating. No more of that, thanks to my husband.

In other news, Emory has developed a massive case of “goopy eye”. And I like to worry. I first looked to Baby 411 and was relieved by what I read. But of course that wasn’t enough. I remembered something a commenter wrote a couple of days ago, that if I need to call Emory’s pediatrician I should do so. So I did. She told me the same thing, that goop is normal for a 9-day old and that I should just wipe it out with warm, sterile water. She then said, “Some people like to put two drops of breast milk in the baby’s eye. Give that a shot if you want to.” I nearly fell off the sofa. Breast milk? Emory’s pediatrician is French. (Tribeca Pediatrics) Sometimes she’s hard to understand. I wondered if I had heard her correctly.

But guess what? The Internet has heard of this remedy as well. Amazing. When Tobyjoe got home from work, we put a couple drops of breast milk in Emory’s eyes. I was holding him and since it was evening and the baby blues were in full swing I began to cry. “My baby has breast milk in his goopy eyes!” (Another amazing moment brought to you by the hormonally challenged.)

If this remedy does work, I’m going to use breast milk for everything. I’m going to use it on my stitches (yes, I have stitches). I’m going to use it to take care of my lingering bladder infection. I’m even going to put it on my pimples. Perhaps it’ll even cure the blues.

UDPATE The breast milk worked! Goopy eyes are gone! I can’t believe it worked. Thrilled!

Last night was a rough one. At 9 PM I started crying and couldn’t stop no matter how hard I tried. I cried all over Tucker and then Murray and I would have cried all over Pookum but she’s too grumpy right now. And then I thought about Schmitty and that was pretty much the end of that. I was sobbing. The cats have become the objects representing all my potential failures and the beings that remind me that I am unable to control everything. Tobyjoe holds me every night and says things like, “You’re just like everyone else only you’ve lost the ability to hide it. This will pass. Know that it will pass but let it out in the meantime.” He’s a saint, that one.

And right now I feel fine, rejuvenated, ready for the day, happy even. This is hard, motherhood. It’s hard letting go of being pregnant, letting go of my independence. It’s hard letting go of the past – all 33 years of it. This is the first time that my life has actually changed forever and entirely. I don’t want to go back to the way it used to be – wouldn’t trade this for the world. I have a beautiful baby boy now but I’m in mourning. It’s impossible not to be.

We watched Mythbusters last night and I started to cry because I used to watch Mythbusters every day during the third trimester. Murray and I would sit there, he’d be next to me or on my great big belly and we’d watch TV and I would bitch about being fat and immobile. I’ve been doing the, “Last week at this time” or “Last month at this time” a lot lately, which is a sure sign that I’m depressed but it’s also a sign that I’m recovering. I guess I just need a little overlap.

The good news is, I lost 23 pounds in 7 days. I have 8 more pounds to lose in order to get back down to my pre-pregnancy weight and then 10 pounds after that because I want to feel thin again. Oh, and my ankles are back.

(Excuse the sock marks. I’m still a bit parched from all this bloody pumping and breastfeeding.)

Here is how they looked in the hospital. Sadly, I do not have a shot without my shoes and socks on. They were insanely huge. And they hurt like hell.

I’ve been breastfeeding for about 5 days. (Emory turned one week old at 4:05 AM.) I’m trying to get things going. It’s been a slow process. The hardest part is that I have no idea how much milk should eventually come out. I’ve been pumping and breastfeeding straight from the nipple. The pump helps because I am able to keep track of how much comes out in a certain amount of time but it doesn’t seem like that much yet. I can get about 2.5 ounces in about 15 minutes and then things die out substantially. The flow slows to almost nothing. Is this normal? Isn’t it supposed to be really strong eventually? There is no way, at this rate, I’d be able to support the little guy on my own. Well, that’s not entirely true, I might be able to, but he’d have to stay awake for hours and hours on end and I’d have to breastfeed him around the clock. I’m still having to supplement at least two feedings during a 24-period with Enfamil.

I’m writing today in hopes of getting a conversation started about breastfeeding. If anyone out there has stories they’d like to share, amounts they remember pumping, or hints about how to get things flowing faster, I’m all ears. And hopefully this post can and will help other new, breastfeeding mothers out in the future.

P.S. It’s now day 7 and I’m feeling a little less terrified that I’m going to unintentionally hurt the baby. He’s still entirely too delicate for words, but I’m becoming more secure by the minute. And then night comes and I get worked up again. Last night, the 6 o’clock news had me in tears. I was sitting on my bed, pumping out some breast milk for the late night feeds, sobbing. It was awesome.

Emory is slowly being weaned off of formula and moved entirely over to breast milk. Unfortunately, we were forced to try formula during the first 48 hours of life due to some problems that arose after he was born. (A post for a later date.) Well, the formula seems to have an appealing smell to our beloved Myrtle Man. I’ll finish a bottle and Murray will sneak over, steal the thing from the dresser/table, whatever, and bring it to his den. Yesterday, I had my mother hold it up to see what would happen.

F.R.E.A.K.

There’s so much to write, I don’t even know where to begin. And I’m going to wait on all the glorious birthing details because it’s just such a massively long story, I’m currently trying to come up with a way in which to share it all without having it turn into one, really long post. It might take me a while to finish, but I need to do this because in time I’m certain my memory will fade and I simply must hold onto this one. It’s far too important to let age, diminish, and crumble.

The mornings are incredible and the days are filled with “I love you so much, little guy.” And, “You’re the single most amazing thing I have ever done.” But the nights have been a bit rough. At dusk, I am suddenly hit with a deep feeling of sorrow. I know it’s chemical, but it doesn’t stop me from crying. I sit around and sigh. It’s weird, this feeling of sorrow. I haven’t felt this variety since I was a kid. I have adult things to worry about now instead of monsters, dark closets, and poltergeists so the feelings are a lot more intense. I know this will pass but it doesn’t make it any less real.

I know it to be a cliché but I love this little person more than I can put into words. I spend hours on end just staring at him, reminding myself that I did this! I created this little person, his ears, nose, mouth, fingers, toes, and lips – even his miniature plumber butt. This realization is enough to bring a person to their knees. And I’m an entirely different person from the one I was a week ago.

(Mama needs a lesson or two in how to put a diaper on. Oops! Probably the smallest plumber butt ever.)

I’ll write more in time. I want to compile my birthing story (in a certain fashion) and really capture the time I spent with Emory in recovery (which was a very trying time for me/us both physically and emotionally). In the meantime, I’ll just write about how much I love him and how amazing it is to be a mother. Oh, and there’s Myrtle Man, aka Murray to reckon with as well. (Tuesdays with Murray are not over – not at all – but they might be on hold or half-assed until things settle down a bit.)

He’s healthy and happy. Seven pounds, twelve ounces. Born at 4:05 am on August 8, 2007.

Michele is doing very well (now that it’s over!) after a very long two days.

We’ll be posting tons of photos, of course. For now, only one. I’m beat.

Off to the hospital to see my baby and my son.

She’s at New York Presbyterian Hospital (under Michele Boudreaux) if anyone cares to send a card or anything. She will be there until Friday morning (standard protocol). Alternately, you can make a donation in Emory’s name to BARC – our local animal shelter.

Tuesdays with Murray will be retroactively published when she gets home :)

Smooches, all of ya.

-tobyjoe

Updates at bottom of post

I had my 40-week check-up yesterday. The nurse took my blood pressure. It was high. She didn’t seem too alarmed. I was very alarmed. I don’t mean to brag, (like I have any say in it at all) but all of my life I have had a blood pressure that has been greeted with responses like, “I wish I had your blood pressure.” Words like “beautiful” and “amazing” have been tossed around as well. So getting a high reading all of a sudden, 39 and 6 days into an otherwise fairly solid pregnancy, was alarming. I said something. She said, “Well, it’s not uncommon for this to happen late in pregnancy but if you’re nervous, ask the doctor about it.”

The doctor came in and I told her about my history and the fact that anything above 120/80 for me was alarming. She looked back at my records and agreed with me. She said she’d run it again after I was seated for a while. Then she gave me an internal exam. Given the amount of action I have had recently, the amount of discomfort and pain, I was sure that things had changed. They have not. My cervix hasn’t moved. It hasn’t moved in almost a month. Which means all those contractions, all that hard work, hasn’t added up to anything. Tears came to my eyes.

She went over a few options and then took my blood pressure again. It was still high. She decided to send me to the hospital to get tested for preeclampsia (again) and have the baby monitored. She said, (and I quote) “If you’re OK with discussing induction come Monday, I’ll make your situation seem dire.” And then she smiled.

We headed to the hospital right away. And my dcotor called in to the delivery to give them a head’s up. I was admitted right away. The nurse came in and hooked me up to a fetal monitor, which also rated my contractions (not that I was having any at the time.) She ran a blood pressure. TOTALLY NORMAL. In a little over an hour, my blood pressure had gone back to what was considered a normal reading. But they wanted to keep me there for a while to make sure that my resting blood pressure stayed at that normal level.

The doctor came in, checked all my stats, told me I had just had a contraction and asked me if I felt it. I hadn’t. I talked right through it. She told me that most likely I’d be going home but that they wanted to check the protein in my urine as well run a blood panel, which is why we were there for so long, waiting.

In the meantime, my blood pressure dropped down to 106/68. That is a fairly normal reading for me.

But that’s right around the time where my belly began to seize up and my legs began to ache and I couldn’t get comfortable for the life of me. I kept saying, “Feel how tight this is?” And then I’d make Tobyjoe touch my upper abdomen. It would get tight and then loosen every so often. I thought the baby was moving up into my torso.

When the nurse got back, I asked her about my belly tightening and why that might be happening. She said, “It sounds to me like you’re having a contraction.”

“That’s a contraction?” I asked. “I didn’t know they were up that high. I thought they took place lower.”

“I’m going to hook you back up to the fetal monitor and we’ll find out what’s going on.”

(Gotta tell ya, it would have been awesome if I had gone into active labor while there for tests. Although, we had zero of our needs and I hadn’t eaten a thing yesterday.)

The long and short of it is I’m having contractions regularly. I have been since about 3 PM on Friday afternoon. Tobyjoe and I watched them ebb and flow on the monitor before us. They aren’t intolerable, but they’re there. And sometimes they hurt enough for my eyes to shut. The nurse suggested I have another internal exam before they discharge me to see if my cervix changed at all, especially given the frequency and intensity of some of the contractions. In the meantime, my blood work came back. It was normal. My urine came back with a minute amount of protein. If it hadn’t been for the contractions, I would have been sent home right then and there.

At 7 PM, they gave me another internal exam and my cervix hadn’t budged. It was still exactly what it was before. I have a cervix of steel. The nurses and doctors kept muttering things like, “First time mother!” and “Baby doesn’t want to come out!” I want baby out. I want these contractions to amount to something. Upon discharge, I am to call or go in if my water breaks, if I see any strange discharge, if the baby stops moving, or if my contractions become unbearable.

It’s now 8:30 AM on Saturday and I had the most fitful and shattered sleep because I’m still having contractions every 30 minutes (with little ones in between) but nothing seems to be progressing. I watched lightning sweep through Brooklyn for hours, timing each contraction with each round of thunder. Nature moved outside my window, but nothing changed inside of me.

If Monday comes and there’s still no change, I was told to talk to my regular doctor about induction because my cervix might not have any plans on letting this baby on its own. It’s been at 1 centimeter for a month now. My body is otherwise working perfectly, contracting like a champ, trying to push it open. It just won’t budge.

So, I have no idea what’s going to happen over the next couple of days. I asked the doctor to give me an idea of when this baby might arrive and she said, “It could be 15-hours from now, it could be three days.”

At 3 PM today, I will have been in early labor for 24-hours. I’m exhausted. And the worst is yet to come.

Sunday Update: Still a whole bunch of contractions but nothing regular. Last night we thought it was finally going to happen, I was writhing in pain, and then right before the 1 5 1 (contractions lasting for one minute each, five minutes apart, for one hour) hit, it subsided.

I’m so tired of having contractions and not having them progress to anything more than that. :[ I can’t sleep. Eating has become difficult as well. Last night I took a bath at 4:30 AM because I didn’t know what else to do. I’m so tired, so very tired.

Late Sunday Update: I called the physician because I had some questions I didn’t want to ask Google (heh). The on call doctor turned out to be the same woman who I met on Friday, so I didn’t have to update her too much. The biggest reason I called was to find out if going into labor and then suddenly stopping was OK for the baby. Because last night Tobyjoe said, “It looks like he’s trying to claw his way out.” And that’s so true. The baby looked like he was in distress. We’ve never seen him move that violently.

The other reason I called was to ask her about the pain I have in my pelvic region. I have had it for over a month now but the past several days it’s been much, much worse. I’m having trouble walking, getting up, and putting on pants has become dangerous. The pain is tucked between both legs, way up inside my upper inner thighs. I read that hip separation causes this sort of thing and today the physician confirmed that suspicion. (This is also the cause behind the pregnancy waddle.) My hips have moved so much over the past couple of weeks, my groin is taking the brunt of it all. The pain is quite intense. She said it’s very common and that unfortunately there is nothing she can do for me.

She was nice and after I got off the phone I felt a little better about being in labor for 3 days. We’ll see what happens over the next 24. I have read read a lot about induction over the past couple of days, about the possible dangers and/or problems that can arise from it; I do hope that this eventually happens on its own.

Monday morning update: More contractions Sunday night and Monday morning. Took another bath (at 5:00 AM) to try and move things along. Feels like I have had my period for four days intermixed with (sometimes intense) contractions. Yet nothing grows regular. I have a doctor’s appointment at 10:30 AM to find out if any of this has opened my cervix. Cross your fingers, toes, and eyes that I’m beyond 1 centimeter and there’s an end in sight.

Monday afternoon update: Well, no cervix change since Friday. For some reason it just doesn’t want to efface (any more than it has) or dilate (at all, really). My doctor gave me my options today. I’m scheduled for induction starting at 5:30 PM. At 5:30 PM I’m scheduled to have Cervidil inserted and placed behind my cervix where it will stay for 12 hours. Its job is to thin out my cervix (which should have happened naturally by now, I think.) After it’s thinned out, I will be induced. That should begin very early tomorrow morning. Hopefully, the baby will be with us by Tuesday afternoon.

I am scared. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. I’m in good hands, but I’m still bordering on terrified. I was told to have a huge, awesome meal but I can’t think about food. Gonna try and relax a bit and then head back to the hospital.

If all goes well, the next time I write I’ll be holding a baby.

Tobyjoe is a heavy sleeper. He’s not so bad in the middle of the night. At night, I am able to wake him up without too much of a problem. It’s the morning that this feat fairs difficult. He’s just not a morning person.

I am very much a morning person. I wake up and can be out the door within five minutes and I’m happy about it. I don’t even need coffee or a shower. Just give me a toothbrush, a hair tie, and some shoes and I’m ready. It takes a crane to get Tobyjoe out of bed and then a gallon of high-octane coffee to wake him up. And then a long shower to get him motivated. He’s told me numerous times, “Michele, please don’t talk to me in the morning. Give me an entire hour of silence.” And of course I can’t do that because I wake up talking. (Quite honestly, I’m not sure how we’ve managed for this long. Some of our biggest fights have taken place because I can’t seem to abide by this one simple rule.)

There have been times Tobyjoe has surprised me. Take a morning not too long ago. I got up at around 7 AM. It was a Saturday. I powered on the Mac Pro, opened Mail, opened Firefox and then headed to the bathroom to brush and pee. When I left the bathroom, I looked back into the bedroom to check on him. He was sound asleep, arms wrapped around his head, hair sticking up everywhere, and his face was nowhere to be seen. I walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

When I got back to my desk, I saw that something had gone very, very wrong. On the browser before me, was a Web page and on that Web page was a giant, ummm – How do I say it? – a giant male organ. It was huge and pinkish in color and the browser window took up my entire screen. I was confused, startled. Had I been given a virus? Had all that “Enl@rge UR pen1s” email finally infiltrated my computer? Tobyjoe was going to have a fit.

(This is all I will show from what I saw. Also, site in question is NOT WORK SAFE. Don’t go there.)

I looked over at the bed, wondering how I was going to tell him about this. That’s when I realized that the mound that contained my sleeping husband was shaking. He wasn’t having a seizure; he was laughing, laughing hard. He could not contain himself from all the laughter. And it was 7:00 AM. My husband was laughing and he hadn’t even had any coffee. I heard a giggle escape the shaking mound and then I made a beeline for the bed.

This wasn’t the first time he surprised me with online pornography, nor that site. This has become an ongoing joke for him and I am his favorite victim. He’s gotten me before and each time I am utterly baffled by it, shocked even. When I first met him he set my homepage URL to this:

This was before I really understood much about the Internet. Back then I had no idea you could change your browser’s homepage, let alone that you could customize it with pornography. No matter how many windows I opened, every one of them opened up to a fresh male organ. I simply could not get penis off my screen.

You might think that after 6 long years of being together, I would have figured out by now that it’s always going to be him behind my homepage and its sudden desire to have me rate the size of another man’s penis. I said I was awake in the morning, not smart. To my credit, however, the site in question does tend to launch a new look fairly regularly. (Not that I would know.)

I’ve spent 6 and a half long years dealing with such aesthetic terrorism and not once have I been able to get him back.

We listen to iTunes through our stereo using an Airport Express. Recently, we changed the name of our Airport to read “ROADRUNNER_SUCKS_PLEASE_CALL_IF_DOWN”. Because of that change, I needed to update some settings in iTunes and I was unable to do it alone. Tobyjoe offered to walk me through it via iChat while he was at work. When we inevitably got to the point where we had trouble communicating, he asked me to send him a screen shot.

And I did. I sent him a screen shot.

Toby and I have had some serious problems with our Internet access lately. And I wasn’t going to write about it, but I’m so frustrated, so annoyed with how things have been dealt with by Time Warner Cable (Road Runner) I can’t hold back any longer. And whatever insight people might have, whatever ideas come to mind, I’ll take them all.

It’s been 3 weeks. We’ve been having problems with our On Demand, which is totally ignorable considering we have a DVR and I am obsessive about recording the shows we like to watch. The biggest problem, especially for two people who make a living on the Internet, is that we don’t have it. And when we do have it, it’s spotty.

We’re averaging anywhere between a 15% and 100% packet loss all the time. Our cable modem (and this information was given to us by a Time Warner Cable customer service representative named Judith) flaps at a 500+ rate. (She said 100 is considered a problem at Time Warner. 500 is considered, “What the hell are these people thinking paying for our service?”)

On Saturday a technician finally came out (he was a half hour later than the 8 – 12 PM time slot we were given) and gave us a new modem. He said the one we had been using was recalled in 2000. (We signed up for this service in 2003. That modem worked fine for us up until 3 weeks ago. So I’m not going to complain about the fact that Time Warner gave us a recalled modem. If they want to cut corners, fine. But I wish they’d use the money they were saving cutting corners and put it toward decent service.) The technician also replaced a piece of hardware directly outside the house. He told us that the problems we were having should be fixed.

But they weren’t fixed. We called again. And again. And again. I called once on Saturday, two times on Sunday, three times on Monday, four times yesterday, and once already today. Every single time I/we get the same story or a bunch of runarounds about how there’s nothing they can do for us. Our modem, for every five minutes it’s up, spends about an hour down, blinking incessantly. Yesterday it was down for 8 hours straight. Today it’s been down every half an hour. I can get on for a few minutes and then it drops me again.

They declared a neighborhood outage on the 30th, which has been cleared but hasn’t yet been cleared from their system and until that’s done they cannot send us another technician. Not that a technician can help us. We’ve already been told that the problem is not coming from within the house. It’s coming from a local hub someplace. And we believe that, because our modem is working just fine when it does have a signal. The best part is we can’t get any credit until a Time Warner technician comes out and writes up that there is a problem, which is why we want the technician even though he/she won’t be able to do anything to actually fix the problem. So, we can’t get a technician because their systems haven’t been cleared and we can’t get a discount for our troubles because a technician cannot be dispatched to our house because their systems haven’t been cleared of the previous outage not that a technician can help us anyway since the problem isn’t coming from within our house. And they won’t send someone if it’s a neighborhood issue because that’s a waste of their time. However, they won’t fix the neighborhood wide issue until enough people have called in to complain. You see my frustration?

We pay roughly 150 dollars for cable television (that includes HBO, Showtime, and the On Demand channels for both) and Internet Access. On Demand is currently down, has been for days now, as is our Internet service. And our options are next to none. We don’t even have an existing phone jack in our apartment to sign up for Verizon (something I vowed not to do ever again back in 2001). We don’t qualify for Optimum. We’re not sure what we can do at this point. And if you’re still actually reading this, I’m looking for answers. Because paying them for this disservice feels awful.

Today, in hopes of getting our neighbors to call in as well, we renamed our modem to, “Roadrunner sucks. If you’re having problems, please call.” We’re also contemplating dropping cable altogether, (which might kill me, I won’t lie) and using our cell phones for Internet access. That’s how desperate we are. The fact that I’m toying with dropping my precious cable TV should tell you how upset I am with Time Warner Cable.

Maybe, to some degree, I’m taking my hormonal frustration out on Time Warner cable, focusing all my discomfort on their inability to do their job. And I know that blog posts about such matters are a drag to read, but I can’t help and think that some poor sod might be move into Greenpoint, price ISPs, and decide to go with Time Warner Cable over another, more reliable option. Because if they do go with Time Warner Cable they are in for a world of frustration. So, I thought it was my duty to get the word out as much as humanly possible. Perhaps Google can help me do the rest. Perhaps you can too.