Made with GIMP, b/c I'm too poor for Photoshop.
Showing posts with label creativeness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creativeness. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Friday, November 09, 2007
Don't Sue Me, JKR
For Eden, who asked:
My HP fanfic is archived at The Petulant Poetess.
I've only done drabbles so far, but my fic for the Winter 2007 Severus/Hermione exchange is going to be posted in January, after my recipient gets to read it first. It's entirely possible I could write something else between now and then, as well.
I usually post fic updates on my LiveJournal. Should I be working on my original YA SciFi novel instead? Probably.
My HP fanfic is archived at The Petulant Poetess.
I've only done drabbles so far, but my fic for the Winter 2007 Severus/Hermione exchange is going to be posted in January, after my recipient gets to read it first. It's entirely possible I could write something else between now and then, as well.
I usually post fic updates on my LiveJournal. Should I be working on my original YA SciFi novel instead? Probably.
Monday, August 13, 2007
More Pirate Shenanigans
In a Very Serious (meaning we had a ballpoint pen and were doodling on the back of the advertising place-mats) planning session at our favorite greasy spoon on Friday night (they aren't lying about the best coffee in the area - it's like crack, it's so good), I cracked a devious and masterful plot over my coke and cheese fries.
The only thing better than a pirate party is, of course, a pirate party where everyone has a pirate alias. We compiled three lists - titles, first names, and surnames - and everyone will have to assume a pirate alias and wear it around on a name-tag (sticky, of course).
I am still at a loss, however, as how to accomplish this. Shall I just provide the lists, and everyone chooses a name they like from each list, or do I make them draw and end up with what they get? My evil side likes the second option.
I already chose my name, of course. I'm in charge of this shindig, so I'm the Commodore. Commodore "Wily" Maureen Bellamy, to be exact. Now to convince Kerwin to buy me a hat. A big one. With a feather in it (I know that the highest rank is Fleet Admiral - but I think Commodore has more flair).
The only thing better than a pirate party is, of course, a pirate party where everyone has a pirate alias. We compiled three lists - titles, first names, and surnames - and everyone will have to assume a pirate alias and wear it around on a name-tag (sticky, of course).
I am still at a loss, however, as how to accomplish this. Shall I just provide the lists, and everyone chooses a name they like from each list, or do I make them draw and end up with what they get? My evil side likes the second option.
I already chose my name, of course. I'm in charge of this shindig, so I'm the Commodore. Commodore "Wily" Maureen Bellamy, to be exact. Now to convince Kerwin to buy me a hat. A big one. With a feather in it (I know that the highest rank is Fleet Admiral - but I think Commodore has more flair).
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Something more
This is my entry for August's Pulsate Olympics.
The first time I laid eyes on my husband after he packed up and left his family home like a thief in the night was on a hot summer afternoon. I had spent the morning baking blueberry muffins (the blueberries picked from the patch at my then-boss's house) to quell my nerves. We had met two months before in Chicago, on neutral ground - this would be our first meeting on my home turf, as it were. I paced between the kitchen and living room, looking out to the driveway at the slightest noise of cars going by. Finally, finally he pulled into the driveway and clambered out of the tiny car.
He had been driving for thirteen hours straight in a Chevy Metro. He was sweaty and tired, dressed in jean shorts and a tee shirt with a lizard on it, and he was the most beautiful and welcome sight I'd ever seen. I remember flinging open the door and wrapping myself around him before he could even say a word - claiming him, in my own way, as my own - this man who would leave his family and friends to travel across three states in hopes of building a relationship with me.
We had spent three years getting to know each other online and by letters and infrequent phone calls, first as friends. We had helped each other through breakups and betrayals with others. When I'd had my heart broken by a boy who I thought would be "the one", he had commented on his sincere regret that he was in a relationship at the time. A year later, that relationship was over and we were building a tentative courtship. Being courted online was a singular experience - it was easier for me, a shy bookworm, to express my feelings through the written word - and by the time he arrived on my doorstep we knew each other very well indeed.
"You're here, you're really here," I whispered as I wrapped my arms around him, wanting to commit him to memory. And he was. And he stayed.
We're celebrating our fourth anniversary this September. I won't say it's been all sweetness and light - but whenever I think of him standing there on the doorstep on that July afternoon, I remember what he gave up to come to me, I remember both of us shedding our vulnerability in hopes of finding something more.
The first time I laid eyes on my husband after he packed up and left his family home like a thief in the night was on a hot summer afternoon. I had spent the morning baking blueberry muffins (the blueberries picked from the patch at my then-boss's house) to quell my nerves. We had met two months before in Chicago, on neutral ground - this would be our first meeting on my home turf, as it were. I paced between the kitchen and living room, looking out to the driveway at the slightest noise of cars going by. Finally, finally he pulled into the driveway and clambered out of the tiny car.
He had been driving for thirteen hours straight in a Chevy Metro. He was sweaty and tired, dressed in jean shorts and a tee shirt with a lizard on it, and he was the most beautiful and welcome sight I'd ever seen. I remember flinging open the door and wrapping myself around him before he could even say a word - claiming him, in my own way, as my own - this man who would leave his family and friends to travel across three states in hopes of building a relationship with me.
We had spent three years getting to know each other online and by letters and infrequent phone calls, first as friends. We had helped each other through breakups and betrayals with others. When I'd had my heart broken by a boy who I thought would be "the one", he had commented on his sincere regret that he was in a relationship at the time. A year later, that relationship was over and we were building a tentative courtship. Being courted online was a singular experience - it was easier for me, a shy bookworm, to express my feelings through the written word - and by the time he arrived on my doorstep we knew each other very well indeed.
"You're here, you're really here," I whispered as I wrapped my arms around him, wanting to commit him to memory. And he was. And he stayed.
We're celebrating our fourth anniversary this September. I won't say it's been all sweetness and light - but whenever I think of him standing there on the doorstep on that July afternoon, I remember what he gave up to come to me, I remember both of us shedding our vulnerability in hopes of finding something more.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Pirate Party!
Well, I'm glad I didn't do these until today, as my cousin decided to schedule her daughter's party the same day.
Combined parties are out of the question. I had one in my youth and hated it. I think Freyja deserves undivided attention for her special day.
I ended up moving the party a week later - gives me more time to get ready, in any case.
Here's the invite - cute, no?
Combined parties are out of the question. I had one in my youth and hated it. I think Freyja deserves undivided attention for her special day.
I ended up moving the party a week later - gives me more time to get ready, in any case.
Here's the invite - cute, no?
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Musical Dreaming
I like to sing.
I really like to sing folk songs and ballads, "Irish" pub songs, sea chanties, old-school torch songs,blues, and anything else that stays in that middle to low register where my voice really shines.
As I noted a couple posts ago, if I had the wherewithal, I'd love to be in an all-chicks "Irish" pub band (and I'd call it Mad Morrigan. There'd have to be three of us). I think to do that, however, I need to learn to play an instrument. My rhythm isn't bad and I could possibly learn to play the bodhran, with practice (of course). I don't know if I can play the bodhran and sing at the same time, though. I can dance and sing, walk and sing, type and sing...you get the idea. I've also been kicking around the idea of taking guitar lessons for a while, but I don't know if I'm "too old" to pick up something new like that. I haven't gotten any further than drooling over pretty guitars on that, though.
I also think that Kerwin and I (he sings too, a lovely bass/baritone) could make decent money singing together at weddings and events. We'd be a cute double act, plus we're both fairly talented - then I think that he only plays saxophone, and I play nothing. We'd need a band.
It all comes back to needing instruments. Anybody else that plays an instrument want to be in a pub band with me? If you're local I'd love to get together just to jam. I miss real singing (in the car doesn't really count).
I really like to sing folk songs and ballads, "Irish" pub songs, sea chanties, old-school torch songs,blues, and anything else that stays in that middle to low register where my voice really shines.
As I noted a couple posts ago, if I had the wherewithal, I'd love to be in an all-chicks "Irish" pub band (and I'd call it Mad Morrigan. There'd have to be three of us). I think to do that, however, I need to learn to play an instrument. My rhythm isn't bad and I could possibly learn to play the bodhran, with practice (of course). I don't know if I can play the bodhran and sing at the same time, though. I can dance and sing, walk and sing, type and sing...you get the idea. I've also been kicking around the idea of taking guitar lessons for a while, but I don't know if I'm "too old" to pick up something new like that. I haven't gotten any further than drooling over pretty guitars on that, though.
I also think that Kerwin and I (he sings too, a lovely bass/baritone) could make decent money singing together at weddings and events. We'd be a cute double act, plus we're both fairly talented - then I think that he only plays saxophone, and I play nothing. We'd need a band.
It all comes back to needing instruments. Anybody else that plays an instrument want to be in a pub band with me? If you're local I'd love to get together just to jam. I miss real singing (in the car doesn't really count).
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
The Scent of Awakening
This is my entry for Thordora's June Pulsate Olympics.
I walked into my mother's house today and smelled Paganism. My mother is Lutheran, and as far as I know holds no Pagan leanings - but the smell that wafted into my nostrils as I set my things down was unmistakably the smell of the small hole-in-the-wall shop where I conducted my spiritual awakening over the course of a couple of years. The shop is out of business now, and I'm not sure what, if anything, resides there now. The smell of the store (and my mother's house today) is the same as any new-agey or occult store that sells incense in a small space - exotic woods, musk, eucalyptus and who-knows-what-else all mixed together, but that smell will always remind me of Wings and the incredibly kind and patient people who worked there and answered my questions, let me spend entire afternoons picking their brains, and tolerated my endless browsing to only walk out with $5 worth of merchandise. There's a shop in the town where I now reside that smells similar - but they sell mostly beads and bohemian hippie clothes, so it's not quite the same.
That smell takes me back to when I still looked for the wonder in everything, and anything seemed possible. It was a time of transitions, leaving the trappings of childhood behind and figuring out what to take with me into adulthood. It's the smell of a few poor decisions mixed with a lot of great ones. It's comforting to smell, yet bittersweet - the reminders of those wonderful people who were so good to a girl on the verge of discovering herself, who reassured me that as long as I "checked my gut" and remembered "why my friends call me 'Mama Heather'", that everything would work out in the end.
It did. It has. It continues to. For the smell of awakening, for the time, talk, and wisdom you shared - thank you Dawn and Sherri, and all others whose names I cannot remember. Blessed be.
I walked into my mother's house today and smelled Paganism. My mother is Lutheran, and as far as I know holds no Pagan leanings - but the smell that wafted into my nostrils as I set my things down was unmistakably the smell of the small hole-in-the-wall shop where I conducted my spiritual awakening over the course of a couple of years. The shop is out of business now, and I'm not sure what, if anything, resides there now. The smell of the store (and my mother's house today) is the same as any new-agey or occult store that sells incense in a small space - exotic woods, musk, eucalyptus and who-knows-what-else all mixed together, but that smell will always remind me of Wings and the incredibly kind and patient people who worked there and answered my questions, let me spend entire afternoons picking their brains, and tolerated my endless browsing to only walk out with $5 worth of merchandise. There's a shop in the town where I now reside that smells similar - but they sell mostly beads and bohemian hippie clothes, so it's not quite the same.
That smell takes me back to when I still looked for the wonder in everything, and anything seemed possible. It was a time of transitions, leaving the trappings of childhood behind and figuring out what to take with me into adulthood. It's the smell of a few poor decisions mixed with a lot of great ones. It's comforting to smell, yet bittersweet - the reminders of those wonderful people who were so good to a girl on the verge of discovering herself, who reassured me that as long as I "checked my gut" and remembered "why my friends call me 'Mama Heather'", that everything would work out in the end.
It did. It has. It continues to. For the smell of awakening, for the time, talk, and wisdom you shared - thank you Dawn and Sherri, and all others whose names I cannot remember. Blessed be.
Friday, April 27, 2007
100 Posts
100 posts.
I didn't think I'd get here. Honestly, I started this blog so I could be a cool kid like Karrie - she asked if any August 04 mamas had blogs, and I had had blogs before (lame ones!) so I decided to just do it up all fancy-like here at Blogger. It's taken me approximately six months to make 100 posts, which isn't too shabby. That averages out to about one every other day. I've been blogging in one form or another since December of 2000, which I think makes me some kind of blogging pioneer.
In six months, I've posted mostly under the tags of:
random foo (32)
self (18)
spawn (16)
I forget to tag posts a lot too, but I'm guessing that's pretty accurate. I've blogged from home, work, friends houses, my parents' house, and anywhere I can find a wi-fi connection. I value the connections I've made and that I know I'll continue to make.
If you've been lurking, post a comment. Let me know who you are, how you found me, and what you wish I'd write about more often. It's nice to have that input when I'm in a dry spell.
I didn't think I'd get here. Honestly, I started this blog so I could be a cool kid like Karrie - she asked if any August 04 mamas had blogs, and I had had blogs before (lame ones!) so I decided to just do it up all fancy-like here at Blogger. It's taken me approximately six months to make 100 posts, which isn't too shabby. That averages out to about one every other day. I've been blogging in one form or another since December of 2000, which I think makes me some kind of blogging pioneer.
In six months, I've posted mostly under the tags of:
random foo (32)
self (18)
spawn (16)
I forget to tag posts a lot too, but I'm guessing that's pretty accurate. I've blogged from home, work, friends houses, my parents' house, and anywhere I can find a wi-fi connection. I value the connections I've made and that I know I'll continue to make.
If you've been lurking, post a comment. Let me know who you are, how you found me, and what you wish I'd write about more often. It's nice to have that input when I'm in a dry spell.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Farfalle - Work In Progress
Dug this up this afternoon. I think I'll work on it some more.
Farfalle was named for her mother’s cravings during pregnancy. Her mother always said that rotini made her think of weird bugs and spaghetti just didn’t feel right going down during pregnancy. She craved pasta, though, and farfalle was what she often chose. What better way to name the child conceived at the end of a semester abroad in Italy? Her mother didn’t even know until she got home, and she knew she’d never see Paulo again, or even be able to find him.
Named for a pasta, with a mystery father, Farfalle nonetheless is the apple of her mother’s eye. A becoming combination of her mother’s very Irish features and her father’s classic Italian look, the girl’s curly brown hair, freckles, and startling blue eyes draw constant comments.
Farfalle is three years old, and she loves pasta, too. She loves to chirp her order at her and her mother’s favorite hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant, and it’s always for her pasta namesake. Her mother has done a wonderful thing in weaving a tale for Farfalle about her conception. Many women in her situation would be bitter, and with good reason. Farfalle’s mother had too much fun being pregnant, and then bringing little infant Farfalle to her last semester of classes to be bitter. Understanding professors and a baby in a sling combined just as magically as Farfalle’s conception, and life is good for the happy pair.
Tonight is something new. Farfalle’s mother hasn’t dated since she came back from Italy. She wouldn’t, couldn’t bring herself to leave Farfalle for an evening, and most men aren’t inclined to have a first date with a three year old, however charming, hanging about. Tonight is different. Farfalle waits with her mother at the Italian restaurant for the Greek suitor. They draw pictures as they wait, Farfalle’s mother showing a deft hand with the crayons.
Farfalle sees him first. She tugs on her mother’s sleeve as he approaches. Tall and dark, Farfalle sizes Nikolas up closely. She likes him, at least she likes how he looks and how he smiles, but he has to like pasta, too. She and her mother can’t settle for just anybody. She thinks they do great on their own – her mother is a librarian and Farfalle goes to Jenni’s daycare every day, and Miss Jenni is like a second mother to her. This arrangement works for everybody, and Farfalle is a little nervous about it changing.
Nikolas has flowers, big pretty gerbera daisies. Two daisies, one bright, bright pink, which he hands to Farfalle with a grin, and one orange, which he hands to her mother. He sits down, and they order. Farfalle first, for her namesake with alfredo sauce and broccoli, and her mother and Nikolas next. Nikolas is nice. He talks to Farfalle and her mother, and it’s one big conversation. Farfalle feels very grown up tonight as she eats her broccoli and answers questions politely. When they get up to leave, her mother gives her a thumbs up and a big grin. Farfalle returns it, since she likes Nikolas. They go their separate ways, Farfalle and her mother in their little car, and Nikolas in his littler car.
Farfalle and her mother stop at her Grandma’s house to say hello. Grandma is anxious to hear about the date with Nikolas. Farfalle tells Grandma that next time she will stay with her while her mother goes out by herself, because that is what grownups do. Grandma smiles convincingly at Farfalle’s mother, who reluctantly agrees.
Farfalle was named for her mother’s cravings during pregnancy. Her mother always said that rotini made her think of weird bugs and spaghetti just didn’t feel right going down during pregnancy. She craved pasta, though, and farfalle was what she often chose. What better way to name the child conceived at the end of a semester abroad in Italy? Her mother didn’t even know until she got home, and she knew she’d never see Paulo again, or even be able to find him.
Named for a pasta, with a mystery father, Farfalle nonetheless is the apple of her mother’s eye. A becoming combination of her mother’s very Irish features and her father’s classic Italian look, the girl’s curly brown hair, freckles, and startling blue eyes draw constant comments.
Farfalle is three years old, and she loves pasta, too. She loves to chirp her order at her and her mother’s favorite hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant, and it’s always for her pasta namesake. Her mother has done a wonderful thing in weaving a tale for Farfalle about her conception. Many women in her situation would be bitter, and with good reason. Farfalle’s mother had too much fun being pregnant, and then bringing little infant Farfalle to her last semester of classes to be bitter. Understanding professors and a baby in a sling combined just as magically as Farfalle’s conception, and life is good for the happy pair.
Tonight is something new. Farfalle’s mother hasn’t dated since she came back from Italy. She wouldn’t, couldn’t bring herself to leave Farfalle for an evening, and most men aren’t inclined to have a first date with a three year old, however charming, hanging about. Tonight is different. Farfalle waits with her mother at the Italian restaurant for the Greek suitor. They draw pictures as they wait, Farfalle’s mother showing a deft hand with the crayons.
Farfalle sees him first. She tugs on her mother’s sleeve as he approaches. Tall and dark, Farfalle sizes Nikolas up closely. She likes him, at least she likes how he looks and how he smiles, but he has to like pasta, too. She and her mother can’t settle for just anybody. She thinks they do great on their own – her mother is a librarian and Farfalle goes to Jenni’s daycare every day, and Miss Jenni is like a second mother to her. This arrangement works for everybody, and Farfalle is a little nervous about it changing.
Nikolas has flowers, big pretty gerbera daisies. Two daisies, one bright, bright pink, which he hands to Farfalle with a grin, and one orange, which he hands to her mother. He sits down, and they order. Farfalle first, for her namesake with alfredo sauce and broccoli, and her mother and Nikolas next. Nikolas is nice. He talks to Farfalle and her mother, and it’s one big conversation. Farfalle feels very grown up tonight as she eats her broccoli and answers questions politely. When they get up to leave, her mother gives her a thumbs up and a big grin. Farfalle returns it, since she likes Nikolas. They go their separate ways, Farfalle and her mother in their little car, and Nikolas in his littler car.
Farfalle and her mother stop at her Grandma’s house to say hello. Grandma is anxious to hear about the date with Nikolas. Farfalle tells Grandma that next time she will stay with her while her mother goes out by herself, because that is what grownups do. Grandma smiles convincingly at Farfalle’s mother, who reluctantly agrees.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Crafty Bitch
I love crafty stuff, and I also like snarky stuff.
Julie Jackson and Subversive Cross Stitch rocks my socks. Somebody on some board or another I post on (can't remember now - look kids, this is what being a mom does to you!) slapped up a link to her site and I ordered "Fuck Cancer" to make for my grandmother, who is a stomach cancer survivor (they removed her whole stomach). She liked it a lot, but she puts it away when her pastor comes over for a visit. Silly, because I know her pastor, and Pastor Julie would get a kick out of it.
That led to me buying the book, and making various things from it, like "bitchin' kitchen" (the photo isn't mine, and it's slightly different as I ran the two words together and used different colors) for my mom when she finished her kitchen remodel, and "babies suck" for a pair of dear friends embarking on that journey known as parenthood. I felt it would be cruel to not give them a fair warning.
Whenever I'm feeling especially snarky, I get out the book and my cross stitching kit and I go to town. The creative outlet is soothing, and the finished project in an evening of TV watching is bliss. Plus, it's easy. Go forth and stitch!
Julie Jackson and Subversive Cross Stitch rocks my socks. Somebody on some board or another I post on (can't remember now - look kids, this is what being a mom does to you!) slapped up a link to her site and I ordered "Fuck Cancer" to make for my grandmother, who is a stomach cancer survivor (they removed her whole stomach). She liked it a lot, but she puts it away when her pastor comes over for a visit. Silly, because I know her pastor, and Pastor Julie would get a kick out of it.
That led to me buying the book, and making various things from it, like "bitchin' kitchen" (the photo isn't mine, and it's slightly different as I ran the two words together and used different colors) for my mom when she finished her kitchen remodel, and "babies suck" for a pair of dear friends embarking on that journey known as parenthood. I felt it would be cruel to not give them a fair warning.
Whenever I'm feeling especially snarky, I get out the book and my cross stitching kit and I go to town. The creative outlet is soothing, and the finished project in an evening of TV watching is bliss. Plus, it's easy. Go forth and stitch!
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
If they told you, you would cry.
For the April Pulsate Olympics, sponsored by GNM parents. Wow, that feels dirty. :D
Both of my parents are still living. This really should come as no surprise - I'm young (26) and they had me when they were in their early twenties. My dad just turned 50 this past year, my mom is 48.
My dad has some serious health issues. He's a type-2 diabetic and he has congestive heart failure. He's had one heart attack at 43, followed by a triple bypass. He has high cholesterol and high blood pressure. He works 40+ hours a week at a physical job (he's an electrician - does installs of radios on police cars, buses, ambulances, etc, and maintains equipment at various 911 call centers and law enforcement and dispatch facilities). He has a 15% chance of living until he's 60. I get my love of reading, my tendency to question everything, and my temper from him.
He used to be a real asshole and probably could have been considered physically abusive - he and I are a lot alike and butted heads constantly, and instead of walking away like an adult should when faced with a mouthy child and teenager over something trivial, he let his temper get the best of him and he hit me, usually a slap across the face if he could reach, and whatever he could reach if not. And if he ever reads this (I have no idea if he does), I am going to get the biggest guilt trip in the universe. I'm not saying that I was completely innocent, because I was a mouthy little shit once I hit puberty (which is when he morphed into asshole dad). They should have disciplined me differently as a young child - I was indulged and allowed to get away with a lot. As far as I know he's never laid a hand on my mother, nor on my brother. I guess I was just special.
He's mellowed considerably. Now when he acts like a jackass (much less often) I just ignore him. If he hasn't learned any better, I have. He's so incredibly patient and gentle with Freyja that it's like a complete turnaround. She is grandpa's girl for sure. It's still really hard to trust that he won't lose his temper with her, though. He probably doesn't realize it, but I always brush off his offers to babysit if my mom won't be there. I just can't take that step and I don't know if I'll ever be able to. Again, Dad, if you're reading this - I really hope you understand. It's not you, it's me.
My mom has some health issues too. She has degenerative disk disease and arthritic knees, high cholesterol and triglycerides, and high blood pressure. She also works full time, on her feet. She's a pharmacy technician and as much as she bitches about it I know she loves her job. She's looking at her 20 year anniversary soon. The woman gets 6 weeks of paid time off every year, between vacation and personal time. She spends the majority of the time on home improvement projects or with Freyja (the only grandchild thus far). I get my artistic ability, my singing voice, my penchant for sarcasm and my compassion (I do have some, I swear!) from her.
That said, she's also passive-aggressive, overly sensitive, and easy to bait. She goes to church but I'm not really sure she believes, because anytime Kerwin or I mention Paganism, Heathenry, the Pagan roots of any given Christian celebration, you name it, she goes off like a roman candle. She doesn't get that me not attending church is not an insult to her or her parenting. Honestly, I think it's proof that she raised a child who can think for herself, which is a noble and excellent thing.
Growing up, we were lower-middle class until my parents divorced. Then we stayed with my mom, and we were poor. She refused to take any help (oh yeah, I get my overly prideful streak from her, too), and I'm sure there were nights when she didn't eat after working two part time jobs to make ends meet. I have to give my parents credit in that they never used my brother and I as pawns. They had a standard custody arrangement but any time my dad wanted to take us for an extra day or they needed to switch a weekend, they did. There was never any problem with my dad paying child support. He paid what was mandated and took care of other things we needed as well. There was very little, if any, playing one parent against the other.
My dad remarried, divorced, and then my parents got remarried. Yeah, I wonder the point of all of it too. Maybe they both had some growing up to do.
As much as any of that might make me hate my parents, I don't. Sure, I went through that phase when I was a teenager - I think most normal people do - but the real clincher in getting along with my parents and actually liking them was tied to my moving out. My mom and I can talk on the phone for hours and still have a hard time hanging up. My dad and I have bonded through our love of weird trivia and family nostalgia.
I'm terrified of losing my dad to his health conditions before Freyja is old enough to remember him. I'm terrified of my mom getting Alzheimer's like her mom, and not knowing us anymore. I don't want to think of the day when I can't call my dad on my lunch break just to say hi, or call my mom at night to tell her what Freyja did because I know she'll understand. Until then, I just make the memories as I can; for Freyja, and for me.
Both of my parents are still living. This really should come as no surprise - I'm young (26) and they had me when they were in their early twenties. My dad just turned 50 this past year, my mom is 48.
My dad has some serious health issues. He's a type-2 diabetic and he has congestive heart failure. He's had one heart attack at 43, followed by a triple bypass. He has high cholesterol and high blood pressure. He works 40+ hours a week at a physical job (he's an electrician - does installs of radios on police cars, buses, ambulances, etc, and maintains equipment at various 911 call centers and law enforcement and dispatch facilities). He has a 15% chance of living until he's 60. I get my love of reading, my tendency to question everything, and my temper from him.
He used to be a real asshole and probably could have been considered physically abusive - he and I are a lot alike and butted heads constantly, and instead of walking away like an adult should when faced with a mouthy child and teenager over something trivial, he let his temper get the best of him and he hit me, usually a slap across the face if he could reach, and whatever he could reach if not. And if he ever reads this (I have no idea if he does), I am going to get the biggest guilt trip in the universe. I'm not saying that I was completely innocent, because I was a mouthy little shit once I hit puberty (which is when he morphed into asshole dad). They should have disciplined me differently as a young child - I was indulged and allowed to get away with a lot. As far as I know he's never laid a hand on my mother, nor on my brother. I guess I was just special.
He's mellowed considerably. Now when he acts like a jackass (much less often) I just ignore him. If he hasn't learned any better, I have. He's so incredibly patient and gentle with Freyja that it's like a complete turnaround. She is grandpa's girl for sure. It's still really hard to trust that he won't lose his temper with her, though. He probably doesn't realize it, but I always brush off his offers to babysit if my mom won't be there. I just can't take that step and I don't know if I'll ever be able to. Again, Dad, if you're reading this - I really hope you understand. It's not you, it's me.
My mom has some health issues too. She has degenerative disk disease and arthritic knees, high cholesterol and triglycerides, and high blood pressure. She also works full time, on her feet. She's a pharmacy technician and as much as she bitches about it I know she loves her job. She's looking at her 20 year anniversary soon. The woman gets 6 weeks of paid time off every year, between vacation and personal time. She spends the majority of the time on home improvement projects or with Freyja (the only grandchild thus far). I get my artistic ability, my singing voice, my penchant for sarcasm and my compassion (I do have some, I swear!) from her.
That said, she's also passive-aggressive, overly sensitive, and easy to bait. She goes to church but I'm not really sure she believes, because anytime Kerwin or I mention Paganism, Heathenry, the Pagan roots of any given Christian celebration, you name it, she goes off like a roman candle. She doesn't get that me not attending church is not an insult to her or her parenting. Honestly, I think it's proof that she raised a child who can think for herself, which is a noble and excellent thing.
Growing up, we were lower-middle class until my parents divorced. Then we stayed with my mom, and we were poor. She refused to take any help (oh yeah, I get my overly prideful streak from her, too), and I'm sure there were nights when she didn't eat after working two part time jobs to make ends meet. I have to give my parents credit in that they never used my brother and I as pawns. They had a standard custody arrangement but any time my dad wanted to take us for an extra day or they needed to switch a weekend, they did. There was never any problem with my dad paying child support. He paid what was mandated and took care of other things we needed as well. There was very little, if any, playing one parent against the other.
My dad remarried, divorced, and then my parents got remarried. Yeah, I wonder the point of all of it too. Maybe they both had some growing up to do.
As much as any of that might make me hate my parents, I don't. Sure, I went through that phase when I was a teenager - I think most normal people do - but the real clincher in getting along with my parents and actually liking them was tied to my moving out. My mom and I can talk on the phone for hours and still have a hard time hanging up. My dad and I have bonded through our love of weird trivia and family nostalgia.
I'm terrified of losing my dad to his health conditions before Freyja is old enough to remember him. I'm terrified of my mom getting Alzheimer's like her mom, and not knowing us anymore. I don't want to think of the day when I can't call my dad on my lunch break just to say hi, or call my mom at night to tell her what Freyja did because I know she'll understand. Until then, I just make the memories as I can; for Freyja, and for me.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
A Day
Freyja was a holy terror this afternoon. No nap. Cranky. Whiney. Why am I at home? Mostly because she's been acting punk and running random fevers. Also, I have hit a low point again at work and I don't really feel like going in. Wrong of me? Probably. I did manage to work from home about 4 hours yesterday and 3 today. Hopefully the malaise will have lifted by tomorrow, I can't get away with staying out of the office for three days in a week.
Anyway, back to the holy terror. I still let her fingerpaint this afternoon. She wanted to dye eggs (we picked up a kit at Target today), but I drew the line there - the way she's been listening I would have had a rainbow kitchen, and not in a good way. I just didn't have the patience for the boiling and the fizzing and the stains.
I suggested she fingerpaint, and I'd cut egg shapes out of her paper. This seemed to appease her, and she happily painted six or seven sheets of paper. Some even stayed recognizable colors. I stuck them to the fridge as she finished each one. We had a good time. I bet most moms have good times every day with their children - I find myself yelling, screaming and unable to enjoy the essence of two-and-a-half lately, most days I don't enjoy Freyja or have good times with her as a rule. I'm sure this is something I'm doing wrong.
Then we went to play outside. It was too nice to stay in. Besides, the fingerpaintings had to dry. I had plans for them. It was bubbles, bubbles everywhere. She rode her "scootah". She slid down her baby slide. I sat on the trunk of our car thats' been dead for over a year (yes, we DO live in a trailer park, thanks for asking) as she ran around, pretending she was riding her scootah to Mickey D's. Yes, we eat at the trans-fat, HCFS palace way too often. My overlarge ass is proof. When I was ready to go inside, she kept going back to the slide, the scootah, the sidewalk chalk for "a minute". I finally had to pick her up, cart her inside, and stick her in her room while she was screaming bloody murder.
I used the two minute timeout to cut the eggs out from the dried fingerpaintings. Never let it be said that I cannot multitask. I taped them up in one of our windows, but wanted something with more panache. I was going to cut letters out, but then I remembered I had some tempera laying around from Freyja's birthday cupcakes (I made a cupcake stand). With a few tricks from MS Word, I had a little backwards cheat sheet and I painted "Happy Spring" on the window below the fingerpainted eggs while Freyja screamed her head off next to my chair that she wanted to paint too.
And now I should go persuade her to eat some preservative-laden macaroni and cheese (that I will add frozen peas to) so she can go to bed, since she's running around the house screaming with princess sunglasses on upside down and lamb ears from the Target dollar section on her head...
Pictures of the window:
Anyway, back to the holy terror. I still let her fingerpaint this afternoon. She wanted to dye eggs (we picked up a kit at Target today), but I drew the line there - the way she's been listening I would have had a rainbow kitchen, and not in a good way. I just didn't have the patience for the boiling and the fizzing and the stains.
I suggested she fingerpaint, and I'd cut egg shapes out of her paper. This seemed to appease her, and she happily painted six or seven sheets of paper. Some even stayed recognizable colors. I stuck them to the fridge as she finished each one. We had a good time. I bet most moms have good times every day with their children - I find myself yelling, screaming and unable to enjoy the essence of two-and-a-half lately, most days I don't enjoy Freyja or have good times with her as a rule. I'm sure this is something I'm doing wrong.
Then we went to play outside. It was too nice to stay in. Besides, the fingerpaintings had to dry. I had plans for them. It was bubbles, bubbles everywhere. She rode her "scootah". She slid down her baby slide. I sat on the trunk of our car thats' been dead for over a year (yes, we DO live in a trailer park, thanks for asking) as she ran around, pretending she was riding her scootah to Mickey D's. Yes, we eat at the trans-fat, HCFS palace way too often. My overlarge ass is proof. When I was ready to go inside, she kept going back to the slide, the scootah, the sidewalk chalk for "a minute". I finally had to pick her up, cart her inside, and stick her in her room while she was screaming bloody murder.
I used the two minute timeout to cut the eggs out from the dried fingerpaintings. Never let it be said that I cannot multitask. I taped them up in one of our windows, but wanted something with more panache. I was going to cut letters out, but then I remembered I had some tempera laying around from Freyja's birthday cupcakes (I made a cupcake stand). With a few tricks from MS Word, I had a little backwards cheat sheet and I painted "Happy Spring" on the window below the fingerpainted eggs while Freyja screamed her head off next to my chair that she wanted to paint too.
And now I should go persuade her to eat some preservative-laden macaroni and cheese (that I will add frozen peas to) so she can go to bed, since she's running around the house screaming with princess sunglasses on upside down and lamb ears from the Target dollar section on her head...
Pictures of the window:
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Postpartum Abandonment
For January's Pulsate Olympics.
I suppose the feeling of abandonment started in the labor room, when Kerwin left me to go talk on the phone as the Stadol wore off. It continued as he slept soundly for eight hours, snoring away on the little cot in my postpartum room, as I attempted to cope with being sliced open from hip to hip and having a new little person to take care of besides. I couldn’t get up from the bed, and the nurses shook their fingers at me and said “Don’t you fall asleep with the baby in your bed!!!!” so I was up until 2 AM, hopped up on morphine with my beautiful new baby, who I couldn’t stop kissing and smelling and trying to get latched on properly, while I tried in vain to call to Kerwin to wake him up to put Freyja in her plastic bassinet, and the one response I got was, “Leave me alone, I’m sleeping. I was up early.”
Really? I was up at the same time, and I had major surgery plus 12 hours of labor today. But you sleep, honey. You just go for it.
I finally had to call the nurses to come and get Freyja at about 2 AM, said I needed a little sleep, but please bring her back when she woke so I could feed her. They came back at 4 AM with a little bottle of soy formula and one of those supplemental nursers, the one that you have to tape above your nipple. She told me, “Your milk hasn’t come in yet. Your baby is hungry. You have to give her this formula. You just fed her two hours ago and she’s hungry again, you’re not making enough milk.”
Everything, EVERYTHING in my brain was screaming that this was wrong, I wasn’t supposed to have milk yet, just colostrum. Breastfed babies need to eat about every 1 and a half to two hours, this is normal. However, my baby was crying louder than my brain could handle, so I let them tape the little tube to my breast and let her eat the nasty soy formula (never to this day do I understand why it was soy formula). They took her away again.
I was awoken again at 6 AM by the family practice doctor that was on call for Freyja’s doctor. He was nice and smiling, said I had a perfect baby and that her regular doctor would come to see her on Monday before we were discharged. I fell back asleep and the baby was back at 8 AM, with the young morning nurse who had GIVEN HER A BOTTLE OF FORMULA without my permission. I just nodded numbly, I didn’t even know what to say to that. Getting mad was no use, I had no backup from my snoring husband.
I had visitors intermittently the rest of the three days I spent in the hospital. Kerwin, however, went right back to work on Sunday morning. He came on Sunday night for a couple of hours, then went home to “clean”. He also worked Monday (when the hospital records woman came in and was beastly to me and caused me to cry profusely, refusing to believe that I was married because my last name was different from ‘the baby’s father’) and went his first day of college classes in the new semester on Monday night as well. Thankfully, his instructor told him to go be with his wife and new baby instead of spending 3 hours in class. I didn’t even get any flowers.
When we came home on Monday night, there were dishes and laundry everywhere.
Want to guess who ended up doing all those dishes and laundry 4 days after major abdominal surgery while trying to not become sleep deprived, shower every day, and take care of a newborn (who, thankfully, was VERY mellow)? Yeah. That’d be me, because he was right back to work (regular FT job plus being editor of the college newspaper which caused more than a few incredibly late nights) and college classes. I don’t know if it’s even fair to blame him for abandoning me. We were pretty broke and needed the money, but I also needed the support that I never got. All of my family lives within a 20 mile radius, and nobody called to offer to come and sit with Freyja so I could sleep, or help me with housework, or just come and visit to keep me from going batshit crazy. Nobody called at all, except my folks. Granted, my folks both work full time as well, and my mom took a week of vacation over my due date, which was two weeks too early.
The crazy thoughts started coming about two days after we got home. I kept telling myself that it was normal to want to put Freyja in her carseat, strap her in, and leave her out by the road for somebody else to come and take care of. After all, I was having no trouble sleeping, or sleeping too much, and that was the major harbinger of PPD according to the books, magazines, and websites. I didn’t have time to be crazy, I had too much to do being a new mom with an absentee husband. I was neurotic in checking on her to make sure she was still breathing, feeling incredibly guilty that I wished she just didn’t exist.
I tried to make up for the thoughts by cuddling her and singing to her, and loving on her all the time. I wanted so desperately to feel that “bonding” that all the books talked about. I really wanted to feel differently, and I knew what I was feeling wasn’t right, but I had no words to ask for help, nor did I feel that I would be worth my salt as a mother if I did. At least I had a husband who did what he could when he was home. Lots of single moms did all of this on their own, and no complaining. What right did I have to complain, or to ask for help, or to admit that I was really having a hard time?
Thankfully, my physical recovery from the caesarean birth was textbook. I took it easy as much as I could, I slept when Freyja slept except her morning nap, which I used to shower (to prove to myself I wasn’t crazy, I showered daily and was meticulous about my appearance and clothing) and hop online to get some form of socialization.
I still don’t know how I got through those first few months, much less the first six weeks. I lied on the PHQ at my six week postpartum appointment. I didn’t want to admit that I was weak. I didn’t want them to call CPS and have Freyja taken from me because of my horrible thoughts. I didn’t want to go to the psych ward. The fear of those interventions was crippling, and so I couldn’t admit my problems and concerns.
I am terrified to have another baby, because I hear that PPD gets worse. My words to Kerwin on the subject the other night were, “I’m scared to turn into Andrea Yates”.
I still think that I’m a terrible mother for thinking what I did when Freyja was so tiny. When people comment on how wonderful she is, or how smart, or how pretty, I feel guilty, because I couldn’t see how wonderful she was when she was a newborn because my brain doesn’t function properly. I hope that someday I can get past it.
I suppose the feeling of abandonment started in the labor room, when Kerwin left me to go talk on the phone as the Stadol wore off. It continued as he slept soundly for eight hours, snoring away on the little cot in my postpartum room, as I attempted to cope with being sliced open from hip to hip and having a new little person to take care of besides. I couldn’t get up from the bed, and the nurses shook their fingers at me and said “Don’t you fall asleep with the baby in your bed!!!!” so I was up until 2 AM, hopped up on morphine with my beautiful new baby, who I couldn’t stop kissing and smelling and trying to get latched on properly, while I tried in vain to call to Kerwin to wake him up to put Freyja in her plastic bassinet, and the one response I got was, “Leave me alone, I’m sleeping. I was up early.”
Really? I was up at the same time, and I had major surgery plus 12 hours of labor today. But you sleep, honey. You just go for it.
I finally had to call the nurses to come and get Freyja at about 2 AM, said I needed a little sleep, but please bring her back when she woke so I could feed her. They came back at 4 AM with a little bottle of soy formula and one of those supplemental nursers, the one that you have to tape above your nipple. She told me, “Your milk hasn’t come in yet. Your baby is hungry. You have to give her this formula. You just fed her two hours ago and she’s hungry again, you’re not making enough milk.”
Everything, EVERYTHING in my brain was screaming that this was wrong, I wasn’t supposed to have milk yet, just colostrum. Breastfed babies need to eat about every 1 and a half to two hours, this is normal. However, my baby was crying louder than my brain could handle, so I let them tape the little tube to my breast and let her eat the nasty soy formula (never to this day do I understand why it was soy formula). They took her away again.
I was awoken again at 6 AM by the family practice doctor that was on call for Freyja’s doctor. He was nice and smiling, said I had a perfect baby and that her regular doctor would come to see her on Monday before we were discharged. I fell back asleep and the baby was back at 8 AM, with the young morning nurse who had GIVEN HER A BOTTLE OF FORMULA without my permission. I just nodded numbly, I didn’t even know what to say to that. Getting mad was no use, I had no backup from my snoring husband.
I had visitors intermittently the rest of the three days I spent in the hospital. Kerwin, however, went right back to work on Sunday morning. He came on Sunday night for a couple of hours, then went home to “clean”. He also worked Monday (when the hospital records woman came in and was beastly to me and caused me to cry profusely, refusing to believe that I was married because my last name was different from ‘the baby’s father’) and went his first day of college classes in the new semester on Monday night as well. Thankfully, his instructor told him to go be with his wife and new baby instead of spending 3 hours in class. I didn’t even get any flowers.
When we came home on Monday night, there were dishes and laundry everywhere.
Want to guess who ended up doing all those dishes and laundry 4 days after major abdominal surgery while trying to not become sleep deprived, shower every day, and take care of a newborn (who, thankfully, was VERY mellow)? Yeah. That’d be me, because he was right back to work (regular FT job plus being editor of the college newspaper which caused more than a few incredibly late nights) and college classes. I don’t know if it’s even fair to blame him for abandoning me. We were pretty broke and needed the money, but I also needed the support that I never got. All of my family lives within a 20 mile radius, and nobody called to offer to come and sit with Freyja so I could sleep, or help me with housework, or just come and visit to keep me from going batshit crazy. Nobody called at all, except my folks. Granted, my folks both work full time as well, and my mom took a week of vacation over my due date, which was two weeks too early.
The crazy thoughts started coming about two days after we got home. I kept telling myself that it was normal to want to put Freyja in her carseat, strap her in, and leave her out by the road for somebody else to come and take care of. After all, I was having no trouble sleeping, or sleeping too much, and that was the major harbinger of PPD according to the books, magazines, and websites. I didn’t have time to be crazy, I had too much to do being a new mom with an absentee husband. I was neurotic in checking on her to make sure she was still breathing, feeling incredibly guilty that I wished she just didn’t exist.
I tried to make up for the thoughts by cuddling her and singing to her, and loving on her all the time. I wanted so desperately to feel that “bonding” that all the books talked about. I really wanted to feel differently, and I knew what I was feeling wasn’t right, but I had no words to ask for help, nor did I feel that I would be worth my salt as a mother if I did. At least I had a husband who did what he could when he was home. Lots of single moms did all of this on their own, and no complaining. What right did I have to complain, or to ask for help, or to admit that I was really having a hard time?
Thankfully, my physical recovery from the caesarean birth was textbook. I took it easy as much as I could, I slept when Freyja slept except her morning nap, which I used to shower (to prove to myself I wasn’t crazy, I showered daily and was meticulous about my appearance and clothing) and hop online to get some form of socialization.
I still don’t know how I got through those first few months, much less the first six weeks. I lied on the PHQ at my six week postpartum appointment. I didn’t want to admit that I was weak. I didn’t want them to call CPS and have Freyja taken from me because of my horrible thoughts. I didn’t want to go to the psych ward. The fear of those interventions was crippling, and so I couldn’t admit my problems and concerns.
I am terrified to have another baby, because I hear that PPD gets worse. My words to Kerwin on the subject the other night were, “I’m scared to turn into Andrea Yates”.
I still think that I’m a terrible mother for thinking what I did when Freyja was so tiny. When people comment on how wonderful she is, or how smart, or how pretty, I feel guilty, because I couldn’t see how wonderful she was when she was a newborn because my brain doesn’t function properly. I hope that someday I can get past it.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Birth
For Thordora's contest - and my own personal therapy.
Freyja's Birth
32 Weeks.
“I think she’s breech, but I can’t tell because of all your padding!” The nurse-midwife said, in a good-natured teasing manner. We had a good relationship, and she knew how best to get through to me. “Let’s send you for an ultrasound to make sure, if she is, there are some exercises you’ll want to do before she gets too big to flip easily.”
The husband and I nodded; another look at our growing baby was okay by us. Little did I know that agreeing to that ultrasound would start a steep, slippery slope of myriad interventions that would end in what I truly believe, for me, was birth trauma. I’ve learned a lot about labor and birth in training to become a doula – and yes, it was my birth experience that pushed me in that direction – enough to know that what happened to me just shouldn’t have happened at all.
32 Weeks, 5 Days
Checking my voicemail on the way home from work, I found a message from the scheduler at the clinic. “Heather, this is Josi, from the midwives office. I need you to call me back as soon as possible!” Driving down the highway, I dialed the number, my hands shaking and my heart in my chest. I could feel Freyja moving around inside of me, but it didn’t reassure me.
“Your ultrasound showed Freyja as too small for dates. She’s not growing properly, and we need you to come in for a non-stress test as soon as you can.”
I drove straight there, after calling Kerwin at work to have him meet me at the clinic. I got hooked up to the machines and the sound of Freyja’s heartbeat filled the tiny monitoring room. The midwife came in, not MY midwife but one of her partners. “I’m afraid we have to diagnose the baby with IUGR. That means –“
I cut her off. “Intrauterine growth restriction. I know what it means.”
I had twice weekly NST’s leading up to my due date. Every one was fine. I had weekly Doppler ultrasounds to measure the blood flow from my placenta to the baby and how the blood moved through the umbilical cord. Every single one was normal, even the one on my estimated due date as I napped on the table while the tech phoned the results into my midwife. I was terrified at each ultrasound, most of which were scheduled while my husband worked, terrified that they would say “She’s not growing, she hasn’t grown. The blood flow is bad. We have to induce you now. We have to get her out now.”
40 weeks, 3 days.
I wanted to be done. I walked and walked. Miles, it seemed. The baby was still floating, her head not engaged in my pelvis. The midwife checked my cervix. A fingertip dilated. She wanted to sweep my membranes, but I hadn’t dilated enough.
“You know we can’t let IUGR moms go more than a week overdue.”
“I know.”
“Let’s schedule an induction for Friday morning. That’s my call day.”
Small comfort. I went home and read. I wondered if I was favorable for induction. They wouldn’t induce me otherwise, right?
How naïve I was. How foolish and naïve, and impatient and excited to meet my baby.
41 weeks
We arrived at the hospital at 7:30 am, having high hopes that we would be parents by the afternoon.
We got checked into our room, and they came to give me my IV. They couldn’t find a vein in my hand, and it went on the side of my arm. I should have realized that this was a sign of things to come. We were excited, happy. Our labor nurse was wonderful. She was kind, attentive, and funny. I really wanted to have the baby while she was there to help us.
The pitocin was turned up every hour, until I was having contractions every two minutes that kept increasing in intensity. I wanted to hold out. No drugs. My husband was no help. He sat and read, or listened to music on the CD player that was supposed to be for me, to help me cope with labor. He held my hand in an unattached fashion until I told him to put the book away and pay attention, then he was better. I had friends there, and they helped. They distracted me and kept my spirits up. I finally asked for a narcotic at 2 PM, after 7 hours and only dilated to three centimeters. They broke my water so they could install internal monitors, and then gave me the shot of Stadol. I drifted in and out of sleep, coloring in a My Little Pony coloring book that my best friend’s daughter had donated to the cause. I could feel the contractions, but they no longer hurt as badly as before. I could cope, even if I was singing "Tainted Love" along with the beeps of the equipment.
My dad and grandma showed up around 5 pm as the narcotic was wearing off. My husband went to call some friends and family. My friends left to get dinner. My dad went to go to the bathroom, leaving me alone with my grandmother as the contractions came back with such a vengeance. I wanted to sit up, straddle the bed. The nurses kept scolding me, that they couldn’t get the baby’s heartbeat. I knew she was OK. I wanted to sit up, sitting up helped. My grandmother, bless her heart, patted my back and sat with me as I struggled through the contractions on my own.
I have never forgiven my husband for what I see as abandoning me, and I don’t know if I ever will. I don't think that he realizes even now how I feel about this. I am terrified that he'll do the same thing should I attempt a VBAC - I wouldn't give birth again without a doula, no matter what it cost me - because of my fear of my otherwise very thoughtful, attentive, and loving husband leaving me to go yack on the phone.
My midwife came back to check my dilation at around 7:30pm. My cervix had swollen shut. 12 hours of pitocin induced labor, broken waters, antibiotics for Group B strep, all for nothing.
“The baby is fine, her heart rate is great. She's tolerating labor just fine, but we’re going to have to do a c-section because of the Group B Strep and your water being broken.”
I was so tired by that point that I just wanted her out. “Can we turn the pitocin off, then?” I asked.
We sat around for another two hours, waiting for the obstetrician who would do my c-section. I called my mom, who left work early. My dad and grandma stayed around, which was nice of them. My friends came back, but they wouldn't allow Angie in the operating room – she was my photographer. The anesthesiologist came in and explained the spinal procedure to me, and I signed away my right to sue if I became paralyzed. I had a catheter inserted. I met the OB, and I trusted him immediately. I can’t explain why, I just did. My midwife would assist with the surgery.
I walked to the operating room under my own power, and clambered up onto the operating table. They gave my spinal in that forward leaning position I had wanted to spend my entire labor in while the nurse held my hand. She was a good nurse, too. The OR was so cold, and I was so tired. I just wanted to meet my baby. Kerwin came in, wearing scrubs, a hair cap, and shoe covers, and was allowed to sit by my head.
I don’t remember a lot about the surgery. I wanted to watch, but they wouldn’t let me. I didn’t feel anything, tugging or pain. I heard the OB say, “Heather, your baby is a stinker; she has her head right where I need to cut!”
I knew the moment they had pulled her out, because she started to scream. She was indignant, angry. I could feel her emotions flooding over me. It was 10:50 pm on August 27th. Happy birthday, baby.
“It’s a girl, right?” I said. Nothing about fingers and toes, just needed to know if it was a girl.
“Yes, it’s a girl!” my midwife called. “Wow, she’s chubby.”
“Wow, she’s chubby.” What? Wasn’t she supposed to be SMALL? IUGR and all that? TINY? We were expecting a five or six pounder. They sewed me up after I sent Kerwin off to the nursery with Freyja. It’s all a blur, that part.
I didn’t see her until an hour and a half later, all cleaned up and smelling like baby wash. She was beautiful. She was eight pounds, one ounce. She had a 34 cm head! One faulty ultrasound measurement screwed up my birth experience. One faulty ultrasound measurement marked me as high-risk, still marks me as high-risk. Intervention after intervention followed, just to “see if she was breech”.
I could probably pay for years of therapy, and it wouldn’t help. I felt cheated, robbed. I still do. I was so consumed by feelings of guilt and anger that I had a hard time bonding with my newborn. I wanted to bond with her so, so badly, and I didn’t. I had to fall in love with her over time. It wasn’t immediate, and I still wonder if I’m a bad mother because of it. Breastfeeding was an utter failure, and I still don’t know why. Was it because of the excess amounts of fluid pumped into me during 12 hours of induction and 36 hours of recovery? Was it because the ill-educated nurse came into my room at four AM and convinced a morphine-doped post-surgery me that my baby was hungry and I needed to use formula to feed her until my milk came in? Will it happen with another baby?
The postpartum period was incredibly difficult. My husband went right back to work and a new semester of college classes. I had little help at home. I still don’t know how I coped, just that I did because I had to.
We’re thinking about a second baby. I have the “right” kind of incision, and I’m hoping for a home VBAC. Birth should be fulfilling. It’s such an incredible, life changing event. It shouldn’t be managed and medicalized. It should take place with those you love, in a secure and comfortable environment where one can surrender to it. At least, that’s what I believe.
(I do feel I have to mention that my husband now knows the error of his ways and has been a marvelous and excellent father since he first laid eyes on Freyja in that operating room. The picture below is from her second day of life.)
Freyja's Birth
32 Weeks.
“I think she’s breech, but I can’t tell because of all your padding!” The nurse-midwife said, in a good-natured teasing manner. We had a good relationship, and she knew how best to get through to me. “Let’s send you for an ultrasound to make sure, if she is, there are some exercises you’ll want to do before she gets too big to flip easily.”
The husband and I nodded; another look at our growing baby was okay by us. Little did I know that agreeing to that ultrasound would start a steep, slippery slope of myriad interventions that would end in what I truly believe, for me, was birth trauma. I’ve learned a lot about labor and birth in training to become a doula – and yes, it was my birth experience that pushed me in that direction – enough to know that what happened to me just shouldn’t have happened at all.
32 Weeks, 5 Days
Checking my voicemail on the way home from work, I found a message from the scheduler at the clinic. “Heather, this is Josi, from the midwives office. I need you to call me back as soon as possible!” Driving down the highway, I dialed the number, my hands shaking and my heart in my chest. I could feel Freyja moving around inside of me, but it didn’t reassure me.
“Your ultrasound showed Freyja as too small for dates. She’s not growing properly, and we need you to come in for a non-stress test as soon as you can.”
I drove straight there, after calling Kerwin at work to have him meet me at the clinic. I got hooked up to the machines and the sound of Freyja’s heartbeat filled the tiny monitoring room. The midwife came in, not MY midwife but one of her partners. “I’m afraid we have to diagnose the baby with IUGR. That means –“
I cut her off. “Intrauterine growth restriction. I know what it means.”
I had twice weekly NST’s leading up to my due date. Every one was fine. I had weekly Doppler ultrasounds to measure the blood flow from my placenta to the baby and how the blood moved through the umbilical cord. Every single one was normal, even the one on my estimated due date as I napped on the table while the tech phoned the results into my midwife. I was terrified at each ultrasound, most of which were scheduled while my husband worked, terrified that they would say “She’s not growing, she hasn’t grown. The blood flow is bad. We have to induce you now. We have to get her out now.”
40 weeks, 3 days.
I wanted to be done. I walked and walked. Miles, it seemed. The baby was still floating, her head not engaged in my pelvis. The midwife checked my cervix. A fingertip dilated. She wanted to sweep my membranes, but I hadn’t dilated enough.
“You know we can’t let IUGR moms go more than a week overdue.”
“I know.”
“Let’s schedule an induction for Friday morning. That’s my call day.”
Small comfort. I went home and read. I wondered if I was favorable for induction. They wouldn’t induce me otherwise, right?
How naïve I was. How foolish and naïve, and impatient and excited to meet my baby.
41 weeks
We arrived at the hospital at 7:30 am, having high hopes that we would be parents by the afternoon.
We got checked into our room, and they came to give me my IV. They couldn’t find a vein in my hand, and it went on the side of my arm. I should have realized that this was a sign of things to come. We were excited, happy. Our labor nurse was wonderful. She was kind, attentive, and funny. I really wanted to have the baby while she was there to help us.
The pitocin was turned up every hour, until I was having contractions every two minutes that kept increasing in intensity. I wanted to hold out. No drugs. My husband was no help. He sat and read, or listened to music on the CD player that was supposed to be for me, to help me cope with labor. He held my hand in an unattached fashion until I told him to put the book away and pay attention, then he was better. I had friends there, and they helped. They distracted me and kept my spirits up. I finally asked for a narcotic at 2 PM, after 7 hours and only dilated to three centimeters. They broke my water so they could install internal monitors, and then gave me the shot of Stadol. I drifted in and out of sleep, coloring in a My Little Pony coloring book that my best friend’s daughter had donated to the cause. I could feel the contractions, but they no longer hurt as badly as before. I could cope, even if I was singing "Tainted Love" along with the beeps of the equipment.
My dad and grandma showed up around 5 pm as the narcotic was wearing off. My husband went to call some friends and family. My friends left to get dinner. My dad went to go to the bathroom, leaving me alone with my grandmother as the contractions came back with such a vengeance. I wanted to sit up, straddle the bed. The nurses kept scolding me, that they couldn’t get the baby’s heartbeat. I knew she was OK. I wanted to sit up, sitting up helped. My grandmother, bless her heart, patted my back and sat with me as I struggled through the contractions on my own.
I have never forgiven my husband for what I see as abandoning me, and I don’t know if I ever will. I don't think that he realizes even now how I feel about this. I am terrified that he'll do the same thing should I attempt a VBAC - I wouldn't give birth again without a doula, no matter what it cost me - because of my fear of my otherwise very thoughtful, attentive, and loving husband leaving me to go yack on the phone.
My midwife came back to check my dilation at around 7:30pm. My cervix had swollen shut. 12 hours of pitocin induced labor, broken waters, antibiotics for Group B strep, all for nothing.
“The baby is fine, her heart rate is great. She's tolerating labor just fine, but we’re going to have to do a c-section because of the Group B Strep and your water being broken.”
I was so tired by that point that I just wanted her out. “Can we turn the pitocin off, then?” I asked.
We sat around for another two hours, waiting for the obstetrician who would do my c-section. I called my mom, who left work early. My dad and grandma stayed around, which was nice of them. My friends came back, but they wouldn't allow Angie in the operating room – she was my photographer. The anesthesiologist came in and explained the spinal procedure to me, and I signed away my right to sue if I became paralyzed. I had a catheter inserted. I met the OB, and I trusted him immediately. I can’t explain why, I just did. My midwife would assist with the surgery.
I walked to the operating room under my own power, and clambered up onto the operating table. They gave my spinal in that forward leaning position I had wanted to spend my entire labor in while the nurse held my hand. She was a good nurse, too. The OR was so cold, and I was so tired. I just wanted to meet my baby. Kerwin came in, wearing scrubs, a hair cap, and shoe covers, and was allowed to sit by my head.
I don’t remember a lot about the surgery. I wanted to watch, but they wouldn’t let me. I didn’t feel anything, tugging or pain. I heard the OB say, “Heather, your baby is a stinker; she has her head right where I need to cut!”
I knew the moment they had pulled her out, because she started to scream. She was indignant, angry. I could feel her emotions flooding over me. It was 10:50 pm on August 27th. Happy birthday, baby.
“It’s a girl, right?” I said. Nothing about fingers and toes, just needed to know if it was a girl.
“Yes, it’s a girl!” my midwife called. “Wow, she’s chubby.”
“Wow, she’s chubby.” What? Wasn’t she supposed to be SMALL? IUGR and all that? TINY? We were expecting a five or six pounder. They sewed me up after I sent Kerwin off to the nursery with Freyja. It’s all a blur, that part.
I didn’t see her until an hour and a half later, all cleaned up and smelling like baby wash. She was beautiful. She was eight pounds, one ounce. She had a 34 cm head! One faulty ultrasound measurement screwed up my birth experience. One faulty ultrasound measurement marked me as high-risk, still marks me as high-risk. Intervention after intervention followed, just to “see if she was breech”.
I could probably pay for years of therapy, and it wouldn’t help. I felt cheated, robbed. I still do. I was so consumed by feelings of guilt and anger that I had a hard time bonding with my newborn. I wanted to bond with her so, so badly, and I didn’t. I had to fall in love with her over time. It wasn’t immediate, and I still wonder if I’m a bad mother because of it. Breastfeeding was an utter failure, and I still don’t know why. Was it because of the excess amounts of fluid pumped into me during 12 hours of induction and 36 hours of recovery? Was it because the ill-educated nurse came into my room at four AM and convinced a morphine-doped post-surgery me that my baby was hungry and I needed to use formula to feed her until my milk came in? Will it happen with another baby?
The postpartum period was incredibly difficult. My husband went right back to work and a new semester of college classes. I had little help at home. I still don’t know how I coped, just that I did because I had to.
We’re thinking about a second baby. I have the “right” kind of incision, and I’m hoping for a home VBAC. Birth should be fulfilling. It’s such an incredible, life changing event. It shouldn’t be managed and medicalized. It should take place with those you love, in a secure and comfortable environment where one can surrender to it. At least, that’s what I believe.
(I do feel I have to mention that my husband now knows the error of his ways and has been a marvelous and excellent father since he first laid eyes on Freyja in that operating room. The picture below is from her second day of life.)
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Creativeness
While chatting online with Karen and Lori last night, I was working on learning how to do digital scrapbooking. I don't have room or funds for the paper kind, and while previous things I've done (like party invitations) have been cute and all, they're not as fancy as I know they could be. Since I have the inclination, and its' a multitasking sort of activity, I figured I should give it a shot.
Here's what I came up with for our holiday card. Simple and sweet. I used the Holiday 2006 set from Shabby Princess. Yes, I know I still need a picture on there, and probably a few more little embellishments. I plan to stage a photo shoot tonight or tomorrow.
Here's what I came up with for our holiday card. Simple and sweet. I used the Holiday 2006 set from Shabby Princess. Yes, I know I still need a picture on there, and probably a few more little embellishments. I plan to stage a photo shoot tonight or tomorrow.
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