IT TAKES A VILLAGE–IT REALLY DOES

Jack is here. He arrived safely and with quite the fanfare a few weeks early.
He wasn’t sure exactly how he wanted to get here– we tried for a long while to
have the kind of births we’d read about and studied but, in the end, he decided
that maybe he’d rather have a little bit more of a dramatic entrance and came
via surgery. Someday I’ll blog about all that because it’s a good story… but
for now we are very pleased to find that our Jack is healthy and here and
perfect. Ten little fingers and ten little toes, 6 pounds and 11 oz., 19 inches,
hair all over his head, and the face of the character in “The Princess
Bride” that keeps saying, “Inconcievable!” (Though everyone who
sees him says he looks like his Daddy.)

What I want to say now– and I’m on limited time here… I don’t have large
windows of time to sit and think about what I want to type… is that maybe
Hillary Clinton was right. (Egad!) I do not know what Robby and I would do
without our family. It may not take a whole village to raise a child but it
certainly has taken a family to have a baby. My mom and my sister have been our life line this week. Both took turns with us during the long day of labor and
both were there during the days we spent at the hospital–. On the last night
they sent made Robby go home to get some very much needed sleep and they took turns sitting up to watch over Jack and me so that we wouldn’t have to be alone.

They’ve run errands, brought food and clothes and diapers and all the things
that we hadn’t gotten around to yet. I know, without even the slightest doubt,
that we would not have all survived as we have without them. As it is, Jack has
come home to a house that is well prepared for him– how do family-less people
do this?

Today the power went out. Little Jack is yellow with jaundice and needs a
“billy blanket” (he looks like a glow worm) to get his bilerubin
counts down… we were scooped up and taken to Uncle Andy’s office where there is a comfortable, soft couch, phone, television, and computer so that Jack could keep his blanket on without us having to go back to the hospital.

There have been others, too– Jack’s grandparents, Padre & Lady, have assured
him that he is the most wonderful baby to ever arrive… he has “Boy
Toys” now so that he’ll grow up properly masculine… His first fire truck
and airplane– even baseball cards to share with his Daddy. (And they’ve kept me plied in chocolates and sweets.) He’s a lucky boy. He seems pleased that they find him so perfect.

His Uncle Andy and his cousins, Maddie & Keegan, have visited him nearly every day and promised him all sorts of fun adventures in the future. They’ve kept us company and fussed over Jack and reminded the three of us how lucky we are.

Uncle Andy made sure our homecoming was a special one with blue balloons and welcome home! announcing Jack’s arrival.

His Great Granny has been here to admire him and a host of aunts and uncles–
both blood and pseudo– have visited or called or prayed for the three of us.

That’s what’s on my mind now– when I’m not thinking of how perfect my boy is– that I am such a lucky girl to have such a wonderful family. I have never been
so completely and utterly overwhelmed with gratitude.

Thank you– all of you.

Miss America and Miss Emmy

I hope you did the patriotic thing this weekend and watched the Miss America pageant? It’s an annual tradition to hunker down for it up at the cottage… my mother-in-law and I relish the opportunity to wallow in catty comments. Our favorites never make it to the top five. And this year’s broadcast provided no end to our sarcasm… from the terrible host to the reality show format, the centerfold bikini moments, the lack of talent (both shown and otherwise), and the ridiculously uncomfortable casual wear segment that had otherwise attractive women throwing their hips out.

Only Clay Aiken’s appearance placated Lady while I was happily lulled into compliance with a TV tray of my two favorite hors d’ourves.

Last night Robby and I settled in for the Emmys– quite possibly the worst of all the awards shows in that it’s never about the real performances but rather the critics’ darlings and the most popular lunch table crowd. In the “shows we said goodbye to this year” there wasn’t even a montage shot of our favorite Angel… let alone any nods to the writing or directing or acting in it. If I wanted to watch the HBO Awards I would have called the cable company after our free HBO disappeared to pay for it. The only speeches worth listening to were the “little people” who appear in rented tuxes to thank other little people that we do not know. How can you really trust the speeches of actors and actresses? How do we know they are being genuine and not just throwing themselves into another character? Sarah Jessica Parker’s “Oh gosh!”s only go so far… and then it’s a little pathetic. Meryl Streep got a laugh when the “Leave the Stage Now Please” music began and she started to sing her speech– but it was far funnier when, an hour earlier, that line was used by a comedy writer. I loved the Garry Shandling show (remember the pajammas??) but he’s a terrible host. Again, food provided the balm– we had a nice medium pepperoni Sir Pizza to nosh on…

Meanwhile, baby’s dropped. (Funny how NOW that’s a good thing but if I said that in two months it would have declared an unfit Mother??) We still have our little games of poking and prodding and pushing but it’s all done a little lower now.

“Hey– this uterus is broken”

Our weekly checkup with Dr. BooBoo today was delayed for nearly an hour. The good doctor was tied up in an emergency surgery (though we teased him about really just going out for a croissant and cappucino…) Nurse Clara did her best to entertain us but finally left us to wait in the little examining room alone.

At first we chatted.

Then we read all the posters on the walls. The Infertility Causes is a real gas. The phrase “semen analysis” sent us over the edge. We wondered if Clara would at all find it amusing if we asked for one. We imagined that her reply would be to the effect of, “Uh, actually, you two, this wouldn’t be a necessary procedure since Terri is pregnant…” to which I’d deadpan, “Yes, but I might want to have his baby someday…” (Bwahahahaha) We decided it might not come across so funny. She probably hears things like that. (Assuming that one fifth of the people in our Childbirth Class probably see Dr. BooBoo, too, it’s not that unlikely of a scenerio.)
We also like the word, “Prolactin”– we have no idea what it means but we like the way it sounds.

Next to the Infertility Poster is one by the OrthoCyclen birth control company that illustrates the female sex organs. Pretty. I accused Robby of staring at the naked lady illustration. He wasn’t really, but I was getting bored. We look at the ovaries until we’re both bored (probably about 18 seconds).

We turn our attention to the baby poster that shows each of the 9 months from a cut-away-womb-with-a-view… Months one and two feature the lizard baby from V. Month four has a semi normal looking human with plenty of room to play and frolic. By month six the poor kid looks like they have the potential to stick their eye out with a knee. And woe to the little lad in month nine– no room at all… arms and legs all crossed and scrunched. No wonder the poor kid kicks now and then.

We ran out of posters. I was tired of sitting up on the examining table with no back to lean on. And while Robby begged me to let him lower or raise the table I wasn’t sure Clara was ready to hear the sound of the motor engaged… so, reluctantly, he let me have the one chair and he slid over on to the rolling stool. I tried to doze while Robby read the brochures in their neat little holders along the window sill, “Overactive Bladders and Women” being the most interesting. He played with the little plastic model of the uterus… This one being one that shows potential diseases and– apparently going beyond what the manufacturer had intended, featured a broken off ovary. (No, Robby didn’t break it. At least I’m pretty sure it was already like that.) We wonder if they use the broken uterus model for barren people? I explain endometriosis to him. And 21 day cycles. (Who says reading Glamour doesn’t pay off? I sounded very smart.) Bonus time for Terri when I completely freak out the husband with a description of the female condoms.

Still no doctor.

Robby abandoned all sense of propriety and started peeking into the drawers. And then pouted when I hissed at him to close them and to not play with the blood pressure cuff… I took his Clie from him and played “alchemy” (Yes, by the way, I am amazing at it) and discouraged his idea to create sculptures out of the K-Y Jelly and swabs.

I should point out, too, that during all of this the little boom box on the counter played a soothing repetoire of gurgling brooks, ocean waves breaking, and tinkling piano nature sounds. We read the CD liner notes.

We tried to think up baby names but our list is short and we don’t argue much about the names we like… and, besides, we can’t name them completely until he/she has made an appearance. Our name might not fit. The kid already will need therapy. Why add to it? (“I hate my name you idiots!”)

Eventually Dr. BooBoo makes his appearance and apologizes for the delay. We straighten up and try to act like grown-ups. We go through our usual routine (it’s a good routine) of not having anything major to report. No bleeding. No leakage of fluid. No major contractions. Baby’s moving about regularly. I hop up on the table so that Dr. BooBoo can inflict pain on my pelvis bone with his weekly measurement of the uterus. (No, it’s okay. Keep reading. This is just an external exercise involving a measuring tape… ) He palms baby’s head and remarks that he/she has moved lower into position (Hope we get a good lap and not one of those sucky outside ones) and that he/she is on the small size (that’s good. Nine pound babies freak me out.) He slides the doppler across and we hear the clearly pumping little heart– and a nice couple of kicks (baby doesn’t really appreciate having his/her head palmed.) We joke that baby gets ghetto on the good doctor, “Step off!” we imagine he/she saying and wonder if he/she is wearing the Sean John line of clothing? Joined a gang?

We leave in high spirits. Late for work and without time to stop for an iced chai (that’s my order. Robby would just get a black, plain coffee)… but in high spirits. An unbroken uterus does that.

Oprah owes me a car

Trish tried to get us to the Oprah taping yesterday. The 19th season premiere that resulted in EVERY SINGLE studio audience member GETTING A BRAND NEW CAR.

And to think we just wanted a night in Chicago and a chance to see live Oprah. Sheesh.

It was a great show, albeit one I watched not from her tiers of seats at Harpo Studios, but on my striped couch via my dear TiVo. I laughed. I cried. I love give away shows. It’s fun to see people so overwhelmedly happy. It balances out Ann Curry’s furrowed brow while she relates the latest car bombing death toll in Iraq. And it certainly cancels out Kitty Kelley’s incinderary take on the Bush family. (For those of you that missed it, my friend Matt Lauer did a bang up job unraveling her twisted little yarns this morning on the Today show. Bless you Matt. Kitty Kelley is an evil, vile little woman who deserves nothing better than whispers about her where-ever she goes.)

Oprah gave away the cars, met a woman who only wanted to meet her, set up a homeless girl with an incredible scholarship/esteem boosting fashion shoot and make-over/and a $10 k wardrobe, AND saved a family with 8 foster children from certain eviction. That’s my kind of television. How much fun would it be to do that for people?

If I were Oprah (and clearly, for many reasons, I’m not) I would buy my friend Ericka a car, get my friend Sue who hates flying on the best ship to England to see the costume collections there, fly in the chef from our honeymoon to make reindeer sausage for Robby, and endow the Museum where I work with the money to restore the historic buildings in our trust. And that would be this afternoon. Tomorrow I’d gleefully fund the documentary my friend Brad labors over, rent out the Rockefeller Center skating rink for my nieces and I, and send Oprah flowers for making me so happy yesterday in a vicarious way.

As it is I wrote her a thank you note.

Movie etiquette for the masses

Last night my sister and I went to a screening of the new HBO sports special, “Nine Innings from Ground Zero”– a documentary of the 2001 World Series games (and the Yankees performances in those games) to the healing of the city in many ways. It’s remarkable for it’s relative lack of maudlinity (yes, that is a word I just made up) and it’s use of humor.

But the real stars of our We’re More Special Than You Screening Experience were the three women that sat to the left of us in our row with only two empty seats as buffer. Apparently they are unfamiliar with the concept of attending a movie in public. That, unlike the experience you might have by watching a movie in your own home, the public movie experience requires you to be aware of the comfort of those around you. Just as you might not choose to watch a public movie in the nightgown you would wear at a home viewing, you also might want to keep your conversations, at a public viewing, to the barest minimum.

Trish and I are Nazis about this. Luckily the community in which we live is very supportive of shunning talkers at most movies. Yes, occasionally there will be the boneheaded teenagers that must make comments to prove their existence… but, for the most part, people respond to one of Three Levels of Gentle Reminders:

1. The “gee, do you realize how much louder you are talking than you think you are?” look… done best when accompanied by an apologetic shrug of the shoulders and “yikes!” expression. Employing this states, “Hello friend. We’re a team! We’re in this movie experience together! Yay!”

2. A slight elevation. No more apologetic shrugs. This calls for the use of a furrowed brow that leans more toward abject confusion and concentration then disgust or fury… As though you were saying, “Hey there bud, we’re not a team. I don’t like you. Let’s bring down the noise level to a nice silence, okay?” The feeling is one of dismay that they might be so disappointing as an individual.

3. The no-holds-barred look of utter disgust. Communicating the thought, “Hey, you’re an ass. I really, really resent you being alive. Please, please choke on your popcorn so that you, for the love of everything Elvis, drop dead and give me two freakin’ moments of peace to watch the movie I just shelled out $15 dollars for [I eat a lot at movies]…”

Our ninnies to the left got to Level One within about 45 seconds of the movie starting. They numbered only two then– but it took both of them and a cell phone equipped with two-way-paging to alert the third woman to their seat in the not crowded, not darkly lit theater. Maybe it was a blind date. We don’t know. We do know that Contestant Number One is completely unaware that her phone has a feature called “Volume” that can be controlled. My apologetic shrug elicited a grin from the Idiot Woman Nearest to Me that implied she thought she just made a friend. (Huh. And I had thoughts of slashing her tires…)

Within 10 minutes we were at Level Two. Trish and I both employed our best looks of disbelief to no avail. The Three DingALings chatted on and on. Incongruously placed with the sobering scenes of the Twin Towers shattered remnants and the bucket brigade of searching firemen was the raucous laughter next to us.

By 15 minutes they were getting full blown Level Three attention from the both of us as well as some nicely timed glares from the people in front of us. But alas, their own conversation was more compelling than our Movie Rage.

At an utter loss, Sister Trish employed the rarely used Level Five. (Yes, there’s a Level Four but it involves well aimed black jujubes and some stong language…) Next to me she rose up like an angry cobra and hissed, over the front of me and in a manner of direct fire, “Shhhhhussssssh-h!” The force was something to behold, the length and timing of the final h. The utter strength and focus. This was no “old lady whispering hush,” friends, this was poetry in motion.

And, miraculously, it was effective for a good 7 minutes.

Well done, sister. Well done, indeed.

Off to the Fair

The bug has bitten my husband.

He went to his first living-history event as a participant (as opposed to a “I’m here with the wallet to fund Terri” status) and I think he just might be obsessed. The occasion was my annual trip to the greater Dayton area for a “trades fair” set at the turn of the century (turn of the 19th century that is). It’s a happy event free of the battles and (fake) blood of the mid-19th century reenactments I’ve also frequented. This one is gentile and full of food and mirth and the talents of many friends– like Bea who fashons amazing bonnets and Kathleen who has unparalleled research in daycaps… Jon’s dead on period clothing… Our dear “Wooden Hamster” friend who plies us with the necessary ribbons and tapes in the appropriate linens, silks, cottons, and wools…

The bump prevented me from wearing my usual garb but Ericka-Friend rounded up a wardrobe for both myself and Robby– saving the day and assuring us that we could play as oppose to just visit. Our very first purchase of the weekend was a tall crowned straw hat for Robby… He cut quite the swath. (Between Baby and husband it will be an act of God that I’ll ever have anything new to wear…)

Ironically, he was sanctioned in as part of a millinery… but, to be fair, the millinery is set up next door to one of several taverns. Plied with beer and his new little clay tavern pipe he seemed very content.

Meanwhile, our pals Sue & Chris & Jon surprised us beyond all measure when they presented baby with the most beautifully hand-grained trunk. Baby’s little toys won’t know what to do in such a fine piece of furniture. (Baby’s Mama, on the other hand, knows to be very, very grateful to know such good and dear people.)

So amongst the Indians-in-their-breechcloths and elegantly arrayed townspeople the first meeting of the ALF (Amish Liberation Front) met and enjoyed FriendStone’s finely prepared beef roast under the tall peak of the Brothers Byrd tent… and a good time was had by all.

Baby 101 The Final Frontier

Our Education in Childbirth has formally ended– which, considering that we haven’t actually experienced Childbirth, is a little ironic. (Then again you get your teaching certification before you get a classroom so it’s all good.) Teacher took us through one last review and one last practicing of our breathing… Showed us a video about newborn babies and what to expect at first. (They’re slimy little cone headed creatures that don’t really resemble a human baby for 12-24 hours… Nice.) Went over circumcision (ouch), umbilical cords (ick), and soft spots (shudder); Postpartum, baby blues vs. psychosis; bleeding, oozing, and seeping; and to remember to pack chapstick for the hospital.

Our rather large class (still minus the Felon and his Fiancée, sadly) had dwindled each week a bit more so that last night we were still a big group but no longer unwieldy large. For the first time almost everyone piped up with a question or two that Teacher patiently explained. “How does billing work?” “Should I bring my own robe and slippers?” “What’s the deal with the home-visit option?” “Will the baby be with me the whole time I’m in the hospital?” “How many people can there be in the delivery room?”

Teacher’s kind eyes swept the room and met our anxious pairs. She was gracious enough not to have singled out the ones of us she worries most about– so there weren’t any “Robin Redbreast” groups sitting smugly across from the “Sparrows” like in 3rd grade reading. She finished answering our queries and then took us on a tour of the 4th Floor of our hospital– a four winged asterix of Labor & Delivery & Recovery, Moms & Newborns, Special Care Nursery, and Special Care Moms & Newborns.

Our group was large enough that we needed to take three or four elevators and, in ours, was the Teenage Girl who had sat in class alone tonight without her sidekick Mom. I’d felt really bad for her all night– while Robby held my hands and breathed with me she’d sat quietly by the pillar staring down at the table in front of her. And while the other Dad’s and Support People (the Doula’s a big fake, we’re certain of that now) fired away questions she’d remained silent. The only time she’d said anything is when she took a form up, at break, for Teacher to sign. The videos we’ve watched have had single mothers but they’ve never, ever been portrayed like this girl– all by herself. So, in the elevator, I turned to her and asked if her mother was okay? And she seemed relieved and immediately started talking… “ourcousinisintownfromWestPointandshehadpromisedtotakehimshoppingandsoshecouldn’tbeheretonight,too.” Startled by all this information at once I said that I was glad to know that all was okay. To which the girl again launched into a breathless rattle of a drawl, “wellwe’vebeengoingthroughalotlately.” I nodded and said that I imagined they were. “Mydad’sdogstartedhavingseizuresandwedidn’tknowifitwouldliveornotsowe’vealltakenturnstostaywithitandhelpitthrough…mymomwasupalllastnightandthenightbeforemeandmystepbrothertookshiftssowe’veallbeenreallytiredbutnowthedogisonmedicationandhe’sokay.” Robby and I both stumbled over each other to say how good of news that was and we were guiltily grateful when the doors opened and we were separated from her in the hallway while waiting for Teacher. We turned our attention to the couple with the Girl Who NEVER Smiles. Not once in the entire 3 weeks. She has this perpetually mournful look on her face. (Robby thought he caught her in the act once but by the time I’d turned to see it was only a grimace that remained on her face.)

Our hospital has been undergoing renovations to remove the old school sterility of stainless steel and tile. Now carpet gives way to wood floors that gleam under new lighting. Everything’s coated in wood– the tables and beds and furniture. It’s a softer environment to be sure– but still we were a nervous lot shuffling behind Teacher into the rooms where she showed us the tools and the contents of the little carts and drawers. It was a quiet night on the Labor & Delivery Wing– only the Alternative Birthing Suite had been used. In the hallways we stopped to admire the collages of doctors holding bundled little red-faced aliens. The occasional orderly or nurse cast us a smile here and there.

We took a peek into the Special Care Nursery where a wee little baby lay in a bassinette wiggling and mewing wee little cries into the ears of the nurse and two women sitting in that room’s twilighting. We hope that our babies, collectively, will avoid this wing.

On to the Moms & Newborn Wing we trudged and squeezed into one of the larger rooms (we don’t want the teeny tiny room 412 we noted– it’s miniscule next to the others. But now I’ve just jinxed myself, I’m sure, into getting that very room). Here an ugly chair by the bed flipped down into a quasi lazyboy/rollout for “dad.” Despite the wood it’s still a hospital room with it’s bad vertical blinds and stripped environment.

At the elevators we again divided into several small traveling parties and, when the doors opened back on our exit floor, we lingered uncertainly until Teacher’s group appeared at last. She dismissed us by saying that, since she was a “praying type of person” that she’d keep us in her prayers and hope for safe deliveries for all of us and happy parenthoods.

Most of these people I’ll not ever see again. We weren’t a real sociable group anyway… No big bonding outside of hearing two of the fathers ask, “You ready for this?” outside of the bathroom last night. (The answer, by the way from the second father, was, “No– but does that really matter?”) Still… I wish them all good luck and hope that someone in the group might wish the same for us. It’s been an education, that’s for sure.