the pieces of my life

Have you noticed that the Red Sox have won the last four games? Did you know that I gave birth to our son four nights ago (okay, technically three nights ago, but work with me)? Coincidence? We think not.

Not acupuncture nor pelvic tilts nor bags of frozen vegetables on my abdomen got him to turn, but he decided he wanted to come out anyway. Friday was both mine and Adam’s last day at work, and we had planned on spending the following week getting ready for Brown Brown. Adam had a final internship outing on Friday night: a cruise ride around the Newburyport Harbor (which is 45 minutes north of Boston). I waffled until the last minute on whether or not to accompany him, and ultimately decided I was just too tuckered out. It was a really stormy night, so after a quiet last day at work, I went to the video store to pick up the evening’s entertainment and headed home. I had a long to-do list, but I took one look at our filthy house and decided I was really too tired to do anything, so I lay down on the couch to watch trashy TV. At about 7:45, I decided I should have something to eat. Yet, I really was too beat to get up. I made it as far as the five feet to the chair in the living room, while I thought about dinner. All of a sudden, I realized, “Hey, there’s something really wet going on.” To avoid too much information, let’s just say it took about 15 minutes or so for me to realize I wasn’t peeing in my pants. I called our OB, who said, “Come on in!” I told her Adam was a good hour and a half away, and could I wait for him?, but she said, “Actually, you should get here as soon as you can. As long as there are no contractions, you can drive yourself.” And so I did but only after calling a very bedfuddled Adam who was in the middle of the harbor cruise and incredibly unsure of what to do. I made it to the hospital somehow (the drive is one big blur) and as I was checking in, the nurse assured me, “Your husband called. He’s on his way.” I’ll let Adam tell his side of things, but I sat in the waiting room, feeling very self-conscious about being alone and wet. Luckily, I got to jump to the head of the line, which was great because Friday night was a packed house in Labor and Delivery. According to my OB, stormy nights are always busy; there’s an unscientific theory that the barometric pressure helps water break. Anyway, I was sitting there when I heard one of the nurses say, “The breech rupture goes next.” Never have words such as “breech rupture” sounded so good. “That’s me!” I said, jumping up. I was ushered back and tests were given, ultrasounds taken, and soon Adam showed up (yeah, he didn’t speed much). To condense the story here (because the Doodlebug really wants to get fed soon), he was still breech and a c-section began at 11ish. At 12:02 a.m. on August 23, Doodlebug was pulled from my womb butt first. Our own little Macbeth baby. A real Red Sox rally monkey. He was six pounds, ten ounces, and nineteen inches long with a full head of black hair. He’s been an incredibly fussy baby who doesn’t want to be put down for more than a second, but that’s okay because I’ve been an incredibly fussy mommy who doesn’t want to put him down for more than a second. It’s an incredible, surreal, amazing, emotional, awe-inspiring thing, and really, there’s no point in blogging any more about it because there’s no way to put into words the feeling of holding your very own child. Things are going to be a little quiet here in blogdom for awhile. (Side note: I won’t be responding to e-mail until we’re home from the hospital, and expect me to be slow about it.)

If you recall, once upon a time, I had comments on my site. I took them down because I found I was compulsively checking them while at work. Well, I’m not going to be working for a while, so I decided to experiment with putting them back up. It may take a try or two for me to get these working right, so if they’re not working for a bit, just be patient with me. If I find I’m still compulsive about it, they may go away again. Also, just so you all know, I have no qualms about being a comments nazi. After all, this is my blog and there is no freedom of speech here. If your comment rubs me the wrong way (it’s irrelevant or mean spirited), off it will go! But for now, comment away.

So, now that I’m doomed to evenings on the couch, I find myself addicted to VH1’s I Love the ’70s show. While I can’t stay up late enough to watch both episodes (as I could have in the ’70s, if only my parents would have let me), I find that the ones I have seen transport me back to my days as a South Miami kid, when Morgan Freeman was best known as Easy Reader and I knew that as a woman I could bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never, never let you forget you’re a man (although the show hasn’t shown that commercial, it’s deeply imprinted into my brain as representative of all things 1970s).

Of course, while this show brings back many childhood memories for me, it only reinforces the fact that Adam is almost five years younger than me. “Remember the bicentennial?” I asked him. Nope, not a memory of it. And why should he? He was only four and a half. But I remember it. I remember collecting the bicentennial quarters. I remember going to watch the fireworks on a small hill in a park by a high school, and my sister crying and crying and crying because the fireworks were so loud (I also remember that the bathroom stalls had no doors and making my mother try to block me from view. I didn’t understand why there were no doors at the time and in retrospect realize that Miami, even in the ’70s, had crappy scary high schools). I remember the patriotic cover my elementary school yearbook had that year. Adam claims I couldn’t have that many memories of the ’70s, but he’s wrong: those were many of my formative years. So, in what will be one of my more self-indulgent posts, here are some of my strongest memories of the 1970s:

• My mother explaining to me why Anita Bryant was a bad person and what “homosexual” meant and why it was okay for my school teachers to be “homosexual.”
  
• My allowance didn’t cover the entire price of a Mad Magazine, which was 50 cents (my allowance was a quarter). By the time the monthly magazine came out, I wouldn’t have been able to save the whole 50 cents. My father would give me my allowance on a Friday, and then we’d go to the newsstand in the next morning, and I’d spend my allowance generally on a Richie Rich or an Archie comic book or a candy bar. However, my father, a closet Mad Magazine reader himself, would generally take pity on me and kick in the extra quarter for the magazine (and eventually the extra 35 cents when they raised the price to 60 cents).
  
• Geoff, my best friend Charlotte’s older brother, explaining to us why it was so shocking for Eric Clapton to be singing “Cocaine” on television and what, exactly, cocaine was.
  
• “Oh no!” “No Coke, Pepsi” Noogie-patrol. “Baseball been a berry berry good to me.” “Candygram.” “And she had a teeny tiny drop of sweat on the tip of her nose and I wanted to say, ‘Hey, Barbara, knock that drop of sweat off your nose!'” “Jane, you ignorant slut.” “Never mind.” The Bass-o-Matic.
  
• Finally getting a Little House on the Prairie skirt in a lovely shade of peach.
  
• Being forced to sit through “Black Dog” before my dad’s 8-track of Led Zeppelin IV would get to “Stairway to Heaven.”
  
• Buying my first 45 record–“Run Joey Run”.
  
• My mother trying to explain the Watergate trials to me, but my being infinitely more interested in The Six-Million Dollar Man (which actually came on Sunday nights past my bedtime, but I was my father’s excuse to watch the show so I was allowed to stay up late to see it. At the end of each episode, he’d say, “Time for bed,” and I’d say, “Scenes, scenes, scenes!” and I’d be allowed to stay up just a few minutes longer to see the scenes for the next episode).
  
• My mother explaining (she did a lot of explaining to me in those days) what those words written on the bathroom walls of her school meant (she was getting her fine arts degree at the University of Miami in those days), and why it was okay to say those words–there was no such thing as a “bad” word–(and she did–and still does–say them frequently) but not at school and not in front of my grandparents.
  
• Not even having the concept of a seat belt in my dad’s MG convertible as the Tweedle Twirp and I sat on the back perch when the top was down and yelled, “Fast around the corners! Fast around the corners!” as my dad screeched around the corners making my sister and I shriek.
  
• Wanting to be Anne of Green Gables; wearing tinted glasses with my initials in gold in the corner of the lens; “Mother, please, I’d rather do it myself!”; safety being the orange flag my mother made me put on my bicycle; my first crush–on Donny Osmond; “And they told two friends and they told two friends”; my father’s misguided mustache; the orange and brown stripes my mother painted in our hallway; seeing Grease five times in the theater but having no idea what the line “she’s a real pussy wagon” in the song “Greased Lightnin'” meant; wanting to go over to Cindy’s house because she had her own princess phone, a waterbed, and Pong; “Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, all on a sesame seed bun”; and my father taking me to see Saturday Night Fever because he thought it was a good movie and an important movie for me to see, but making me swear that I wouldn’t tell my sister that we went, because she was still too young for it.

As I’ve mentioned in the past, my office (my office until tomorrow evening that is!) is in Kenmore Square and from my cubicle window, I have a picture perfect view of Fenway Park (and I’m still not sure why Adam got so angry with me the other night when I saw a news report that teased, “Improvements are being made at Fenway,” and I said to him, “What? They’re going to bring in a winning team?”). I believe I’ve also mentioned that our hospital is just on the other side of Fenway (if I weren’t such a waddling mess and it weren’t 90 degrees, the hospital is actually walkable from my office). I just never put the hospital and Fenway together until this morning, as I noticed for the first time as I was driving to work the new banners on the street lamps in the neighborhood. On them is a picture of a baseball with a Band-Aid on it. Beneath it, it reads, “Beth Israel Deaconess: The official hospital of the Boston Red Sox.” Apparently, this coalition didn’t begin until April–after we had picked the hospital–so I can’t accuse Adam of insidiously trying to indoctrinate Brown Brown into the culthood (yes, it is a cult) of Red Soxdom. However, I will say I’m not real comfortable with this alliance. After all, what happens if Pedro is injured the same day I go into labor? What will Adam do? How does he choose between a glimpse of his hero and the birth of his son? I mean, hey, if we were at the official hospital of the Miami Dolphins, and I had to choose between giving birth or hanging with Dan Marino, I gotta say, I’d probably pick Dan. Luckily, I think Adam is made of stronger stuff than I am.

The timer has gone off–we’ve reached full term. The baby is fully baked, and now just resting in the oven. Anyone’s guess on when he’ll decide to make his exit (I was looking for another baking metaphor there, but it hurt my head too much, so just forget it).

First thing I should say here is I’m a big fan of acupuncture. I went for the first time when I was in my early twenties, having tension headaches of a massive sort. I went first to a guy in Chinatown (in New York) who creeped me out because he used the electric variety of acupuncture (where the needles are hooked up to something that sends a tiny electrical current into them). I’m sure it’s a perfectly valid form of acupuncture, but the whole thing reeked too much of shock therapy for me, so I quickly left him. However, I found another acupuncturist who used a more traditional needle method, and he worked wonders for me. My headaches went poof! He showed me some herbs to take to tame the headaches should they come back, and I left raving about the wonders of acupuncture. I tried acupuncture again in Seattle, and for the life of me I can’t remember what for (as those were my Amazon days, it was most likely stress), but I didn’t stick with it (and I can’t remember if it’s because I moved to Boston or because the appointments were more stressful to get to than whatever it was that was ailing me). But I’m still a huge fan. In fact, my cousin in Miami studied acupuncture, and frequently when I’ve been home, I’ve asked him to stick needles in me (that’s just the kind of person I am).

So, last night was attempt-to-turn-the-baby acupuncture. Actually, what it was was mostly moxibustion, in which the acupuncturist puts these tiny pieces of herbs on my toes and burns them with incense (no, really! It’s a real thing!). (Betsy described it best to me in an e-mail: the moxa makes it “smell like a Dead show in the office.”) The acupuncturist was a really nice woman with that low, soothing new agey kind of voice. For those who haven’t been to acupuncture, it’s a little like going to a psychic. She’ll touch parts of your body and make these absolutely true statements. “This is tender for you right here.” Yep. “You really crave sweets. Always have.” Bingo! The first thing she did (after checking me out) was a bit of the pokey poke with a gold needle on my belly. It wasn’t the traditional acupuncture I’m used to in which needles are placed in my body and left there for ten or fifteen minutes. This was just a light pricking with a single needle that was not pushed in very far and didn’t remain in me. It doesn’t have that cool electrical sensation of the other kind of acupuncture, but that was sort of welcome as I’m a little paranoid about the treatment/pregnancy thing. Then she did the moxa. Apparently, despite all evidence to the contrary, I’m really an insensitive person. “Do you feel that?” she’d say, holding a lit stick to my toe. “Nope!” I’d respond. I’m not sure what she was doing as I was laying down and their was the huge hill of my belly blocking my view, but she kept doing something and said, “Let me know when you do feel it.” After a while I’d feel a tiny burning sensation and say, “There it is!” Apparently, my channels are quiet blocked and it’s preventing the energy from going through my legs. Anyway, I’m not sure if this thing worked–the baby hasn’t yet turned. He’s been really squirmy last night and today, but then he’s often really squirmy, so I can’t tell if it’s just coincidence or a direct result. I made another appointment for next week in case he remains stubbornly breech. We’ll see!

There really are two types of people in this world: card people and non-card people. I come from a diehard tribe of the latter. Cards in my family were only acceptable if they were handmade or really weird. Adam’s people are the former. They don’t just send cards, they send cards in bulk. We receive not just the birthday variety (which I understand and try to do myself to my friends when I can remember–it’s hard to convert to cardom when you’ve been raised an acardeist), but the Passover, Halloween, Mother’s Day for the Mom-to-Be, anniversary, and just about everything else variety. It creates sticky situations as I often have to ask Adam, “Are we expected to send a card for that?” And, yes, it is expected. For example, we sent out a Hanukkah card/gift that arrived on the second day of Hanukkah. But the lecture about not being thoughtful came on the first day of Hanukkah (it was rescinded immediately the second day).

What am I getting at? I’m getting at the “Oh shit” feeling that struck this morning when Adam called and said, “You didn’t do your job.” Huh? “You forgot to remind me that it’s my mother’s birthday today.” Let’s count in how many places that sentence is simply wrong. On second thought, let’s keep marital harmony and not count the ways. If this were my family, a quick trip to an Amazon wish list and a simple phone call of “Happy Birthday, your present is going to be late,” would suffice. But this isn’t my family. So instead of his gourmet meal and walk around the swan pond during lunch, Adam will be scurrying off to buy and deliver a gift (this is probably the one time he’s grateful he works in New Hampshire). And I can be grateful that for all the flaws my family has (yes, Peter, you people have flaws!), at least we’re not card people.

Is anyone else addicted to Salon‘s Match Made in Heaven, Match Made in Hell column? It’s the best part of Wednesday and almost as good as reality TV.

Normally, I’d never blog during work hours (ahem), but really all there is for me to do at the moment is begin to clear out my cubicle, as this coming Friday is my last day here. As I’m not in a cleaning mood (so much for that nesting thing that’s supposed to kick in), I figure I can blog with impunity.

This weekend was a delightful weekend, with Jenn making it up from the Hamptons. There was some concern she wouldn’t make it, as the power outage affected the ferries, but arrive she did, only about five hours or so later than intended. We spent much mellow time together, starting with a leisurely breakfast at Zaftig’s. Next Jenn had a manicure and I had a pedicure (even though I can’t see my toes anymore–I was just looking for a good foot rub, which I got). Then, a few of the HBS partner gals threw a small dessert baby shower for me at the Harvest in Cambridge. Mmmm, I’m still thinking about the mocha pot de creme I had. It was a lovely event, and it was so sweet of them to do it. Never mind the fact that Brown Brown got a ton of fabulous gifts, including some cute cute cute outfits, a Baby Bjorn, a monitor, toys, and a great diaper bag. I spent the next day playing with the toys myself–I’m not sure I’m going to want to let them go long enough for the baby to play with them. After the shower, we rented a couple of flicks and spent the rest of the evening vegging. Unfortunately, Jenn had to leave at the crack of dawn on Sunday to make her ferry, so we didn’t get the waffle breakfast I had planned. But it was just as well. One day of activity was apparently plenty for me, and I spent the entire day either lying on the couch or in bed. I got some stuff done–finished a knitting project, addressed baby announcement envelopes–but nowhere near what I had intended. I think I may be done with the productive stage of things. From here on out, I’ll either be at work or taking couch time. Adam, on the other hand, has been amazing, fixing things and making sure everything’s prepared for Brown Brown. He went pretty much nonstop all weekend.

One thing I do need to do–tonight!–is pack my hospital bag. That magic 37-week point that seemed like a lifetime away is just Wednesday, which means Brown Brown could blow at any point. Yes, he’s still breech, but who knows? Maybe he’ll turn at the last minute (and I’ll be sure to report on tomorrow night’s acupuncture appointment). Point is, we’re really at the “at any moment” point. Of course, that “moment” lasts for five weeks, but I refuse to think about that (la-la-la-la-la-la-la, I can’t hear you!). I follow the Baby Center September 2003 message boards fairly religiously at this point, and a lot of women have already had their babies. I’m having an extremely difficult time wrapping my mind around the fact that one of these days there will be a real live baby in our lives. I still always half expect the doctor to say to me, “Oh, we made a mistake. You were never really pregnant. You’re just fat.” It’s just all so surreal! Of course, the other thing I expect is that instead of a baby some weird pokey alien is going to emerge from me. But then again, baby, alien–is there really that much of a difference?

Today’s the Tweedle Twirp’s birthday! I wanted to phone her and wish her a happy birthday, but I’m not allowed to call her apartment for five and a half hours. Although Adam pointed out that maybe I could call her because chances are good that she’s still up from last night. Maybe she’ll soon no longer be the last of the August birthdays in our family. And she certainly soon won’t be the Brown who’s up the latest at night. (But she’ll certainly always be The Littlest Brown. Because if Brown Brown is her size, we’re going to put him on growth hormones.)