The other night I was inspired to cook. Not just in general - on a near-daily basis I cook meals that fall into the quick-but-healthy category - but something more involved, gourmet even. Calamari, in fact.
I started thinking about them at the Dekalb Farmer's Market when I took Gavin on our usual loop through the seafood department to look at all the fish and ice (he's equally fascinated by both). Encased in ice chips, squid tubes glimmered like slimy pearl sculptures and I was reminded of the house mother on my study abroad trip to Spain in college, who one day showed me how to take a squid tube and slice, dredge through flour, and fry it into calamari. The steps had seemed astonishingly simple.
"I couldn't deal with the tube," my mom said now from the other end of my cell phone, as I described the cooking process, and I had to admit it seemed a little gross.
"I'll take one pound of the pre-cut stuff," I told the vender. I left the facility proudly, assuming I had just paved the way for a quick-yet-refined dinner free of complications. (I didn't even have to cut the tube!)
I'm still wondering what went wrong.
Maybe I should have taken my first oopsie as a warning. Before beginning my gourmet dinner project, I decided to refill our olive oil dispenser from the larger container, a heavy, barrel-like canister with an awkward opening. Although I attempted this over the sink, I still managed to pour oil all down the side of the dispenser and my shirt.
Nonplussed, I forged ahead, distracting Gavin with various kitchen appliances, toys, and eventually Nemo, while I powdered squid rings with a flour and spice mixture I'd blended earlier. This proved to be more time consuming than I'd anticipated; I hadn't counted on the tedious nature of tending to an entire pound of squid rings (my house mother had only fried up a few).
I had just heated the oil in a sautee pan and submerged several rings when Gavin ran out of his I-can-be-entertained-by-things-that-aren't-Mom steam, so I did what I normally do in that scenario: stood perpendicular to the stove with Gavin held away on one hip, working one-handed. If all went to plan, I would really only need one hand to direct the tongs and transport calamari from plate to pan to new plate. And, flashing back to haunting memories of watching TV shows like Rescue 911 where children got showered with pans of scalding oil left carelessly on stovetops, my primary awareness was on Gavin's location in proximity to the oil in order to keep him away from it. So it all still seemed possible. And calamari fries up in a handful of minutes so even though the cooking process now included protecting a toddler I held out hope that things would go smoothly.
Except that the squid rings were sticking together. And the oil started spitting and the spitting turned into lightly erupting as I held Gavin away and waved the tongs in defense. I lowered the heat slightly and stood as far away as I could, with Gavin almost behind me, and stubbornly continued.
"Bub-ble!" Gavin exclaimed over and over, trying to point around me at the quivering sautee pan that looked ready to blast off like a shuttle into space.
"Stay behind me, honey. These are dangerous bubbles." At this point, I was sweating and still had half the batch left to fry. I was so distracted I failed to notice the plastic garlic powder container which was off to the side, but not far enough away from the heat to avoid withering like a raisin while I toiled away over the volcanic oil, selecting squid rings one by one and gently, then insistently, shaking them free of their peers, releasing them into their bubble bath, simultaneously keeping Gavin at bay.
When I finally rescued the last calamari, I sighed in relief. Anyone able to witness the scene from afar would have beheld an obviously sweating, wild-eyed mom with an oil stain on her shirt the size of a Caribbean island, holding her curious toddler before a plate of fried calamari ranging from wet-noodle soggy to crisp, with oil puddled over her stove top and surrounding floor, various nests of crumpled, oil-soaked paper towels, and a warped garlic powder container off to the side.
It was like I was on the warpath...except I wasn't angry or hostile.
And it wasn't over. Less than one minute after Jon stepped in from work and whisked Gavin into a hug I poured too much liquid into the food processor; we watched as a would-be soup mixture flowed freely from the food processor's confines and all over the counter, our mail, and phone chargers.
"Didn't you see this?" Jon pointed to a faint line etched in the side of the food processor, after he'd rushed the heavy device to the sink. "The limit mark?"
"I see it now," I said sullenly. We stared at each other, then burst out laughing.
"I'm firing myself," I announced wearily, retreating to the living room with Gavin while Jon, without my asking, cleaned up the disaster I'd left in my wake. Other than posing a handful of gently-phrased but unhelpful questions like, "Why didn't you use a bigger pot?" and "Did you melt the garlic powder?", my wonderful husband did not act perturbed about having been thrown into disaster relief mode upon entering the house, which I will always remember and be grateful for.
However, I think I'll be taking it easy on the culinary front for awhile. Peanut butter sandwich, anyone?
Sunday the 28th of November, two days before the deadline, I was wedged between a slumbering Gavin in his giant car seat and the car door as Jon drove us back from Sarasota. It was around noon and we were five minutes from home (we'd left at 4 a.m. to beat traffic), when - so sleep deprived I felt like I had mild brain damage - I laid down the last of my 50,000 words for National Novel Writing Month.
"I finished," I announced, releasing a full-bodied, earth-shattering yawn. Then I lay back and closed my eyes. The achievement felt anti-climactic - there was no audience cheering, no bells bursting, no confetti exploding in my face. Just me with greasy hair and my recently-coffee-stained sweatshirt, dusty laptop perched awkwardly on my lap. As the day wore on I would remember, and marvel, hey, I finished. I finished a novel.
However, I hesitate to even call the file I have saved a novel. Right now, it's just a mass of words thrown together. Sometimes they flowed, light and pleasant...and sometimes reaching my daily word count goal felt like dislodging screws from wood. With my teeth.
The idea of the NaNoWriMo challenge is quantity over quality, though, with the idea that you can go back later, sift through and see what you've got. Even if I've got nothing but a short story - or, well, just nothing - I learned a lot, the most important thing being how to write while caring for a toddler. Before having Gavin, I only wrote in the mornings, and sometimes at work if I was into something. Usually, though, I would get up early and brew tea with honey. Sometimes, if I was really motivated and up in time, I would meditate before writing. Then I would calmly work on something for thirty minutes or so before work.
In the last month, though, in order to come up with 50,000 words, there was no time to cultivate a satisfying atmosphere. Neglecting housework, I wrote during naps of course, and as Gavin and Jon or my mother in law ran around me or played with noisy, singing toys in the background. I threw out words in the car, over Gavin's head while he nursed, on the couch while Jon watched TV and tried not to talk to me, and once standing in the kitchen while on the stove rice bubbled, dried and then joined forces with the pot.
But the important thing is I finished. And now, to the relief of my family, I'm off to do some laundry.
So I've signed on for a writing challenge taking place during November, called NaNoWriMo, which stands for National Novel Writing Month. The challenge consists of writing a 50,000 word novel during the month of November - no editing, no planning, no thinking really, just basically spitting words on a page. Well, keyboard. Quantity over quality.
I keep asking myself what I think I'm doing. You barely have time to do the laundry, when are you going to write 50,000 words?
Regardless of how grandly I might fail, I'm going to proceed. So, in the interest of sanity and my family's laundry, I will not be doing any blogging in addition to the writing challenge this month.
Well, besides this post. Which really could have been going toward my word count. On that note...
Last weekend, my sister-in-law's boyfriend - we'll call him Jim - asked an excellent question. We were in the kitchen after breakfast when he paused after setting a dish in the sink.
"So, if I may ask," he began cautiously. "Why were the bananas in the oven?"
We both glanced at the bananas he was referring to. They now sat on the counter, their blackened undersides creating a skunk-like appearance from the five minutes they spent in a preheating oven - before I'd tried to insert a cookie sheet full of biscuits and remembered they were in there. Whoops.
Briefly, I considered offering Jim the true story. I considered telling him how I'd discovered a giant hole gouged out of our last bunch of bananas, and how closer inspection revealed track marks from two prominent front teeth. Since we don't have a mutant baby - and besides, Gavin has eight teeth now - Jon and I had to accept a difficult concept.
The true story is, we've got a rodent problem. Ugh.
"Well..." I stalled.
I almost did tell Jim all of it. If only he had been a jerk, I might have. But this was the first meeting between us and Jim. So far he seemed like a nice guy, and The Rodent Problem definitely didn't feel like a good getting-to-know-you story. So I decided to say something vague, see how he responded, and take it from there.
"The other day I discovered a bite taken from one of the bananas," I said, and waited.
My explanation appeared to satisfy his curiosity; he nodded knowingly. We left that conversation there, although I continued to wonder what conclusion he had reached in his head. Did he assume I was trying to keep Gavin out of the bananas? Did he think Jon had been taking random swipes from the fruit bowl? Was rodent infestation normal for this guy? Or was he just trying to be polite and not ask too many questions, biding his time until he could escape our gross new/old house?
This mouse situation has caused the reality of inhabiting an old home to come crashing down in our faces. Upon moving in, we bleached and scrubbed our way through all drawers and cabinets, and still we've got critters creeping around, gnawing through sealed bags of brown rice, helping themselves to our fruit. We've got a team from wildlife control coming out in a few days to seal up gaps, and luckily there's no evidence that they are anywhere but in the lower kitchen cabinets (and at least one time on the countertop that formerly hosted a fruit bowl), but I'm still horrified.
My interest in old homes has played out kind of like a lusty relationship. At first I coveted the way the house moved and walked and whispered sweet nothings in my ear like CHARACTER and POTENTIAL and COOL OLD CRYSTAL DOORKNOBS. Then I started noticing its flaws. The old windows, most of which have been painted shut. The tiny closets. And, you know, The Rodent Problem. Until then, the other flaws didn't matter too much.
There are two things that over the past couple years have occasionally brought me the sense that I will be be doing them forever. One is breastfeeding, the other is living in my small Midtown condo. These factors have remained steadfast and showed no signs of loosening their grip until recently, when remarkable things took place. Changes.
I'm committed to a gentle weaning approach, so I still might be breastfeeding when I'm eighty (hm, creepy) - but I'll be doing so from a house.
That's right, we have moved out of the condo. I can hardly believe it.
We didn't sell it like I'd hoped. It sat on an already-sputtering market since shortly after an important message (_ _ _ Pregnant) was delivered to Jon and I via a small digital testing device (ok, eight small digital testing devices). We tried everything to sell - painted the walls a neutral, hopeful plantation beige, depersonalized the decor, left music playing softly in the background for showings, emphasized WALKING DISTANCE TO PIEDMONT PARK AND FOX THEATER!
When none of these tips worked, we lowered the asking price. But that didn't work either. We couldn't lower it enough - there are too many foreclosed condos in the area that we can't compete with.
It really is a nice place for one or two people to live. I have great memories from my single days there, and the Jon days before, you know, he knocked me up. Well, after too, but once Gavin arrived it got smaller and smaller, so small that some days it felt possible to sit on the living room couch, reach up, and brush my teeth in the bathroom sink.
That's too small.
Fast forward to several weeks ago: circumstances came together at the right time and pulled us in a new direction. First, we noted the appearance of another 2-bedroom condo foreclosure in the vicinity, and began warming to the idea of renting instead of selling. Then, two of Jon's clients moved to the nursing home, vacating a house in Decatur. And next, this couple liked Jon and liked the idea of a young family taking over their home, so they offered us a great deal. Finally, we found friendly, responsible renters for the condo. The twist was that they needed to move in soon. So soon, in fact, that we had a week to move out. But we worked with that.
As I write this it's been almost two weeks since we found renters, and five days since we've been in the new house. Life has been a whirlwind of boxes, paint cans, sore muscles, and trips to the now-close Ace Hardware (do people know about Ace Hardware? It's like Home Depot meets Virginia Highlands boutique...I can't get enough).
Anyway, we love the house. It has a great yard, looks charming from the outside, and will look charming from the inside too when my decorating team (my mom, me, Jon tunes in and out) get through with it. It's old in several respects...I don't think the previous tenants updated it since the 1950's when it was built, with the exception of several helpful devices to accommodate the elderly. We can work with that too, though. Like, maybe if I'm carrying heavy bags of groceries, I can use the handle screwed to the side door frame to help propel myself up that last step into the house. And if one of us ever drinks too much and decides to take a shower, there's another handle attached to the shower wall. And Gavin can ride his little truck down the wheelchair ramp in the backyard.
See? We can roll with the old house. The most important thing is that it's a better place for Gavin. There is space to store his winter clothes and room for him to play both in and outside.
With the exception of my college literary magazine, this is my first published poem. I'm so excited I could pee. However, the topic at hand is more serious than what I've written about so far. The poem is called "The First Cooking Accident," and I wrote it after reading some anonymous first-hand accounts by Afghan women on a Web site called Afghan Women's Writing Project, and watching several news reports on the matter.
But it's not what you think. Let me explain: I haven't done anything to betray my husband, rather it's my former literary elitism from which I've strayed. I am a fallen literary snob.
I'm reading the Twilight series.
I'm sorry, English degree. You tried to instill a set of proper, pretentious literary morals, but they wore off. I need a break from tortured memoirs and insightful novels that tenderly reveal the human condition. I want suspense, unlikely love triangles and mythical creatures. Heroic vampires and loyal werewolves. A little sex would be nice, but Edward and Bella haven't gotten there yet. I'm just starting book four.
Which brings me to the dilemma that confronts any Twilight fan like a pop quiz. Team Edward or Team Jacob? Who should Bella choose?
I'm here to offer a third option. Neither, or Team Screw This. While I am completely involved in the story - to the point where Jon looks at me warily when I'm reading and says, "Who ARE you?" - Edward and Bella are getting on my nerves. The whole you have NO IDEA HOW MUCH YOU MEAN TO ME thing is out of control. My god, let that girl sleep by herself. I feel suffocated just reading about their relationship (although that doesn't hinder the furious pace I'm tearing through the books with).
Maybe it's because I was in an obsessive relationship years ago (though I would not call him the love of my life), but I want a book with an alternate ending - in which Bella gets a grip. She could even borrow some of the activities that wound up helping ME grow into myself and find some confidence. I can see it now: Bella joins the cast of The Vagina Monologues and discovers her Inner Power. Suddenly, her vampire boyfriend seems overbearing and controlling. Needing space, Bella ditches Edward and jets off to Europe, where she learns to appreciate good wine and trust herself. The end.
Yeah, I know, that version wouldn't sell any copies, and actually sort of falls into the category of book that I'm currently avoiding. Letting go, letting go...
This past weekend, I found myself on my deathbed. At least, that's what it felt like. But according to Jon and my mom (and me now that I've mostly pulled through and can look back logically), it might have just been a cold.
But it was a really, really bad one. And the thing is, it's literally been years since I was sick enough to warrant bed rest (excluding that time I gave birth), so I didn't know what was happening to me. I twisted under the covers, either sweating or freezing. The aching was everywhere - my head and sinuses throbbed like trance music and my body felt like it had been crushed and then re-inflated.
I wondered if I would have to be hospitalized.
After I had Jon Google what kind of meds are compatible with breastfeeding, I asked him to look up the symptoms for swine flu. He figured out the meds, and later I realized we hadn't talked about swine flu, so I asked again.
"Oh," he checked my expression. "You were serious about that?"
"Yes," I clarified, annoyed by his lack of concern. "Just to be sure."
He started laughing. I was not amused.
"You'll be sorry when you have to drive me to the ER," I said. "Let's just check."
"Baby, you've got a cold. People get colds." But he was already pulling out his laptop.
"The last case of swine flu in Georgia was in May," he reported momentarily. I was not soothed, and spent the rest of the weekend worrying that my condition would worsen and what would happen to Gavin and Jon if I died.
I come by this worrywart behavior honestly, though - I think the tendency was there just waiting to be activated, inherited from my mom. She is the queen of worrywarts. One time, around ten years ago before everyone had a cell phone, in Sarasota, Florida, my mom and her friend dropped me, my siblings and my boyfriend off somewhere by the marina. (I'm not sure where we went. My memory says it was a bird sanctuary, but that would have been an unlikely activity for our family.) At the time we were supposed to be meet Mom, we were close by but not at the designated pickup spot, and assumed that we would see her. We didn't. She drove around with her friend, assuming they would see us. They didn't.
After a bit, we shrugged and went to the nearby Old Salty Dog for some french fries, occasionally glancing out at the parking lot. Meanwhile, my mom had come to the conclusion that we had been abducted by aliens. You might think that I added the aliens part, but I didn't. Mom remembers reasoning that nobody would be able to wrestle me, my siblings, and my boyfriend into a car all at once.
Well, nothing human.
"What other explanation is there?" she recalls demanding of her friend, who eventually caught Mom's hysteria, agreeing in horror, "You're right! There really doesn't seem to be any other explanation!"
It would be funnier if I could be certain I'll never be that bad.
A few weeks ago, I started tossing a few baby signs at Gavin throughout our daily routine. I did so out of intrigue and curiosity - how cool if we can communicate before he can talk! - but I wasn't sure if it would work, or what kind of parent I would turn into if it did.
At first, when I'd say a word and perform the corresponding sign, repeatedly and enthusiastically, the way people tend to do when teaching small children or animals, Gavin just kind of looked at me like, "Oh, great. Mom's got Tourette's or something."
So, excited barely expresses what I felt when, one day in the courtyard outside our condo, Gavin pointed to a neighbor's dog and let out a few pants. "YES!" I scream-squealed, scaring both Gavin and the neighbor. "Doggie! Good boy!"
Since then we've added a few others to the repertoire. Flower, birdie, fish, froggie, raining. Every time he makes one of the signs I lose control of my dignity - shrieking, dancing, or otherwise metaphorically wetting myself. I tend to forget where I am, what I'm doing, and any type of social appropriateness when Gavin signs.
For example, the other night we were on St. Simons Island so that Jon could attend a law-related seminar/conference. At the event's reception, we were mingling, me holding Gavin, Jon holding our drinks, when we struck up a conversation with a man in a bright red and white flowered Hawaiian shirt.
"That's a great shirt!" I offered, because if there's anything I can surmise about Hawaiian shirts, it's that people wear them to start conversations.
"Yup - had to go all the way to Hawaii to get it," he chortled. Jon was commenting on what a rough trip that must have been when Gavin pointed at the man's shirt, sniffing furiously. I cried, "That's right! Good boy! Good boy!" and, lost in the moment, started sniffing furiously myself.
One of us did clarify to Mr. Hawaiian Shirt that sniffing was a baby sign for flower (I think it was Jon), but not before a few beats had passed in which the gentleman looked a little bewildered, perhaps wondering if his deodorant had worn off, and why I was encouraging my child's bad manners.
So yeah, it's official. With the exception of unpleasant things like night waking, biting or hitting, I'm one of those annoying parents who is convinced everything her child does is worthy of celebration, regardless of context. I remember making that judgment toward others in my pre-baby life, and vaguely recall the accompanying sense of cynicism, but it's something I can't recapture. I'm too giddy.
5 a.m. on June 3rd, 2009. Surfing under a light wave of sleep, a warm, liquid spurt between my legs startles me awake. Alarmed, I struggle for an upright position in the still, shadowy darkness. Spurts are never a good sign for the massively pregnant – and at 39 weeks and two days, I am nothing if not massive. And pregnant.
Swabbing myself with toilet paper, I respond, "I don't know. Either I’m leaking amniotic fluid or I just peed the bed."
When he asks if I want to go to the hospital I pause again. I really don't want to go to the hospital only to be told that I'm just a big, incontinent pregnant lady. But then again, I don't want to be quietly leaking amniotic fluid. I've read horror stories about that on the internet – how leaking amniotic fluid can cause fetal distress and eventual brain damage.
We decide Jon should go ahead and go to work, and I’ll call him if it happens again. He has a relatively new job with only a few days of paternity leave so we don’t want to waste them.
Faced with an entire day of trying to assume business as usual, I set out on a walk to stop myself from reading more horror stories on the internet. I'm feeling extra sluggish today, how a hippo might feel if it were drunk.
Midway through my walk an ache starts in my low belly and builds in a rapid crescendo, to the point where I am gasping for breath and waddling as fast as I can back to the house. Moving around was a bad idea. I get some water and lie on the couch.
Though I keep waiting for that odd, quick rush of fluid again, it doesn't happen, and I don’t feel anything dramatic that might signify labor for a first-time mother. The mild ache in my belly and low back is similar to PMS cramps. Nothing at regular intervals, just a persistent, dull pressure that makes it impossible to get comfortable, so I’m constantly shifting my weight around. Briefly I try to do laundry and answer emails but I am dragging so slowly I eventually give up the pretense and drop into bed.
Tucking IPOD headphone buds into my ears I push the button on a Hypnobabies track. Easy birthing time, I tell myself. Jon and I have been preparing for me to give birth naturally, using a self-hypnosis home study course called Hypnobabies, for months now. Jon is suspicious of anything marketing itself as hypnosis, but I’m one of those meditative, semi-new-agey types, so I was intrigued and inspired by the idea of using my mind to cope with birth. The program has been teaching me techniques to self-soothe so I am not tense or fearful during labor and delivery – the idea being that a calm woman can birth more easily. In these past few months I have talked to other women who have had successful hypnobirths and I have even seen several on YouTube, so I know it’s possible. These videos begin in silence, displaying huge pregnant women lying like swollen sloths on beds at home, looking, if not peaceful, at least comatose. After a period of quiet labor the women usually climb into birthing pools, where the loudest noises emitted are from the midwives gently encouraging these women to breathe and ease those babies out.
The only potential problem is that I will be birthing in a hospital, which environment is supposedly not conducive to a peaceful hypnobirth. My Hypnobabies study book recommends taking several steps to pave the way for a successful hospital experience, the most important being: make sure your doctor is aware of your birth plan; wait as long as possible before arriving at the hospital so you are further along in labor (this will help the hypno-mom avoid potential interventions like Pitocin); get lot of rest in the days beforehand; and eat lightly at home while you labor. I’ve been preparing but still feel ill-equipped for this whole labor adventure. Other than visiting my mom when she had a hip replacement, I haven’t been in a hospital since I was born myself.
Around noon I call my OB/GYN office to report the 5 a.m. leak because I've been reading brain damage stories on the internet. "Go to the hospital!" the receptionist exclaims. "It sounds like you're in labor!"
I am skeptical. I've read (having spent most of my pregnancy unemployed, I’ve been doing a lot of reading) that women can be in labor for days with their first babies, and I've been feeling like this for days. The only difference is that today I am especially exhausted after not sleeping well and I may or may not have wet the bed.
Jon and I conference over Gchat on and off all day about whether or not to go to the hospital, and finally I decide let's just go and put our minds at ease. They will report that the baby kicked my bladder, and we'll go home and snicker at my lack of dignity.
We head out as soon as Jon gets home from work, around 7 p.m. At the last minute, I grab our half-packed hospital bag and my IPOD with the hypnosis tracks just in case, even though I don’t think we’ll need them. "What should we eat for dinner?" I ask in the car on the way. We decide something simple, maybe Moe's, is on the menu for after this quick visit.
When we arrive at the maternity ward, I feel like I have to offer the receptionist a disclaimer. "I'm not really in labor," I explain, apologetic. "I just want to make sure I'm not leaking amniotic fluid." She’s unimpressed either way, and we are taken to an assessment room where a nurse in blue slaps on a glove. The cervical check feels like she is trying to wedge a brick up into my uterus. I gasp. "Easy birthing time?" Jon offers.
"Well…I don’t think you’re leaking any fluid, but you're dilated to four," the nurse announces. "We're going to have to keep you."
"But…I'm not in active labor," I say. "Can't women be dilated to four for weeks, especially for a first baby?"
“You can walk around for an hour and we’ll recheck you – see if you’ve made any progress.” She nods at the large screen next to the bed. “You’re registering contractions.”
Though I am skeptical that what I'm feeling are the kind of contractions that push babies out into the world, I agree to walk around for an hour. I’m getting a bad feeling and want to go home desperately so I can rest and eat – two important steps – before having to give birth.
I’d been surprised to learn that U.S. hospitals don’t allow birthing women to eat anything at all. Nothing by mouth, it’s called, the rationale being that if a woman ends up needing general anesthesia she might inhale her own vomit – though the case of a birthing woman genuinely needing general anesthesia is extremely rare. The Hypnobabies guide relates:
Fasting causes the mother more discomfort as she cannot focus when her blood sugar is low, and further, fasting can cause ketosis, a weakening of the muscle cells, causing the uterus to work less efficiently. The uterus needs a lot of energy at this time, and without nourishment it cannot fulfill its job properly. Birthing requires the same amount of effort from the body as running a marathon, and so you need energy to remain fully functional. In Europe, birthing women eat crackers, bananas and yogurt to keep up their strength, with no ill effects and much better birthing outcome statistics.
Jon and I make so many laps around the maternity ward the nurses start joking that the baby’s going to fall right out. I wish she would, so we could go home (we’ve kept gender a surprise but are convinced it’s a girl). My discomfort level is low so we talk easily, sure we’ll get to go soon. We’re both officially hungry.
When the hour is up the nurse grinds another brick up into my stomach and says I'm still dilated four, but I can't go home. It's up to the doctor on-call, and she says no.
"But what happens if nothing changes in the next few hours?" I ask.
"They can start you on Pitocin," she replies, and the word seems to leave her lips in slow motion. My readings have unearthed negative information about birth procedures in U.S. hospitals – namely that they are intervention happy and that's a contributing factor to the high C-section rate (31.1% in 2006 as opposed to 4.5% in 1965 – over the previous decade a 50% increase). In my mind, Pitocin screams C-SECTION. A definite overreaction, but I don’t want a C-section if I don’t need one.
Pitocin can start the domino effect – IV, Pitocin, external fetal monitoring, lack of mobility, diminished ability to deal with pressure waves, pain medication, weaker pressure waves due to narcotics, then more Pitocin, fetal distress, etc.
My first choice would have been a birthing center with midwives or at home like the women on the YouTube videos, but we can’t afford anything insurance doesn’t cover – and I’m sort of hoping that my books are being dramatic and birthing in the hospital will be fine. My doctor has a copy of my birth plan, so until now I’ve been fairly certain my bases were covered.
"I don't want Pitocin," I say, trying not to panic. "I've been planning a natural birth – I want the baby to come on her own. That’s why I want to go home and come back later."
"Dr. L. is coming in at seven," she says. "You can ask her to go home then."
“Like…seven in the morning?” I ask dumbly. Dr. L. is my doctor so this is supposed to be comforting, but seven in the morning is roughly nine hours from now. The idea of sitting around the hospital all night, starving and uncomfortable in a stiff, tiny bed, when I could just go home and come back later, does not sound appealing.
“Can we talk to the doctor?” Jon asks. “We live two minutes away.”
The nurse says she’ll ask, and returns to report that the doctor said no.
“But the baby’s not in distress,” I point out. “I promise we’ll come back tonight or tomorrow when contractions get more intense.” (I’m supposed to say pressure waves per my hypnosis for childbirth instructions, but I am intimidated and revert to layman’s birth terms.)
“Is there any way we can talk to the doctor ourselves?” Jon persists. “We live literally two minutes away.”
With a disinterested tone, as though she were telling us the bathroom was down the hall to the right, the nurse states the deciding factor, “If you leave, insurance will not pay for your birth."
I am lying on the hard hospital bed in a dark, hot birthing room, starving and trembling, too weak to walk the halls. It's five in the morning and I have been warding off Pitocin advances for hours. Stubbornly clinging to my childbirth goals, I try to focus on the Hypnobabies tracks so I can mentally separate myself from the discomfort. Sometime after midnight my pressure waves intensified and now feel like someone is periodically activating an electric mixer in my low belly. My body has dilated to six. The woman’s voice on the IPOD is soothing, but my strength has been steadily deteriorating.
"I can't do this," I whisper. "I'm so hungry." Jon bolts up from where he'd been lying down on the short couch.
We call the nurse – a new girl, a livelier and friendlier version of the first, though her loud, peppy voice punches me between the eyes every time she speaks. She suggests Nuvain, which should take the edge off so I can get some sleep. I accept.
Two hours later, the Nuvain, which numbed my brain but not my body, has worn off, leaving me shaky and nauseated. I don’t want any more of it. Dr. L. is here now and pushes for an amniotomy. This must be merely to hurry things up because the baby is still not in distress (even though I am), and I’m suspicious because my birth plan specifically says I do not want an amniotomy unless the baby is in distress. Weakly I recall my readings…most amniotic sacs are intact until eight cm and beyond when left alone … From the time an Amniotomy is done the birthing mother is “on the clock” so to speak …
But I accept because so much has gone off course I want to hurry things along, too.
Noon. My parents are here and Jon’s are on the way. I’ve allowed my mother in the birthing room and I feel her presence in my peripheral, encouraging and positive in light of feeling as though I am trapped in an abyss of sweat and cervical checks and electric mixers. Dr. L. recommends Pitocin again, to speed up the last couple centimeters. Since my water is already broken we’ve got to get the baby out soon. Tick tock.
Somewhere in my body I am sighing, because I had known this could happen when I gave in to the amniotomy, but I agree and request an epidural first. I am still listening to the hypnosis tracks, and they are helping me breathe and stay afloat in my mind, but barely.
The anesthesiologist is busy, he'll be here soon. I lie on the bed, eyes closed, moaning. Jon massages my low back through contractions (at this point they have ceased to be pressure waves).
"I have to go to the bathroom," I whimper. Jon and my mom help me wobble to the bathroom and then back to the bed. Dr. L. bursts in and performs another cervical check. I think I may die of cervical checks.
“Know what? It’s time to push,” she says, speculating that getting up to go to the bathroom was probably what made me dilate the rest of the way. I've been here for seventeen hours.
No time for the epidural or Pitocin after all. I am half-relieved, half anxious.
Suddenly there are a barrage of nurses (three plus the doctor, and my mom and Jon, seems like a crowd) and bright light and everything feels like it's moving too fast. I don't have the energy to get in an all-fours or kneeling position (I'd been planning to birth in a gravity-assisted position, to let my body do the work and push gently with contractions, it was all in my birth plan) so I ask the nurse if I can side lie, which puts less pressure on the perineum and lessens the chances of needing an episiotomy. She says yes. Then Dr. L. comes in and wants me on my back. I remind her about the gravity, it was in my birth plan.
"No," she says. "Not for a first baby."
Though I don't have time to process, it is clear that she did not read the birth plan I had typed up, brought to a check-up and watched her run her eyes through and nod at. I am out of strength. She didn’t read my birth plan. She didn’t read my birth plan, and I don’t have the energy to argue.
From a mental distance, I watch myself assume the position I was warned about in my birth books, the one I am most afraid of for a drug-free delivery – flat on back, legs up.
The Lithotomy position (legs up in stirrups) narrows the pelvic outlet so that birthing is difficult, makes it so that you are actually pushing uphill, and increases the risk of tearing because of too much pressure on the perineum.
“Hold your butt up,” someone commands, and I do, although I don’t think it’s really me. My soul is shrinking away. All that remains is torture.
“Stop doing that,” I whisper, and Dr. L. pulls both hands out from inside me.
“Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t think you could feel that.” She takes a small needle and injects something into my vagina.
I was afraid for how frail and despondent you had become, Jon will tell me later, like you had no hope left.
“Push! Push! One, two, three…” Everyone yells, and the sounds explode in my consciousness like firecrackers. I muster all my energy and push gently with a contraction, like my birth books said to do. It is uncomfortable, but bearable.
“Not like that,” one of the nurses barks. “Hold your breath and push. You have to hold your breath. Bear down. Hard.”
I do, and it’s like being impaled on rocks at the bottom of a cliff. Impact, invasion. It feels like rape, except instead of forced entry, forced exit. Purple pushing, they call it. There is a page on purple pushing in my book.
As Transformation begins to give way to the Pushing phase, women need more than ever to simply tune in to what their bodies and babies need. Unfortunately, at this time (if in a hospital) they are usually encouraged to get into bed if they’re out of it, have the back of the bed put down flat so they are pushing uphill, pull their knees back to their ears and bear down with each pressure wave as though their life depended on it, and hold their breath as nurses or others yell at them to “Push!” The nurse then instructs the mom how and when to breathe and also counts to 10, so that the mother will hold the push as long as the breath … Pushing your baby down and out this way makes it longer and much more difficult because it causes maternal exhaustion and can cause the birth canal to actually tense up … Pressure waves are amazingly strong in most cases and are designed to push the baby out with no hard pushing from the mother necessary.
“Push! One! Two! Three…”
For the next hour I push and push and push, and with each push I am withering, recoiling further into the dark recesses of my mind. Dr. L. grabs the scissors and makes a snip, and I am instructed to hold my pushes longer and longer. The sense of urgency is overwhelming, smothering, and I gasp for breath between pushes. We go from counting to ten to counting to fifteen, and then they tell me to push between contractions, too. I think maybe I’m dying.
“Harder! Push! One, two…”
A lightning bolt of pain tornadoes through me, and I release a primal shriek as a splitting sensation corresponds with sliding weight. Then stillness. "It's a boy!" Dr. L. announces, and amid a chorus of activity and surprised exclamations – “A boy?” – we were so sure it was a girl – I am far away, dimly conscious of Mom’s excitement and Jon cutting the slick, creamy cord. Then the tiny warble of my baby’s cries summons me back and I shout, "Give him to me! I want him before he’s dry!" I am not polite about it.
I want him before they take him away, I want him gross and wet with amniotic fluid. I want to soothe his transition between my womb and this sterile, cold hospital room. In my birth plan, I had asked to hold the baby for awhile after birth, before his being dried and weighed. My birth plan that my doctor pretended to read.
Warm and slippery, he’s a little gray at first, a tiny human body looking shocked. I look into his eyes and try to tell him I’m sorry, I didn’t want it to be this way. He looks confused. They let him lie on my chest for a mere handful of seconds and whisk him away.
Suddenly something bulky and soft is sliding out of me. I look down and Dr. L. is pulling out my placenta by the umbilical cord.
"She's shaking," Jon says. "Is that ok?"
"It's normal," says Dr. L.
Our baby boy is every synonym of incredible I can think of. He weighs 7 pounds, 10 ounces, and stretches 20 inches long. He has fine dark blonde peach fuzz on his head and deep, sleepy blue eyes. We name him Gavin. I hold him close and he and I work on nursing even though there are a series of visitors. I breastfeed in front of family and friends because, quite simply, I have lost all shame after pushing a baby out in front of my mother.
I long for a quiet, dimly lit room to rest and be with Jon and our new son, but it isn't to be. There are a series of lights, people, action. One of the first things Jon does is get me a sandwich, but I can only stomach a few bites. The nurse brings me a squirt bottle and witch hazel pads to treat the hemorrhoids that cropped up like a hornet nest, caused by such a rough delivery. Though I am horrified at the prospect of hemorrhoids – I have never had them before – I don’t really notice them because my vagina feels like mangled flesh anyway, like that electric mixer scrambled through on high speed. I am frightened of it and don’t want to touch.
Later, one of our visiting family members asks me about the birth.
"Well," I say after a moment. "I couldn’t have done it without the Hypnobabies.”
And it’s true – though a far cry from the peaceful, enlightening experience I’d been hoping for, the hypnosis tracks had been crucial to coping with hunger and cervical checks and the derailing of my birth plan in general.
“I couldn’t believe it,” Mom adds. “She didn’t even make a sound during labor. That machine was registering these major contractions and she wasn’t even making a sound.”
“But,” I continue. “I wouldn't do that again without an epidural."
"Yes," Mom nods. "Next time, epidural."
I realize I haven’t expressed myself very well, but I am too tired to decipher the raw nerves that rise in my throat like bile at the thought of how the birth went. What I meant was, I would definitely try to give birth naturally again, but I would not give birth the way I did – on my back, purple pushing – without an epidural. Drugs, I think, were created for that type of delivery.
Looking at my tiny son, I feel as though we are survivors of some overlooked, ongoing battle, especially when I start to express these misgivings and am met with, “Well at least the baby’s healthy,” a well-intentioned but ultimately dismissive statement.
In the months that follow the birth I will frequently return to my mental realm of the hospital and scan through, haunted by memories of lying on my back with my legs up, bearing down with all my might while my vagina split like a seedpod. In later conversation with my mom, I'll learn that the nurses didn't know I was going natural, and when mom told them I hadn't had an epidural, they snickered. I'll wonder why hospital policy is to treat a natural delivery the same as a drugged delivery, why my birthing goals were so unwelcome, and why our cultural norm is to interfere with the birth process regardless of whether or not it's necessary.
And in my head, I will compose letters to Dr. L. suggesting that in the future she respect her patients enough to read their birth plans and alert them if she disagrees. Although after researching, I couldn't find any medical evidence behind putting a woman on her back for a first baby, and spoke with other women who had been allowed to birth in the position of their choice with no problems.
With mind-blowing joy I recall the first time I held my baby boy, but still shudder into an emotional tailspin at the thought of his delivery.
When Gavin was born, I felt like I'd been sucked underwater. It seemed I had been heading that way - in the last few weeks of pregnancy my belly was so large it felt like a globe-shaped sandbag, and I waddled around with the sensation of slowly sinking. Once my beautiful little bean made his official debut, he nursed every two or three hours around the clock for months. Near-drowned on love and sleep deprivation, determined to feed him from my own body, I spent most of my time drifting through a dim, blurry waterscape between asleep and awake as summer, fall and winter passed through my peripheral like weather patterns.
Occasionally I would bubble to some surface and become fully aware of where I was in life, and note how changed I found my self and my surroundings. Then I'd go under again, and not think anything coherent for weeks.
As recently as a couple months ago, I became better able to manage caring for my son (nearly one year old now, and sleeps better though only marginally) with other life activities - brushing my teeth, taking care of laundry, socializing. It felt like having been lost at sea and finally crawling upon the shore of some island, bedraggled and confused, with terrible hair - where am i? Wait, who am I?
Maybe it's part of new motherhood, but I've been doing a lot of reflecting since the ability to do so was restored to my brain. The intense, difficult, joyful, exhausting, rewarding but frustrating experience of being in charge of another human life has highlighted my strengths and weaknesses in all areas, and made me think about what's important. I've come up with this - love and friendship. While this is not an original concept at all, it arrived as news to me.
My husband is still firmly by my side, but scanning my surroundings in this new place I see that not everyone who seemed to be with me in the beginning is here now. Life actually continued while I was away, which seems obvious, but the extent left me flabbergasted. I've drifted apart from a couple people, due to life moving us in different directions. I lost one good friend out of my own unintended negligence, and her absence digs around behind my ribcage like a claw.
Those friendships that were left standing, or that were easily renewed, I'm grateful for. I've also opened my time to new friends, mama friends, and the experience has been refreshing.
Sitting here in this stage of life that still feels new sometimes, I find myself mentally gathering up important people in my life - my budding family, friends - and proceeding with caution, so as not to take any of them for granted.
This morning, I was massaging my left breast. Not for fun, but because it was about as pliant and boob-like as dried concrete. My son had just nursed from the right breast, so that one was fine, but the left was, quite simply, not well. This happens from time to time when he sleeps a long stretch at night after several nights of frequent wakings, and in the mornings I end up with so much milk he fills up on one side while the other is left hurting.
"Check it out," I told my husband Jon, who was buttoning his work shirt. "Can you tell which boob he nursed from?" The left one bulged out awkwardly, engorged as though it had eaten way too much thanksgiving stuffing and could only hang there, moaning in distress.
Jon glanced over, then quickly away. "Mm...yeah, I see."
"Feel the difference," I pursued. "This one's rock hard."
He hesitated, then said: "Remember that thing we talked about?" The day before, we discussed how sometimes the partners of women who give birth have trouble reconciling their wives as both mothers and sexual creatures, especially if they see the delivery.
Since that isn't something Jon has issues with, I laughed and we joked about him having found "the line."
The sad things is, I'm hearing too much about how for some people "the line" is much more obvious, going so far as to make the mama feel isolated and unwanted. Failing to recognize a woman as both mother and lover is a concept I find mostly horrifying. A husband or partner not wanting to be intimate after all a woman goes through in pregnancy and childbirth just seems unfair.
At the same time, I wonder what would happen for me if the situation were reversed, if I were to witness a life form emerging from my husband's penis. The very thought feels so unnatural it brings to mind the movie Alien, where that horrible, slimy, screeching octopus-like thing tears its way out of a human stomach.
That's not a good example. I'll try to envision a new scenario: men giving birth is the most normal thing in the world. After watching the baby come out, which might look like a snake eating a rabbit in reverse, would I...
Hm. That might actually be worse.
Ok, if I were in a lesbian relationship. Could I watch my loved one birth a child and then look at the vessel the same way? I think of my own delivery, when the nurse held out a mirror and cried, "Look!" And I did. I looked. I shouldn't have. What I saw was like a brutal crime scene.
I suppose I can understand, a little bit, the other side. The problem is, it's difficult enough for the woman to merge this new mama role with her sexual side - adding the shame of feeling rejected by a husband or partner is unnecessary, and makes me want to get all Eve Ensler.
By all means, any mother's partner should be able to take an adjustment period (or at least wait until the nightmares stop), but do so quietly. And if the wife needs for you to demonstrate affection before you've overcome any reservations, well, take one (or two) for the team. She pushed your baby out of a very sensitive area, and that trumps your discomfort.
As for the mamas...you're beautiful. Your new maternal side can co-exist in harmony with your inner sex goddess. Now I sound all Cosmopolitan. Maybe I'll launch into a top ten list. I really just have one recommendation though. Motherhood is an adjustment for all involved...so just be conscious of that, and maybe don't do things like shove your rock-hard lactating breast in your partner's face.
I've been thinking about her lately, mostly because I haven't heard from her. Not the lady from Hoarders who hoards both live and dead cats (the one I wrote about in a previous post), but my cat lady. The one who took our two cats to keep "until we get a house" and then disappeared from the face of Midtown.
I'm still haunted by nightmares of the disastrous process of getting the cats from our condo to her house.
It was a cold afternoon a couple months back when the cat lady came over under the premise of relieving us of said cats, Sierra and Jade, and I was full of anticipation. After my son's birth, the cats had become increasingly intolerable - tiny litter pebbles trailed throughout the condo, a litter box that grew more obnoxious even when cleaned daily, gray cat fur constantly falling from their bodies, Sierra's occasional hissy, hostile behavior that had been getting worse as she aged. They had become little storm clouds that drifted through our home raining nasty, and I was eager to find them a new home before I woke up to find my baby making sandcastles in the litter box and munching cat turds.
When the cat lady showed up, the cats were in carriers and ready to go. It had taken twenty minutes to get a hissing Sierra into the larger crate, and that I managed to do so without any scratches was nothing short of a triumph. I was hoping to whisk them out to her car and start vacuuming the living room.
"Here," I told cat lady, as she moved toward the crates, "I can help carry."
Turning to my mom, who had come over to watch the baby while I took care of the cats, I said, "This lady's like a cat whisperer," which is something I assumed because she runs a nonprofit dedicated to rescuing cats...and she has a lot of them.
I watched in dread as the cat lady sat down next to Sierra's crate and made herself comfortable, saying something to the effect of I'd like to help smooth their transition and get them used to me before taking them into my home...so what I'm trying to say is THESE CATS AREN'T GOING ANYWHERE, MUAHAHA.
"You know, it took me twenty minutes to get her in that crate," I said as cat lady reached for the carrier's door latch. There was a sound like rushing wind - Sierra hissing warnings through the metal bars. "I don't think that's a good idea?" I offered uncertainly. Cat lady had known about Sierra's mounting behavior issues, so what was she doing?
Mom and I watched in horror as cat lady removed Sierra, a ball of thrashing fur, from the carrier's safe confines. "I understand," cat lady crooned in a high, singsong voice as Sierra released a series of low, guttural growls. The cat's face was twisted into a demonic leer, paws spread so wide they looked like tiger claws ready to rip flesh. Satan, is that you? I wanted to ask. But I couldn't move. Curling her arms protectively around the baby, my mom backed away from the scene.
Sierra lashed violently at cat lady's face, narrowly missing her nose. "I understand," cat lady repeated firmly, trying to caress Sierra's head.
The cat shrieked, reared back and in one swift move, slashed cat lady right between the eyes. I jumped back as bright red blood began to spurt from the open wound. "It's ok," she continued, not releasing her grip. "I understand."
"Oh...my god," I said. "Um, are you ok? Let me, uh, get you something."
While retrieving a toilet paper roll from the bathroom, I heard the cat scream again, and when I returned, the tender flesh between cat lady's right thumb and forefinger had been opened like a letter. We stuffed Sierra back in the carrier, which entailed removing the lid and quickly replacing it over her squalling form rather than coaxing her through the door.
"I don't think today's the right day," Cat lady warbled from her bloody face, "It's just not the right time for me to take them."
In light of the events that had taken place, I could hardly argue, but my heart sank.
"Maybe," she continued. "We should...wait a couple weeks...and I could come over and get them used to me. And they can come over when they're ready."
I was relieved she was still willing to take them, but pretty sure she was insane. Ready? Without the help of shock treatments, I couldn't see Sierra ever being "ready" to be handled when she was spitting and growling. Or any cat. Cat whisperer, my ass.
"I can't keep them here," I said. "Especially with...the way Sierra acted. I can't have that around my baby. I'm sorry about what happened, but we're going to have to figure something out."
Figuring something out took about two days. In the end we drugged Sierra per cat lady's request, "to help with the transition." The first thing cat lady did was call an animal psychologist to try and figure out Sierra's issues.
It's been about four months since the cats left, and I've only received two phone calls from cat lady. One to say it had been two months and had we sold our condo yet, and the other to say it had been three months and she would need more money if we planned to continue keeping the cats there. I returned that last call, telling her to let us know how much she needed and whether she wanted us to Paypal her Web site or mail a check. A week later I called again to reiterate that we would give her money, just let us know how much. Silence.
So she's been crossing my mind. What happened? Is she upset because I haven't visited? Did one of the cats die and she's afraid to tell me? Or did they run out of drugs and Sierra finally finished the job she started here in the condo? I picture cat lady lying motionless and defeated in a swarm of meowing fur, and I shudder.
Any woman who becomes a mom immediately begins to make parenting decisions. Breast milk or formula? Crib or co-sleep? Should I get a baby carrier, a stroller, both? What kind of diapers should we use? Am I a bad mother if I leave my newborn in front of the TV while I go pee? Or am I a worse mother if I take baby with, then touch him with pee hands?
I would say something soothing, like whatever choice you make is best for you. But let's be honest. You'd better think carefully, because every step you take will be judged by the Supreme Court of Motherhood, run by an all-knowing council: other moms. After joining an online group of other moms expecting in June of '09 - because I was the first of my friends to be a pregnant lady and pregnant ladies like to talk to other pregnant ladies - I started noticing this.
It began with the question how are you going to give birth? Some women knew right away they'd be going the epidural route in a hospital, comfortably numbed from the waist down and monitored by professionals. Others knew right away they wanted to pop out their babies in their own homes, where they could labor unprodded and in peace, and let their bodies do the work. Others wanted to go natural in the hospital, hoping for the best of both worlds. Some weren't sure.
Opinions were formed, expressed. Here is an example exchange in the spirit of how one topic went down on my birth board.
I don't understand homebirths, what if something went wrong?
Something's more likely to go wrong in the hospital. Interventions create a domino effect. Here, read this link.
I'd rather trust my doctor, thank you. That's why he went to med school.
Doctors can be wrong, and have agendas, you know.
I don't need your opinion shoved down my throat.
Enjoy your c-section.
From there, in general the board seemed to divide into two camps: natural-birthing, non-vaccinating, breastfeeding, babywearing, cloth diapering, anti-Western-medicine, Dr. Sears worshiping pretentious hippies; and epidural-loving, doctor-happy, disposable diapering, selfish and uneducated idiots who planned to feed their babies demon juice (formula).
Mom polarization happens in real life too. I am a member of several moms groups, and not a week after joining the first one there was an argument within the group that resulted in several women marching off and forming their own group.
The funny part is, based on silent observation, most women (such as myself) fall somewhere in the middle. But that's not nearly as exciting.
The other night my husband and I were watching a show that proves reality television is doing everything it can to rip the privacy curtain from the underbelly of humanity. Hoarders.
This particular episode features an elderly couple, Shirley and Jake, who say they are unable to turn away a stray cat. "I have twenty to twenty-five animals," Shirley announces. The camera exposes cats darting in and out of what must be an elaborate tunnel system through boxes and garbage piled so high you can't see the opposite wall of the room. Gearing up with gloves and face masks and nets, the brave members of animal control set forth to capture the animals, some of which turn out to be feral. Ten...twenty...thirty...fifty...the number of live cats skyrockets.
There's also another number involved in the situation, something like eighty plus...and that's how many rotting cat corpses and fossilized feline skeletons were unearthed. I hope Shirley and Jake threw at least one Halloween party before their house was cleaned up.
Watching this episode reminded me of our own neighborhood cat lady, who's like the math nerd goody-two-shoes of cat ladies compared to Shirley. Our cat lady runs a nonprofit that rescues kittens and finds them new homes, so her house is filled with cats (or I considered it to be, before watching Hoarders). In a moment of what I would later blame on insanity, I once adopted two kittens from her - only to return them two years later after having a baby and finding myself unable to cope with fur and litter on no sleep.
I don't think I have what it takes to be a cat lady.
Remake a cheesy horror movie with one of the most delightfully cheese-o-rific names that a delightfully horrible horror movie could offer: The Crazies. With a plot line that includes the mysterious poisoning of a town's water supply that results in the residents going...wait for it...CRAZY, and with an accompanying song like Gary Jules' 'Mad World' ("All around me are familiar faces ... no expression, no expression ...") this movie is a shining example of how you can summarize a story right in the title.
I mean, I'm a mom and everything, and I write, and technically I'm starting a blog, so your mom-blog-warning radar - if you have such a thing - might be flashing. But there's a crucial difference between your general mommy blog and what I might write about: a point. Specifically, I don't have one yet. I'm just tired of wondering whether or not I should start a blog.
These days I stay home with my almost-nine-month old son and write the occasional freelance article, so I really don't have any excuse not to be working on something. But, I've also been sleeping mostly in two or three-hour increments since my beautiful, hungry and wakeful son was born. So instead of leaping into a huge, meaningful writing project that would demand energy and sharp cognitive abilities that have been sanded from my brain like so much feeble wood, I'll do this. By refusing to commit to any one theme or purpose, I can sort of experiment along the way.
