A Surprisingly Sane Blog

Water.

It’s *really* important to drink it while you’re busy guzzling all the free (really smooth) glasses of wine you can get your hands on.

Really important.

Current Mood: Alarmed

Sorry, I’ve been missing in action today.  Lame, I know.

It’s because we had to get dressed up and do a dance performance this evening.  Oh, and we were forced to eat the best food in town.  I know, poor us.  I must also say that this was all in the company of an absolutely wonderful person, who also happened to be the opera singer whose songs we were dancing to.

Oh, and after our lovely performance, where we totally faked the crap out of what we were doing because there wasn’t enough space to actually execute the Viennese Waltz, the gods welcomed us with warm open arms.   Meaning, there was an open bar.  Hallelujah!

Yeah, there was all-we-could drink Shiraz.  Wine + Prozac = Sexy Kisses.  You can gag if you want.  I don’t care.

Oh, and yes, we look kind of trashed in this picture, so I thought I’d share.  Please notice that for once James looks a bit more tipsy than me:

In fact, I look quite sober.

Okay, so the sad thing about this whole evening (besides the fact that we couldn’t get enough of the freaking amazing shrimp being served… oh, and the wine… did I mention the wine?) was the fact that the people in charge of the event didn’t even recognize us when we showed up!

Yes, my boobies are real.  The beauty of breastfeeding.  Although, this picture really doesn’t do them justice.  *Sigh*

If you ignore the ghetto background of our front door circa 1973 and pretend the glazed-over look in our eyes doesn’t exist in the photo above, you can see that we sort of actually clean up well enough to step foot outside of the house.

And that’s why they didn’t know who we were.

I think they were fearing a disastrously embarrassing moment where the ballroom dancers they hired waltzed out wearing pajama bottoms and flip-flops.  Why?  Um, because the coordinator’s first impression of me was a little less than presentable, to put it nicely.

I’ll just skip over that part of the story and leave it to your imagination.  Don’t worry, I was fully dressed.

Now to drink enough water to rid myself of this glorious wine buzz so that I can take my happy pill.

Aw, do I have to sober up?

Current Mood: Happy

Ugh, I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Now, before you jump out of your seat when you read the word “neurosurgeon”, I want to assure you that April is fine and there’s nothing medically wrong with her (except for the fact that she’s *my* offspring).  So don’t panic.

But I had to take her to see a neurosurgeon today.

Although her crazy poof of hair covers it, she has moderate-to-severe positional plagiocephaly.  Which means, ladies and gentlemen, my kid has a crooked head.

It’s okay if you laugh.  I won’t be offended.  I kind of crack up when I think of it like that.  And before you get your panties in a twist over what a shitty parent I am for laughing at my baby’s unfortunate situation, I’m going to defend myself and admit it’s one of those moments where if I don’t laugh, by God I might actually cry… and, well, I’m too much of a bad-ass to surrender to tears over this.  I mean, she’s healthy at least.  There are much worse things that I don’t even want to consider thinking about that could be wrong.

Anyway, after checking all of April’s reflexes, studying the shape her head, and going over a checklist of developmental milestones, the neurosurgeon said she really recommends that we get her a Cranial Remolding Band.

That’s a fancy term for “helmet”.

She told me that it would only be for 3-6 months, and that the helmet would just allow the flat spot on her head room to round out as it grows.  She also assured me that if I choose not to do the cranial bonding, it won’t cause any developmental or neurological problems.  However, she said that in April’s case, she recommends doing it because of the severity of the plagiocephaly.

While the asymmetry hasn’t really noticeably affected her cute little face, it has misaligned her ears.  She also has a flat spot on the back of one side of her head, and a rounded bump on the other side.  Again, though, her hair covers all of this.  So if you don’t know, you wouldn’t notice until you look a little closer.  The cranial bonding would most likely correct all of this, and also keep her facial features from being impacted (although the doctor said her face most likely wouldn’t be affected anyway).

All of this was most likely a result of the torticollis she had as a young infant.  A problem that has since been mostly corrected.

So this is where my dilemma is.  This is basically more of a cosmetic procedure than a medical one.  Chances are, our insurance won’t cover the treatment, which I believe is going to fall into the low thousands somewhere. That’s a lot of money.

But the flip side, if we don’t do something about this now, she’s going to have to go through life with a crooked little head.

Considering all the things about myself that I’ve through periods of being self-conscious about, I’m at least grateful that my clothing covers most of it. James and I have discussed if we can do something now to keep her from feeling bad about herself later, we should probably go for it.

But then, I’m stressed about spending that kind of money and sentencing my precious little baby to 3-6 months of wearing a helmet.  What do I do?  I’m kind of at a loss here.  I don’t want to look back 10 years from now wishing I had taken care of the issue when she asks me why her head looks weird.  Or why I fix her hair to look like she’s stuck her finger in an electrical outlet.

She has an evaluation to get fitted for the helmet next week.

I’m kind of holding my breath and keeping my fingers crossed that the answer is going to just come to me magically.

What would you do?

And does it seem wrong or selfish to want something cosmetic done for my baby?

Current Mood: Confused

Did you ever wonder why I’m so brutally honest?  Why I’m not afraid to talk about the stretch marks on my ass and sexual issues?

It’s because I had to learn the hard way.

Integrity.  One of the most valuable lessons I ever learned.  Now it follows me everywhere I go… my own little loyal (albeit annoying) puppy dog.

When I was in third grade, I got caught cheating.  I’d been at a awhile, and I really didn’t know how wrong it was.

Until I got caught, of course.

It all started because I had a crippling fear of being less than perfect.  There were high academic expectations of me, and I hated bringing home a paper with a *-1* instead of a *-0* written on it.

I could go into the deep psychological reasons as to why an 8-year-old was terrified of bringing home a 95% instead of a 100%, but I’ll skip the psychoanalysis and just flat own up to it.  Because what I did was wrong, and there is no excuse.

I was only eight years old when I discovered this magical little way to “fix” the wrong answers that popped up on my homework.  And my math tests.  And even, eventually, just about every paper that my teacher had us self-grade with our Catholic-school-kid red pencils.

I was good at it.  I used to break off the tip of my pencil and write in the correct answer while holding it between my fingertips.  The red correcting pencil was on top, so no one knew.

Nobody knew, that is, until I shared my clever little secret with the girl next to me.  I thought it would help her get better grades.  My heart was in the right place.

She ratted me out.  Twice.  In front of the whole class.

The first time, I played dumb and got away with it.  The teacher didn’t see it happen, so there was no proving it was for real.

The second time, I couldn’t act my way out of it.

The punishment sucked.  I was grounded for the first time in my life.  I received a 0% on the test I got caught cheating on.  My teacher had a very long discussion with me out in the hallway about how she couldn’t trust me anymore.

The worst part was that I was a complete laughingstock for the rest of the week.  In third grade terms, the rest of the week feels like the rest of your life.

No one wanted to be friends with a liar, a cheater.  I was completely alienated.  My classmates whispered about it while I was within earshot and cast accusing glances in my direction.

Although I can fully admit that I deserved what was coming to me, I never really recovered socially from that moment, nor did I ever forget the lesson I learned.

It’s amazing how one little lie like cheating turns into a multitude of lies.  Even if they’re unintentional.  And lies are tricky.  They don’t have to be verbalized.  They can be as simple as the fake smile you cast in someone’s direction.  Body language.  Not being true to who you really are.

That year, I lost who I was and lived a fabricated life.  I didn’t know how to face the sheer humiliation gracefully.  I was just a little kid. I put a smile on my face and acted like I didn’t care.  I didn’t want anyone to know that I cried myself to sleep or that I prayed to God every night I could be someone else.

Since then, I’ve toughed and hardened drastically.

As mortifying as the whole experience was, I am grateful for it and the little snot who tattled on me.

Had I not been forced to own up to my dishonesty, I would never have become the straightforward, painfully truthful person that I’ve become today.  And although I admit it can be difficult at times having a mouth like mine, I am glad that I no longer feel like I have to apologize for who I am.  I’m not afraid to admit when I’ve made a mistake.  If I get into an argument, I’ll be the first to apologize and try to make peace.

It has taught me to be a better person, and it has given me a lot of courage to stand up for myself.

I learned it the hard way, but maybe it was the only way.

If we never get called on it, what keeps our integrity in check?  What do we have to lose until we have to admit to our falsehoods and weaknesses?

Had I never been caught, I would not have the sense of right and wrong that I do today.

And although it was painful and humiliating, I wouldn’t change what happened.

Current Mood: Cool

I went into labor with Julie on March 24th, 2006.

The next 26 hours included some of the most physically agonizing and mentally exhausting moments of my life.  Be prepared for a bloody birth story and more mentions of my intimate body parts if you keep reading.  (I’m starting to wonder if I can write a blog without mentioning some kind of “too much info”, but you’re probably used to it by now.)

James and I had planned an all-natural hippie-style birth at a birthing center with a midwife.  I had always been fascinated by waterbirth, and the birthing center was the only place in town, besides my own home, where it was an option.  At the time, I thought there was no way in hell I’d be stupid enough to give birth at home.  Little did I know that 2.5 years later I’d have to eat my own foot.

So anyway, at 8:00 p.m. on this very day three years ago, after surviving four weeks of moderate bedrest due to premature labor contractions and elevated blood pressure, my water broke suddenly.  I was only 37 weeks along, and I was certainly not prepared to go into labor so early.

My contractions didn’t start for a whopping 17 hours.  I went all night, too excited to sleep, and well into the next day before my contractions started.  My body finally decided Julie had worn out her welcome squished up against my colon and bladder while I was at the birthing center for a routine non-stress test around 1:30 p.m.  Finally, the contractions began.

James and I went home and the first several hours of labor were relatively easy.

Then the sun started to set, and like a natural timer waiting for darkness, labor hit full force and knocked me off my comfortable side-lying position.  I spent two hours rocking on all fours while prehistoric instinct took over and I moaned loudly during the deep exhales that kept me from screaming for an epidural.

I started to panic a bit.  It was excruciating.  I couldn’t move from my all-fours position.  Each contraction was lasting about two whopping minutes starting with an intense burn in my lower back that felt kind of like the worst case of cramping diarrhea imaginable.   Times… oh, about a hundred.

When I had three gut-wrenching yell-inducing contractions without any break in between that left me gasping for mercy, James helped me get my fat, swollen ass into the car for the most painful 12-minute drive of my life.

When I got to the birthing center a little after 8:00 p.m., my midwife and nurse had the birthing bath tub full of warm water for me.  I got in immediately.  The buoyancy I felt in the water helped immensely.

I was certain that the excruciating pain I was in meant I was probably at the end of transition, the last three centimeters of dilation.  Um, nope.  No such luck.  My midwife checked me… and I was at a freaking 5cm, only half-way there.

I almost cried when I heard that.  There was no way I was going to survive pain worse than I was experiencing.

Somehow, I managed.  It only got worse from there.  Looking back, I honestly don’t know how I got through it.

Shortly after she checked me,  I felt the contractions change and said I was going to need to push soon.  I was barely hanging on by a thread at this point, ready to pass out from the agony that was shaking my body with each wave of uterine tightening.  James was in the water with me, applying pressure to my lower back, giving me sips of water, keeping me strong while I begged for someone to just shoot me.

My midwife checked me again, and I was suddenly at 7 cm.  I knew the worst was supposed to be yet to come, so I asked if anyone would be willing to just kill me now.

Everyone laughed.  So did I.

Twenty minutes later, my body was pushing like a wild animal.  My cervix jumped to 10cm quickly, and there was no holding back.

I spent an exhausting hour pushing, James behind me hold my legs back while I floated pathetically in the water.  I was so fatigued that the room was fuzzy when I opened my eyes.

Pushing felt incredibly good in comparison to the back labor.  I didn’t even yell or moan that hour.

My baby was rotated posterior, or face-up, so pushing was pretty awkward until I finally felt her turn face-down.

Then suddenly, after a brief burning sensation, I looked down into the water to see a little dark head full of hair poking out from between my legs.  My midwife said there was a cord around the neck and it was stuck, so I had to get the baby out quickly.

On the next push, I yelled out a warrior cry while my baby, purple from the cord wrapped twice, practically shot out of my nether-region.  I felt a strange sensation as her shoulders popped through at the same time.  It didn’t hurt in the instant that it happened, but that was when my child officially ripped me a new one.

The next few seconds were the most bizarre moments of my life.  My midwife was unwrapping the umbilical cord from a very chubby baby with curly black hair and a startled look in her open eyes.  I was losing blood quickly from the tear, which severed right through the muscle down south, so the water was bright red.

My little Asian-looking baby was placed on my deflated abdomen, and my midwife said, “Rub your baby!”

I was in shock looking at the calm, warm creature that was on my chest and could scarcely comprehend what was happening.  After a good 10 (or was it 20?) seconds of rubbing her back, my baby took her first gulp of air and uttered a tiny little coughing cry.

And that was it.  She was then breathing peacefully on my belly, totally content.  As if she had some kind of innate knowledge that she was perfectly safe and healthy and ready to just hang out with the human race.  Fear not, I come in peace.

The half hour after that moment was a blur.  James cut the umbilical cord and got out of the water, my nurse wrapped Julie up in a blanket and handed her to James, and I birthed the placenta while the room spun away from me.

My knees buckled out from under me as my midwife and nurse helped me out of the tub and onto the bed.  I’d lost quite a bit of blood and the strain from the whole wow-a-baby-just-fell-out-of-my-vagina moment left me nearly speechless for probably the first time in my smart-mouthed life.

I spent the next little while completely out of it while my midwife stitched up the sad remains of my perineum.  James, smiling the biggest grin I’d ever seen, proudly tried to show me our little creation, which was bundled up happily in his warm daddy arms.  I was too exhausted to get a good look at her.

Finally, I had the chance to hold my baby.

I couldn’t believe how weird she looked with her swollen eyelids and puffy cheeks.  She was nothing like I expected, yet so much more precious than I imagined.  For being 3 weeks before her due date, Julie Rose was an impressive-sized baby… 8 pounds, 2 ounces and 20 inches long.

Ah, the memories of labor.  While my second birth story was quick and relatively easy, the back labor and intense birth of Julie will probably be always remembered as one of the most traumatizing events of my life.

And even though I look like a swollen tick about to pop in the above picture, I must say that my darling Julie Rose was worth that 8.5 months of uncomfortable pregnancy and the 26 hours of drug-free labor and birth.  Even though it admittedly took me quite awhile to be able to say that.  We can blame the postpartum depression that hit like hours after she was born.

But now, I know without a doubt that she was worth it and then some.  She’s an amazing little girl.

Even though she’s a little smart-mouthed stinker like her mama.

Current Mood: Happy