Contemplating with Myself

Wow.... I haven't posted anything for a while. I feel like such a slacker ;)

The other day on facebook, I wrote on some friends' walls... note that I hadn't talked to these people in about two years... and (shocker!!!) they wrote back on mine. The problem is that I don't really want to talk to these people anymore... I mean I do and at the same time I don't. I mean they're still my friends and all, but it's awkward now, 'cause I hadn't talked to them in so long. I feel like some kind of facebook stalker.

So, I haven't wrote on their walls yet, 'cause I don't really know what to say. I mean at the time when I first wrote on their wall, I thought i was a great way to regain and restore a old and dying friendship... but in actuality I realized that I have like NOTHING in common with these people any more.

I feel kind of guilty though, 'cause I should write on their walls 'cause they wrote back on mine. But I don't really know them anymore...

Speaking of friends on facebook, my cousin friended me on facebook. So, I was like "yea. sure. He's my cousin and all." Note that he is only 14. He messaged me today and asked me how I was and stuff like that.

But then I realized that their are things that on my facebook that I don't think I really want my younger cousins seeing. I mean, I don't have like drunk pictures or like porn on my page... it's just that I'm the oldest cousin. There are pictures of me on facebook that are mildly inappropriate in a sly kind of way. For example:

This is a picture from summer camp '09.

I don't want to de-friend him though, 'cause he is my cousin and all and I want to keep in touch with him. I mean I am friends with my parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles on facebook. If THEY hadn't said anything yet, I don't think I should go making a big deal out of it. I'll let it go and see what happens.

What? What happened to coffee hour?!??!!?

I may have mentioned in the past that my husband is from Brazil, in South America, you know, where coffee beans come from? Where they speak Portuguese and the word meaning breakfast (café da manhã) literally translates to "morning coffee"? Yeah. Coffee is a big part of our life. Not in a get-the-biggest-vat-of-the-poison-you-can-and-chug-like-an-addict way, but more like a stop-and-make-time-for-each-other kind of way. I think it started back at our first date. I asked him to go to breakfast. He asked what time. I suggested 10a. He was trying to decide if that would work because he knew he couldn't wake up too early on Saturday, but he also knew that once he woke up he wouldn't be able to go very long without coffee. And he couldn't very well wake up, eat breakfast and have coffee, and then meet me for breakfast. The end of the story is that 10a worked perfectly, we parted ways about 4p and now here we are: married coffee people.

For us, coffee is essential at breakfast and in the afternoon. Sometimes we even have a third coffee after dinner with dessert.

Last week my husband had his teeth whitened by the dentist. They look great. But there's one big drawback: he can't have coffee anymore. It stains his teeth. And what's the point of having the dentist whiten your teeth if you're just going to stain them again?

No problem. He substituted warm milk and added a few tablespoons of coffee or cocoa. Cocoa beans also come from South America, afterall. And we carried on like nothing had changed.

Then we went to the pediatrician with Stella yesterday. She's having some strange symptoms with her digestion. You know, I really don't like reading about gross bodily functions when other people write it, so I'll spare you the details and trust that I've given you enough information. Anyways, we decide that the likely culprit is an infantile sensitivity to lactose. She's had nothing but breastmilk since she was born, though. There's no lactose in breastmilk, so where's the sensitivity coming into play? Oh, in my diet, that's where. It's possible that because I'm intaking milk-based products, that's causing her some trouble. The suggestion by the pediatrician was for me to cut all dairy out of my diet for a week and see what happens.

All dairy? ALL of it? Do you know what that covers? That's right: the milk I put in my several cups of coffee throughout the day. See, I'm really a latte kind of a girl. I don't drink coffee black. Ever. Nevertheless, it was give up the milk in the coffee, give up the coffee altogether, or let the kid continue to have her ever-so-pleasant symptoms. Alright then, black coffee it is.

This morning we sat down for coffee. Gone was the lovely milky white coffee in our cups. Also gone was our signature omelet (milk & cheese & butter). Instead we had coffee-like beverages and fried eggs. And toast. It was not the same. By the end of breakfast, I just looked at the remaining half cup of sweet black stuff in my bug and twisted my nose. Ick.

So the way I see it, we can substitute our coffee with mimosas and port wine (did you know that's from Portugal?) and hope for the best.

New Hair, Thanksgiving, and movies

I dyed my hair. It wasn't a dramatic change or anything. I only dyed it like 3 shades a darker brown. I have found 3 things. First, hair dye smells horrible. Second, it takes FOREVER!!! And lastly, people DO notice. I don't mind that people notice. I actually like it; it gives me attention. I know that sounded very conceded, but it's true.

I ran the 5K on Thanksgiving morning... correction I WALKED the 5K. My mom told me I was going to do it again this year. Correction, I gave up and was convinced into doing it.

Mom: Gracie are you planning on running the 5K this year?
Me: Mom.... I want to but I don't want to.
Mom: I don't understand.
Me: I want to go to the event, but I don't want to run in the race.
(ETC. Mom starts giving me a hard time about how my step dad and my Aunt
only did it cause I like to run; blah blah blah; making me feel all guilty and stuff.)
Me: Mom... I don't know if you noticed... but I don't enjoy running. It is not one of my
pleasures in my life. It's actually one of my down points.
Mom: But, I thought you like to run?
Me: No mom, I like to do short sprints NOT long distance. That's why in track I did
nothing more than a 400m.
Mom: Gracie, I think you will do better, because you are much more fit this year.
Me: Mom, swimming is COMPLETELY different from running. Plus, I think am
traumatized from last year's run.
Mom: (laughs) Why?
Me: I mean, we got lost looking for it. I had to wake up at like 5am on a holiday. It
started to snow and my step dad and Aunt left me. By the end of the race I was
cold, tired, hungry, and wet.
Mom: Oh... well then I guess we won't do the event. And, I would rather NOT do that
again.
(I started to tell her how I want to go but I don't do run it. She told me to go call
my Aunt. 30 minutes later)
Me: Mom? I have decided to do the 5K. Aunt Wendy said she would walk with me.
.....My mom always gets her way.


Great one liners of the week:
Me: I think I'm going to grow my hair out again
Mom: I think you're hair looks so much better now that it's short than it did when you had it long
Me: I know, but now I'm realizing that there is so much more that I could have done with my hair than what I did.
Mom: Like what?
Me: Like, I could brush it every day.

------------

[while discussing an essay I had written about the contrasts between the novel Of Mice and Men and the movie made]

Mom: What sorts of things did you note?
Me: Well, Curley's wife is different. In the book, she's more of a slut, but in the movie she's not.
Mom: I hope you didn't use the word "slut."
Me: I did, but it's ok. My teacher understands. Besides, there's really no other way to say she's a slut than by using the word "slut."


I saw NEW MOON!!!! I'm so obsessed that I have been waiting for it for over a year. I have to say that I like the second film better than Twilight. I think New Moon stuck more to the book. I'm still Team Edward though. ;)

Defying ethnic boundaries

Back when Stella was three weeks old, we had a photography session with a local photographer, Lorissa Farr. She posted a couple of the best ones to her blog. We ordered some too. One of our favorites is this:


In this image, Lorissa perfectly captured one of our favorite of Stella's features that make her unique: the birthmark on her lower back. It's not unusual, a patch of skin on her lower back that appears darker than the rest of her skin. When she was born, we thought it was a bruise and asked the pediatrician about it. She assured us it was perfectly normal. It's called a mongolian spot and it is most commonly found in children of black or latin descent. Check, Stella is both of those via her father's heritage. Perfectly normal.

At the same time, we asked the pediatrician about another mark on the back of her neck that we had noticed and were concerned about. Here's a picture of that:


The pediatrician explained, it's another birthmark, called a stork bite. Nothing to worry about. It is most common in babies of caucasian descent. Check, Stella is of caucasian decent via me. Nothing to worry about.

Stella's diverse ethnic heritage is nothing unusual; I'd guess from all the families and children I've interacted with since Grace was born that most kids in this younger generation have the benefit of a rich genetic background. Yet, apparently there are still people in our society who don't understand it, don't accept it, and don't want to see it at all.

A few weeks ago we watched Rabbit-Proof Fence together as a family. It is the true story of three girls in Australia in the 1930s. You can watch the trailer here. The three girls are forcibly removed from their mothers, Aborigine, because they are biracial -- their fathers are white. Though it's rated PG, it's not exactly a movie for children unless they are mature enough to deal with difficult topics. For instance, until 1970, Australia still had a law on the books that "half-caste" children, the children who are biracially white and aborigine, are substandard. For that matter, aborigines are substandard humans. At one point in the film, I was so appalled I spit out, "what the fuck!" I was glad that Grace was old enough to understand my righteous anger. How could a government do something so awful, so unthinkable, so hateful and evil? I believe Kenneth Branagh's character in Rabbit-Proof Fence puts it most succinctly: "Are we to allow the creation of an unwanted race?" An industrialized, 20th century government did it because those in power believed children of interracial couples were substandard and should not exist.

Lest we think for a moment that this is barbarian and behind those of us in the US and in our distant past, the gross and despicable reality of the present hits us right between the eyes. Enter Keith Bardwell, a justice of the peace in Tangipahoa Parish, Louisiana. On Friday, the story hit national news media outlets: Judge Bardwell refused to issue a marriage license to an interracial couple. He explained his action by saying that such marriages do not stand the test of time and that children of such a couple would suffer due to not fitting into either culture. He maintains that he is not a racist for making such a decision, that he issues marriage licenses to black couples all the time. And he said, "It's kind of hard to apologize for something that you really and truly feel down in your heart you haven't done wrong." WHAT??!?!?!?!?? I react to this with the same righteous outrage that I did to the content of Rabbit-Proof Fence. But I must be explicitly clear about how outrageous this situation is. The judge does not approve of the marriage because he feels that the children of such a marriage would suffer due to their very existence and lack of identity with the culture of either parent. In short, multiethnic children are a problem. We as a society should do everything we can to prevent their existence in the first place. If they come to exist, we'll have a horrible problem on our hands.

I'm getting to the point where I believe that people in the world who suffer the worst racial discrimination are those who are multiethnic. Contrary to this, I have a rather different viewpoint. Rather than being a hindrance, I believe having a diverse heritage actually gives one an advantage in understanding the world and coping with its various social problems. Having the benefit of more than one vantage points enables a person to realize that the world is not black and white (no pun intended).

I guess these ideas of mine shouldn't come as a surprise since I am part of a multiethnic, bi-national family. But I'd be dishonest if I led you to believe that I came to this perspective without any influence. I heard a piece on NPR's Talk of the Nation a few weeks ago about a new production of Shakespeare's Othello, produced for stage in Washington, DC. and directed by Peter Sellars (no, not the one who died more than 20 years ago, a different one by the same name). In his interview with Neal Conan, Sellars addresses the obvious talking point of Othello, that being the ethnic identity of the title character. He's a Moor, traditionally portrayed by an actor of African or Arabic descent. "Moor" does not refer to any specific ethnic group, but rather someone who is dark-skinned and from the Iberian Peninsula. In other words, someone who is likely of mixed race. He is a successful and liked military leader. The poignancy of putting on this production to Washington, DC now is directly connected to Barack Obama and Justice Sonia Sotomayor. Whatever you think of the president's work so far, it is worth considering in what ways his heritage enables him to be a good leader, or at least, in what ways he is able to lead differently than all of his predecessors. Sellars addresses this point directly in the interview, at about 10:22:

We live in the age of Barack Obama and Tiger Woods. You know, what box are you gonna check? You know, the fact is, we're all more than one box. None of us fit into those boxes anymore.

It's that last line that got me. None of us fit into those boxes anymore. How many of us can neatly fit ourselves into a racial demographic? How about our children? I remember that when Grace was a little girl we went to American Girl Place in Chicago. We both looked to see if we could find a Just Like You girl that looked like each of us. Neither of us succeeded. Apparently American Girl still thought that blue eyes only go with blond hair and green eyes only go with light skin. We had difficulty fitting into an American Girl "box" despite the fact that both of us check off the box "caucasian, not hispanic." Stella doesn't check off one box on those surveys, so what luck does she have finding an American Girl that is Just Like Her?

If you find yourself recoiling at the suggestion that the "boxes" in demographic surveys are going the way of the buffalo, why is that? Is it the idea that our comfort zones are dissolving? If we can't presuppose things about people based on their appearance, maybe that makes us feel unsure and a little nervous. We might have to let go of our assumptions, the ones that make us feel knowledgeable and informed. Not all Spanish speakers are immigrants. Not all immigrants are poor and/or stupid. Not all blacks like rap. Nor do they all speak the same dialect of English. Not all whites like camping and corn bread. Nor Eddie Bauer. Need I go on?

As I have been thinking about Grace's friends throughout her childhood, I am struck by how few of them can clearly identify with one and only one ethnic group. This generation of children is, by their very DNA, more ethnically diverse. In a world that is quickly shrinking, a world in which it is an advantage to be not just tolerant of differences, but appreciative and enthusiastic, it seems that these kids undoubtedly are able to understand that world better.

Instead of focusing our energies of making lines and dividing up people into discrete groups that supposedly matter, wouldn't it be more fruitful to think of ourselves as citizens of the earth? Members of the human race? We have more in common with people once we stop and focus on the similarities rather than the differences. I, for one, am tired of the labels.

Homecoming is here again.

Tonight. Tonight's the night.

It's Homecoming at Grace's high school.

Last year I had no idea what Homecoming meant, what the event entailed. This year, I was prepared.

There's a football game, yes, but who really cares about that? Grace especially doesn't care given that she's on the swim team and they had a meet scheduled at exactly the same time as the Homecoming football game.

The most important event, of course, is a dance. A semi-formal. Grace, unlike most girls, goes to a dance and wants to dance. She wants to be wild, be goofy, take pictures, eat, and have A LOT OF FUN. BOOOOOOOO, she says to the girls who go to these events and look and act like princesses, not daring to do anything to muss themselves. A dance is for letting down your hair and HAVING FUN.

Now that you get the picture, here are the essential points I have learned since last year.

#1 - It is very important that you pick out a dress that makes you look spectacular. It is also very important that no one else pick out your spectacular dress.

Grace and I set out a day, a Saturday three weeks ago, to go shopping together for a dress. The two of us with baby Stella in tow went to the mall on a mission. Once we had located the motherload of dresses at our favorite department store, we grabbed as many dresses as we could find and Grace tried on at least thirty. We narrowed it down to eight, and then two. Finally, she decided on a purply-blue satin dress with silver accents. Low cut in the front, yes, but not in a way that looks slutty. It's technically a halter top, but the back has this fantastic look where two straps come from her nape down to the sides of the dress. Like backless with some flair. She said it didn't look like a typical Homecoming dress, the kind that people would expect you to buy (ergo, no one else is likely to pick out the same dress). She also bought $16 silver ballet flats with a big sequined flower at the toes that make the dress stand out and look fun. And that you actually dance in, as opposed to just look dressy in.

Stella behaved perfectly through the whole process.

#2 - You have to weigh the pros and cons of going with a date.

Grace mentioned to me this Tuesday that she might be going to the dance with a date. Now you must realize, Grace has never actually been on a date before. I asked her for more details. Well, she said, it was a friend of hers, someone who has a girlfriend who goes to another high school, but they may be breaking up, but that doesn't matter because Grace and this boy are just friends, and in the end, who really would think much of it anyway? By Wednesday she told me there was no date because she decided that the whole situation was just too complicated. Last night, she told me that several boys had asked her to the dance, but she turned them all down because she didn't want to have to spend all night with one guy when what she really wanted to do was party with her girlfriends. OK, then.

#3 - Corsages are not obligatory.

Last year, at the last minute only hours before the dance, I remembered that Grace would need a corsage for the dance. I called four florists from my office before one would agree that they could get it ready in the space of three hours. I agreed, paid through the nose for it, and it was beautiful. It matched her dress perfectly. I brought it home, my husband gave it to her, and she smiled for pictures with the lovely attached to her wrist. Then she quietly slipped it off before we left for the dance, leaving it on her desk at home. She put it up on display after the weekend as a souvenir. My husband was hurt. She explained to us that it's really weird to wear a corsage if you don't have a date. And though it might be nice to have a corsage and a date, see the discussion under #2.

So, my life is easy. No corsage to worry about this year. Or ever, for that matter, since I only have daughters.

#4 - When you get ready for the dance, it is way more fun to do this with friends.

I have this old-fashioned, idealized notion that every time my daughter has a formal event to attend, she will be close by so that I can relish in her getting ready process and can take an endless number of photos before she actually attends. In the sitting room, by the front door, in a scenic location both in the front yard and the back yard, a beautiful pose, a silly pose, posed with my husband, posed with me, and on and on and on the list goes.

Well, Grace doesn't really have all this as part of her idealized night of Homecoming. She wants to get ready with her friends and go to the dance with them too. The only way for both me and her to have our way is for me to host her friends and let them all get ready at my house. So two of her friends are coming over this afternoon and they are spending two hours getting ready together. Grace wants pizza and other refreshments on hand. I am surprising her by providing Izze, a beverage far too expensive for every day consumption.

I'll take pictures of all three girls in the sitting room, by the front door,...

#5 - Parents should be cool and trust teenagers who have never dreamed of doing anything dangerous in the first place.

'Nuff said.

Happy Homecoming, all you sophomores at Grace's high school.

Being a baby is hard to do

We've finally gotten Stella's social security card and copies of her birth certificate. Now we have to get a US passport. We also have to go to the Brazilian consulate and do all sorts of paperwork to get her citizenship there too. And she needs a Brazilian passport too so she can legally enter the country. All this leads to...

Baby Passport Photos

And you thought it was a pain to get a decent passport picture for yourself...

Abercrombie goes for the kids

OK, first off, I say up front that by posting this I may indeed be branding myself as too cynical of a middle-aged mom. That being said...

Yesterday, while visiting with a friend and her family, I heard the first mention of Abercrombie Kids. Yes, that's right. Our children's favorite teen and college age clothing vendor, Abercrombie and Fitch, has opened its doors to the younger clientele, grade school age children and tweens.



I'll just wait right here while you take that in for a second or two.




OK, I'm guessing you're ready to go on now.




I thought it was a joke. I mean, wouldn't it make a great SNL skit?

I'm not stupid, I understand the logic. Get a young kid hooked on the brand and then they will be even more loyal as teens and young adults. But this is a little different than Gap Kids. Gap Kids sells clothing kind of like what they sell at the adults store -- t-shirts, jeans, khakis...clothes that don't look like you've just come off the beach or out of bed.

I was in college during grunge and I understand the appeal of the look. You give off the aura that you don't care about your appearance and you have bigger things on your mind. You don't have the time or energy (or money) to put towards fashion. Grunge is the ultimate exemplar of function before fashion...which becomes a fashion statement in and of itself. But now it's acceptable to pay top dollar for this. Every time I see stores that carry this look, I think that I've got to teach all these kids how to shop at Goodwill, wash their clothes in the wrong temperature and then overstuff the dryer and leave all the laundry in there for a day.

It's like Grace wearing big faux diamond stud earrings and a pearl bracelet paired with a wrinkly flannel and jeans with holes in them. No. No, no, no. This is all wrong.

Back to the point. We're now selling this look to children? Grade school age children? I presume because it has become so acceptable to obtain the look of "I didn't pay much for this and I don't care what I look like" via a credit card that we forgot the attitude and message that was what was behind the look. And now we want to put that look on children? Huh?

WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE WORLD OF FASHION OUT THERE?

I suppose this is how the baby boomers feel when they see a woman wearing a couture item with the words "Power to the People" emblazoned across the front in purple and green sequins. That cost over $1,000. Oh my.

One last dig at abercrombie kids and then I'll drop it, I promise. It's the image on the gift cards available online. A shirtless tween boy flanked by a cute girl wrapped around his arm. All I can think of is the ad campaign by Abercrombie (for adults) with the Adonic guys. Not bad to look at...unless the models are under the age of 13. Then it's just wrong, you know?

Please help our children...

What Not To Wear

A few weeks ago while my mother was still visiting us, we made good use of her time by asking her to run errands around town and buy things we needed. One of those errands was one she enjoys very much: buying Grace new clothing for the school year.

Grace likes this activity with her grandmother very much more than she likes doing it with me. See, my purse strings are a bit tighter than grandma's and my willingness to allow certain items enter into Grace's wardrobe is far more conservative. But alas, this year there was no contest. I was home in bed with a newborn, and grandma, and with her money bags, was ready and willing and eager to go to the mall.

And so off to the mall they went, the two of them, to spend copious amounts of time, energy, and most importantly, money, at some of Grace's favorite stores. High on the list was H&M. I can't stand going to this store with Grace. Sure, it is filled with tons of clothing for less than what other lines would charge (like Abercrombie & Fitch, Urban Outfitters, American Apparel, American Eagle, Hot Topic, and Forever 21). But there is still one problem with H&M. Grace has the impression that anything that is for sale at that store must be (1) fashionable, (2) useful, and (3) worth the money they are charging for it.

I would like to interject at this point that my mother is not the same woman I grew up with. She did not take me or my sisters out and spend money like this. We wore uniforms to school and thus the only other clothing we needed were church clothing for Sunday and shorts and t-shirts for doing chores. I cannot remember my mother ever taking me to the mall and buying me more than 4 items in one trip. Period.

Back to my mother's and Grace's shopping trip. I am sitting at home with Stella when the phone rings. It is my mother calling on her cell phone from H&M. Grace is in the fitting room. Mom is calling to ask about one item she is trying on. See, even though my mother is generous with Grace, she still strives to not buy anything that is out of line by my clothing rules for Grace. So she was calling to make sure that the miniskirt Grace was trying on wouldn't cause any problems.

After talking to my mother a few minutes, I asked to talk to Grace on the phone. She happily got on the phone and told me that the miniskirt was three inches below her fingertips and thus wouldn't cause any problems at school. I asked her to describe the skirt. It was a form-fitting knit miniskirt with a black and purple leopard skin print.

[pause. I breathed deeply here so as not to tick the teenager off.]

I said to her, 'I would prefer that you not spend money on that because it wouldn't really be appropriate for school.' She accepted that and we ended the phone call.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure what a piece of apparel like that would be useful for. A job interview? A night out on the town? What do you pair with this skirt, a black tank top and high heels?

But I didn't tell her all that. I just told her it wouldn't be worth buying because she wouldn't be able to get much wear out of it.

I would like to interject at this point as well, that this is also a piece of evidence that my mother is not the woman I grew up with. My mother would have never dreamed of allowing me to even consider clothing that was risque or questionable. If I tried on clothing that she didn't approve of, I got a very unhappy mother in the fitting room. And there was a lot that she didn't approve of. Like form-fitting knit miniskirts with black and purple leopard skin print.

Grace and my mother came home two hours and $350 later with an enormous amount of new clothing. She put on a fashion show for me and the final verdict was that she had done good. One dress would need to be exchanged for a different style and she was required to let me borrow the uber-cool, hip length, black trench coat she got, the one that she picked out to wear with the black riding hat. Yes, a black riding hat. Like the ones Princess Anne wears when she rides her horses.

My sister is coming in town today for Labor Day weekend. She told me a few days ago that she would like to treat Grace to an afternoon out at Starbucks and then clothing shopping at Plato's Closet. I told my sister the story of Grace's recent trip to the mall with our mother. My sister suggested that before she goes shopping with Grace, the two of them should "shop Grace's closet." In other words, make heads or tails of what she's got already, since it is likely she needs nothing new. Really. Because even though I know nothing of fashion trends and what's hot this summer, Bossy keeps up with this stuff and posted a very informative primer for this year's fall must-haves. And Grace has got all that stuff. Tons of long necklaces? Check. leggings? Check, check and check in three neutral colors. Knee high boots with flat soles? Check. Boyfriend jacket? Check (and mother is educated to know that the aforementioned black trench coat is actually a boyfriend jacket). Sequined skirt, jeans with baroque backsides, tailored plaid tops, and items with ruffles? Check, check, check and, check. Oh yeah, she's stocked.

Grace has a unique sense of style. She does her own thing. For a 15-year-old girl, she does pretty well. But when I see some of the outfits she puts together, I am reminded about how much teenagers don't see the whole picture. There are some outfits you never put together unless you're sending a not-too-nice message.

Like last Sunday she was going to an outdoor cookout/sleepover up the street with a bunch of her girlfriends. She wore a pair of short running shorts along with two tank tops and her Adidas deck sandals. Easy enough. But then she puts on a pearl bracelet, faux diamond stud earrings, makeup designed for the Oscars and a headband covered with white satin with a big white satin bow on the side. It was bizarre. I tried to explain to her that when she puts so much effort into looking good that it's unclear what message she's trying to send by wearing so little clothing. I mean, if she hadn't put so much work on the accessorizing, she would have just looked laid back and casual. But instead she looked like she was trying to show off something. There was a side issue as well that the temperatures were dropping into the 40s that night and I couldn't figure out why she was wearing so little clothing. But by objecting to her choices in fashion, it was like I had committed the unpardonable sin. She was completely upset and argued the whole time.

I've been at this thing of trying to teach my daughter what is and what is not ok to put together in an outfit for years now. I feel like I'm making very little headway. I keep asking myself, how does a mother teach her daughter to refrain from wearing outfits that are never in fashion? How does a mother, in a caring way, tell her daughter that the way she has put herself together makes her worth less than she really is? I really wish I could get to the bottom of this issue and figure out the best way to communicate this message to her.

more toes

OK, I swear this will be my last update on the toes and feet. It's just that I looked down at my feet this morning and thought, 'no one will believe these belong to the same woman who had those bloated feet three days ago.' So here you all go. THIS is what my feet look like today, what their normal appearance is:


Now can you see why the previously posted pictures were so shocking?

If that's not enough, now that my calves are unswollen, it is sickeningly obvious that my muscles have atrophied significantly due to my lack of physical activity during pregnancy. I look like a turkey, what with my legs looking dinky and my mid-section still bloated and enlarged.

OK, enough. In a few weeks when I'm recovered from my surgery, we'll start a muscle strengthening exercise program. Fun.

Another update in pictures

Remember what my toes looked like two weeks ago? When they were swollen? And I had just had a pedicure? Apparently I didn't know what swollen was. Here's what they looked like then:


This is what they looked like Wednesday night:


I knew you could bloat after a cesarean, but this was off the charts. They pumped a lot of fluid into me via IV during the surgery and from Friday noon until about Wednesday morning, every single bit of tissue in my body from my diaphragm down was completely bloated with fluid. My joints were useless, no contour of my muscles could be detected, and my bones couldn't be found anywhere. Since I'm not supposed to be moving around much (and frankly there was no way I can move around much given the pain level I'm experiencing), it makes getting the fluid out of my body more difficult. And then I came up with an idea: use heat to get my blood circulating, and then the fluid will get carried out of my tissue. Pleased with my new idea, I put the heating pad on high and left it on my thighs overnight. Sure enough, blood circulation increased rapidly and I started getting on my feet to the restroom every hour. It also had the nice effect of making me sweat. Within 24 hours, I had lost 15 pounds. I have never seen such a fast and dramatic change. I also have never been so eager to be uncomfortably hot ;-)

OK, on to better things. Since we came home from the hospital Sunday evening, I've mostly been sitting in my bedroom like a Victorian aristocrat, getting every meal in bed and moving only when absolutely necessary. I have the home phone, my cell phone, my lap top, the tv remote, the iDock remote, the camera along with all its cords, note pads, my wallet, medicine, candy and chapstick, everything all within arm's length. So I can make shopping lists, order stuff online, blog, play online games, check facebook, watch cable reality shows, pig out and get a sugar high, and sedate myself all without getting out of bed. I feel incredible. Here's a sampling of a typical breakfast I receive here in Chez Postpartum:


Raspberry danish, marble and cheddar cheese cubes, hard boiled egg, raisin bran and sweet cherries and blueberries on the side, all with orange juice and milk. Yesterday morning I got French toast with sour cream and maple syrup, berries on the side and wheat toast. Yes, I'm a spoiled Victorian aristocrat. Duchess Heather, we'll call me. Duchess Heather and Lady Stella.

And now for a update on how things went medically and on our general health. This is what I looked like at 7a, when we arrived at the hospital.


The part about this whole birth story that I'm keeping very quiet about is this: I actually got the chance to have contractions. Really. It started Wednesday night. I noticed I was having trouble breathing and used my inhaler. I called my allergist first thing Thursday morning, asking if it was wise for me to use my inhaler so close to surgery and after steroid injections the previous two days. He said there was no way it was asthma; the steroid injections would have prevented any onset of asthma. Then again, Thursday night, breathing trouble. It went on for a good hour before I realized, I'm having trouble breathing because I'm having contractions. I decided to not alarm my husband, take a warm bath and go to bed. I mean, what's the difference at that point? They stopped overnight. But I will hold onto that brief experience as a taste of what the natural onset of labor would have felt like had circumstances been different. A small gift.

My surgery involved some unexpected twists and I lost more blood than normal. During standard pre-op monitoring of vitals, Stella was showing some signs of distress without an apparent explanation. Though she was healthy and fine when she finally was delivered, the vitals caused my doctor to jump start the surgery. (I applaud him for not alarming me or my husband by sharing this information until after the surgery was completed.) Consequently, I don't have a cute tiny c-section scar. It's low and it is wide. Which came in handy when, after delivery, my doctor had to lift my uterus out to ensure I could have more children later. The myomectomy site from my surgery a year ago was pretty thin and the doctor expressed his happiness that we scheduled the c-section for 36 weeks. He chose to stitch the site so that the uterine wall would be reinforced for future pregnancies. My husband watched the whole surgery, except for times when he was kissing Stella and I and taking in her awesomeness. He even filmed a good bit of the surgery and took pictures, though I haven't been brave enough to see those shots and clips yet. When my surgeon had closed and all things surgical were almost over, he came over and congratulated me, and I gave him a hug.


Stella was 6 lbs, 7.4 oz at birth. Like most late preterm infants, she lost some weight and she's having a hard time getting it back. As of Wednesday, she is still under 6 lbs. Not a huge deal, but the pediatrician wants us to reduce her activity as much as possible and have her eating a lot. So...the Victorian aristocratic lifestyle it is. She and I stay together in our pristine tower and eat and rest, eat and rest, eat and rest all day and night long.

But she is cute. And sweet. And lovely. And I am completely euphoric, even in my present state of complete sleep deprivation.


So much for "our daughter will never wear pink." We are guilty as charged.

How to score a new wardrobe - don't tell Grace

Stella gets to change her clothing every few hours without fail. This is a big no-no for Grace. Why the inequality? Well, Stella has this habit of peeing and pooping all over herself. I really hope that Grace won't go to such drastic measures to score more wardrobe changes during the day.

Grace left for camp today with her high school orchestra. She was cranky when she came into my bedroom to tell me goodbye at 7a. I barely got a hug or a kiss. I'm not sure what was vexing her. I mean, I could take guesses, but I'll hold off on that. She said to me yesterday that she really wished she could take Stella with her to camp. She wasn't serious, but we both told each other that it would be a long week away. I told her it would feel weird for us to have our family together and for her to be gone. She said it would be strange to be away from Stella for so long.

During the same conversation together, she and I and Stella spent time alone. Grace wanted to hold Stella so much, and I was trying to find times when Stella was fed and would take to just being held and played with. We got three chances yesterday. Up until yesterday, Grace's priming on babies has been pretty typical of most people which is to hold babies like big bags of flour and if they fuss, they must need to eat or have a diaper changed. I'm a little different in my approach to babies. Babies are people and when you hold them or care for them, you should treat them like people. So Stella spends a lot of time just laying next to someone and being spoken to or getting to relax on her own terms. So far she's been a pretty good baby, not full of angst without a source, so it helps us be able to let her relax and be close to us. Yesterday when Grace first took Stella, she knew only how to hold her like a bag of flour. She wasn't taking any advice that she could hold her differently and insisted this was the only way. Stella was pitching a fit, crying and yowling. After realizing this wasn't working, Grace insisted that Stella needed to eat and was handing her back to me. I finally told her just to sit down and I would show her what would work better. After an hour passed, she was much more comfortable with Stella and Stella had calmed down completely.

I'm beginning to get the handle of this whole thing, I think. I miss my older girl, even though she's only been gone mere hours.

The Weekly Slug: 34 weeks, almost 35, but who's counting anymore because we're going to have a baby in not more than 11 days.

I thought I'd give you guys some fun stuff to savor since events have been a bit on the heavy side around here.

First, a picture that my husband took of me right before I was taken to triage at labor and delivery last Wednesday night.


I look terrific, don't I? Like it's really not 11 o'clock at night and that I'm contemplating a delivery at 34 weeks? Like I'm not sitting there having contraction after contraction thinking, 'hm, these are starting to hurt a bit'? You guys are too kind. Thank you for reassuring me that I look just fine.

That trip to the hospital did have one good effect. It woke us up to the reality that we were completely unprepared for a baby to come into the house. Or even into our lives. Here's a picture of every first-time dad's nightmare:


That car seat wasn't even out of the box last Wednesday night, much less in the car when we left for the hospital. I guess we figured that if the girl was born at 34 weeks, it was highly unlikely she'd leave the hospital right away with us. Still, the stroller has no wheels and we still really have no idea how to put the car seat in the car safely. I am POSITIVE that when Grace was a baby I was one of those 4 out of 5 people who had the car seat installed incorrectly. Positive.

I still don't have a bag packed for the hospital. For myself or for the Slug. Oh my.

One good thing about Papai going to Brazil just a few weeks before his Slug's birth is that he brought back gifts and gifts and gifts and, oh, did I mention? Some gifts. Here is one of my favorites.


This is from one of my sisters-in-law. It is one bottle of shampoo and one bottle of lotion specially formulated for both mommy and baby. They both smell amazing. She sells products from the entire line of this company. It is like a woman's dream-come-true to have someone in the family constantly supplying green-friendly beauty and health products. She is fabulous.

Even better as a dream-come-true is that I got these babies all prettied up this afternoon, while also having my feet scrubbed and massaged and pampered:


I can't keep my toes from looking like little sausages skewered onto the end of a pot roast, but I can at least get them to be cute. And feel cute. I cannot tell you how amazing of a treat this was. I haven't been able to reach my feet for weeks now, consequently my podiatric hygiene and care has been less than acceptable. Given that I only wear flip-flops now, it was grossing me out a lot that everyone could see them. So I got myself to the mall, went to one of those nail-only places, made good use of the back massager in the treatment chair and relaxed for about an hour. At the very least, by the time this picture was taken my ankle bones were showing a bit. That's a distinct improvement over their normal appearance of late.

And now for my confessions of guilty pleasures. The entire bottom drawers of my nightstand is filled with my stash. Witness it in all its decadent glory:


I wish I could tell you that this is just a symptom of pregnancy but alas, I am a big wimp when it comes to resisting sweets. So there you go. The caramels were just purchased last night on a distinct pregnancy craving. The juicy fruit is going with us to the hospital. When I get around to packing a bag. Assuming that is before the Slug is actually born.

Enough for now about the Slug. I've been neglecting discussion of Grace. Also of The Cat. They will get some good dedicated posts soon. Because they are both pretty awesome.

Where were we? Ah yes, I remember.

My husband was gone to Brazil from the 12-21st. If you'll recall, before leaving he told his (soon-to-be-born) daughter just not to try any funny business until he got back on the 21st. She complied perfectly. However, yesterday in the evening of the 22nd, a little over 24 hours after he got back...

I started having contractions that wouldn't stop. Every 3 minutes. By the time I called triage at the hospital, they said 'Come in NOW.' And that we did.

We came home this morning at 3 or 4 am after quite an adventure which included among other things: one botched IV that left a huge bruise on my right hand, one good breathing treatment due to a sudden onset of asthma and a baby girl still in utero who decided those few hours in the hospital were the moments to REALLY practice her soccer skills (what, with dad back from Brazil and all). Finally the contractions lessened in frequency and there seemed to be no other immediate health risks to attend to. During the whole time I just kept thinking, 'I can't be having this baby now. I mean, look at my husband....'

...who was barely able to keep his eyes open. His past week consisted of crazy travel itineraries, the death of his father, working all the funeral arrangements out with some help from our newly adult nephew, mourning, and trying to make sure everything was ok here in the US with me. When we got to the hospital last night, he phoned his sister from the triage room because he hadn't even gotten the opportunity yet to call her and tell her he had arrived home safely. It had been a long week, what with his father passing away and all....

Yesterday, we went to mass in the evening in honor of my father-in-law. Seven day mass. It's a cultural tradition in Brazil -- have the funeral the day after the death, mourn for a week and go to mass seven days later. When we arrived home from mass, me still wearing my black, the contractions kicked into overdrive. And thus we found ourselves at the hospital all night. However, before all this ensued...

While my husband was gone, my bestest best friend came in town for a week. She was great. She took care of everything. It was great to see her and visit. I was grateful for her to be here. She even indulged me in a haircut and coloring, a photography session done by her at my house and many lovely dinners. I indulged her in one home-baked cherry pie. Which reminds me...

A couple weeks ago I promised a post on the paucity of cherry crops in Michigan, the state where the annual National Cherry Festival takes place. That post never came. Ah, well, what am I going to do? I think I'm going to make another pie this weekend, so if you're lucky I'll remember to take pictures and post them here. But until then...

Pics of a very pregnant lady with a fabulous new hairdo:



34 weeks yesterday. Still with baby inside. Just stay put, little girl, ok?

The Weekly Slug: 32 weeks, or T minus 4 weeks and counting

Here we go.

My husband is leaving for Brazil on Sunday. He is quite insistent that the only thing his daughter needs to do is stay put. Just be happy. Don't try any funny business and all will be fine. I assured him nothing will happen until he's back on the 21st. I'm not dilated, my cervix is high, my blood pressure is fine, everything looks typical for a woman at my stage of pregnancy NOT ready to go into preterm labor. So just don't worry. The only thing he'll miss is my appointment next week with the obstetrician who will be performing my cesarean. We'll be discussing our hopes and dreams for this birth. Or rather, I'll be discussing my husband's and my hopes and dreams on behalf of the two of us.

Last night we took a tour of the hospital maternity ward where our girl will be delivered. That was a little surreal. We had been there before about a month ago for monitoring because my contractions were not happy about calming down. At the time I thought, I'm never coming back here to this triage unit. Since I wasn't in need of actual care last night, we got the tour this time. All the other couples seemed happy and wanted to know about birth plans and such. Our hospital prefers that natural birth be the default and that women triage, labor, deliver and recover in the same room. Baby stays with Mom always. Baby never leaves Mom. I was wishing I could do birth like that at least once. When Grace was born, I labored in a labor room, delivered in a delivery room (read: OR), recovered in a recovery room, and she was whisked away immediately after birth for a couple hours to sob in misery in a nursery while being poked and prodded by latex fingers and lay in a bassinet alone.

On the tour last night, I just asked quietly if they could point out the location of the ORs to us. I just didn't want to disrupt the normal flow of discussion among other expectant parents in the tour about natural childbirth and all.

Speaking of Grace's birth, is it me or has this recession resulted in a severe cutback on the amount of freebies handed out at hospitals and mailed to expectant moms? When I was pregnant with Grace, we raked in the goods. I remember thinking a few weeks before she was born that I could probably go a month without having to go to the store for any supplies. I got a case of formula ready made, two more huge containers of formula powder (mind you, I nursed her, so I didn't even need the stuff), shampoo, lotion, baby powder, baby oil, diaper cream, silverware, OTC medicine samples, diaper bags, samples diaper wipes in cute little containers that fit perfectly in the diaper bag, books, videos, you name it. I was stocked. But for this pregnancy? Nada, nothing, zip, zilch. I even intentionally put in one of our email addresses into one of those "free stuff for your baby" sites that get advertised all over the pregnancy and baby websites? Then I entered our home address, our home phone, selected free magazines, and on and on. All I got for it was spam in my inbox. What is up? What did I miss? How do you get the freebies these days? Do they still exist?

I did something a little unexpected this week. I talked to a photographer about doing a maternity session. She has this awesome website and people give her rave reviews. I just feel like time is slipping away from us and I want to remember this pregnancy for being something good. My husband has told me over and over that he loves to see me pregnant, that I look healthy and beautiful. It's good to hear. So one week before delivery, in the evening of July 31st, me and my husband and Grace will go have a photography session together. We've never (and I mean NEVER) done this before. Had a photography session together, that is. The photographer promises she won't make Grace feel goofy and make her do things that are sappy and insincere just because her mother is pregnant. She even said that she would take a couple of head shots of Grace so she'd have a few decent pictures of herself instead of settling for her school pictures this year. All in all, I'm looking forward to it.

My bestest best friend is coming in town on Sunday, arriving just after my husband takes off for Brazil. She promises him she will take care of me.

I think that covers all the news that is the slug this week. Things are getting hectic and more immediate. I might move to the bi-weekly slug or something like that if things speed up more. Then again...that might be overkill ;-)

The Weekly Slug: 31 weeks

We have a date, a scheduled date for cesarean, that is. August 7th. If you're suddenly finding yourself doing the math, let me save you the time: 36 weeks, 2 days. We'll do a couple shots of steroids 24 hours before delivery and one last sonogram to get an idea of how big she'll be. The obstetrician who's doing the surgery feels confident that all will go well, given her development thus far.

Today I am officially 31 weeks pregnant. There are good days and there are bad days. Really, I'm just looking forward to seeing my baby and not being pregnant anymore. I know, once the baby is born I will have her to take care of and I won't feel so great because I'll be recovering from a surgery. But the amount of negative effects to my body that I either can't treat well because I'm pregnant or that are induced because I'm pregnant is getting a little much.

Last night I was out shopping with my husband. I was pushing the shopping cart and I felt tired. When we stopped in an aisle, I squatted down and took the weight off my legs, while holding on the handle of the cart. It felt so good. I thought, I wonder if I could just push this girl out right here. I'd been having hard contractions all day, so the idea didn't seem too far fetched...

I got my bathing suit, and wow, what a big difference that makes! It makes me feel beautiful. Better than that, I never imagined how good it would feel to get in the pool. I feel completely weightless and I can actually move around. I can even swim a lap or two in shallow water. It feels so incredible to exercise my arms and legs without feeling heavy or getting sweaty! I love it!

I went to a summer swim meet with Grace on Saturday. After the meet, we were visiting with other families from the community team. A woman there asked me when I was due. I told her in August and that we had our feet in both worlds with a high schooler and a soon-to-be-newborn. Her son who was with her and on the swim team was 8. Turns out, her children span in age from 4 to 28. Her oldest grandchild is older than her youngest child. I suddenly felt normal, like my life wasn't so extraordinary. Beyond that, the meet is filled with families with young kids. I realized that I was enjoying myself and that I fit in with the parents of little kids, even more with my teenage girl there with me.

I think up until now I've been trying to figure out how to be two people at once. Like, how do I be the doting, nurturing mom of a baby while also being the hip, mature mom of a teenager? You'd think I'd have figured out sooner that I can be both at once. But really, it wasn't until Saturday that I realized that being exactly who I am is what both of my daughters need.

Hey, anyone out there use cloth diapers recently and have advice for me? Because I could use some first-hand help and coaching.

Aaaaah, summer.....visitation.

I got a call last night at 10:30p from Grace's father. She has been with him since last Saturday, the 13th. Today is the first day of "normal" summer schedule [read: not on vacation out of town]. He called to ask if I could pick up Grace to accompany her to a hair appointment she scheduled at 4p and then bring her to his house, 20 miles out of town.

There is such a long and convoluted story that leads up to this late night phone call, you would either be snoozing or checking your email in another window before getting through half of it. I won't torture you. Many questions ran through my head after his phone call.

• Is it really so hard to keep up with your child's schedule that during the mere four weeks she visits with you during the summer, you can't figure out a way to make the schedule work?
• Why didn't he tell Grace that this time wouldn't work and tell her to reschedule the hair cut appointment for a more convenient time?
• Why did the guy wait until 10:30p at night to call and ask me about this? Who calls their ex that late at night?

I think this comes down to a personality difference between Grace's father and me, or maybe just a skill difference. It's that ability to problem solve, or the ability to see the plan that you are formulating is a poor one and you need to rethink the whole thing. I've written here before about how much this guy is really poorly skilled in this area. It's why his plans fall apart and why problems seem to always be landing in his lap and why he can never seem to show up on time. Everyone around him picks up the slack. Or everyone doesn't pick up the slack and just accepts that the chaos that may ensue is just part of the normal ebb and flow of life.

So, there we are. Ten days into summer break and I realize that this guy is lacking in an essential skill for parenting. He's so lacking that at some point calling his ex-wife at 10:30p to get her to pick up the slack seemed like the best option. My thought is, if he can't take care of the kid and her schedule, a schedule he enthusiastically embraced and assured everyone that would work, why not just let Grace come home and see him when he can work it out? Is it really necessary for Grace to live with him for four consecutive weeks during the summer, what the courts awarded him seven years ago, if he's really not up to the task?

By coincidence, I read through our divorce and custody settlement a few weeks ago, which states explicitly that arrangements for this four week summer stay are to be settled no later than January 1 before the summer. I couldn't help but laugh out loud when I read that; he's never made that deadline. It has been four years since Grace spent this allotted four summer weeks with her father, mostly due to a fantastically awful situation that arose during the summer of 2005 when Grace's father left town with her and didn't tell me where he was or how to reach him. I called Grace's cell phone, no answer. I called his cell phone, no answer. Two days passed and I heard nothing. I got panicked. I called his parents and asked them how I could get in touch with them because no one would return my phone calls. His mother assured me that even though she had no idea where they were and had not heard anything from them in days, nor had anyone else, they were perfectly fine and there was no reason to worry. When he finally did meet up with his parents in Colorado at a mountain cabin resort (remember, he lives in Michigan and we lived on the East Coast at the time), he took the time to telephone me and to yell at me, saying I had no right to try and find him like that.

Um, well, actually I do. It's clearly spelled out in a court order that I do have that right, as does he, and it's a right of his that I had never violated. Oops. He was never very good at understanding legal documents. Ah, well, what are you going to do...

Since that time, I really haven't trusted him to take care of Grace for four consecutive weeks, nor have I trusted him to take care of her while I wasn't local to both of them. He never got his act together to come up with a plan for her to visit during the summer for that long, consequently, this is the first time that we've tried four weeks since the "Summer of 2005 Fiasco." For last summer's tale, you can read a brief recap here.

Grace is coming home this next weekend for a couple days. I worked that into the schedule because I wanted to give her 48 hours of recuperation time in the middle of this four week marathon of living with her father and his family. I also am, indeed, meeting her at the hair dresser this afternoon to see her for that brief hour and pay for her hair cut. July 10th, the day she is expected home for the rest of the summer, can't come soon enough. I'm so never agreeing to this again. He can sue me, but he won't. And frankly, I don't think he really wants the opportunity to parent for this extended time. I think he's always been relieved that I take care of all the difficult needs of this girl.

The Weekly Slug: 28 weeks and I'm impatient

My swimsuit is not here. It is coming UPS. GROUND. Why on earth did I decide to do that? It started its journey somewhere on the west coast and last Monday evening (the 8th) it was in San Francisco. UPS updated their tracking today and it says that as of 1:05a Saturday morning it was in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Now I don't mean to be rude, but doesn't that seem a little slow? I mean, San Fran to Cheyenne in 5 days? At this rate, the Slug will be born before I get my swimsuit.

I WANT MY SWIMSUIT!!!!!! The daring one, that is.

What's in Cheyenne besides a UPS tracking station? I've only been to Wyoming once, and that was when I was 3 or 4. I don't remember what cities I went to. I know we went to the Grand Tetons because there's a great picture of me with my sisters and the mountains in the background. Yeah, Florida girls in the 70s in Wyoming. It's quite a shot. But back to the point, what's in Cheyenne? Is it sort of like Mobile, Alabama except with mountains? Or like Topeka?

I saw a moose in Wyoming, I remember that really well. He was about 30 yards from the cabin we stayed in, across the street. He was big with enormous moosey antlers. Maybe that was Cheyenne and I just didn't know it at the time.

OK, enough. Get my swimsuit to Michigan already, where no one would come for a summer holiday apparently.

The Weekly Slug: 28 weeks

Today, I am officially 28 weeks pregnant. I think that means I'm in my last trimester. First, let us dispense with the good news.

• We've decided on a name. Everyone seems to like it.
• I am not freaked out about labor and delivery like I was last week.
• My glucose test came back good, so there's no concern I have gestational diabetes.
• Blood pressure good, swelling under control, migraines have abated, no signs of preeclampsia.
  

Pretty good, I'd say. On to mildly bad news?

• I'm anemic. I'm taking daily iron supplements.
• I'm having severe reflux. I'm taking the maximum OTC dosage of Zantac for that.
• I'm sleeping badly. I think the slug is awake in the middle of the night, kicking and waking me up.
• I'm finding it harder to breathe. My immunologist says, 'that's asthma for you. Call me if you start to feel like the inhaler's not doing enough for you.'
• I'm having mild back pain. Occasional Tylenol's taking care of that.

There's no REALLY bad news. That's good news, right? So good. We'll leave it at that.

In all truthfulness, I'm just putting one foot in front of the other each day and trying to get through each day. I told my doctor last week that I feel like I'm in my last weeks of pregnancy, rather than my last months. I know women often get to the stage that they wish the pregnancy was over already, but it's usually not this early and it's usually not in a situation where there are no serious problems.

Oh, hey, I bought a bathing suit. My husband thought that with all back pain and depression and anemic fatigue and such, I would probably enjoy getting out of the house and going to the pool. The advice I read about maternity swimwear is don't buy black. 'Cause what's the point, you're trying to look slim? Please. And, um, did I mention that my husband is Brazilian and has an opinion or two about swimwear?

So here's a picture of the swimsuit I bought:


He says it's daring. I like that.

The Weekly Slug: 24 weeks

I'm officially in over my head. I had no idea pregnancy and childbirth and parenting and family-making had become such a fuss. Perhaps it's always been this way and I have just been terribly naive the first time around. Regardless, I am feeling a little overwhelmed.

It seems like you are required to have an opinion on every single little thing that could possibly ever happen to a child. And not just any 'ole opinion, a STRONG opinion. For instance, am I going to use cloth diapers or disposables? Or, am I going to have my child vaccinated on a recommended schedule or should I be conservative and slow down that pace? Or refuse vaccinations altogether? Breast or bottle, work or stay home, child sleeps in bed with parents or in a bassinette in the same room or in a separate nursery in a bassinette or in a crib...

Note that I haven't event touched the mother* of all topics: childbirth.

Before we go much further, I'm having a cesarean section. It will probably be done at or about 37 weeks. That being said, let's go on.

This week I saw this video at Momversation:



Before I saw this, I didn't even know there was such a thing as a birth plan. What the hell is a birth plan? Clearly the women on the forum think the idea of a written document is a bit over the top, with the exception of Heather Armstrong. Do I need a birth plan? Shouldn't someone who is caring for my pregnancy tell me about a birth plan? I'm almost through my second trimester and I don't even know what a birth plan is!!!!!!!

Listening to the dialogue got me thinking about how I used to talk about pregnancy and childbirth, long, long ago, way back when I was a budding young mother...

Grace was a healthy 7 lb, 15 oz baby born after 14 hours of labor by way of an induced labor, an epidural, an episiotomy, and a forceps delivery. The labor was induced because my doctor was concerned she would be very big and force me into c-section. Her Apgar scores were 8 and 9 and she left the hospital roughly 36 hours after delivery with a slight case of jaundice which resolved itself within the next 48 hours. Prior to childbirth, I had attended childbirth classes and hoped for a delivery in a birthing room in the hospital without the need for an epidural. That was the extent of my "birth plan."

After my daughter was born, I started learning about all the other options I could have chosen. If I hadn't had my labor induced, could I have averted so many other consequential negatives? What about breaking my water artificially, was that bad? Or the epidural that they gave me after 8 solid hours of intense contractions, while I progressed to only 5 cm dilation? My mind went wild. That doctor was a medical menace. He didn't take my feelings into account. He didn't ask my opinion of anything (did I have an opinion?). I got mad at my (now ex-)husband because he never considered anything other than a hospital birth, saying that he wasn't going to have his kid born in "some kind of a half-way house where pregnant women walk around naked and moaning." I learned all about how doctors don't care about women and just want to make money, never even considering whether the recommendations they give women are the best options for their health.

Well. That was many years ago. I still think there is not enough done in research about women's health issues. But after being treated for years for uterine fibroid tumors and endometriosis and resulting infertility, I've come to a different view of gynecology and obstetrics. The medical team who has treated me the last few years has not only tried everything in their power to make my reproductive options as healthy and natural as they possibly could be, they are also active researchers in the exact areas they treat me for.

Back to my scheduled c-section and a birth plan. I plan on having a healthy baby and doing whatever it takes to optimize my reproductive health to hopefully do this again. Though it might not apply to most women out there, choosing to deliver vaginally would put those goals at too high a risk for my husband and I to consider. So we're going to deliver this baby as late as we possibly can, while maintaining that there be as little chance as possible that labor contractions could begin on their own. That will probably be in week 37.

I don't see my doctor as pushing me into anything. My reproductive endocrinology surgical team tried everything they could to avoid cutting my uterus, thus allowing any (hopeful) future pregnancies to progress as naturally as possible. When we got to the point that there were no other options but surgery and making an incision across my uterus to remove a large fibroid out of a mass of adenomyosis, the lead surgeon talked with my husband and I as long as we liked about what this would realistically mean for any future pregnancy and childbirth.

For me, cesarean or vaginal birth is not a determination of whether I am empowered as a women. For me, the whole process of being empowered about my health is working with physicians who always communicate with me and work together with me. This applies not only to obstetrics and gynecology, but also to every kind of medical care I received.

I'm fortunate to have a great set of doctors, both at the infertility clinic and at obstetrics. They work together seamlessly, so seamlessly that I hardly even noticed a shift in my care from one need to the other. I know this isn't the case for most people out there. I hope that we as a society can work towards it.

As for the other things I MUST have an opinion on:

• breast only, hopefully at least for the entire first year
  
• bassinette, in our bedroom, until she's big enough for a crib, and then she'll probably still stay in the bedroom a bit longer
• cloth diapers
• NO PHOTOGRAPHS of me during delivery or anytime closely thereafter. And none of my dear daughter that make her look like a wet rat or something else disgusting.
• I don't want to see any of the delivery when it happens, nor do I want to have it filmed or photographed. Been there, done that, know myself, wish to stay conscious and not become faint at the sight of my own gore.
  
• Thinking about getting a Tummy Tub, but I can't imagine the expense is worth it. People will make fun of me for putting my baby in a bucket, I know it.
  

Ok, that's it. I can't even begin to deal with all the rest of the things that I should have something to say something about. Can you imagine if I were having a boy and needing to explain to all of you why I would never have him circumcised?

* Get it? Mother of all topics? Childbirth? A-ha! I made a joke, did you guys see that?
You're not laughing, I can tell.
Damn, I'm still not funny.

How to develop pure hatred for stargazer lilies

Since Mother's Day yesterday, I've been noticing stargazer lilies popping up. At Dooce.com, and at Cake Wrecks. There may be more lurking out there. I don't go to church, so I didn't see whether mothers still wear corsages on Mother's Day. But if you went, were some of the mothers wearing stargazer lilies? I have one poignant memory from my past involving stargazer lilies, and it's amazing how from the minute I knew the name of these flowers I had negative associations with them. The event? My first wedding.

I was young, 21. I was pregnant, 13 weeks on the wedding day itself. And I had planned a wedding from start to finish in three weeks. I think I would have been happy to just have had a small wedding, family and a few friends, very low key. But the two mothers in the situation, mine and my ex-husband's, both had their reasons for wanting it big. They wanted the full scale thing, no matter how shotgun the situation. So I went down to the David's Bridal outlet warehouse in Hollywood, Florida and picked out a gown that fit reasonably well and could be altered in less than a week. We had 500 invitations printed in lickety split time and sent them out. My family, our family friends, and my and my ex-husband's friends were 100. The other 400 went to my outlaws' pared down list of must-invites (the first list that they faxed contained well over 600 names and addresses). The church and the minister weren't a problem; my ex-father-in-law insisted on performing the ceremony. Bridesmaids' dresses were bought off the rack at Talbots and sent to the relevant sisters and sister-in-law-to-be. My mother arranged for a caterer to put together the details for a reception. I drove from Florida to Texas with my dad and arrived about a week before the wedding. During that week, I found a photographer, a bakery who could whip up a cake and deliver it that day, and a florist. And it was the florist who suggested stargazer lilies.

A classic, he said. They will complement anything, and remain fresh all day long, no matter how high the temperatures reach (over 100F that day, as it turned out). Since the only color being used in the wedding up to that point was green (from the bridesmaids' dresses and the roses on the cake to the decorative ribbons on the rice pouches and the personalized napkins on the tables), the brilliant deep pink of the lilies would add a touch of warmth to the setting. OK, then, stargazer lilies it is. Everywhere. Bridesmaids' bouquets, floral arrangements for the church, centerpieces for the hors d'oeuvres only reception, and the cake topper. I didn't even knew what they looked like before I committed.

My consistent thought during the whole planning process was, just get it over with. How bad can it be? I was task-oriented, dealing with checking items off a list, not worrying about whether the best choices were being made.

Well, the day of the wedding came. The green roses on the cake matched the green of the bridesmaids' dresses. The green was actually teal. Teal roses on the wedding cake. I wish I had pictures left to send to Cake Wrecks. What the hell is a teal rose? My dress had been altered three inches too short and I had to run out at the last minute to a discount shoe store and buy flats. The program for the ceremony was embarrassing; my mother-in-law-to-be who had typed the whole thing up on her laptop and delivered it to Kinko's had included titles for all the family members on her side, but neglected to ask if anyone on my side had titles other than "Mr and Mrs." In addition, she assumed that all married women went by their husband's last name only, of course. My oldest sister was not amused. And then there were the stargazer lilies.

The first of the lilies I saw was the bunch on top of the cake. From a distance they looked nice enough. But as I got closer, I realized, there's some strange smell in the air; what is that? Then came the bridesmaids' bouquets. Stargazer lilies. Dozens of them. They were beautiful, make no mistake. But they were smelly. Really, really smelly. And then I realized, I have chosen to surround myself and everyone I know with flowers that stink. What a lovely aura to create. It got worse, though.

I started sneezing. Yes, that's right, me, the girl who's had allergies and asthma her whole life ordered several hundred, maybe even over a thousand, dollars in flowers, without ever considering whether I might be bothered by their aroma. Or whether they might bother my very allergic mother as well.

Those lilies started looking like big pink spiders to me, crawling out from every crevice, waiting to suck the life out of anything foolish enough to come close. They were deceptively cutesy, what with their pink glow and yellow speckling. But don't you be fooled; these were creatures spawned by the devil himself.

I spent the day red-nosed with a handkerchief in my hand, sneezing every few minutes and trying to ignore the pervasive, stinky, stargazer lily aroma in between nose snorts. When we were outside, the aroma got even stronger, making me almost nauseous. Was it not enough that it was over 100 degrees F, I was in a synthetic floor-length gown, and I was PREGNANT? No, I had to add some horrible scent that I was also allergic to.

Needless to say, I was relieved when, 8 years later, I had a reason to purge my possessions of any sign that the day had ever even taken place. Every picture, every memoir, every gift list, every keepsake, every bit of it went in the trash.

I'm sorry if you are a person who loves stargazer lilies and finds them the most wonderful flower in the entire world. Because I will never, ever, ever enjoy even a photograph of a stargazer lily, much less approach a live one in real life.

As for the rest of the story, for my second wedding, I visited five florists before I chose one. We only needed a bouquet for myself and Grace and four small women's corsages, still, I wanted to make sure it was right. When I finally found the man who designed my bouquet, I knew I had hit the jackpot. Here's what he designed:




Orange tulips surrounded by yellow calla lilies with a hint of a burnt orange/brown edging, all tied up with an orange organza ribbon. Perfect, simple, brilliant.

GORGEOUS.