The theme in RM's room is classic Winnie the Pooh and her favorite toy is a stuffed Piglet. So, naturally, when the new Winnie the Pooh movie came out, we thought, "Sweet. We'll take her to that as her first movie". The movie is just over an hour long and I figured we had a shot at having her sit through that. You might be asking yourself right now, "Why would you think that an 18 month old would sit through that?" Well, that would have been a good question for me to really sit and ponder before we went to the movie (please note that I said "would have been" implying that I did not actually take the time to think it through). I didn't really think about the fact that my child has the attention span of a hyperactive gnat on speed and that she can't stand to watch more than 10 seconds of a television show without running around. Actually, in all fairness to me, I did think about that (which is even a bit more baffling as to how we came to the conclusion that the movie was a good idea), but I thought that if she saw her favorite characters on a screen the size of our house, it might hold her attention. Yeah. Ok. Right.
We decided we would take her to a Tuesday matinee after work. We let her day care provider, Rosemary, know we'd be by right at 2 to pick her up and why.... Now, have you ever gotten that look from someone that says, "Huh? Are you nuts?" but they are just too polite to say that to your face? You must know the look I mean. That look where the person looks you square in the eye with a slight head tilt and a bit of a smirk when you know they are questioning the level of your intelligence silently in their own mind. The look? Anyone? Ok, well, it's not really that important. What is important is that we took her to a Winnie the Pooh matinee. We were excited. It was going to be a fun time. Yeah. Ok. Right.
Now, I feel like I had been getting messages sent to me all along that this was not a good idea (e.g. her complete lack of interest in t.v., Rosemary's silent rebuke), but I was determined to press on. We walked into the theater with our movie passes that we bought from AAA and I was going to buy snacks with a gift card I had gotten from my company. All set. Cheap date. We get to the counter, I order the tickets, and the kind clerk says, "I'm sorry. We don't accept those anymore. You can call this number to get a refund for what you paid for them". Ok. No problem. I can pay cash for that. $15 later, we are headed over to the concession stand to get some drinks (Don't tell, but I snuck in goldfish and graham crackers for RM to snack on). Alright, I'll use the gift card to pay for the drinks and this still shouldn't be too bad. I hand the clerk my card and..."I'm sorry. This card doesn't seem to be registered in our system". Really?!?! Ok. These should have been clear signs to us that this was not a good idea. Did I heed the signs? No. (On the bright side, the fact that I am so bad about reading such signals is a good indicator that I will never be the person standing on a street corner with a cardboard sign that says, "Jesus is coming. Look busy"). So, back to the clerk who is now asking me for cash and handing me back a worthless piece of plastic that I was supposed to have received as a token of appreciation from my job (perhaps the fact that the card did not work is a commentary from my employer about my performance. Nah. That's not it...). Ok. No problem. I'll pay with my debit card. $10 later and we head into the theater. Our timing was pretty good in that we missed most of the coming attractions and sat down right as the warm-up cartoon was coming on. I think it was called "Nessie and the Loch", but I don't know for sure. The reason I don't know for sure is that RM really had no interest in watching it, so I was doing my best song and dance to keep her quiet until the main attraction reared its head on the screen and I knew she'd love it! Yeah. Ok. Right.
A few minutes later, Nessie was done and the movie was about to begin. As soon as it started, she was mesmerized. She sat on my lap, looked at the screen, and I think "Alright. Here we go". We even got an "Ooooh" out of her when she realized it was Pooh. This sense of awe lasted approximately...oh, I don't know...8 seconds. Then, squirmy. Wait! Dat-da-da-DA! Goldfish to the rescue! She quickly settled back into my lap and snacked on her crackers. Ok. Good. This is working....3 minutes later...squirmy. Hold on! Goldfish cracker brought his trusty sidekick - Graham!!!! I whip out the graham crackers and I get another, "Ooooh" (Really?!?! The giant screen gets the same response as a graham cracker?). Great. That bought us a few more minutes. And by a few, I'd say another 3. Winnie the Pooh, I'd like you to meet Madame Squirms-A-Lot. So, Nicole and I take turns picking her up and walking around the side entrance to the theater (you know, that long aisle you walk down when you enter your theater while you hope there aren't too many people there only to turn the corner and see.......(what? fill in your own blank, you lazy bastard)). This worked for another few minutes until Madame realized there were lights on the floor and that these lights were not only in that entry aisle, but also all the way up the stairs that go all the way to the back of the theater. Sadly, this realization was the most exciting part of her afternoon. As soon as she saw the lights, we got our third and most emphatic "Ooooh" of the day out of her, as well as a few, "Loooook"(s) and other ramblings that, of course, happen at the top of her little lungs (which work quite well, thank you for asking). The lights on the floor were the single most tantalizing aspect of this adventure for her. She wanted to roam the entire theater and find out where all these lights went, and she would have gotten away with it too if it weren't for her meddling parents (you're welcome, fans of Scooby Doo). Us, being the curmudgeons that we are, picked her up and would not allow her to run up and down the stairs in the theater. She quickly let us know how she felt about that by expressing herself freely. And by freely, I mean loudly (Did I mention her lungs work quite well?). So, about 30 minutes into the movie, Nicole and I picked up our little Ebert and left. We didn't even get to see how it ended....well, actually, we didn't get to see how it started either, so I guess.... Anyway, that was $25 well spent. Yeah. Ok. Right.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Fishing
I know I have talked about it before, but I am a big fan of "The Deadliest Catch" on the Discovery Channel. Yes, Nicole thinks it's repetitive and the same stuff happens over and over again (they go out on a boat, they catch some crab, they get slammed with a winter storm, Keith blows his cool, and we have some cool shots of seagulls), but I LOVE the show. What I have come to recently figure out about myself, though, is that I not only love that show, but apparently it's fishing shows which involve some sort of danger or risk of injury that capture my attention. By that I mean, I'm not tuning in to ESPN to watch a fishing derby (I'd rather poke a fish hook through my eye) or watch some guys sit in a boat and talk about the types of lures they use to catch whatever the hell kind of fish they're going after that day (again, give me a hook). No. I'm talking about shows where somebody can get hurt, killed, or maimed in the act of fishing. My newest passion is Swamp People on the History channel. These guys are down in the Louisiana bayou hunting alligators. The way they catch them is by baiting a pole with raw chicken and waiting for the gators to bite. Now, if they do get a bite, that's when the games begin. These guys then try to pull the gator up to the surface and...wait for it...wait for it...they SHOOT HIM WITH A SHOTGUN!
Now, there are a couple of things that come to mind with this style of fishing. First of all, I don't know what kind of money there might be in alligator fishing (or as they say on the show, "huntin"), but this seems to be an expensive set up already: fuel for the boat (small boat, but still has a motor), chicken for the bait, and shotgun shells for your shotgun. I don't know much about the cost of any of those things other than the chicken, but I am sure as hell not feeding good chicken to a gator that I'm then going to shoot. Second, do these guys have workman's comp on these boats? And, if they do, what freaking insurance company thought it would be a good idea to underwrite them? And my final thought about it is, A SHOTGUN?!?!? REALLY?!?! Although, when I think about it, I don't really have a leg to stand on in questioning their use of a shotgun. The reason I say this (and come to think of it, maybe this is why I'm so completely infatuated with these crazy life threatening fishing shows), is because I have witnessed similarly unbelievable fishing tactics in my dad's village.
Ok, let me set the story. My dad was born and raised in Portugal in a small farming village smack dab in the middle of the country. It's not close to a beach, it's not close to a big city, and it's not close to anything resembling a highway. There are not movie theaters, department stores, or even grocery stores. My grandmother's television only got two stations - RTP 1 and RTP 2 and programming only ran for about 5 hours a day. Let's put it this way, as a teenager when my friends would get really excited because they were going to Portugal for a month, I would think to myself, "What?!?!? What could you possibly do there for a month?!?!"" Don't get me wrong, it was nice to visit my family, but after the first 15 minutes I was ready to head back to...well...anywhere. I wanted something to do and this village didn't, and still doesn't, have a whole lot there for entertainment. It does, however, have a concrete soccer field, a church, far too many roosters (who, by the way, take their job of waking people up at the ass crack of dawn too seriously) and two bars in a village of about 500 people. But the biggest attraction there in the summer was "O Rio" (The River). This was, essentially, the town beach. Now, when I say "The River" one might conjure up images of the mighty Mississippi or even the Connecticut River (if you want me to stay local) with their broad waterways, plenty of room for fishing, boating, swimming, etc. and, while I have not been to "The River" in over 20 years, I don't remember it that way at all. In fact, what I remember was closer to a husky, mucky stream with some rocks, water snakes, and a lot of dirt on the banks. You could jump off rocks, but you had to be careful about where you were jumping from because it would be very easy for you to land in area that wasn't deep enough for a frog to make a mighty leap. Long story short, this was The Place to be in the summer. The Riviera of Ribamondego (the name of my father's village).
Now, much like other bodies of water, people would turn to The River for food through fishing (see? The story is coming full circle now. Thanks for hanging in there). However, and this is where my infatuation with death defying feats of fishing was born, the fishermen here don't use poles or nets or even rocks to catch their fish. Nope. Not here. Here, fishermen choose a more testosterone laden, more powerful (insert cave man like grunt here), and immensely dangerous implement to catch their fish. Any guesses? Anyone? Anyone? No? Ok. They use sticks of dynamite. That's right. That's what I said. Dynamite. Now, the reason I know this is because one summer day while sitting on the porch and having a contest with my brother to see who could kill the most flies with one swing of the fly swatter, we heard "BOOOOOOM"! We paused and looked at each other and waited. And, of course, a few minutes later..."BOOOOOOM"! At that point, we ran inside and asked "WTF?" (Well, we didn't really say that. One, this happened in the 80's and text messaging wasn't invented yet. Two, the "F" in that phrase was punishable by death in my house so there is no way either one of us would ever say that word...in front of our parents). The response we got was, "Oh. That? They're just fishing". WHAT?!?!? Who fishes like that?!?!?! Who thinks that's a good idea?!?!? I mean, what happens? A couple of guys sit on the banks, throw in a stick, and wait for fully cooked fish to emerge from the megaton blast they just launched into The River? Can you just walk down to the banks and hire a couple of guys to blast your lunch out of the water? "Yes. I'll have the smelts for two. And please make sure they are blown to smithereens. Thanks." I don't know what the stats are for people getting hurt or maimed while fishing this way, but I have to believe it ranks right up there with the fishermen on the Bering Sea.
So, that's where I think my propensity for outrageous and dangerous fishing shows come from. Apparently, there is a new show in the works called, "Hillbilly Fishing" where they show folks reaching into the water and catching fish with their bare hands. Now, throw a couple of piranha in there for some excitement and you know I'm tuning in to watch that. Sorry, Nicole.
Now, there are a couple of things that come to mind with this style of fishing. First of all, I don't know what kind of money there might be in alligator fishing (or as they say on the show, "huntin"), but this seems to be an expensive set up already: fuel for the boat (small boat, but still has a motor), chicken for the bait, and shotgun shells for your shotgun. I don't know much about the cost of any of those things other than the chicken, but I am sure as hell not feeding good chicken to a gator that I'm then going to shoot. Second, do these guys have workman's comp on these boats? And, if they do, what freaking insurance company thought it would be a good idea to underwrite them? And my final thought about it is, A SHOTGUN?!?!? REALLY?!?! Although, when I think about it, I don't really have a leg to stand on in questioning their use of a shotgun. The reason I say this (and come to think of it, maybe this is why I'm so completely infatuated with these crazy life threatening fishing shows), is because I have witnessed similarly unbelievable fishing tactics in my dad's village.
Ok, let me set the story. My dad was born and raised in Portugal in a small farming village smack dab in the middle of the country. It's not close to a beach, it's not close to a big city, and it's not close to anything resembling a highway. There are not movie theaters, department stores, or even grocery stores. My grandmother's television only got two stations - RTP 1 and RTP 2 and programming only ran for about 5 hours a day. Let's put it this way, as a teenager when my friends would get really excited because they were going to Portugal for a month, I would think to myself, "What?!?!? What could you possibly do there for a month?!?!"" Don't get me wrong, it was nice to visit my family, but after the first 15 minutes I was ready to head back to...well...anywhere. I wanted something to do and this village didn't, and still doesn't, have a whole lot there for entertainment. It does, however, have a concrete soccer field, a church, far too many roosters (who, by the way, take their job of waking people up at the ass crack of dawn too seriously) and two bars in a village of about 500 people. But the biggest attraction there in the summer was "O Rio" (The River). This was, essentially, the town beach. Now, when I say "The River" one might conjure up images of the mighty Mississippi or even the Connecticut River (if you want me to stay local) with their broad waterways, plenty of room for fishing, boating, swimming, etc. and, while I have not been to "The River" in over 20 years, I don't remember it that way at all. In fact, what I remember was closer to a husky, mucky stream with some rocks, water snakes, and a lot of dirt on the banks. You could jump off rocks, but you had to be careful about where you were jumping from because it would be very easy for you to land in area that wasn't deep enough for a frog to make a mighty leap. Long story short, this was The Place to be in the summer. The Riviera of Ribamondego (the name of my father's village).
Now, much like other bodies of water, people would turn to The River for food through fishing (see? The story is coming full circle now. Thanks for hanging in there). However, and this is where my infatuation with death defying feats of fishing was born, the fishermen here don't use poles or nets or even rocks to catch their fish. Nope. Not here. Here, fishermen choose a more testosterone laden, more powerful (insert cave man like grunt here), and immensely dangerous implement to catch their fish. Any guesses? Anyone? Anyone? No? Ok. They use sticks of dynamite. That's right. That's what I said. Dynamite. Now, the reason I know this is because one summer day while sitting on the porch and having a contest with my brother to see who could kill the most flies with one swing of the fly swatter, we heard "BOOOOOOM"! We paused and looked at each other and waited. And, of course, a few minutes later..."BOOOOOOM"! At that point, we ran inside and asked "WTF?" (Well, we didn't really say that. One, this happened in the 80's and text messaging wasn't invented yet. Two, the "F" in that phrase was punishable by death in my house so there is no way either one of us would ever say that word...in front of our parents). The response we got was, "Oh. That? They're just fishing". WHAT?!?!? Who fishes like that?!?!?! Who thinks that's a good idea?!?!? I mean, what happens? A couple of guys sit on the banks, throw in a stick, and wait for fully cooked fish to emerge from the megaton blast they just launched into The River? Can you just walk down to the banks and hire a couple of guys to blast your lunch out of the water? "Yes. I'll have the smelts for two. And please make sure they are blown to smithereens. Thanks." I don't know what the stats are for people getting hurt or maimed while fishing this way, but I have to believe it ranks right up there with the fishermen on the Bering Sea.
So, that's where I think my propensity for outrageous and dangerous fishing shows come from. Apparently, there is a new show in the works called, "Hillbilly Fishing" where they show folks reaching into the water and catching fish with their bare hands. Now, throw a couple of piranha in there for some excitement and you know I'm tuning in to watch that. Sorry, Nicole.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
She's got legs
RM learned to walk a few months ago (sometime around her first birthday, although at that time she was still pushing around chairs as if they were walkers) and she quickly went from walking to running. At first, I thought, "Yay! She's walking!!" Like all doting mothers, we got out the video camera and taped her stumbling around for her first steps. She'd get up, take a step, and fall to the ground looking very pleased with herself. Slowly, as the days went by, she got a little bit better with walking and seemed to move a bit faster. Now, she moves pretty well and I find myself really, really wishing for the days when she wasn't mobile and I could go to the bathroom and not have an extra person walk in on me while I'm on the pot going, "Hiiiii". Gone are the days of happily sitting at a restaurant with her in her high chair happily playing with a toy. Gone are the days of going to a store and putting her in the seat part of the carriage to have her happily sit while we did grocery shopping. Instead, I am now dealing with the days of her figuring out new and improved ways of escaping from the various security restraints installed on shopping carts, high chairs, booster seats, and whatever contraption I can come up with to keep her strapped in and sitting still long enough for me to do, oh I don't know, ANYTHING!....Ok, I admit it. I'm bitching quite a bit. While she is definitely moving much more quickly and more often than she did before and it's making me realize how completely out of shape I am and how I probably should have participated a little more completely in the running class I had taken, there are some bright sides to this phase of her life.
Point 1: If she continues to stumble and spontaneously loose her balance, fall over, and laugh about it as she does now, she'll be very well suited for college life. Let's face it, my daughter walks around like she's had a few too many dates with Jose Cuervo and his friend, JD, except she has the sunny disposition of someone who's only met a nice Chardonnay or Pinot (and by sunny disposition, I'm talking about the joy that comes in the middle of enjoying Pinot's company. Not the agony that follows the morning after. You know what I'm talking about even if you're a little ashamed to admit it) not the belligerent, angry slurring that comes from dancing with Margaritas (although RM does like to dance on tables...hmm). Back to my original point. She walks like a drunk, talks like a drunk (mostly because I can't understand 90% of the babble that comes from her), and has the mood swings of a drunk, but is a much cheaper date. I usually watch her falling about the living room and reminisce about my own college years and know my daughter is destined to walk (or stumble) in my footsteps. Hello, Apple. I'm your tree.
Point 2: Her ability to ambulate freely, has shown us that she is relatively clever and has a fabulous sense of humor. I enter into evidence Exhibit A - while at the dentist's office, she wanted to walk into the exam rooms to see what was going on. I strategically placed myself at the entrance of the hallway which would prevent her from doing just that. She looked around the room, ran to the toy area, chucked a toy over to my seat and, when I went to retrieve that toy, she made a dash for the hallway while laughing like, well, laughing like a drunk school girl (I seem to be a bit preoccupied with the drink today...hm...time for happy hour? Oh wait. She doesn't have a fake ID yet. Damn.). Exhibit B - while sitting at home on the couch one evening, Nicole placed a glass of water on the end table. RM crawled up on the couch and was playing for a bit, spotted the cup, picked it up, ran like a ninja down the length of the couch, looked at Nicole and poured the cup right down Nicole's shirt. Again, while laughing. Now, there are a couple of things with that story that throw me for a loop. First, she was able to carry the cup down the couch without spilling it and managed to pour it down Nicole's shirt in a very controlled way. Secondly, the girl can't walk a straight line on a solid surface, but put her on couch cushions with a glass of water and suddenly she has the balance and agility of a ninja on a tightrope?!?!? Are you kidding me?!?!
Point 3: It has helped us realize, quite quickly, that RM is going to be a daredevil because her new found gadget legs not only let her run, but they also help her climb....up....everything. She actually managed to walk up a 6 foot tall slide the other day. Which again I find perplexing that she can't walk on solid ground, but can manage to run up a slide?!?! I am pretty sure this is all evidence to suggest to me that she is the 5th member of the Fantastic Four and she has some crazy anti-gravity powers or something. Maybe if she has some powers that help her defy gravity, she can share some with dear old mom to help with the fact that most of my body parts from the waist up are not really located from the waist up anymore. That "waist line" that used to be a divider like the equator, has become a real grey area where things are able to pass freely without a passport.
Point 1: If she continues to stumble and spontaneously loose her balance, fall over, and laugh about it as she does now, she'll be very well suited for college life. Let's face it, my daughter walks around like she's had a few too many dates with Jose Cuervo and his friend, JD, except she has the sunny disposition of someone who's only met a nice Chardonnay or Pinot (and by sunny disposition, I'm talking about the joy that comes in the middle of enjoying Pinot's company. Not the agony that follows the morning after. You know what I'm talking about even if you're a little ashamed to admit it) not the belligerent, angry slurring that comes from dancing with Margaritas (although RM does like to dance on tables...hmm). Back to my original point. She walks like a drunk, talks like a drunk (mostly because I can't understand 90% of the babble that comes from her), and has the mood swings of a drunk, but is a much cheaper date. I usually watch her falling about the living room and reminisce about my own college years and know my daughter is destined to walk (or stumble) in my footsteps. Hello, Apple. I'm your tree.
Point 2: Her ability to ambulate freely, has shown us that she is relatively clever and has a fabulous sense of humor. I enter into evidence Exhibit A - while at the dentist's office, she wanted to walk into the exam rooms to see what was going on. I strategically placed myself at the entrance of the hallway which would prevent her from doing just that. She looked around the room, ran to the toy area, chucked a toy over to my seat and, when I went to retrieve that toy, she made a dash for the hallway while laughing like, well, laughing like a drunk school girl (I seem to be a bit preoccupied with the drink today...hm...time for happy hour? Oh wait. She doesn't have a fake ID yet. Damn.). Exhibit B - while sitting at home on the couch one evening, Nicole placed a glass of water on the end table. RM crawled up on the couch and was playing for a bit, spotted the cup, picked it up, ran like a ninja down the length of the couch, looked at Nicole and poured the cup right down Nicole's shirt. Again, while laughing. Now, there are a couple of things with that story that throw me for a loop. First, she was able to carry the cup down the couch without spilling it and managed to pour it down Nicole's shirt in a very controlled way. Secondly, the girl can't walk a straight line on a solid surface, but put her on couch cushions with a glass of water and suddenly she has the balance and agility of a ninja on a tightrope?!?!? Are you kidding me?!?!
Point 3: It has helped us realize, quite quickly, that RM is going to be a daredevil because her new found gadget legs not only let her run, but they also help her climb....up....everything. She actually managed to walk up a 6 foot tall slide the other day. Which again I find perplexing that she can't walk on solid ground, but can manage to run up a slide?!?! I am pretty sure this is all evidence to suggest to me that she is the 5th member of the Fantastic Four and she has some crazy anti-gravity powers or something. Maybe if she has some powers that help her defy gravity, she can share some with dear old mom to help with the fact that most of my body parts from the waist up are not really located from the waist up anymore. That "waist line" that used to be a divider like the equator, has become a real grey area where things are able to pass freely without a passport.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Leaking nipples and galactorrhea
Here's a little known story that happened when the Monkey was only a few weeks old which helped to give me a few more grey hairs than I had earlier in that same day:
We just had a nice little evening and we're getting ready to put RM (yes, I'm going with that now because people are going to get sick of the other little names I use) to bed. I take her to her room, put her on her changing table, and begin to undress her. Then, I notice that her left nipple is way bigger than her right one and when I say way bigger, I mean HOLY CRAP! WHAT HAPPENED TO HER TIT?!?!?! bigger. I touch it and it's as hard as a rock. Before I go any further with my story, let me remind you that this happened when she was only a few weeks old - translation: I was still crazy or, to use a more technical term, I was a freaking hormonal, post pregnant irrational, emotional lunatic. With that being said, I saw the big lump on her boob and immediately yelled (more like screamed like a banshee) for Nicole to come to the nursery. By this time, RM is fairly chilly as she is pretty much naked in her room and I have been poking at her boobs, so she's not exactly in the best of moods. Nicole looks at her nipple, squeezes it, and a little bit of milk comes shooting out of my now screaming infant. I go into complete panic and start to cry. Nicole, thankfully, was of sound mind and body and called the pediatrician. Now, here's my next disclaimer...I normally LOVE our pediatrician's office. However, on this occasion, I could have killed the doctor on call. Nicole explains what we found, tells the doctor there is no fever, but that RM is screaming loudly (as if the doctor didn't hear her. Let's face it. Everyone in Hartford county hears our kid when she's around, but I'll get to that another time). In my rational mind, which was clearly overpowered by psycho girl, I had a little voice that said, "Um, I think the baby is crying because she's cold, naked, wants to eat, and could probably go to sleep right now. After all, it is bedtime." However, the psycho part of my head was saying something like, "ARGHUSAKLS:KJNBIPOIAHJSEKN" and, of course, that's the part of my head that was in charge that night. So, the doctor tells Nicole that since the baby is screaming that much that we should take her to the hospital and they'll probably want to run a scan on her to see what's up. Nicole, being of sound mind and body, told me what the doctor said and my rational response was, "What?!?!? OH MY GOD! WE HAVE TO GO! CALL MY MOM! WE HAVE TO GO!" As much as I'd like to tell everyone that those words stayed in my head...they did not. I was already a blubbering mess and was wrapping up the peanut to go to the ED.
The whole car ride there, I swear this little girl was looking up at the blubbering, sobbing mess that I was and thinking, "What the hell is her problem and why aren't these women putting me to bed! Don't they know I'm tired?!" She was quiet the whole time, but I know that's what she was thinking. Now, when we go to the ED, I was freaking out even more because this was, of course, at the height of the Swine Flu scare and my daughter's immune system was not strong enough for me to take her to the grocery store yet, never mind to walk her straight into the mouth of the Germ Beast! I marched right up to the intake window prepared to demand that they take my daughter in immediately and, as soon as I opened my mouth to speak, I heard what sounded like squeaking and realized I was sobbing again. Nicole of Sound Mind and Body (I've officially changed her name for this story) again took over and explained why we were there. We were probably only waiting about 5 minutes (it felt like 5 hours, but it was likely not even a full commercial break) before someone called us in and started us through the process of weighing her and finding out what was going on. We were assigned a very nice nurse, whose name I forget, but who should be given the Nobel Prize for figuring out how to stop my psychosis so quickly. I believe this is how the conversation went,
Wonder Nurse: "So, what's going on?"
Nicole SMB "Her nipple is hard and leaking."
Wonder Nurse to blubbering idiot - "Are you breast feeding?"
Blubbering Idiot: "alfj" (Nodding)
Wonder Nurse: I'll have the doctor take a look, but I know exactly what this is. It's really not a big deal at all and completely normal. Since she is being breast fed, she is getting all of the hormones that you are experiencing right now, Blubbering Idiot. That has caused her to become engorged and she is lactating. It's called galactorrhea and it can happen in boys and girls. For girls, their nipples can swell and lactate and their labia can also become engorged. For boys, a similar thing happens. It's totally normal and will go away on it's own. I'll have the doctor check her just to make sure that's what it is, but that's what I"m staking my money on".
And with that small conversation, Blubbering Idiot became Relieved and Rageful. "Why the hell didn't the pediatrician tell us that over the phone?!?!" is what Relieved and Rageful's mind was screaming, but Blubbering Idiot still had control over the speech areas of the brain so a crazy, snot filled nod of the head was the response. Shortly thereafter, the doctor came in, confirmed the diagnosis, and sent us back home to let our daughter be her own milk source until it wore off. I'd like to tell you that this story has a happy ending and Relieved and Rageful was able to seek vengeance, but Relieved and Rageful became Relieved and Grateful before we got home and then quickly became Passed Out Drooler (me, not the baby). Needless to say, it's just one more incident of WHY DIDN'T SOMEONE TELL ME THAT?!!?!?!?!!?!
We just had a nice little evening and we're getting ready to put RM (yes, I'm going with that now because people are going to get sick of the other little names I use) to bed. I take her to her room, put her on her changing table, and begin to undress her. Then, I notice that her left nipple is way bigger than her right one and when I say way bigger, I mean HOLY CRAP! WHAT HAPPENED TO HER TIT?!?!?! bigger. I touch it and it's as hard as a rock. Before I go any further with my story, let me remind you that this happened when she was only a few weeks old - translation: I was still crazy or, to use a more technical term, I was a freaking hormonal, post pregnant irrational, emotional lunatic. With that being said, I saw the big lump on her boob and immediately yelled (more like screamed like a banshee) for Nicole to come to the nursery. By this time, RM is fairly chilly as she is pretty much naked in her room and I have been poking at her boobs, so she's not exactly in the best of moods. Nicole looks at her nipple, squeezes it, and a little bit of milk comes shooting out of my now screaming infant. I go into complete panic and start to cry. Nicole, thankfully, was of sound mind and body and called the pediatrician. Now, here's my next disclaimer...I normally LOVE our pediatrician's office. However, on this occasion, I could have killed the doctor on call. Nicole explains what we found, tells the doctor there is no fever, but that RM is screaming loudly (as if the doctor didn't hear her. Let's face it. Everyone in Hartford county hears our kid when she's around, but I'll get to that another time). In my rational mind, which was clearly overpowered by psycho girl, I had a little voice that said, "Um, I think the baby is crying because she's cold, naked, wants to eat, and could probably go to sleep right now. After all, it is bedtime." However, the psycho part of my head was saying something like, "ARGHUSAKLS:KJNBIPOIAHJSEKN" and, of course, that's the part of my head that was in charge that night. So, the doctor tells Nicole that since the baby is screaming that much that we should take her to the hospital and they'll probably want to run a scan on her to see what's up. Nicole, being of sound mind and body, told me what the doctor said and my rational response was, "What?!?!? OH MY GOD! WE HAVE TO GO! CALL MY MOM! WE HAVE TO GO!" As much as I'd like to tell everyone that those words stayed in my head...they did not. I was already a blubbering mess and was wrapping up the peanut to go to the ED.
The whole car ride there, I swear this little girl was looking up at the blubbering, sobbing mess that I was and thinking, "What the hell is her problem and why aren't these women putting me to bed! Don't they know I'm tired?!" She was quiet the whole time, but I know that's what she was thinking. Now, when we go to the ED, I was freaking out even more because this was, of course, at the height of the Swine Flu scare and my daughter's immune system was not strong enough for me to take her to the grocery store yet, never mind to walk her straight into the mouth of the Germ Beast! I marched right up to the intake window prepared to demand that they take my daughter in immediately and, as soon as I opened my mouth to speak, I heard what sounded like squeaking and realized I was sobbing again. Nicole of Sound Mind and Body (I've officially changed her name for this story) again took over and explained why we were there. We were probably only waiting about 5 minutes (it felt like 5 hours, but it was likely not even a full commercial break) before someone called us in and started us through the process of weighing her and finding out what was going on. We were assigned a very nice nurse, whose name I forget, but who should be given the Nobel Prize for figuring out how to stop my psychosis so quickly. I believe this is how the conversation went,
Wonder Nurse: "So, what's going on?"
Nicole SMB "Her nipple is hard and leaking."
Wonder Nurse to blubbering idiot - "Are you breast feeding?"
Blubbering Idiot: "alfj" (Nodding)
Wonder Nurse: I'll have the doctor take a look, but I know exactly what this is. It's really not a big deal at all and completely normal. Since she is being breast fed, she is getting all of the hormones that you are experiencing right now, Blubbering Idiot. That has caused her to become engorged and she is lactating. It's called galactorrhea and it can happen in boys and girls. For girls, their nipples can swell and lactate and their labia can also become engorged. For boys, a similar thing happens. It's totally normal and will go away on it's own. I'll have the doctor check her just to make sure that's what it is, but that's what I"m staking my money on".
And with that small conversation, Blubbering Idiot became Relieved and Rageful. "Why the hell didn't the pediatrician tell us that over the phone?!?!" is what Relieved and Rageful's mind was screaming, but Blubbering Idiot still had control over the speech areas of the brain so a crazy, snot filled nod of the head was the response. Shortly thereafter, the doctor came in, confirmed the diagnosis, and sent us back home to let our daughter be her own milk source until it wore off. I'd like to tell you that this story has a happy ending and Relieved and Rageful was able to seek vengeance, but Relieved and Rageful became Relieved and Grateful before we got home and then quickly became Passed Out Drooler (me, not the baby). Needless to say, it's just one more incident of WHY DIDN'T SOMEONE TELL ME THAT?!!?!?!?!!?!
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Poop patrol
I don't know if I mentioned this earlier, but when the Munchkin was born, she came shooting out of my tunnel of love while riding a wave of her own poop. Yes. That's what I said...a wave of her own poop. It was to the point where the nurses had to jump out of the way and one of them went, "Whoa. Someone get a mop". So, we knew that her plumbing worked just fine and that she had given herself a pretty thorough gut cleaning as a way of starting herself off fresh. She was born on a Thursday early afternoon and we were discharged from the hospital that following Saturday.
Now, while in the hospital, the nursing staff like to make sure she's eating and drinking enough and one of the ways they do that is to weigh diapers for liquids and...well, poop. Peeing, not a problem. Pooping, however, was not happening any more. The nursing staff gave us a paper that provided us with a chart to keep track of how many times she peed and pooped while in the hospital and would also let us track it for the first week home. Being as anal and somewhat rigid I am about meeting goals like that, I started to get a little preoccupied by the fact that she was not pooping and, when it was time to be discharged, the pediatrician who checked her out did little to calm my fears. She basically said if monkey didn't poop by Sunday afternoon, to call our pediatrician. Great. Way to send home a new mom who already has enough anxiety. I'm surprised you didn't send me home with a list of common household items which are sure to kill my child if she's even in the same room with them. I mean, there are so many things they freak parents out about, "Don't let them sleep on their bellies b/c they could choke or suffocate"; "Make sure you have a fan in the room b/c that has been shown to help prevent SIDS, but we really don't know why SIDS happens. Some kids are just more prone to it due to brain chemistry", and may all time personal favorite, "More children are killed in car accidents despite being properly restrained". Anxiety 15, Jen 0.
Ok, so back to the poop. Sunday comes and no poop. So, we call the pediatrician and they didn't seem too worried. They told us to wait until Wednesday and, if still no poop, then we should call and they would see her to stick something up her butt to make her go and figure out what the problem was. Poor kid. I didn't have a doctor sticking things up my butt until I was in high school....wait, is that an overshare? Sorry. Be happy I didn't include any pics. Now, an interesting thing happens when there is a newborn in your home and there is some concern about the poop...you suddenly have family and friends who are calling fairly regularly to ask about your child's toileting patterns. We began receiving regular inquiries into our baby's pooping (or nonpooping) habits and Nicole and I found ourselves on poop patrol. With every slight change in the aroma in the air around us, we would check her diaper. Most of the time, the culprit for the air quality change was "the dog"...uh-huh. Each time, no luck. Monday came and went...no poop. Tuesday was Nicole's birthday and my family came over to have dinner to celebrate her birthday and spend time with the little one. It's amazing, but most of the dinner conversation revovled around poop. I say it's amazing because poop has not dominated any of my conversations since grad school. Prior to that, it was a fairly common topic, but not since I've matured...I hear you all laughing. Stop that! Anyway, we got through dinner and no poop. Finally, around 9pm it was time to put the little one to bed and she had an entourage follow her into her nursery to wish her sweet dreams. As soon as we put her in the crib, she let out the loudest, juiciest toot I have ever heard coming from such a small body. Now, this is the really sad part...ready? People actually cheered and my brother raced to grab her out of the crib to check her diaper. Want to know something even sadder yet? I had to stop him and let Nicole do it because she looked like she really wanted to find the poop. Lo and behold, with the opening of that diaper, we found a large deposit of poop. We all happily looked on (yes, we all looked on. Sorry, kiddo) as Nicole changed her diaper and then.....bbbblllllllhhhhhhhh. Another juicy toot and full on diaper load. Change her up, get her ready for bed again and....bbbbbllllllhhhhhh. Yes, another full on diaper. I'm telling you...she was just saving it up to make things more dramatic for everyone. Finally, after her 4th diaper change, she was again empty and ready for bed.
Now, she has a long first name which is made up of Nicole's grandmother's first name and my grandmother's first name. My understanding is that Nicole's grandmother could run with the big dogs when it came to passing gas and, I'm proud to say, our little girl is making her namesake proud!
Now, while in the hospital, the nursing staff like to make sure she's eating and drinking enough and one of the ways they do that is to weigh diapers for liquids and...well, poop. Peeing, not a problem. Pooping, however, was not happening any more. The nursing staff gave us a paper that provided us with a chart to keep track of how many times she peed and pooped while in the hospital and would also let us track it for the first week home. Being as anal and somewhat rigid I am about meeting goals like that, I started to get a little preoccupied by the fact that she was not pooping and, when it was time to be discharged, the pediatrician who checked her out did little to calm my fears. She basically said if monkey didn't poop by Sunday afternoon, to call our pediatrician. Great. Way to send home a new mom who already has enough anxiety. I'm surprised you didn't send me home with a list of common household items which are sure to kill my child if she's even in the same room with them. I mean, there are so many things they freak parents out about, "Don't let them sleep on their bellies b/c they could choke or suffocate"; "Make sure you have a fan in the room b/c that has been shown to help prevent SIDS, but we really don't know why SIDS happens. Some kids are just more prone to it due to brain chemistry", and may all time personal favorite, "More children are killed in car accidents despite being properly restrained". Anxiety 15, Jen 0.
Ok, so back to the poop. Sunday comes and no poop. So, we call the pediatrician and they didn't seem too worried. They told us to wait until Wednesday and, if still no poop, then we should call and they would see her to stick something up her butt to make her go and figure out what the problem was. Poor kid. I didn't have a doctor sticking things up my butt until I was in high school....wait, is that an overshare? Sorry. Be happy I didn't include any pics. Now, an interesting thing happens when there is a newborn in your home and there is some concern about the poop...you suddenly have family and friends who are calling fairly regularly to ask about your child's toileting patterns. We began receiving regular inquiries into our baby's pooping (or nonpooping) habits and Nicole and I found ourselves on poop patrol. With every slight change in the aroma in the air around us, we would check her diaper. Most of the time, the culprit for the air quality change was "the dog"...uh-huh. Each time, no luck. Monday came and went...no poop. Tuesday was Nicole's birthday and my family came over to have dinner to celebrate her birthday and spend time with the little one. It's amazing, but most of the dinner conversation revovled around poop. I say it's amazing because poop has not dominated any of my conversations since grad school. Prior to that, it was a fairly common topic, but not since I've matured...I hear you all laughing. Stop that! Anyway, we got through dinner and no poop. Finally, around 9pm it was time to put the little one to bed and she had an entourage follow her into her nursery to wish her sweet dreams. As soon as we put her in the crib, she let out the loudest, juiciest toot I have ever heard coming from such a small body. Now, this is the really sad part...ready? People actually cheered and my brother raced to grab her out of the crib to check her diaper. Want to know something even sadder yet? I had to stop him and let Nicole do it because she looked like she really wanted to find the poop. Lo and behold, with the opening of that diaper, we found a large deposit of poop. We all happily looked on (yes, we all looked on. Sorry, kiddo) as Nicole changed her diaper and then.....bbbblllllllhhhhhhhh. Another juicy toot and full on diaper load. Change her up, get her ready for bed again and....bbbbbllllllhhhhhh. Yes, another full on diaper. I'm telling you...she was just saving it up to make things more dramatic for everyone. Finally, after her 4th diaper change, she was again empty and ready for bed.
Now, she has a long first name which is made up of Nicole's grandmother's first name and my grandmother's first name. My understanding is that Nicole's grandmother could run with the big dogs when it came to passing gas and, I'm proud to say, our little girl is making her namesake proud!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Sandman, Sandman. Wherefore art thou, Sandman?
So I always knew there would be little sleep happening once the baby was born. What I was not prepared for was that the restful sleep I had enjoyed all of my life would stop almost 6 weeks before she was born. At that time, I started waking up at like 2 in the morning and would lay (or is it lie?) in bed arguing with myself to go back to sleep. Typically, I lost the argument as I lay there in bed trying to figure out how to occupy my time. It usually went something like this, "DAMN!!! I need to go to sleep! Maybe I'll turn on the t.v. If I do that, I'll wake up Nicole. Tough crap, I should wake her up. Why should she get to sleep while I'm awake...ok, that's mean. I'd be upset if she woke me up just because. Maybe I could read. No, the light will still wake her up" and on and on my head would go. Now, if any of you are like me, you have lots of things in your room that light up (e.g. digital clock, cell phone) and what I came to realize is that those electronics give off lots of light. So, as I lay there looking at the various shadows that were created by my clock and cell phone, I started making shadow puppets. First, I started with your basic puppet of the bird flying and then moved on to the dog. Then, I started getting a bit more creative and made a rabbit (which looked like it escaped a zoo surrounded by a nuclear reactor), a wolf (which is really just the dog. No, really, still the dog...no changes in shape at all, just changes in the sound effects I make...well, not really much in the way of changes there either, but believe me, it's a wolf), and a human face. The face I came upon purely by accident, but once I realized I could do it, I started having a great time. The person interacted with the bird and the dog. I didn't think it was a great idea for the guy to do something with the wolf because wild animals can become quite unpredictable. Then, I started making snakes, but they were like giant snakes, so it became like a science fiction thriller from the '50s with some larger than life animal begins attacking the now diminuitive humans (Insert evil laugh here). I was quite enjoying my crazy Creature Features (anyone? anyone? bad Saturday afternoon matinee from the '70s? No? Nobody? K) when I realized that I could make smaller snakes...and that's when it happened. Being that my mind often travels in the gutter, I began making shadow puppet porn theater. Granted, most of the action was quite repetitive, but aren't most porns that way? And, at least there was no cheesy music or bad acting to go into this one. The music was first rate and the actors...well, it was like they already knew what to do without me having to direct them. It was pure NC17 shadowtainment. For those of you reading this and thinking, "She is a total pervert", all I have to say is stop being such a prude. Each and every one of you knows that, at some point in time, whether you want to admit it or not, you have watched a porn and know exactly what I'm talking about. I bet that some of you have even uttered the movie line of "There are porn movies that start this way". For example, many years ago when I lived in an apartment in Manchester with my friend, Sara, we were preparing to host a bachelorette party for my dear, dear friend Cristina. To celebrate the occasion, we cut out pictures of nake guys from Playgirl and posted them, along with various other sexualized images, all over our apartment. Sara had also just finished decorating a penis shaped cake and had it out on the counter ready for the festivities. It was right about this time that we got a call from our landlord stating the gas company needed to check something out in our apartment and that they would be up in a couple of minutes. As the reality of his statement began to settle into my head, I told Sara what was happening and I believe that's when one of us blurted out, "You know, there are porn movies that start this way". With that, there was a knock at the door and the poor, unsuspecting gas guy walked into what must have looked like a psychotic nymphomaniac's apartment. At first, he looked horrified and I was willing to let him sit with that horror for a bit longer, but Sara explained what was happening and slowly this creepy smile came over his face and he then...wait for it, wait for it...he then offered to be the stripper for the evening. Now, this would have been an offer that I could have possibly considered if the guy had not been in his late 50s, balding, had a beer gut, and, I'm pretty sure, was missing some of his teeth. So, needless to say, he did what he needed to do, left, and Sara and I had a pretty good laugh about it. But once again, I have digressed....
I had started talking about sleeping or the lack thereof and, sadly, the sleeping has not improved since the little munchkin was born. I was able to take 10 weeks of maternity leave, thankfully, and, during that time, she was getting up about 2x a night at the beginning and once a night toward the end. For that time, I didn't want to wake Nicole because she had to go to work, so I would get up, feed her, change her, and try to get some more sleep before getting up and doing it all over again. So, as it got closer to my returning to work, I began to revel in the fact that Nicole would be the one getting up with her at night while I got to sleep through it. While that was a great plan, there were a couple of flaws in that thinking: 1) this line of thought assumes that Nicole would hear her crying and get up to take care of it. This, sadly, is not the case. Nicole could sleep through the USC marching band going through the house in the dead of night, so the little noises that come from across the hall are not enough to cut it. Translation, I still have to get up to wake Nicole up to have her take care of the baby. Could I just do it myself since I'm already up, sure, but what fun would that be? 2) this line of thought also assumes that my little darling would continue to wake up in the middle of the night. I'm beginning to think that Nicole may be slipping something into her evening bottle because, my first week back to work, and this little punk has decided she is going to sleep until about 6:30 or 7:30 each morning. I'm pretty sure she is doing this just to make me crazy and, I hate to admit it, it's working. I sometimes just want to poke Nicole to make her wake up as a form of vengeful payback, but I don't have the heart to do it...most of the time. So, now I am finally able to sleep a good stretch through the night, but I am also having to get up earlier than I have ever had to in my life in order to get myself ready and get enough boob juice bottled to have her make it through the day while I'm at work. It's a darn good thing that she's as cute as she is. And, on that note, time for me to go tap the ta-tas for more boob juice. I feel like a human kegerator. It's like Happy Hour when I get home from work when my bae-bay gets to be a sloppy milk drunk, but that's a story for another time.
I had started talking about sleeping or the lack thereof and, sadly, the sleeping has not improved since the little munchkin was born. I was able to take 10 weeks of maternity leave, thankfully, and, during that time, she was getting up about 2x a night at the beginning and once a night toward the end. For that time, I didn't want to wake Nicole because she had to go to work, so I would get up, feed her, change her, and try to get some more sleep before getting up and doing it all over again. So, as it got closer to my returning to work, I began to revel in the fact that Nicole would be the one getting up with her at night while I got to sleep through it. While that was a great plan, there were a couple of flaws in that thinking: 1) this line of thought assumes that Nicole would hear her crying and get up to take care of it. This, sadly, is not the case. Nicole could sleep through the USC marching band going through the house in the dead of night, so the little noises that come from across the hall are not enough to cut it. Translation, I still have to get up to wake Nicole up to have her take care of the baby. Could I just do it myself since I'm already up, sure, but what fun would that be? 2) this line of thought also assumes that my little darling would continue to wake up in the middle of the night. I'm beginning to think that Nicole may be slipping something into her evening bottle because, my first week back to work, and this little punk has decided she is going to sleep until about 6:30 or 7:30 each morning. I'm pretty sure she is doing this just to make me crazy and, I hate to admit it, it's working. I sometimes just want to poke Nicole to make her wake up as a form of vengeful payback, but I don't have the heart to do it...most of the time. So, now I am finally able to sleep a good stretch through the night, but I am also having to get up earlier than I have ever had to in my life in order to get myself ready and get enough boob juice bottled to have her make it through the day while I'm at work. It's a darn good thing that she's as cute as she is. And, on that note, time for me to go tap the ta-tas for more boob juice. I feel like a human kegerator. It's like Happy Hour when I get home from work when my bae-bay gets to be a sloppy milk drunk, but that's a story for another time.
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