Monday, November 24, 2008

Mr. Lincoln

Arrived with a lot of pushing a bit of pulling and a magnitude of pain @ 12:17AM on 11/16.

A week and a bit later, the pain lingers, but the heart strings are proving much stronger a pull on my body, my soul.

He's asleep on me now, so the story will have to wait till I can type margainally better than Daniel Day Lewis cicra 1989

Friday, November 14, 2008

Coupla things

Hand not numb. Note to self: MORE TETRIS

The pregnancy book that needs to be written, a brief table of contents:

~Varicosities: Extremeties, rectal, vulval, vaginal

~Impacted stool

~Acid reflux: To aspirate or not?

~Vaginal discharge and ratio of clean underwear

~Moles & skintags

What she said:

"Write through it"

Yup. OK. Here I go. Writing.

I'm in NY and it's 1 in the morning. Everyone is sleeping. Some are snoring and I actually think I hear one of them whimpering. I've been playing Tetris for 2 hours and if my hand isn't numb tomorrow (today?) I'll eat the ratty bra I've been wearing for a week.

Waiting for this baby has become VERY IMPORTANT IN MY LIFE. I can't get away from it. I can't cook it away, errand it off, clean it to the wayside and even, apparently, Tetris it to my subconscious for more than, oh, 7 seconds.

Being one who births at home (more on that later), it's a big deal for me to be in my home for a good long while before labor starts. Well, BABY, I've not worked since October 27th or something! I'm fucking home. HOME!
I have a bead on every dust bunny, know down to the sheet how much toilet paper is in the house, washed the three toilets I could potentially be puking in any minute about nine thousand times.

Can I just say: I'm ready? And can you oblige?

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Dream a little dream of me...

Sorry, baby: Not. Even. One.

Last night I dreamt of Joe the Plumber, er, I mean "fucker".
I dreamt I shared a whiskey with Obama post victory.
There was the one about work when all those moms died.
Many (too many, really, for fucks sake) about Chris leaving me.

But not a single slumber-fueled-film about the baby. It feels odd to me, bad even. Odder and badder than I have been able to admit, in fact.

So, kid, do your mom a solid AND COME OUT ALREADY! Show me that you're alright and the reason I don't need to dream about you is because there's nothing to worry about, k?

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

ok, ok, ok... getting closer

I feel guilty being proud of our first African American president because I'm not black.

I'm proud of the man and his intellectual capacity, his sense of calm & rationality, his refusal to back-bite. I'm proud of his politics and projected policies-- and these things I can own simply as a person.

The other bit, though, that first sentence up there? That's what I'm having quite a tussle about

Sunday, November 9, 2008

another 24 hours

There is no harmony in my house today. The baby will not be coming. FUCK.

Saturday, November 8, 2008


What is it (my hidden prejudices, my humanity?)that will not let me stop crying these past few days. I am whitey, white, white and I am reduced to a sopping mess every time I hear a person of color explain why they love this man and what he's done.

My privilege is being torn down and it feels. Good. Someone on the radio the other day said she was overjoyed not because Barack Obama is black, but because he comes without a pedigree. That that speaks more to her than sharing the color of their skin. That they share a common history is far more poignant.

And then there are John Lewis and Jesse Jackson; mother-fuckin Alice Walker, too. I can't relate in the slightest how this must feel to them. I know I feel good, but I don't really know why.

I mean I know I loathe hate. That I want every human condition recognized, validated and embraced. I know that I CAN NOT WAIT to see Sasha and Melia jumping on the beds of the White House. I know that I can't stop crying. I know that I hear him speak and I feel proud. I know that it is an earth-shattering event in our sometimes not so FCC approved airing of history that this brilliant, composed, accomplished, loved and loving man is now the President of the United States. But I don't really know why I am so affected.

Obviously, I will never understand it fully, this emotional waterfall Barack Obama has caused for me and a lot of other white people and I'm going to have to learn to live with that.

I'm digging here, people. I'm looking for something in all of this. I want to feel good, be a good person. There is something here so deep that I can't even see it in myself, let alone touch it & try to figure it out, mold into a thing that do recognize.

In the meantime, I will rejoice in the fact that Barack Obama and all he means is indeed here and things will be different; that I do know

Saturday, October 18, 2008

A little room, please

I can't breathe. Sleep. Eat. Walk. Bend. Or even git it on properly at this point.

The gift of gestation is a mysterious one indeed. It blows, my man. It's fucking hard. Even the most blessedly blissed out mamas wake up with a mouth full of almost digested food every once in a while. But we keep. On. Doing. It. Did I mention that it hurts to push the thing out, too? It does. Can't leave that part out.

But here I sit; swoled up like a bloated kaiser roll languishing in a still puddle, and I'm happy.

That is, until I leave my house, my haven, my family and go out into the world and see OTHER PEOPLE.

Here's a tip humanity: I KNOW I'M BIG. I know I look like I'm about to "drop that thing". I know my boobs are huge and my smile is infrequent. I know. Your reminders make me want to put on some lipstick and go pit-bull on your ass, k?

Oh, and no you can't touch. Peace.

Friday, October 17, 2008


So, the other night, when John McCain for the upteenth time put his maniacal, pudgy fingers in the air in the form of quotation marks and openly mocked "the health of the mother" when it comes to late term & partial birth abortions; I screamed.

Next time I have a septic mother carrying a 22 week old fetus who is growing more ill by the minute, I'd like for Mr. McCain to come and explain to her that it's for the best that she and her child die. Together. Miserably. Oh, and he can tell this to her partner, her parents, her friends and her family members.

Out of touch doesn't even begin to describe him and his tantrum fueled rants regarding what is so very clearly not a black and white issue.

May he and the dumb-fuckery that is Sarah Palin, rot in obscurity.

Monday, August 25, 2008


What bonds us and what makes us a circle? All try to answer but none have succeeded. None have succeeded in answering your question is what I mean. A bond is a strong remake of all that we take.
A circle is a circle unbreakable; you can’t go make yourself free
Stuck in the deep. I want tighter. You can’t wow me though, unless you are a fighter strong and true, and until then, my heart is mine

Ruby, age 8

Is this thing on?

Right here. Right now (no, not Jesus Jones). In 2008. There are still people who say: "Eh, I don't like either, I'm not voting. Who's running? Is there cilantro in that guacamole?"

I consider myself a fairly, shall we say, enlightened individual. I accept, respect and generally am like totally into whatever you're into as long as it doesn't cause lasting physical or psychological harm to self or others, you dig? But I just can not friggin' stomach an apathetic voter.

How does this happen? How do people not care about voting? Do they still think it's cool? And that people will find them endlessly whimsical and unfettered by their devil-may-care attitude? 'Cuz I got news for you, if this shit keeps up, there could be another new sheriff in town and his name 'aint "Reggie Hammond", it's mother-fucking John McCain.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Swing, baby!

Within a span of 10 minutes today I was crying, singing, sobbing & yelling like a lunatic.

The person who married me 10 years ago found me between sobbing & yelling and brilliantly suggested we go out to dinner. To which I gently replied: "GOOD! Because if I have to clean up another fucking mess today... GOD DAMNIT!" Commence head-spinning and pea-soup projectile vomiting.

This husband fella has really shown himself to me these last few months; and I like it. I am amazed at his ability to evolve and I'm remembering right at this very minute that that's one of the reasons I fell in love with him in the first place. Surely, there must be something magnetic about the bloke for me to go through this hormone fueled, thunder-dome-esqe-odyssey-freak-show of pregnancy again.

The miracle in it all? That we mothers don't end up a ravaged, bloodied, shell of a beast once the baby has taken absolutely everything we have. Who needs sanity?! Ha! Pussies!

Thursday, August 14, 2008

As if breathing weren't hard enough...

Well, for the last 6 months I've been growing limbs. And vital organs. And a brain stem. Oh, and a brain, duh.

How I arrived at this moment of gestation is somewhat of a mystery. I mean, dude! I know what we were doing at the time: chick-aw-yeah!! BABY! But... but... we're so careful. I mean, I've been doing it with the same guy for over 10 years and lemme tell ya: We are pretty-damn-good at not getting pregnant.

Yes. There. I said it. Pregnant.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Do you see what I see?

In the dressing room at Target today, I got a full-on 360 of my pants-clad-butt.

Now, I've always known that I can err on the side of curvy. Once I stop paying attention, the rear-end groweth and the hips spreadeth. But sweet fetus jesus! Had I been aware things have spiraled this far I WOULD NOT have had that second tuna fish sandwich yesterday.

It's been about 3 years worth of denial over my belly. And the way I see it: So be it. It housed and nurtured and grew two immensely fabulous baby girls and it's earned it's place (besides, on a good day, after a goooood BM, I can suck that shit right the hell in with none the wiser). But man! My ass is out of control.

Though never a big girl, I developed a nice, hearty eating disorder in my early twenties anyway. Really gross. Really effective. Really tenacious. That bitch stuck around in fits and starts till my early thirties. It's a non-issue any more and bringing it up now only serves the purpose to relate how, shall we say: mis-guided I can be about my womanly form.

Kind of alternate universe, actually. While I used to see a 'fat girl' who should be thin, now I see a 'thin girl' who in reality has far more than her share of junk in the trunk.

This will be taking some time to get used to.

Oh, I didn't buy the pants.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Can anyone tell me...

Where/when/why the whole phenomenon of complete and total vulva shaving/waxing pre-delivery came from?

It's bizarre. I can't recall the last time I saw a nice, hairy labia; and frankly, it's shocking.

These bare vaginas are out there for all to ponder. Your husband/boyfriend/mother/father (this, in and of itself, is its own blog topic)/sister/grandmother/bff all see me and the doctor and the tech and all the other nurses seeing your shiny, smooth coochie.

What's the point? You can't see it, it doesn't get in the way (really, it's HAIR. It PARTS.) and it is so not offensive. In fact: It BELONGS there.

If were were shooting pregnancy porn, I'd understand. And maybe this is why some women do this, far be it from me to question a kink, but so many? So often? Is there something I'm missing?

If this keeps up, I'm going to start a petition.

Friday, March 14, 2008

Psssst! Universe:

I better not be pregnant.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Hey, baby!

I go back to work tonight after something like 5 nights off. In. A. Row.
It was my attempt at normalizing a sleep schedule, spending some sweet, simple time with my girls and CELEBRATING MY HUSBAND'S 40TH.

Well, at least I got the last one right. Whoooo, baby. UNH.

I can't sleep for shee-it. I've been premenstrual like you read about. New equation: mommy=monster.

Good news? Gonna (hope, hope) get my mitts on some brand new baby.

They're sooooo wet and so wiggly sometimes that I have to clutch them to me so they don't fly out of my arms by the time I get them to the warmer. I work in a really MEDICAL hospital with a lot of RULES so these babes more often then not get to spend their first minutes of life with me while I suss 'em out, take their vitals and (I * hate* this part) give them their shots and eye ointment.

What a guilty fucking pleasure. Kinda sick, kinda sweet that I'm usually baby talking at them before their mamas are... oooof, acutally feeling a bit sick about that as I type it out (or maybe that's the coffee w/ Coffee Mate I'm slugging?).

Well, this isn't going as planned... I wanted to gush about this MY MOST FAVORITIST PART OF MY JOB and instead, I pretty much feel like shit.

hurumph. That sucked.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Go Outside

go outside, what will you see?
Green leaves upon a tree

go inside, what will you find?
A bitten apple, on its rind.

go outside, what will you see?
Green leaves upon a tree & maybe even a canopy

go inside, what will you find?
A bitten apple on its rind or maybe even a young child's mind

by Ruby, age 7

Saturday, March 8, 2008


WARNNG: Rant Ahead

It's a mystery to me how I developed an innate sense of this; my parents were kind of, irrational, and didn't offer much in the way of a delicate journey down the path of righteousness. They yelled a lot. My mom was a spanker. My dad was an OVER REACTOR. I mean, they did fine. But let's be clear and state for the record, that there would be no emulating, m'kay?

Along the way, I got it anyway: You give, you get. And that most certainly applies in the area of respect. This would work like a charm for me for months and years and then BA-BOOM, an asshole would appear on the horizon and my magical bubble of reciprocity would burst and shower me in a soapy mess of disappointment. High school principals, mortgage brokers, babysitters, friends, managers, nursing school instructors... all could offend. But hey! I'm all freakin' positive and shit and I could always find someone, something to bring the love right back home and once again prance down my merry path of blissful alltogetherness.

So what the fuck is wrong with OB's??!?!?!?? I have never. In. My. Life. Met a sorrier bunch of I'mbettherthanyous. Is this a doctor thing? Is that god complex crap correct? Does this lot really, really believe that strutting around in gummy clogs and silly white coats full o' 'tude means something?

We're the ones caring for your patients, watching, waiting, caring. We speak to your patients like people! Ha! We explain, demystify, comfort. Why you gotta be such a dick?

The next time you tell your patients (in front of me, no less) that the nurse made a mistake, I'm going to tell her that the reason you have 17 tubes up her vagina & 37 monitors hooked up to her and her baby is not because you care, it's because you're afraid of getting SUED. Deal?

Monday, February 25, 2008

Smells like teen spirit

If teen spirit smells like vaginas, that is.

Sometimes, I can smell a vagina in anything. Clementines, bean soup, wet grass, gasoline... given the right state of mind, my mind goes right to the scent of a woman, if you will.

Not always a bad thing, often a really nice & reassuring thing. Certain odors during labor & birth let us know that things are progressing well and that mom and baby will be just fine-- it's so deeply a developed sensory experience that there's no way in heck I can describe it correctly without coming off soundly like (as my husband would say) a "real creamer".

When I leave the unit, though. Shift done, scrubs off, are my nose hairs required to harbor the remnants of my night? When I get home all bleary and make my baby girl her breakfast before I go to sleep, do the oeufs really need to smell like ovum? Do they?

Friday, February 22, 2008

Didja ever notice...

That as soon as you sit down to type something your children peel the skin off of each other's faces, kill and eat the cat, spray paint the bathroom with cooking oil & neeeeeeeeeed you?

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Mother of the Year

Crackers, pretzels & Starburst candies for breakfast. Hey, at least the crackers are organic.

Friday, February 8, 2008

An Inside Job

I have the most important job in the world. Dig it.

Every night, me and the women I work with help mothers give birth. These wee babes grow up to write poetry, serve drinks, start wars, plant flowers, drive cars, buy houses, take steroids, steal iPods, wear leather, eat tempeh & walk their dogs.

The food chain starts here, if you know what I mean.

There are nights that 10, 12, 14 babies are born. There are nights when it's just 1. And sometimes, more than I thought was possible, we have a baby who dies. When my job is good, it's the best. When it's bad, it is truly, truly awful.

The nurses on my floor are our own perfect family. We function as the same person sometimes; anticipating, re-directing, assisting, comforting & scolding one another and one another's needs. You can't do this work if you don't love your team, your family.

Well, the other night, one of us lost her baby. We lost a baby. And I haven't been able to shake it. To stop crying.
The loss is devastating.

We don't know if she'll come back to work. And if that happens... If that happens, our loss will be exponentially greater.


Thursday, January 31, 2008

I feel like crap today. Cranky, depressed, cranky, lousy & cranky. It freaks people out around here when I say that I'd like to go live by myself in a teensy-wee house like this.

They can come by, bring me freshly baked brownies and what not. I'm not an ogre or anything.

This depression isn't new, and apparently, not very rare. I've been alarmed at how many of my friends complain of the same things. Some of them formally diagnosed, treated and even hospitalized. I'm equally alarmed that %100 of these friends I met over the internet. I know them all in person now; been to their homes, cried into their coffee cups... they're real to me.

I am anticipating the study. The one that will show how the internet has brought out the inner-confessor in us, made us own our madness and and then toss it out into the universe, hoping for someone to latch on. And not in a 'misery loves company' kind of way. In a 'hey! I don't care what my old friends say! I am NOT a freak' kind of way

Sunday, January 27, 2008

You keep on knockin'...

Jehovah's Witnesses were over yesterday. Again. And I'm pretty sure they'll be back; after all, this time, they got my husband to read SCRIPTURE.

We're Anti Theists (used to be Atheists, but thank you, Christopher Hitchens, we've seen the light. So to speak) and having The Witnesses over is a crackin' good time, I'll have you know.

How often in life do you get to debate from truly opposite sides? And besides, they intrigue me. What with all their "child training" and "help-meeting" and "slappings" and "God fearing-s" not to mention their faith in something that can neither be explained nor depicted; and to my amazement, they don't even care to try to do those things. You see: That's what faith is, silly woman.

They seem like good people, though. They love their kids. They care about their community and they've apparently deemed me and mine worthy of saving in these last days. How can I bitch about that?