Mother of the Week

What?

What the…?!

After all my moaning and whining about not receiving any blue ribbons or tiaras or certificates of achievement since grade school, I suddenly find myself thrust into the limelight by the good women of Crazy Hip Blog Mamas.

(Okay, okay…maybe squeaky wheel gets the grease.)

Truly, truly I am honored.

I love writing and it’s wonderful to know that somewhere out there is someone - a small bunch of someone’s - who is reading and enjoying what I’m putting down. Award or no, anytime a reader tells me that I’ve made them laugh or giggle or crack a smile, I feel a little more sure that I’ve somehow earned the bit of Halushki-shaped real estate that I take up on this planet, that I’m not using up precious oxygen for no good reason.

So, sincerely, from the bottom of my laptop, thank you all very much.


Now…what a week to be voted Mother of the Week.

Tomorrow Today (damned procrastination -- Ed.) is Seconda’s birthday party and I had intended to go all Martha Stewart with the theme of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, creating pink tulle wings for all the girls and angel food cupcakes decorated in butter cream icing with the likeness of Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth and Mustardseed. The party was to begin at twilight as my husband, dressed as Puck, pranced about the yard twittering upon his pan flute while the girls danced barefoot beneath rosy arbors, the fireflies darting hither and thither amongst flaxen ringlets. We’d have played well-organized games of Higgeldy-Figgeldy and Twirls O’ Twinkles and Loop-the-Lolly-Loo, and then as the last rays of sunshine slanted through the white pines… There! Appearing through the evening mists! A white unicorn with glittering rainbow hooves!

Oh such laughter and squeals of delight were never heard before!

A birthday party to remember and, verily, the work of a Mother of the Week!


However, that a party like that would take a lot of planning.

And money.

And a unicorn.

And lately, I haven’t had the energy to encourage my daughters change from their pajamas before noon, let alone convince my husband to dress like a goat-footed piper.

It’s hot here. And humid. And I have someone’s feet in my lungs making it very difficult to do anything other than huff and puff from chair to chair and sigh, “Honey, get Mama a glass of sweet tea, there’s a dear.”

So, I’ve slacked-off and the party will instead be themed Fairy Free-For-All. The guests will arrive around dinner time, eat pizza, make flowered fairy wands, and then be encouraged to run wild for an hour and a half, perhaps occasionally beating each other with the wands. There will be some tears, much laughing, and if all goes well, around sunset the cat will make an appearance from beneath the shrubbery and the girls will commence to chase it through the yard for the final half hour. We’ll sing Happy Birthday and cut the Tinkerbell cake that I ordered from the Giant supermarket, after which it will be just about time to hand over eight sugar-crazed, wand-wielding fairies to their parents, and time for me to sit down again, long and hard and with a “whoompf” sound.


On second thought, both parties sound like fun, don't they?

Who doesn’t love beating other party guests with wands?

I never liked Loop-the-Lolly-Loo, anyway. As a child. I was always lollying instead of looping, and next thing you know I was on my butt with a patent leather party shoe in the punch.

So maybe, after all, this is a good week to be awarded the Mother of the Week title.

I mean, I don’t want to set the bar to high for myself.

In fact, now that I’ve been bestowed the title MOTW, I can relax a little.

Next birthday, the party theme will simply be “MUD!”


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In other news, I need to mention that my Internet service is down completely. Oh the irony of receiving a blog award and having no access to my blog! It’s kinda funny if you think about it.

Okay, it’s not.

At this time, however, I do also need to mention that Verizon.net DSL customer service SUCKS GOAT FEET!

Pardon my French. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more poetic, what with just being recognized with a blog writer award and all.

My darling husband is at this moment doing me the biggest of favors by posting this entry from an undisclosed location which is not where he works. (Hi Honey! Thank you!) (As Vito Corleone once said, someday - and that day may never come - I'll call upon you to do a service for me. But until that day, accept this justice as a gift on my daughter's wedding birth day. -- Ed.)

I should be up-and-running again in seven to ten days, although I may be able to post now and again from the library. We’ll see. I suppose that I should also let people know that I’m also without email. How quaint! It’s like being Amish except without the bonnets and mules.

In the meantime - and in the spirit of Mother-of-the-Week-ness - here are a few links to blog entries gone by in which I wax poetic (sometimes literally) about that thing I do and do and do and do and do. Peruse at your convenience throughout the next few days. Don’t gobble these down all at once because I‘m not cooking any more tonight, what do you think I'm running here, a diner?

Whoops!

See what a great mom I am? I just can’t stop myself.


Enjoy!

In which I write a poem about doing laundry

In which I take my children to Hershey Park on Good Friday and feel the wrath of God

In which I introduce my daughters to Speed Racer

In which I have a panic attack at the beach

In which my 4yo wrecks my car and says the "Sh" word

In which we go to Disney World and I don’t choke anyone

In which I get sappy and sentimental...

Today is a very special day here at the Halushki household.

Today we celebrate a very special member of our family.

A person who brings us boundless joy and happiness. A person we cherish and love, whose smile and sense of humor light our days.

A person who has steadfastly promised me for the past three years that the thumb sucking would stop today. Cold turkey. Just like that.

And last night, before going to bed, the promise was kept.

“Good night, Mommy. And Mommy, tonight, I will not even suck my thumb. Make sure there are balloons tomorrow.”

Heh.

This time, you thought I was talking about my husband, didn’t you? Even when I got to the thumb-sucking part, you still weren’t sure.

No, no. Today at Casa de Halushki, Father’s Day is being eclipsed by large pink balloons, blonde hair, and dimples. Totally eclipsed.

After all, it’s not every day you turn five years old.

Five.

I can’t believe my youngest daughter is turning five. Look at her. Look at how stinking cute she was at five days old.



And now look at her.


It goes so quickly. Such a cliché, yes? And yet truer words….

Ah me.

I love her to pieces.

My beautiful Seconda. My beautiful, smart, funny…Isabel Josephine.

Five years ago today.

For those of you who just love a detailed birth story, here’s Isabel’s. I wrote this a few years ago, and it’s a bit clunky. (It’s also veeeerrrrrrry long, so if you’re not a hardcore junkie for birth stories, feel free to skip it and just oogle the additional photos of my gorgeous daughter.) Anway, right now it too late for edits. I have presents to wrap and pink balloons to blow up.

Isabel is going to wake up, five years old, to a room full of pink balloons.

And Father’s Day takes the back seat today.

And my wonderful husband - the bestest daddy in the world - couldn’t be happier to be eclipsed by this shining girl.


The Birth Story of Isabel Josephine: The Good, The Bad, The Wild and The Wonderful

Prologue: Can’t you pedal your menstrual cycle any faster?

Right from the start my OB insisted on using that circular spinny thing that assumes a 28 day menstrual cycle, and voila! I was given the due date of June 10. I explained how I had been charting temperatures, checking mucus (don’t ask) and that I KNEW, by lord, I knew when those swimmers had zeroed in for the attack. And I told her that my cycles were about 38 days long and that my due date would be June 18. Two ultrasounds later, they gave me the due date of June 8.

I should play the lottery more often.

The Good: Make mine a double decaf latte with a shot of hazelnut…I’m about to have a baby!

On June 18 at 5:00 AM (and after 4 weeks of contractions, some 5 minutes apart for an hour) my water breaks. I knew it would break that night because

a) it was June 18, and

b) I had just put new sheets on the bed.

At first, I think that I’ve just peed in the bed (this happens when you're pregnant), so I have to do the whole sniff test (again, don’t ask…Husband: “Why are you sniffing the sheets? Did your water break?”) Then, I run around the house with a towel between my legs while I start to make phone calls (Husband: “Do I have to get up yet? Tell me how much longer before I need to wake up.”)

I telephone the OB on call and tell him that I am pretty darn sure that my water just broke, but that I’m not having any contractions –at least none to write home about. They are maybe 10 minutes apart and weak. He says to come on in and be prepared to stay. Okee-doke!

Then I call my doula. I tell her that I am going to the hospital, but that I will call her from there and let her know what’s going on…no rush, plenty of time. Finally, I call my mom and tell her to come on down to Philadelphia to watch my other daughter. All my ducks in a row, I go into the bedroom, poke DH in the ribs and tell him that I am going to take a shower, shave my legs, and then drive to the hospital. He mumbles “Break a leg. I’ll be there soon” and falls back asleep, the drool string still connected from his mouth to the pillow.

I like driving to the hospital myself. I like the feeling of being the one in the driver’s seat, both literally and figuratively. I roll down the windows, turn on the radio, sing along to a few bouncy top-40 songs…a cool, dewy morning, no traffic in downtown Philadelphia. I even smile and wave when a delivery truck cuts me off at Walnut Street. Should I stop at Starbucks for decaf latte and a croissant? Nah, better not…just in case I have a gush of water and someone slips on it and sues me. I pull into the hospital parking lot, but don’t feel like going in yet, so I clean some of the McDonald’s wrappers and banana peels (I have a 2 year old) from the backseat of the car.

I get to Labor and Delivery and let them know that I’m here to have a baby. There is a change in shifts going on, so I hang out and read some trashy magazines (so IS Tom Cruise gay?) until I’m given the go ahead to come on back and get hooked-up to the monitors. Actually, I pretty much hook-up myself because one nurse guides me to the room and then disappears; I think she’s left for the day, and I don’t want to wait around for the next nurse. Then a resident comes in and asks a bunch of questions: due date, how long has water been broken, name, rank, serial number. She seems a bit overwhelmed (I found out later that the new residents have just checked in that day) so I help her out a bit. Previously, I had negative feelings about being seen by residents, but hey, they have to learn somewhere, right? And since I still had my sense of humor at this point, I’m willing to play along. Then I wait for an hour or so and watch some trashy television (“Help! My teenage daughter hates the way I dress!”) and watch my non-contractions on the monitor. I know what will be coming with the next resident who walks through the door:

“Well, Mrs. Halushki, I’ve just taken a look-see and you’re only 1 cm dilated, no effacement and it looks like your contractions aren’t picking up, so we have to talk about…”

The Bad: It’s Deja-vu all over again

Pitocin.

Sigh. Now I begin to run the gauntlet. But, this time, I feel prepared. I tell the resident that I want to wait a bit longer on the Pit and that I need to talk to the OB on call. Also, I tell her that I tested negative for Group B Strep, a common-for-mommy but really-bad-for-baby bacteria, but because I positive for the germy-germ with a pervious pregnancy, I wanted to discuss getting hooked up to the IV antibiotics anyway. Just to ease my anxious mind and all. Just for kicks.

“Oh, Mrs. Halushki, according to the ACOG and CDC if you test negative even though you were positive with a previous pregnancy…”

I finish her sentence and tell her that my OB and I had begun a very specific conversation about whether or not to fill my bloated body with antibiotics, and I that I needed to continue that conversation with her right now. I mean, what if I had become positive since the test? What if the test were not done properly? What if, what if, WHAT IF! Antibiotics are the only thing standing between my baby and the bad bug! WHY ARE YOU ARGUING WITH ME!!!!!

Is it time to start my breathing exercises yet?

9:30 AM: I move to another holding area until a Labor and Delivery room opens up (full house at the hospital this morning.) My assigned nurse, Peg, comes in to introduce herself – a round, red-haired, and humorless 50-something woman who I can tell is strictly by the book. She hooks me up to the monitors, tells me not to move around too much so I don’t shake loose her monitors, and then tells me that she has to ask me more questions. Fine, fine, height, weight, I don’t do drugs, my husband doesn’t beat me. She asks whether I have someone coming to stay with me. I tell her that my husband and doula are on the way. She seems satisfied and moves on to her other laboring mom.

After about 15 minutes, a tall, tan, blond woman comes in. I think that I vaguely remember her from the Miss Universe Pageant. Hello, I’m the anesthesiologist, she purrs. Just here to ask some questions and talk to you about pain relief. I tell her that want to go natural with no makey-pain-go-away meds, but that I may want an epidural on call because the Pitocin word is being tossed around. And Pitocin is notorious for bringing on the big-gun cramps. She smiles, “No problem. There is an around the clock anesthesiologist available. But tell me, why do you not want an epidural…did you have problems last time?”

No, no, worked like a charm. I did come away with a fever which I wondered about, and I might have this weird bad bacteria that might cause in infection …

Oh no, Dahling, fever is not a side-effect of the epidural. (Big white smile, perfect teeth,…)

Oh really? Hmmmm….

So, you just want to experience natural childbirth? (Beguiling tilt of the head, hair toss….)

Yup. I just want to experience it. Cramps, pain, bring it on. (I could tell that any other direction to this conversation would really start to tick me off, and I didn’t have my epidural side-effect Internet links on hand. Also, I was feeling fatter and less perky by the moment just watching her.)

I sign the consent forms, and wave good-bye to the beautiful, blond woman.

Next up, another OB on-call – Mr. Tall-Blond-Blue-Eyed-Perfect-Teeth. I begin to wonder if I‘ve wandered on to a soap opera set by mistake.

Well, Mrs. Halushki, we need to talk about Pitocin. Also, I see a note here about antibiotics. You tested negative and according to the ACOG and CDC…

So I give him what-for and let him know that I have my own opinion on all this and my opinion would be JUST HOOK ME UP TO THE IV AND PUMP ME FULL OF ANTIBIOTICS BEFORE I HAVE A PANIC ATTACK AND THEN YOU’LL NEED A TRANQUILIZER GUN TO KNOCK ME ON MY ASS AS I RUN THROUGH THE HALLS GNAWING OFF THE LEGS OF RESIDENTS! The blue-eyed M.D. smiles warmly and tells me to breath and that he agrees (!) and we could consider the bug killing drugs. But, he says he’s also concerned that unnecessary antibiotics could cause a problem with other penicillin resistant bacteria. I tell him that from what I understand, that problem was primarily with preemies, and the doctor looks a bit shocked that I had that piece of info, and I can see him glance down on my chart again to see whether there is any note indicating that I was a med student or just a real pain in the butt. He tells me that if I were his patient (my REAL OB was delivering a baby just then) he would advise me to not go with the antibiotics and instead just get the baby out ASAP. I tell him that I will seriously consider this, but now I feel my teeth grinding together and why is everyone suddenly standing in my WAY!

Oh good lord, just get me my OB.

I get up and begin to walk around to get the contractions going. Peg, the nurse, comes in and asks me what I’m doing. I tell her I’m walking around trying to get contractions going. Well, she says, you shouldn’t get up because it shakes the monitors loose and also because my water has broken. I tell her that when I stand, the water stops leaking so that I’m pretty sure the baby’s head is pressed down and the cord won’t flow through. I give her my own toothy grin. She gives me a long hard look and tells me that my OB will be in to see me in a moment.

10:00 AM My OB and I talk. She says that if I start the Pit right now, even though she knows how much I want to avoid it, there should be no problem getting the baby out within the next few hours. She is also confident about not needing the IV antibiotics. I am beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed. Where is my husband? Where is the doula? Why is everyone not on my side? Okay, okay, fine, I can do this…damn the torpedoes and start the Pit. Let’s have a baby.

10:30 AM Pit begins. A very, very slow drip. Just to jump-start and regulate my contractions.

11:00 AM Contractions are coming every 5 minutes. I laugh through the first few. Watch the Three Stooges on TV. Practice breathing. Focus on a bad pastel painting of the seashore on the wall until it begins to annoy me. Finally, my husband arrives…with my mom! I love my mother, but I wasn’t sure about her being there…I was didn‘t want to look as if I were in pain and have her worry about me looking as if I were in pain. And great, now I have a few contractions that I have to begin concentrating on. My mother is telling me about the traffic on the drive to Philadelphia and then she opens a bag to show me two flowered nightgowns that she bought for me…Mom, I say, be quiet for a second. Okay, this contraction I REALLY have to concentrate on…it starts in my left hip and then the pain radiates around and I feel a huge upward pulling sensation. Whew! Now it’s gone.

Peg walks in.

Oh, you’re standing again, she says.

I tell her that my OB says it’s okay to stand. Peg looks skeptical. Then she looks at my mom and asks if this is my doula, because if not, I am only allowed two support people in Labor and Delivery with me. Everyone! Out of the pool!

I tell my husband to go get some lunch with my mom, and my mom says Good-luck and I’ll pray for you (hopefully to some pagan goddess of childbirth, but I’m guessing not) and then they leave. And I’m relieved. Now I can concentrate on what’s going on. I like being alone again.

12:00 Noon – The contractions are coming every 2 minutes and lasting at least a minute or longer. These are tough. Not at all in my back like last time…all in my abdomen. I try some affirmations: Open, open, baby come on out. This is pressure, not pain. My body is doing what it is supposed to. One contraction at a time…I shut the door and begin to moan through the contractions and this too helps. I can hear, through the radiator, a woman in the next room moaning. It surprises me, but doesn’t bother me…it’s actually kind of comforting to be laboring with another unknown woman nearby. Then I have a really big contraction which I begin to moan through, but which quickly turns into a yell…this one HURTS. This feels like pure, internal, muscular pain…I can’t focus on anything but the pain. My mind can’t grab onto any thought, I forget to breathe, I can’t relax through it…and then it’s over. Wow! WOW! I try to regroup. I tell myself not to let fear take over, I’ll get through the next one…and it starts…this goes on for a long time. I am losing track of time. How long have I been here? How and when did I get into bed? This is pure animal sensation and my thinking mind is shutting down. I hear myself yelling, but it sound like it’s coming from some distant room. The contractions start piling up on one another and I can’t tell where one is ending and the next one starts.

12:30 PM – Dr. Soap Opera and Peg come in and ask if I want an epidural. Check me, I say. Then I have a whopper contraction that lasts a good long time. I am 5cm. Ugh! I was convinced I’d be more. I need a break. Another contraction begins. I wonder what my doula could possibly say or do to get me through this. I’m am losing it. Sure, get the anesthesiologist.

I’m wheeled into a Labor and Delivery room. Two more biggies, and Peg is suddenly an angel. She rubs me in just the right spots and talks me through. Okay, my husband is in the room…when did he get here? He looks shocked. Another contraction and he gives me his hand to squeeze. Somewhere in the depths of my conscious brain, I think, “He’s given me four fingers, not three. In the childbirth book I gave him to read it says specifically to only give three fingers, because I’m less likely to break them. I guess he never read that book.” Peg tells him to give me only three fingers so I don’t crush them.

1:00 PM – The anesthesiologist is here. I have two more big contractions and begin to feel more pressure. Then I feel the strangest feeling of something opening really wide inside me and the baby really dropping down. I think for a moment…if I just get through one more, it will be time to push…but, I’m exhausted, my doula still isn’t there and my husband looks like he’s going to sob. I get the epidural.

And it doesn’t completely work.

One leg is numb, but I can feel the contractions across my back and in my hip...and they are still enough to make me scream the litany of saints with each one. The anesthesiologist gives it one more go, and a bit more relief, but I can at least handle this amount of pain. It’s all in my left hip, and I wonder if it’s because the baby has been laying to the left the entire pregnancy and is now trying to turn a bit more. I can still feel her butt to he left and to the side of my abdomen

1:30 – My doula arrives. There have been horrendous rainstorms the past few days, and a few of the roads were washed out. She feels so bad that she hasn’t been there for me. I tell her to forget about it…there may have been nothing more she could have done. We chat for a while, and then I tell her to go get the OB to check me…I could probably start pushing, I just needed a break. Dr. Gorgeous arrives about a half-hour later and says that I’m probably not 10cm yet. Yeah, yeah, just put your glove in there and tell me that the baby isn’t right there. And of course he does…and of course, she is.

Okay baby, time to come meet mommy!


The Wild

So now the show begins. My OB is now off-call and the other OB from the practice (and, of course, the only one that I don’t see eye-to-eye with) comes in, takes a look and says, “Try a practice push.” I push and she says, Okay STOP! I guess you can push effectively. No kidding…I can still feel my legs, the contractions, the baby’s head right there.

They fold down the foot of the bed, turn on the lights, put on their masks and doctor gear. This is a teaching hospital, so there are two residents in the room, but I don’t really care (although, I swear, one looks like a 15 year old Peter Brady from the Brady Bunch). I am feeling nervous, excited, happy…even though things didn’t go the way I had planned (hah!) and I had lost a bit of my control over this “birth experience“, I am basically feeling good about how I’ve handled everything so far. And, I am going to be holding my baby soon. I look over to my husband. He gives me a weak smile. He still looks shocked. And a bit grayer around the temples.

Now we begin to push. The contraction comes and I begin to push…three good pushes with the first contraction. Her head is right there, but not out yet. The OB asks my hubby if he wants to cut the cord. He just makes a quiet gulping noise and takes a step backward. Everyone waits, looking at the monitor for the next contraction. It takes a while. There is an uncomfortable silence in the room and for one moment, I think that we all realized how absurd it is to be standing around a woman with her privates flapping in the breeze. I try to make things a little less awkward for everyone, a little levity to ease the tension: “Just, you know, don’t watch the monitor or it will never happen. Talk amongst yourselves…hey, how about those Sixers!” Everyone laughs and I have another contraction. My OB is showing one of the residents how to stretch things around over the baby’s head so that I won’t tear or need stitches. Good going! Take your time…I can withstand a bit of a teaching moment.

Then all of a sudden, one of the blip, blips from the monitor stops. And everyone in the room stops what they are doing and looks at the monitor at the same time. Peg hurries over to adjust some knobs. Then she tries to adjust the lead on my belly. A very, very slow blip comes back. I look at the OB. She looks me dead in the eye and says very calmly and evenly, “Okay. This baby needs to come out. Right now. Push.”

Now the room is frantic…PUSH, PUSH, PUSH! I’m not waiting for contractions. I’m up on the table, grabbing the rails and pushing with all my might. The baby isn’t moving fast enough and the blips are getting even farther apart. I hear the OB call for a vacuum. Then there is a quiet call for the neonatologist to come up NOW. For some reason, the word “vacuum” makes me nuts. I am thinking, I am SO SO glad that this epidural didn’t take all the way. Thank you thank you!

The OB says, I am going to have to give you an episiotomy to help get the baby out. Good lord, so cut me already! I give another mighty push and the head is out. The cord is wrapped tight around her neck and I can see that her head is dark purple. The OB clamps and cuts the cord and says to push again to get her shoulders out…I’m a mad woman, using every muscle and ounce of energy in my body to get this baby out with the next push. I grab the rails, get up on my feet and PUSH and I feel a huge rush as her entire body slides out from within mine. I will never in my life forget that feeling. 2:56 PM

She is on the table next to me. And she is dark purple from head to toe. And very still.

There are four or five people around her…giving her oxygen, rubbing her little body.

It feel like I am watching this scene for days. I keep looking at the faces of the people around me. I watch their lips moving, saying, she’s okay, she’ll be okay…but, they don’t yet believe what they’re saying. And I don’t believe them. Everyone has the same pained expression his face. My husband looks scared. She’s okay, she’s okay, he keeps saying…

I look over at her again…come on baby, come on…

come on, Isabel…



And then, finally, she lets out a huge WWWWHHHAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

And I take a deep breath. And, time kicks in again…they give her a bit more oxygen, give her a shot of fluids…someone says, Her toes are curling…I wonder if that’s good or bad. I wish that someone would talk to me through all of this, but I know that I’m no longer the center of attention. I look down and notice that Peter Brady had his hands in my crotch. Did I deliver the placenta yet? Who cares. The OB tells me that she’s going to stitch me up, and to let her know if I feel anything. What? Oh, whatever, just stitch me…I swear, she could have said, “We’ll be amputating your foot now, let me know if you feel a pinch” and I wouldn’t have noticed. I was just beginning to get really aggravated that I wasn’t holding Isabel yet. REALLY aggravated.

The neonatologist finally comes over to talk to me. She’s doing fine, rough start, but she’s okay now. Her blood sugar is very low…could be the traumatic birth, could be cause she’s a big baby (she was 8lb 8oz; personally don’t think this is big, but what do I know) or could be because of infection. WHAT! INFECTION! Now I start asking questions, demanding answers…how will you know, when will you know, what will be done…I want to know everything! And, good God, HOW was I talked out of the antibiotics! Now they are telling me that Isabel may need them. ARGH! I am angry. How did I let this all get so out of my control! I am really ticked-off. Royally. And I keep my dander up for the next two days in the hospital. But, what happens next, after all that I will later critique and analyze, after all that I will anger over, after all that I will regret was still…


The Wonderful: My beautiful Isabel Josephine

I am finally holding her in my arms, and she is perfect.

I am in love.

Oh, little girl, I am so sorry that you had a rough start, but I am going to love you up from head to toe. And see your Daddy over there, that big guy who is white as a sheet and has tears in his eyes…when I have to put you down for one second, he’s going to be there to pick you up and put more kisses on your tiny face. You are all the sweetness in the world.

Her tiny fingers are still deep purple, and I rub them for her until they turn pink. Then I search out her little toes and rub them until they glow. She sticks out her tongue and nibbles her hand. I look into her deep blue eyes, fresh from outer space, reflecting all the wisdom of the universe, and I know in my heart exactly what she is thinking…


“Give me the booby.”



Epilogue:

Isabel stayed in the transitional nursery for a day and a half until her blood sugar normalized. She also had blood drawn to check for infection, and thankfully, was given an all-clear. I was a big pain-in-the-butt and basically spent a day and a half in the nursery holding her and jiggling all the monitors loose, causing the machines to beep and ding every 5 seconds. I breastfed her on the second day, she latched on and ate like a woman possessed. On the second night, she slept in my room with me in my bed, and we all went home together as planned.

Okay, so that’s it. Isabel has her hands in her mouth again, and that means it’s time to whip out the booby…before I explode.

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Congratulations for reading this far! You really are a hardcore birth story junkie.

In appreciation for your time and effort, here's a few more photos of Isabel, my lovely Seconda.

Holiday! Celebrate! Oh yeah! Oh yeah!

Well, I’m off!

We’re off!

My two lovely daughters and very-pregnant I are off on holiday for four fun-filled days!

(By the way, that’s not really me all big and pregnant with my belly sticking out. That’s Madonna all big and pregnant with her belly sticking out. But, we look so much alike *cough cough* and there are already so many photos of her out there, I figured why waste the film.)

I like saying “holiday” instead of “vacation”. I like calling it a “holiday” because it makes me feel more cosmopolitan. More cultured and worldly.

“We’re going on holiday!”

People just assume you’re going somewhere fabulous like the Basque coast or Mykonos, where you’ll romp in the cultured and worldly sun wearing a white crocheted bikini and drinking limoncello. Or, heck, they might even assume you’re going to Brighton to walk the pier and drink shandies, or to Blackpool to ride the donkeys and drink shandies.

Say “vacation” around here and people immediately assume the Jersey Shore and jellyfish and vomiting teenagers.

Which, actually, doesn’t sound half bad.

If they had donkey rides at Wildwood, NJ, I might be half-tempted.

As it is, I’m not going anywhere half as exotic as New Jersey.

(I think I have one too many halves. I may have to take another holiday to use them all up.)

So where are we going on holiday?

We’re going here!



To romantic and picturesque Schuylkill County!

Oh, the allure of the strip mines!



Retrace history as you travel along Rt. 61 from Ashland, home of the Pioneer Tunnel mine tour and lokie ride



and then drive through to Frackville, town of large pie ladies and scary man-faced children



and then into Pottsville, the county seat and site of Yuengling Brewery, America’s oldest maker of beer (or so they say.)



(I have no idea who that guy is, but everyone in Schuylkill County has either a cousin, brother or uncle who looks just like him. Or they sat next to him at a bar last Friday. And I’m betting his name is either Larry or Daryl or Scrappy.)

We’re holidaying in Schuylkill County at my family’s villa in the mountaintop hamlet of Frackville, where we’ll romp in cut-off jean shorts and bare feet (a.k.a.“hillbilly flip flops“) while sipping Frank’s ginger ale from jelly jars. We’ll relax on the shores of Locust Lake and swim in the clear beauty of its trout-laden waters alongside guys in hip waders and women with “Git R Done” tattoos across the top of their buttocks. We’ll spend long evenings sitting on the front porch eating teaberry ice cream and counting cars - you get a point for every blue car, I get a point for every white car - until the siren goes off at the volunteer fire station, and then we all take bets on how many volunteer fire fighters in pick-up trucks speed by in the following ten minutes on their way to the firehouse.

Ahhhhhh…I jest!

I love going home!

I love being free to let it all hang out for a few days in a town where almost no one will recognize me (or count it against me at the PTO meeting if I should say something like “Look it, are yous comin‘ wit me ta the pizzah parlor er not? I ain't waitin around! Da pizzahs will be cold by the time I get der!”)

And those who do recognize me will most likely also remember what I looked like in ninth grade. So, even with my waddling stomach, pasty thighs, and perpetual ponytail, it’s such a vast improvement over the fuzzy perm, oversized plastic glasses, and plaid jumper from freshman year, I might as well be a pop star on holiday.

It’s all good.

I just wanted to let yous all know where I’m goin’ fer the next few days. My mom doesn’t have da Innernet (well, dial-up on a 12-year-old computer, so really, we‘re talkin' glorified doorstop) and I’ll be off da grid until Friday. However, I’m bringing a lap top and promise to jot down all our goings-on for future publication.

Until then…

Ciao! Arrivederci! Bon Voyage! Bob’s Your Uncle!

See yous later! Ain’t yo!

One Fish, Two Fish, Dead Fish, Bluefish

Here’s what I know about fish:

1) They don’t blink.

I find this both creepy and unnerving.

And it makes my contact lenses dry out just thinking about it.

However, I’m guessing that fish don’t actually need to blink in order to moisturize their fishy eyeballs since their fishy eyeballs are already pretty moist what with the swimming in water all day. Saltwater fish must have a particularly easy time with their contact lenses. And just think of all the money they save on saline solution!

I’m also guessing fish don’t go riding in convertibles much - or on bicycles - nor do they walk against the wind in sandlots, all of which would require a certain amount of intermittent lid-to-lid contact to keep the dirt and good vibes from blasting against one’s corneas.

So, no, they don’t need eyelids. I’ll grant them that.

But the not blinking thing is still creepy.


2) Some fish are outrageously big and toothy; some are very small and just as toothy.

Toothy fish scare me. Not only because I bet it really hurts when they bite you - and considerably moreso than being bit by, say, an anchovy - but toothy fish scare me most in a sort of existential way. That is, of all the ways I can think of to be killed or mortally maimed (and I can think of 456,632 ways, to be exact), being eaten by a fish has to be one of the least poetic.

And possibly one of the most demoralizing.

I know, I know…I’ve seen JAWS. Sharks are big, scary chomping machines. They swim to the tune of menacing cellos and make for a lot of blood and dangly arms. Piranhas, on the other hand, scoot about to the plink-plink of toy pianos, although they are very adept at causing just as much blood and armlessness.

But when all is said and done and digested, the fact is, you were eaten by a fish.

A fish ate you.

Just think of all the minutes and hours you spent waiting for elevators and getting stuck in mile-long traffic jams; all those mornings you frittered away sacred seconds of your life while listening to "We appreciate your business. Please hold for another 37 minutes and a customer service representative will be right with you"; the never-ending evenings you sat through three hours of Mrs. Grumbach’s School of Dance’s Yearly Recital because your younger daughter was in the first performance of the night but your older daughter was in the last; the mindlessness of watching the toaster make toast just to make sure it wouldn't make burnt toast; those icy-cold mornings you stood at the end of a leash patiently regarding your canine friend turn in endless circles looking for the precise blade of brown grass on which to deposit his steaming goodies...all those endlessly endless moments when you thought, “I can put up with this. I can put up with this senseless waste of my time, this torturous boredom; I can grit my teeth and bear it because I know that there is something better around the corner. My day will come. There will be a rainbow with my name on it and a pot of gold at the end of that rainbow, and I’m gonna use that gold to buy a mansion and a yacht and a lot of hired help so that I never have to watch the toaster or a defecating dog ever, ever, ever again. I will be free. Someday life will be all good. Someday I will sail toward white shores. Someday… someday…someday….”

And then a fish eats you.

Well, hopefully, you were swimming in blue waters off the side of your yacht when it happened.


But most of all, what I know about fish is this:

3) They are best grilled.

I like a little olive oil, salt, pepper, and lemon. D’mitri’s on 3rd and Catherine in Philadelphia has an excellent grilled Greek-style bluefish that you have to try. Opa!

Although, raw, sliced thin and over rice with a little soy sauce and wasabi? Banzai!


As you can see, my expertise in ichthyology is limited.


So, when 7-year-old Prima asked for a fish tank for her birthday, the first thing I did was lay in a stockpile of olive oil and lemons. Because up until now, my personal fish-raising experience has gone something like this:

• Win fish at church carnival
• Bring fish home and deposit it in large Mason jar filled with tap water
• Feed fish a few flakes of cornmeal or bread crumbs
• Tap on glass a few times
• Go play
• Find fish belly-up in the morning
• Send fishy carcass down river via giant porcelain fish bowl.

Later on, my sister or my mother - or someone who was very much not me - went ahead and bought an actual 10-gallon aquarium with a filter and colored gravel and a few fake plants. I vaguely remember some success with small black-and-neon-looking fish. And then there were more goldfish, some of which died toute suite, but others which held on for years even when the tank was all but forgotten in the upstairs hallway and the water became so murky that one was never quite sure how many fish were even alive in the there.

Once in a while, you’d pass the tank and get a quick glimpse of a tailfin brushing against the glass or a fish nose poking-up through the green grunge, and you’d back away from the tank because from the brief sighting of that one piece of fishy anatomy, you could see that the goldfish had grown - mutated even - into something unnaturally large and most definitely gruesome with foul breath and gaping jaw and bulging eyeballs.

A Franken-Fish. The Fish-Ness Monster.

I'm pretty sure the last pet goldfish lived to be about 10 years old, although toward the end I never saw more than its hideous swollen lips emerging wide and ravenous at feeding time while my mother plunked slices of bloody sirloin and live baby mice into the algae-thick water.


So it was with much trepidation that I entered the local big-box pet store and asked to speak with someone knowledgeable in the ways of keeping fish as pets with a special emphasis on keeping the fish alive for more than 24 hours while not simultaneously allowing them to evolve into scaly spawn of Satan.

I left the store three hours later with my own 10-gallon tank, filter, colored gravel, and a few fake plants. Things were already going horribly wrong.

Prima and I set up the tank and filled it with bottles of spring water, distilled water, and a liter or two of Evian just for good luck. The fish guy at the pet store also instructed us to put some sort of chemical in the water which would remove any chlorine. I learned that chlorine is bad for fish. Who knew? I suppose it makes sense if you really think about it. I mean, goldfish are gold, not white. Duh. I was already light years ahead of my former fish-rearing days.

Next, we had to let the filter run for at least a week and solemnly vow not put any fish in the tank no matter how great the temptation, no matter how long Prima followed me around pretending suddenly to not understand English by repeating in ever increasing volume, “So is it tomorrow that we can get the fish? Tell me again why we have to wait. Okay. I understand. But, can I just ask you, because I’m wondering and I’m wondering why can’t we get the fish tomorrow? Can we just get one fish tomorrow? Oh. Okay. So we can’t get any fish tomorrow. And I guess that means no fish today, either. But maybe tomorrow?”

And the reason we couldn’t get any fish for a week was because - get this! - the tank had to first build up a nice, thick colony of healthy bacteria.

This was getting complicated. What was up with those all those goldfish you see so often in magazine ads or in Sylvester cartoons, the ones that just swim around in little bowls minding their own business and not going all suicidal? Was I being duped? Was there another magic chemical that kept a fish in bowl happily alive even while I was already out $60-worth of aquariums and filters and colored gravel and fake plants?

One week to the minute, Prima and I were back in the pet store picking out goldfish.

This time, I spoke to a different fish guy - more of a fish dude, really - and when I asked what type of goldfish was a) a hardy type and b) most likely to survive the night even in the hands of an absolute novice and confirmed fish killer, Fish Dude raked a hand through his hair, exhaled a long “wwwwwhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeewwwwww” and then eyed the tanks while absentmindedly picking at a pimple on his chin.

Finally, after a seeming eternity - during which time Prima pointed to all seventy-three tanks in quick succession saying (i.e. screaming), “How about this one! Or, how about this one? This one, huh? Or this one?!” and then proceeded to twist and jump and spin herself into a charismatic faint - the fish dude sauntered over to a tank containing several smallish yellow and speckled goldfish and with all authority of a tollbooth collector announced,

“Uh…these here, I guess.”

Upon which Prima immediately revived, darted to the tank and pointed, “This one! This one! And this one!”

I turned to Fish Dude.

“Three fish. Is that okay for starters? Or should we get fewer? More?”

He emitted another long sigh, reached under his shirt to scratch his armpit, and then began fishing out the fish and putting them into a baggy.

“Nup. Three’s good.”

“Okay. So, uhm, what do we do when we get home? Do I just put the fish in the tank? Do I need to clean the tank each week? What about changing water? Do I need to change the water? I really need these fish to live for a while or else I’m going to have to go through the whole series of ‘What is the meaning of life?’ questions from a 5-year-old and a 7-year-old, and let me tell you, Auden’s whole ‘Stop all the clocks’ eulogy is going to be cold comfort if one of these fish goes belly-up before the novelty wears off.”


Fish Dude gave me a long unblinking stare.

“Put the baggy in the water for ten minutes. Then you can put the fish in the tank. You don’t have to do anything else.”

I was obviously encroaching on his break time.

“Really? Nothing else?”

“Nup.”

“Should I feed them?”

“Yuh.”

“Oookkkkaaay…how often?”

“Once in a while. Not too much. You know. Just enough.”


Evidently, I was now making this far too complicated. The chlorine stuff and the bacteria colony information had thrown me off. That was as complex as the fish-rearing would get, and the rest would be smooth swimming.


We left the store, went home and put our fish bag in the tank, and after fifteen minutes (just to be safe) we left Madabel, Goldilocks I and Goldilocks II swim free into their new home.

The next morning, they were all still alive, and there was much rejoicing.

Six weeks later, Goldilocks II was found late at night floating sideways in the fake plants.

And, the other two fish were not looking happy.

Three days and fifteen hours of Googling goldfish dead disease unhappy mother crying children damn Nemo anyway later, I find myself an additional $40 poorer, although now the proud owner of

• one gravel vacuum
• one ammonia test kit
• one bottle Ammo lock
• one bottle Stress Ease (for the fish)
• one bag small fishfood pellets (as opposed to dirty, dirty food flakes), and
• five gallons of spring water to begin replacing ammonia-polluted tank water.

I am now well-versed in the ammonia-nitrite-nitrate cycle, recognizing the portentous clamped-fin symptom and dropsy disease in goldfish, how to read an ammonia level chart, and knowing when to feed the goldfish a little spinach to aid in the relief of constipation.

Their constipation.

Fish constipation.

(You didn't know that goldfish could get constipated, did you?)

And after changing water, administering medications, and hovering over the tank plaintively humming St. Francis’ “Make Me A Channel of Your Peace”, I am overjoyed to report that the two remaining goldfish seem to be again thriving. They are happy fish, swimming with unclamped fins and enjoying a teeny daily fish-sized helping of spanikopita.

However, I have not and will not go so far as to click on the Google link which explains how to give artificial respiration to a goldfish.

I’m trying to imagine just what goldfish resuscitation might entail - the creepy dead-eyed gaze, the tiny gaping jaws, the ammonia-laced taste of goldfish on my lips - and I can only conclude that this where I pull the plug and let Auden do his thing.


It’s also where I crack open the olive oil and begin slicing the lemons.

A Perfect Post. ACK! ACK! ACK!

Did I ever mention how much I love an award?

I think I did.

Yup. I did. Here it is where I mention my deep affection for awards.

Sure, I also go on and on about how the last time I got an award I was wearing a plaid uniform and standing before the Catholic Daughters reading my winning essay “Why God Doesn’t Want Me To Be An Altar Girl”. We were a little slow on Vatican II back in my hometown.

Anyway, if there’s nothing I like more than getting awards, it’s giving awards. I could give an award once a day. I think everyone should get an award for something or other. And to those who say, “Giving out awards for every burp and sniff only cheapens awards altogether and makes them meaningless” I can only reply with a hearty and heartfelt “Here! Here’s your award for being The Biggest Killjoy Downer Poopy Head! Enjoy it! Or don’t! Congratulations!”

Now this particular award I’m handing out today is for The Perfect Post, meaning a post on a blog. It’s sponsored by Petroville , and I’d like to first hand them an award for “Most Headscratching Blog Name”. Petroville? I’m not sure what it means, but I think it’s one of those smells you either love or hate. And I love it. Runners-up, of course, go to Finslippy and my sister’s Almost Quintessence , both of which keep me awake at night trying to untangle the puzzle of their monikers. These blog names are like so many copies of Da Vinci Code wrapped around a Rubik’s Cube inserted into a childproof bottle full of tangram shapes and then locked in my powder room. Because once that door gets locked, there’s no getting back in unless you remove the door from the hinges. What I can’t figure is that the door doesn’t even have a lock. And yet it does lock.

So, The Perfect Post.

My Perfect Post for May is being awarded to the lovely and talented Ms. Julie of The Ravin’ Picture Maven for her post What scares me? Jokes and science experiments


Now, what do I look for in a Perfect Post, you might ask.

Honestly, I don’t know.

I mean, I'm handing out my very first Perfect Post award, and I have no set criteria. I sort of based this month’s choice on a mood and a moment and my serious appreciation of a splendid use of interjections in the awarded post. Like so:

“ACK! ACK! ACK!”

One ACK! is so obviously not enough. Two ACK!’s, now that’s good. That first ACK! catches you, but it happens so quickly that you just need to hear it again, hear the exploding then stopped-up disgust of it all. And, normally, you’d think “Whew! Two ACK!’s I can end right here and feel as if I’ve really had an encounter in this post. Those ACK!’s are going to stick with me till dinner time. Now that’s writing!”

But, hold up. Hold the phone.

Who in their right mind would add -you know what I’m going to say, and you still can’t believe it, I know - who but the most crazy and foolhardy of writers would dare mess with perfection and add on, yes, a third “ACK!”, throwing caution and convention to the wind in four quick strokes of the keyboard. It’s too much. Too much bravado. Too much of a good thing. Too much flashy flaunting of the rules and elements of style and don’t we all know it.

Or…or do we?

Yeah, Julie’s crazy alright.

Crazy like a fox.

“ACK! ACK! ACK!”

Hemingway never did it better. Hemingway in “For Whom The Bell Tolls” with his lazy two “ACK!”s in chapter four, and then in the final chapter he goes all Faulkner with four “ACK!s”, and really that’s where he lost me as a reader.


Okay…let me get all seriously here for a moment.

Seriously. You gotta go read Julie’s post.

It’s a perfect recap of one of those parenting days we’ve all had. Maybe not specifically the princess-in-the-toilet part, but here, this part:

The elder says, "It's a science essperiment, Mom! What will happen when you flush a barbie in the potty! And it's a joke cuz it's SO FUNNY!" More shrieking laughter.

My hand is somewhere over my eyes as my brain endeavors to process What Is Happening Here.

The children get quiet. Uh oh. No laughing mom. They wait, will Screaming Banshee mom emerge, or the scarier version: Very Quietly Furious Mom?

Quietly Furious Mom emerges. The truth is, this is Incident #12 of the day. Mom has no more energy for mad.

You know that feeling, right? You know what Julie's saying:

If the princess got dipped in the toilet at 10AM, if this were the first incident of the day, Mommy might suppress a giggle, maybe need to put on her “stern mommy” face so as not to let on just how fascinating it actually is to watch a doll spinning in a toilet. Sort of the thing you might pay money to see at MoMA or on late-night cable TV.

But, when it’s been one of those days?

You know, one of THOSE days. One of those days that started with your kids cracking 12 eggs to make an omelet and moved headlong into doggy haircuts and then sister haircuts and then measuring the perimeter of the house with a roll of paper towels and it’s still only 10AM….

Then, after all that, you are called in to witness the princess spinning in the toilet and it’s like staring into the parenting equivalent of The Eye of Sauron. You feel your soul (and possibly your college degree) being sucked-out right through your own pupils.

And the only thing that might possibly save you, the only thing that makes it even a little bit better, gets you through to another day…oh hell, the next “parenting moment“…is the knowledge that you can tell someone about it (someone beside the hearing-impaired parent).

You can blog about it.

And someone will hear you and answer. Someone out there. Another parent will read along with you, nodding her head in agreement, knowing that she too has stared into the abyss and has felt the utter aloneness of a spinning-toilet-princesses or a 12-egg omelet.

And that other parent will reach out her hand (or his hand, let‘s be fair) and pull you back from utter despair (and morning martini number three) with those five healing words of salvation through supreme empathy:

“Me too, sister. Me, too.”

So go read the Ravin’ Picture Maven. Read her Perfect Post and read some more. She currently has up a knee-slapper about eating at Denny’s.

And don’t forget to give her a hearty high-five and, of course, a “Me too, sister”.

Because we all have a long day ahead of us.

ACK! ACK! ACK!

Enjoy your award!

And thank you for telling it like it is.