The Week in Review

I've mentioned a few times on this blog that while I am so excited about the potential in Harrison and for his life, I also live in fear of his loss of innocence. Right now, his capacity for trust is amazing. His period of stranger-anxiety lasted all of two weeks back in late March, but now he's such a brave little boy. He struts his little bow-legged strut fearlessly up and down the driveway, up and down our street, at the park, and at my office. He smiles at strangers in the supermarket and pulls himself up on the pantlegs and skirts of my friends.

On Saturday on our way out of the public market, Doug stood by with Harrison in the Kelty (thanks, Ash!) while I was at a stall buying some green beans and cantaloupes when we heard some scuffling and looked up to see two young boys, maybe fifteen years old, being pinned to the ground by two uniformed police officers, who had guns drawn. The police then removed a shiny silver gun from one of the boys. The shoppers and vendors went on about their business while the boys lay there on the ground and the officers finished patting them down and then handcuffed them.

I suppose we could have gotten hurt in the scuffle, but when we went back to the car I quietly cried behind my sunglasses thinking about those boys and my boy and wondering what happened to them and how an incident like that has become the norm in an urban market filled with immigrants, farmers, and yuppies like us—something to glance up at briefly but then quickly dismiss. It's too difficult and overwhelming to really consider the tangled reasons related mostly to racism and accompanying poverty, but also to sprawl, education, mcmansions, drugs, consumerism, hopelessness….and the list goes on. And it's everyone's fault. And so few people care. And even fewer people do anything to change it.

But these were boys. Young boys. And I'm sure their mamas got a terrible phone call that morning and it probably wasn't the first time.

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We'll call Tuesday Black Tuesday, because Dubya came. Thousands of Rochestarians came out to support him and hear him talk about social security. About 750 of us attended a peaceful protest downtown to voice our dissent with his various policies. It was depressing and exhilarating all at once, as I always find protests and rallies to be. I was struck and inspired by the number of elderly people there, and by the attendance of students and families with their children. I stood on Court Street across from about 7 kids under the age of 15. They were holding a gigantic banner that said, "No blood for oil" and were hooting and hollering at the passing cars and having a ball.

……………………………….

On Wednesday I watched Finding Neverland for the second time. It's a film about a lot of things, but two of the main themes are loss of innocence in children and the importance of remaining creative, optimistic, and filled with hope and imagination. It's a beautiful film, and this time I cried even harder when Johnny Depp's character said, "young boys should never go to bed; they always wake up a day older.”

This week, everything seemed to point me in the same direction: I can't keep Harrison a little boy forever, but I don't want him to grow up too quickly either. I want him to be recognize his privilege and learn empathy and compassion for others. I will do my best to teach him about the world as I understand it and encourage him to want to learn about it for himself. And I hope he never loses the amazing capacity for laughter, mischief-making, trust, love, and faith in humanity that he has now.

Image: Lounge II

Image: Lounge

Let Freedom Ring!

Let it be known that at 7:15, on the evening of 24 May 2005, our household was officially freed from the bonds of economic slavery to the formula corporations when the one-year-old Harrison successfully (and happily) consumed and digested his first bottle of whole bovine milk!

Hip! Hip! HURRAY!

Bbbb-Bad to the Bone

I have attempted to reconstruct Harrison's apparent to-do list from this weekend:

1. throw toys behind baby gate into fireplace
2. pull photo albums out of book case
3. when presented with food on spoon, eat 4 bites, then bat spoon away
4. when presented with finger foods, eat 1 bite, spit out, but accept same food on spoon
5. find sleeping cat, pull said cat's fur/tail/ears
6. eat any extracted fur resulting from #5
7. pull lid off kitchen garbage
8. once lid has been removed, pull kitchen garbage onto floor
9. wait for bathroom door to be mistakenly left open in order to a. unroll toilet paper; b. put hands in cats' water bowl; c. figure out how to flush toilet by violently jiggling toilet handle; d. eat dirty kleenex found in bathroom waste basket
10. remove doorstops intended to prevent swinging of doors
11. swing doors open/closed repeatedly until fingers/toes are pinched
12. attempt to pick up any ants encountered outside
13. remove all clean diapers from basket on changing table
14. remove all barricades placed in front of wastebasket next to changing table
15. remove and wave over head all dirty diapers from wastebasket next to changing table
16. attempt to remove parents nose/lips/ears by biting or pulling
17. commence screaming whenever parents interfere with 1-16

Image: Tiptoeing Through the Tulips

Damned to hell we are, hmmm?

...for planning to leave Harrison in daycare for an extended day just so that we can go see Revenge of the Sith

Still a Bobblehead

Harrison had his one-year well baby visit yesterday and here are the results. I know you've been waiting with bated breath.

Weight: 20 lbs, 10th percentile
Height: 29 inches, 25th percentile
Head Circumference: 65th percentile!!!

And even though it looks REALLY weird down there and "a lot of dads get worried," his you-know-what is apparently totally "normal."

Oh, and we are so going to have to switch pediatricans when Harrison hits puberty because this one is just too damn hot. Doug and I are thinking of joining the FLDS, if she's interested.

Image: Hat

Image: Present-Opening Chaos

Bragging descending into paranoia

Now that Harrison has graduated out of Infant 1 to the bigger kids' room, Miss Maureen is freer to play favorites. Last week our suspicions about just how much she adores him were finally proven when she whispered to him, "Now don't tell Michael [her son], but you are my number-two favorite: the second cutest and best! If all eight babies in my room were just like you. . ." This from a woman who has been in charge of an ever-changing array of newborns and infants for god knows how many years.

Doug and I are in preliminary discussions about Baby 2 (the key word being preliminary, so don't get your panties in a bundle, people!) and we are absolutely terrified about the cosmic debt that's been stockpiling against us in the baby temperament department. When Harrison was sick and cranky and crying last month we were all, "Wha-huh? . . .derr. . .what are we supposed to do?" because we honestly don't know how to handle normal babies. If Cheerios don't solve the problem, I'm pretty much out of ideas.

God knows it's nothing that we did that made him turn out like this.

Yesterday at Harrison's birthday party, Colleen was telling us all about toddler-Doug's splayed-out-on-the-floor-in-public foot-stomping, ground-punching, and tortured-screaming shenanigans. It didn't sound pretty, and you know that all of this bad karma Doug accrued as a tantrum-having beast child is going to come home to roost one of these days.

The way I see it, the only possible outcome is going to be similar to what happened in The Exorcist or Rosemary's Baby: Either we're going to go into Harrison's bedroom one day and find him shrieking, speaking in a devil voice, and spewing pea soup everywhere like Linda Blair, or Doug's going to join the neighborhood Satanic cult and secretly prostitute me to Satan in a deal to advance his career. Then I'll give birth to Satan Junior and have to keep him in a black crepe-draped bassinet, just like Mia Farrow. "What have you done to his eyes!?!" I'll shriek at the satanic gatherers after getting a pixie cut.

Or something like that.

Anyway, I live in fear, and I'll totally blame Doug.

Image: Before

Image: After

Image: Newborn

One Year Ago: Part II

On the morning of May 12th, 2004, I got up to pee around 5 AM. It was probably the 4th time I'd gotten up in the night, since your weighty head was resting directly on top of my bladder. Third-trimester pregnancy pees are very unsatisfying. You feel like you're going to burst. You have to go so badly. Then you sit down on the toilet and about an ounce of pee trickles out.

I got back to bed and lay down on my left side, with one pillow under my head, one between my legs, and a third at my back. At that point, that was the only comfortable position in which to lie. See? That's why getting an inducement was sounding better and better. So I was lying there, struggling to get comfortable and back to sleep, when I had a contraction. Not that much stronger than the others I had been having, but I definitely felt it. Fifteen minutes later I had another one. Then two more, exactly fifteen minutes apart. By this time, it was getting to be light out, around 6 AM. Your father started to stir, so I woke him and told him about the contractions. He started panicking a little bit.

A few minutes later, my water broke. It wasn't a big gush into the bed, but there was a definite popping feeling, then wetness. There was no doubt about what is was. I did a knock-kneed walk to the bathroom, then surveyed the damage. Yep. Definitely amniotic fluid. I'll spare you the details, but calling it "water" is a gross misnomer. And by "gross," I mean both "extreme" and "nasty."

Once it was clear that this was the real deal, we called Beth just to check in and let her know that the day had finally arrived. Next we called your Aunt Val, who had to drive in from Massachusetts. She had informed me weeks earlier that she had already packed her bag and had her traveling cash at the ready. As soon as she heard my voice she knew that it was time to get on the road. She had been so worried for weeks that she would miss your arrival, because she had a business trip to DC planned for the last week of April. She had about 10 backup plans for getting to Rochester from DC, if you decided to come early. All that contingency planning and anxiety wasted!

We let some more time pass, then around 8 we called your Grandma J at home and your Grandma H at work. Grandma J then called your Aunt Lori to tell her to get ready. When I called your Grandma H, she wasn't in her classroom and I spoke to one or her coworkers, who expressed his sympathy that my Uncle in Vietnam, Grandma's brother, had died. I didn't know what he was talking about, and started crying as soon as I hung up. When Grandma called back a few minutes later, she cried as she told me that one of your great uncles had died the night before of a heart attack.

Everyone except Val agreed not to leave for Rochester until we let them know that I had been admitted to the hospital. Your daddy and I wanted to stay home, alone, as long as possible for the early stages of labor. I took a shower while your dad got the car packed, the cats settled, and things organized around the house. He called work to let them know that he would not be coming in. We watched some TV and I walked around the house. I labored in the kitchen with my head down on the counter, in the shower, with my head against the wall, and kneeling on the floor with my head on the couch. It felt good to lean!

My contractions quickly sped up from 15 minutes apart to 2 or 3 minutes apart. They came strong and fast. We had not expected things to move this quickly. We didn't have anything else with a second hand, so we timed the contractions on a Simpson's watch that your father had gotten at Burger King. When you pushed the button on it you could hear Homer say, "Mmmmmmm. Burger." It didn't really sound like Homer, but it sounded just like your father and made us laugh.

By 10 AM, I was ready to go to the hospital. We said goodbye to the kitties and listened to Neil Young's Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere in the car, and as we drove we said, "This is our last car ride as non-parents."

When we got to labor and delivery, they sent us to the triage room so that the attending MD could determine whether I was ready to be admitted. They sent me into the bathroom to collect a urine sample, and I brought them a cup filled with amniotic fluid. Then they swabbed me to verify that it was amniotic fluid. The swab turned black, which confirmed that it was. The MD examined me, and determined that I was just over 4 cm dilated, and the fetal monitor verified that I was contracting every 2 minutes. Things were moving fast!

While your father called everyone to let them know that I was being admitted, I waited for my room to be readied. I got changed into a gown and the infamous mesh labor underwear.

Then we got settled into our room. Your father put on some music. The Beatles, I think.

The next five hours are a blur. I labored on the birthing ball, in the bed, and in the Jacuzzi, but mostly I labored walking up and down the halls of the birth center with your father. He rubbed my back and I did my deep yogic breathing as the contractions came. Your Aunt Val made it in record time and got there first. Your Grandma and Grandpa J were pulled over for speeding, but got out of being ticketed when they told the officer where they were going. Your Aunt Lori got a flat tire in Mt. Morris, but a kind stranger helped her out and got her back on the road. Your Grandmas, Aunts, and father helped me through the contractions while your Grandpas sat in the sunny garden and talked about Vietnam, the army, and airplanes.

Your father was incredible and calm, and your Grandmas and Aunts assisted him in getting me what I needed: ice chips, juice, a cold washcloth for my forehead. They also stood in while your father took breaks to go to the bathroom, get a drink, or grab a quick snack.

Beth had arrived around noon and said that things were progressing so well that I would probably deliver before she had to leave around 5. At 4, I started getting tired and decided to try some Nubain to take the edge off the pain. Getting the Nubain meant that I had to wear the fetal monitor: No more walking. The narcotic made me sleepy, and I was able to get a little rest, but it also made the contractions nearly stop.

Beth had to leave and she was relieved by Laura, a wonderful midwife that I had met before at a prenatal visit. Because my contractions had stopped, I had to have a Pitocin drip to help get things moving again. That did the trick! By 6 or so I was almost fully dilated, but my cervix was having trouble opening that last half centimeter.

When Laura had finished coaxing my cervix, I was ready to push. For about 2 hours I pushed with each contraction, while your Aunts and Grandmas held my legs and your Daddy held my hand. They were all our cheerleaders, exclaiming, "You're doing great! Excellent job! Just a few more pushes!" They were amazing.

Around 10 PM, you were just at the cusp of emerging, when they brought in the mirror, as I had requested in my birth plan. At that point, though, I couldn't see anything and I didn't care. They turned on a blinding bright spotlight and shined it directly on my crotch, a beacon to guide you the rest of the way.

I was intently pushing, but you were stubborn and didn't want to leave your warm hidey hole. Your heartrate started dipping unpredictably, and the nurses fixed an oxygen mask on my face to help stabilize it. Grandma H was so scared for you and had to take a few minutes to herself in the hall and away from our bed.

After a few more pushes, an obstetrician came in like a deus ex machina to give Laura some help. When he leaned in to talk to me, I was terrified he was going to tell me that I needed a C-Section, but he said that you just needed a little help coming out and he was going to use a vacuum extractor, aka baby plunger. Your father and I were familiar with this device from our birthing class, and I was scared but relieved.

The extractor was a type that the doctor had never used before, and the first attempt to plunge you out was a failure. The suction was lost and the extractor popped right off. By the next contraction and push, the suction was firmly attached. Right before I pushed, I felt an extreme sense of relief as the Dr. and Laura gave me an episiotomy. One more push and you were out! All I could see was that you were bloody, moving, and that you had a headful of dark hair. It was 10:34.

You didn't cry at first, and your father and I were so scared. The pediatric team rushed you over to the warmer table and suctioned you out. They were working over there for a minute or two before you let out your first tentative cry. Meanwhile, Laura and the Dr. helped me to deliver the placenta, which for 9+ months had nourished and grown you. I asked to see it, and the nurse showed us, pointing out the embryonic sac that had been your home.

We named you Harrison.

Once I was stitched and you were breathing strongly, well-oxygenated, and a little cleaned up, the nurses bundled you up and brought you over to us. You were amazingly alert. Your eyes were open and you looked right up at your father and me. We looked right back, cuddled you close, and fell infinitely, unimaginably in love.

Happy birthday, my darling. My life will never be the same.

One Year Ago: Part I

One year and a day ago, on Monday, May 10, 2004, your father and I went to see Beth, our midwife, for our weekly prenatal appointment. You were already 6 days late, and I was starting to think that I would be pregnant for the rest of my life. Beth examined both of us. You were head-down and low, as you had been for weeks, but I wasn't dilating, and when Beth hooked me up to the fetal monitor for the routine stress test, there were no signs of any contractions, just the strong and steady rhythm of your galloping horse heartbeat.

We started to talk about a timetable for inducement, which I wasn't keen on, but more so than remaining pregnant past 42 weeks. Your father and I decided that we could wait another week, so we made preliminary plans to set up a room and induction. Beth was adopting a child from Haiti and was going there any day without notice to pick him up, so I was very worried that I was going to have to deliver you without her.

On Tuesday, May 11th nothing happened. Your father went to work and I was home in my third week of disability. It was hot—approaching 80 degrees—and I was huge and uncomfortable. That night your father and I tried the only two non-medical acts that are proven to help improve a woman's chances of going into a labor. We went for a little walk, as far as I could make it. And then. . .well, let's just say that in more than one respect, you came into this world with a bang.

I had been having some light Braxton-Hicks contractions off and on throughout the evening: just a light tightening in my stomach, but nothing paralyzing as I'd heard friends describe. Your father rubbed my back, neck, shoulders, and arms before we went to sleep. Our birthing class instructors had recommended practicing massage and relaxation techniques every day leading up to the birth, and who was I to argue?

Just as we had each night for five weeks, your father and I went to sleep saying, "This might be our last night alone for the rest of our lives!" And just like every night since he first felt you move in December, your father spooned up against me and we both drifted off with his hand on my belly, while you turned and shuddered just centimeters below, getting ready for your big day.

Image: Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

Attn. Organ Donors!

Do any of you want to sell Harrison your stomach? Because he really likes to eat handfuls of grass every time we go outside, which cows do all of the time (I'm assuming successfully), but based on the vomiting, I'd have to guess that grass isn't digested as easily by humans. So perhaps if he gets an organ donation of three extra stomachs, his digestion will function like a cow's, and he might be able to continue this grass-eating thing without puking all over my house.

Anyone? I can pay cash!

In summary

Inga and Mike had a beautiful baby girl on Thursday night, at 8:51. Her name is Kaiva, and she's tiny and perfect.

Seeing Inga laboring and in pain was terribly hard because I knew I couldn't really do anything to make it better, and that it wouldn't stop until a human emerged from her holiest of holes. But seeing her afterward, exhausted but glowing, was incredible. And when I leaned in to hug her and whisper into her ear, "I am so proud of you," we both cried while she held her little baby tight.

It was amazing, and I am so glad that I was there, and that night, I couldn't wait to get to Harrison's room in my parent's house to murmer in his ear, "I love you so so much, my baby boy" while he stirred and dreamed in his crib.

Image: Thank Goodness for Chef Boyardee

Image: Predator and Prey II

Munchausen Mama

Harrison's stomach flu is thankfully finally on its way out. The fever, lethargy, and vomiting have departed, and the only remaining vestiges of the sickness are a putrid diarrhea that just won't quit and a lingering diaper rash monkey butt that was once so painful he'd scream whenever you wiped his arse (which was often).

It’s been a rough week. Harrison suffered more with this flu than he did following his neurosurgery. Getting seventy stitches in one's head is apparently a more pleasant experience than fighting off this nasty bug.

Still. . .despite the fact that I've hated watching Harrison suffer, I've enjoyed spending four of the last five days with him, napping with him, cuddling him close to my chest, and helping him heal.

Harrison has been so independent lately. He's been off on his own from the moment we get home. It's been fascinating to watch him, so absorbed with whatever activity he's engaged in. He's always studying, analyzing, planning, and plotting. In the last week, he's figured out how to steer his push walker. He's also working on his constructive skills—putting blocks into a bucket and placing his rings onto the stacker, where before he was just interested in dumping the rings or blocks on the floor and then hurling the stacker and bucket across the room.

This past week has helped put Harrison's transition to independent toddlerhood and upcoming birthday in perspective: He will always be my baby and I will always be his mama—one of only two that will forever hold, kiss, and make him better when he's hurt or sick.

Right now, I'm just thankful that he's finally feeling more like himself, independence and all.