About Me


The Writing Mother

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Red Writing Hood...
The Suicide of Reason in Canada
Pajamas Media
Call me crazy ...
30 Hours in 30 Days
Third Wave Feminism
Grrr.
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Monday, August 30, 2004
Blurbies,....

Sad News

The anorexic Chicken Fish has passed. I thought for a couple of days that he was just mellow, but now he's VERY mellow and laying at the bottom of the bowl. And not moving. Now, if I want a new fish, I have to fish my fish body out of the bowl and take him in to the store in a little Ziplock coffin and redeem him for a new fish. This time I want one with balls thankyouvermuch. I want agression, I want valour, and yes, I will be pushing all the little cups together to see which one is the toughest.

My luck, it will come home and die of a heart attack from overuse of anabolic steriods.

Cookies

Did you know, Katie and I eat our cookies exactly the same way. There's a system.

1. check for cookie softness, no softness... must grumble
2. bite edge of cookie, not too deep in, just the crust.... must be a shallow and mostly horizontal bite.
3. same bites all around the outside of the cookie... remember, the shallower the better
4. When done, all you have is the inside of the cookie.. then you can eat big, deep, vertical bites in a circle until it is finished.
5. Last bite must always have a chunk in it... Macadamia nut, chocolate chip.... whatever, there must be a chunk in the last bite.....

Uncontrollable...

There are very few things in life I have control of (note: my emotions are not one of those things) and eating has lived in the land of the uncontrolled for several years now. I was one of those teenagers that got sent to the fat doctor. I was the one my dad said had 'too much baby fat'. My first boyfriend put it beautifully when he said "you're not fat... it's just your thighs" (see... things that you think would be romantic, but SO aren't, below).

So I have this battle of eating and stressing about eating, and not eating, and stressing about not eating. But lately I'm out of control. It's the fault of ALL OF MY COWORKERS.

We, seriously, have the most food ever at our office. Chocolates, Tim Horton's donuts, cookies, you name it, it's here... and I cannot stop eating!! Just when I should be thinking about eating healthy (countdown is about 4.5 days until I need to venture into public in a bathing suit), I have the least resistance ever. Hell, I even stooped so low as to open the tub of fake icing and scoop out a spoonful .. just for the rush.

I should just spread it on my thighs to save it the trip through my digestive system.
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 6:51 AM
  1 comments



Friday, August 27, 2004
Things You Think are Romantic, but SO Aren't.

1. Taking showers together. While you'd think standing nekkid with your honey would be oh-so romantic, it SO isn't. Instead, you spend half the time in the corner of the shower whining because it's getting cold and the rushing water makes wind that makes you colder. All the while your honey stands there in the hot stream of water, finally warming up because you were just in the stream of water "forever".

2. Kissing Underwater. Having tried this only once, I recall that it ended up with one of us gagging and choking after inhaling saltwater, and shooting up to the surface to gag and choke some more with snot running down her their face.

3. Sleeping under the stars. I have one word. Mice. Did you know that Mice also like to cuddle under the covers?

4. Sex outside. Or, more specifically, in the woods. Where you can play the fun game of 'try find all the pine needles in your underwear' for the next two days because you aren't staying at a campground with showers.

5. Car sex. Maybe it was cool back in the day when everyone owned cars like the classic Olds Omega where you could put a dozen of your friends and their dates in the car on Saturday night. But now, in a Dodge Neon, it's about as fun as trying to get back into a pair of pantyhose in the backseat.

These aren't things that I've learned *recently* mind you. Just things I've learned. I'll leave it at that.
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 6:22 PM
  1 comments



Monday, August 23, 2004
The Dedication

For those who don't know, a friend invited me to join her novel writing group. I'm certain she invited me so I would stop whining about my desire to write a book, and my lack of motivation. I know, whiners drive me crazy... but they say what irritates you most about others is what irritates you most about yourself.

Anyhoo... the first step is to dedicate my book.

This is way harder than I thought... this blogger window has been open for about three hours. She says, "You want to thank the people who believe in you, the ones who understand. Book writing is a process, and you're going to want to keep inmind ahead of time that people believe in you." Hope that's ok to quote you on AGK....

I know people believe in me. I have no doubt. But I really can't imagine that anyone understands me. I hardly understand myself. It's like.... I believe that the sun will set tomorrow, but do I understand the physics and mechanics of why it does? Not really.

First, I dedicate this book to the child I was. The one who believed that if she painted rocks and lined them up, that people would come by her house and buy them - even when she lived in a village of less than 100 people. I dedicate this book to the impetuous, free, unblemished young woman I was before I faced the real world. I dedicate this to my unbroken heart and to my healing heart. To my hopeful heart and my romantic heart.

I dedicate this book to my son, that he might someday read it and know me as a person. A person within the mother that I am. That he may be as proud of me as I am of him. That he may look to all of the good things I created and know he was the greatest of all.

I dedicate this to the ones who make me truly believe that love is a verb and not just a noun. For the couples I count as the true loves, the ones who have already stood the test of time. Wyn and Ian, Herb and Daina, Bob and Barb. The ones who show the most promise. Shelly and Corey, Jason and Pam, Jodie and Jerry.

I dedicate this to Donnie, the youngest soul who taught me the greatest amount about the fragility of life. May you know one day how much better of a person you made me.

  The Writing Mother
  posted at 10:37 PM
  0 comments



Sunday, August 22, 2004
Medal Dreams

I've been catching a bit of the Olympic Games on good ol' CBC. I do like their coverage, despite the fact that I can't get any of the Equestrian - or rather I'm unwilling to sacrifice my sleep for the 4 am roll call.

It's funny who we cheer for in some of these events. I dont' know that much about 99% of the sports, so I rely on the commentators to tell me little vingettes of their life, where they grew up, obstacles that they have faced, challenges they have overcome. But I notice that my loyalties always fall to the same countries. Canada first - always - then the US, Great Britain. If I don't see them in the heat or race... I may cheer for Australia or Jamaica, because they are just cool countries.

But the first three, and for some reason I note that they are all Allied countries. They are my top three, so regardless of who the other countries are, I want these to win. Canada first, of course. But then I feel guilty for not cheering for the other countries. They've worked just as hard, it isn't like anyone gets a free ticket to the Olympics. What is is like to be the bottom of the pack at the Olympics? At least you know you are better than every other athlete NOT at the Olympics.

So the sport I compete in, or used to anyways, is reining. (www.nrha.com, www.reiningcanada.com, www.reining.ab.ca) And reining is headed to the Olympics. I'm pretty certain about this. There's a huge political current that pools around Equestrian competition at the Olympics, as I'm sure that there is in any sport. However, talking to some decision makers, I feel that we have a good shot for the 2012 Summer Olympics. There just has to be some rejigging of the roster. Now I'm not naming names, but one of the current sports had SEVEN horses die at the World Equestrian Games in 2002. This is not the way that International Equestrian Sport should, or can, be played.

And just to lay it on the table, yes, I have an Olympic dream. I do think it is attainable. I do think that Canada is one of the most powerful forces in this horse-world, and because of that, I think that soon there will be more out there like me who see the possibility of competition at the Olympic Games.

An Update

For those in the know... I caught that damned mouse. I trapped his fuzzy butt and the world is right again. No more do I lie awake wondering if he crawls on me when I sleep......

Single Mom-ness

It's Sunday morning. I haen't seen my son since Friday evening. I miss him. I remember when it was "good to have a break". Now it seems that that feeling lasts only a half a day or so before I begin to miss him again.

What am I going to do when I go to Indiana? Or as my friend said to me last night "So do they have direct flights to Booty Call, Indiana?" Very funny. He's just mad because no one wants him to fly thousands of miles to see him. So there.

It's NOT a booty call.

(And if it were, it would be MY booty call because I am going THERE.)
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 9:51 AM
  1 comments



Thursday, August 19, 2004
Siamese Chicken Fish

I have the biggest pansy of a Siamese Fighting Fish. He's the fish that everyone picked on. I'm certain he was probably traumatized early in life by his parents (how does that happen by the way? Maybe the enjoy a little rough... well, I'll keep this family oriented.), however, I chased him around the stupid tank for ten minutes trying to get him to perform... nuttin'. He ran away each time.

I am one of those horrible people who walk into a pet store and push the little plastic cups together to see which ones fight the best. Hey, it's not like I put them in together, and besides, I move them apart. I was in a marriage long enough to know the importance of retreating with ego still intact.

I'm feeling marginally better as a mother tonight. After work I spent some time with M. We just hung out and had fun together. He's still got that nasty chest cold, but his asthma is being kept at bay.

Did I forget to mention the recent drama? Sorry.

Monday night I took M. to the doctor's office because he was wheezy and coughing after day care, and I was sure he had an earache. We waited at the doctor's office for half an hour before I started to notice that wheezing had turned into struggling for breath.

I went up to the nurse at the desk to say he was having trouble breathing. She frowned appropriately, wrote on a sticky and stuck the sticky on a piece of paper. Oh good, that helps, thanks for that, the sticky on the paper has miraculously made him breathe again.

I waited another ten minutes before returning to the line to say, hey, could you write up another sticky? The last one didn't work. In front of me was perfectly-healthy-lady who was bringing in her x-ray form because she "also wanted her right foot x-rayed... could you just, like, add that?" She shifted her weight slightly *to her right foot* while the desk nurse explains that no, the doctor has to see her.

I reiterate the whole son-can't-breathe-thing. We sit back down.

You know where I'm going with this. Two minutes later, perfectly-healthy-lady is back in the holding area, having her foot looked at!

Excuse me? Did someone miss the class on TRIAGE in nurse school?

I didn't beat around the bush. "Why is she back there ahead of my son who can't breathe at the moment?"

"Oh," says skipped-class-on-triage-day-nurse, "excuse, excuse, blah, blah, yadda, yadda... you're next."

I spare you the details, lets just say my son's oxygen saturation rate dropped to 89% within a very short period of time, and before I knew it, we went for his first ambulance ride. He did not think that any of this was very cool.

I called his dad, my ex, from the ambulance, as things had moved pretty fast and it was the first chance I'd gotten. M. was quite stable and his sat rate was rising, but I thought his dad might want to meet us at the hospital.

He met us there. He was mad. He thinks this is all my fault. Yes, I created his asthma, that's right. Genetics-schemetics.

It's because of the horses he says, you're selfish for moving him out to the farm, he says.

We've been here six weeks, no problems so far, then he got this chest cold, I says, and that triggered it.

He got the cold from being allergic to horses, he says.

Ok, I think, I need to pause here before I explain very patronizingly that a cold is from a virus, and an allergy is from an allergen. He doesn't want to hear me, he wants to blame me. I know this. I will let him do this. I do not want to fight.

He's been sick for six weeks, he says.

Whoa, where was I? He so has not... in fact, he's been healthy for six straight weeks, I suddenly realize! That's quite a stretch since he started at this day care in April. From April until the end of June he's had four ear infections, all brought on by colds. But July and August so far? Totally fine! Holy cow! Living on the farm is good for my son!

I don't think he has been, I say out loud.

In the end, we are at a stalemate. He blames me, and I'm trying to discern if he is still smoking in his house without coming out and asking directly - because he'll think I blame him. Yet this is how it stands, my son has asthma. And asthma is not only identifiable, it is managable. I know what that cough sounds like, I know what to do.

And I know that it is not my fault. No matter what he says, I did not move out here just for my sake. If I thought that M. would not thrive out here, I would not be here. I needed my space, I needed space for M. and me. On our own.

I can't make the ex understand that, and it isn't my job anymore to make him understand things. As my mother told me, I am doing the best job with what I have. I will do the best by my son.

And eventually, he will know that.
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 9:43 PM
  1 comments



Horrible Mother Syndrome

Yes, this is me, I'm a horrible mother.

The worst is that I do feel like a horrible mother. In my son's eyes I'm mean, I hurt him, he *does* want to go live with his daddy.

Who, mind you will not understand if M. goes to him and says "Mommy hurts me" that it is only because I have to hold him down to feed him his prednisone for the last couple of mornings. Because I do awful things like make him drink his medicine so his ear infection goes away, or his lungs get stronger.

Or that if I yell out of frustration and throw a pillow..... that I'm not hitting him, but I scared him. I just can't do it again. I hardly slept last night because I knew the fight that was coming over the medicine this morning.

And I know that I'm not injuring my son, I know somewhere inside that I'm a good mother.

But it doesn't seem to matter... if my son doesn't think so.

  The Writing Mother
  posted at 8:51 AM
  1 comments



Thursday, August 12, 2004
I'm Free, I'm Free!

Yes, today, at 11:24 am, my son was Free Years Owld.

And so with that, Michael's Birth Story:

As I write this, I realize how truly unprepared I was when we became pregnant. Having a baby was just something that happened to women. Amazingly as the months progressed, I became much more aware of the significance and beauty of the experience, and of the need to make the birth my own experience. I am currently pursuing training as a Childbirth Educator and Doula so that I might give other women in my position the chance that I had: to view knowledge as their own personal power during childbirth and beyond.

As naïve expectant parents, we enrolled in a weekend labour preparation program when I was 37 weeks along. Wide-eyed and hardly daring to breathe we watched the labour video playing larger than life on the screen in front of us. Immediately following the video, 5 women in the class - including myself – changed their minds. There was just no way we could do that!
Our instructor, Kathy McKelvie, was a vivacious and perky woman, who just happened to be a Doula. Over the two and a half days, she peppered the class with mantras; “A shower is as good as a narcotic ever thought of being!” “Dads - You walk into the maternity ward and what do you ask for first? The birth ball! She’ll want it!” “Rectal pressure? Hit the call button!” Doubting my ability to handle pain I would stay after class and ask her questions like how many women actually faint during labour, how many really call their husbands those names? She encouraged me and told me that giving birth is a great experience, there is nothing like it, especially when there is very little intervention and you can truly work with your body, that I would be able to do it, just as millions of women have done. The only thing we would most likely do in error, is go to the hospital too early – just about every woman does this with her first birth, especially if it’s an intended hospital birth. Ken looked at me as if to say that would be me for sure. No way, I thought, I’m smart enough to know when to go to the hospital. (Every mother say it with me now: “She thinks she’s so smart!”) Kathy had us consider birth plans and then gave us this list: Natural birth, pain free birth, short birth, Cesarean section, no episiotomy, no vacuum, no forceps, boy, girl, healthy baby. Then told us if we could choose only one outcome from our birth, which one would be most important. Of course we all chose healthy baby. In reality each of us would have a different experience, but when it was all said and done, no matter how we had gotten to the other side, what we wanted in the end was the same. A healthy baby.

I am a controller, but this prospect no longer scared me at all; I was calmer than ever, because I was at peace with the future, I wanted to control my experience, but knew that in reality I could only control how I managed the experience of my first labour and delivery.

My doctor had seemed ambivalent throughout the pregnancy. I knew that I was due at the beginning of August and she felt it was closer to the end of August. Counting back the weeks, I countered, there is only one week in which I could have conceived as my husband was out of town for three weeks. She still disagreed - and I let her - the fewer times I had to trudge down to her office the better. I would wait 45 minutes and see her for about 8 minutes and leave. Hardly worth the effort, except I was able to hear my baby’s heartbeat each time. That made the difference.

My first due date passed and I knew that it would be any day. My baby had dropped over 3 weeks prior, finally releasing me from ‘round the clock kicks to my right ribcage. Co-workers and friends alike had been predicting the sex and weight of my baby for months. Some were “never wrong”; others “had a gut feeling”.

Thursday, the day of my last appointment, I awoke around 6:30 am with a peculiar pain in my belly. I lay frozen for a moment, wondering if that could be a contraction. I tried to fall asleep again and was woken minutes later by another one. Did I have something bad to eat the night before? My girlfriend, Tanya, and mother of one, was taking me to my doctor’s appointment that morning. I didn’t mention the pain to her just yet. Minutes after hitting the highway I felt another tightening around belly button height. I must have grimaced as I put my hand on my stomach. “What are you feeling?” she asked, and when I described it to her she said it sounded like a contraction. We looked at each other and smiled. It had started! She told me to keep track of how far apart they were and to let her know. Upon arriving in my doctor’s examining room, I said “so Dr, are you on call this weekend? “Cause I think I’m going to have this baby!” Of course she was a little skeptical and went about her duties, measuring and listening. I wanted to shake her and convince her that this really was it; I wasn’t just trying to will my body into labour.

Tanya and I walked in malls, up stairs and even up and down hills at a friend’s farm, looking at their horses. Contractions were quite regular, but 15 minutes apart. Tanya finally dropped me off at home and told me to continue to monitor the times. I called my husband and told him, but assured him that he needn’t come home. But I did phone friends and family to let them know that things had begun. I was quite content to sit around and write times down for most of the evening. Finally around 10pm, I thought, surely this is enough, I should be somewhat dilated. So we drove the half an hour to the hospital and after hooking up the monitors and examining me, they declared me a whole 1 centimeter dilated. Back home we went. I didn’t sleep well as the contractions were strong enough to keep me awake. My husband went to work as usual the next morning and I kept up the walking. I trucked around everywhere; feeling like my belly was just going to fall off of my body it was so heavy. When Ken came home, we went into town and walked around a local park, drinking gallons of water in the 30 degree heat. That night, exhausted and unable to get any sleep, and a little worried about not feeling the baby move, we made another trek to the hospital. I needed reassurance as the baby hadn’t been nearly as active and surely I had dilated further. The nurse declared me…. One centimeter. Crap! Home we went, hubby raised and eyebrow but said nothing.

Of course family and friends that I had alerted at this point were starting to phone and inquire about my progress. All I could tell them was that yes, I was having contractions, no the baby’s not ready yet.

Saturday morning there was a festival downtown, so a group of us went down. I, water in hand, stayed out of the large crushing crowds, but sat under a tree and counted contractions. They were much stronger now, but still 7-12 minutes apart, not exactly regular. That night Ken, assuming by now that I was just a big baby, decided to go out with his sister for a couple of beers since she was in from Europe. I agreed that I was probably not any further along, so he might as well have some fun while he could. I lay on the couch switching sides with each contraction, unable to find comfort whether standing, sitting or walking. I phoned Ken around 2 am and he was already on his way home. When he walked in, I said that enough was enough. It had been close to 72 hours of contractions and I was fed up. I kept crying, not from pain, but from frustration, lack of sleep and annoyance that he thought I was somehow faking this. Obviously I could still “walk and talk through contractions” so it was not yet time to go to the hospital. (Another good mantra from Kathy) But still I asked him to take me in for a third time and if I still weren’t dilated enough, I would stay at my mom’s who was nearby. So we drove in silence to the hospital. I’m quite sure he was tired, it was close to 3 am, but I was even more so. When we arrived at the maternity ward I stood at the desk on the verge of tears. When a nurse asked me what was wrong I said, “ I have been having contractions for almost 72 hours, we’ve been here twice now and you need to either make them go away, or make the baby come out!” She was very sympathetic and took us to an examination room, hooking me up once more on the monitor. After examining me, the nurse said, congratulations, you are 4 centimeters. We could stay!! Ken held my hand; I think it was the first time he realized that I was truly in labour. And I’d been able to walk and talk through all of the contractions to that point. Immediately I lost the desire to “make him come out now” as I had somehow felt validated as a truly labouring woman. The baby would arrive on his own time now.

We were admitted at 4 am and transferred to a birthing room where we met our labour nurse, Nancy. I think Nancy was a gift from God to us. I would have had a much different experience if it weren’t for her support and guidance. She immediately found us a birth ball and brought towels for the shower. She had a very calm demeanor that reassured my husband and I that we could definitely do this!

The moms and Ken’s sister had arrived and were in the small waiting room. I thought we should probably go out and say hello. I can’t say that I was exactly the cheeriest or most thrilled to be standing in the waiting room. Ken was miserable, as he was so tired and grumpy. And his mom didn’t help by telling me to make him “smartin' up”, that just made him angrier. Mom snapped one last picture of me, I didn’t exactly pose for it, but looking back I wish that I had savoured that last little bit with my child inside of me. My impatient side of me had taken over and inside I was going crazy with the desire to hold my baby. We returned to walking, but Ken was dead on his feet and, truthfully, I didn’t really care either way, so we returned to our room.

Shower after shower, my husband became more confident, I noted, in helping me. We used positions our teacher had shown us in the shower, I sat on the bench between contractions and stood with water on my back during them. It was serene and peaceful; I could even smile and converse with Ken. I don’t have a clue as to what we talked about, but I remember smiling. After what was to be my last shower, Nancy wanted to check me again and found that I was over 9 cm with just a little lip of my cervix left to be dilated. As she was checking, my waters broke. Yeah! I thought to myself and smiled. The sensation of a small pop deep inside and then rushing out is not to be missed, I giggled. There was micconium present, quite a bit, but I was reassured that special nurses would be attending the birth to ensure the baby was breathing just fine despite the micconium. I knew even before Nancy told me, that things were about to get even more intense. There was still that lip left to dilate and with my permission, Nancy moved it aside with her finger as I gave a little push. Pretty soon after I was well into the transition phase. All color drained from my hands I noted to Ken. They were completely white! I couldn’t see any creases at all. That’s nothing, he said, you should see your face! We laughed, but it was cut short by another contraction. I realized that I carried my tension and pain in my hands. I fought to keep them loose and lucid. Focusing on my hands and deep even breathing throughout the contractions, I was able to keep myself under control. As I was having back labour, the best position was on my right side with Ken applying counter-pressure with each contraction. His arms were so tired! Another really effective position was with the head of the bed raised, me on my knees leaning over it, facing the wall. Sure my big bootie was right in everyone’s face, but who cared at that point! I remember Nancy telling me how great I was doing, how she had just been at the nurse’s station bragging about this awesome 24 year old woman she had under her care who was doing this without medication. It was unheard of at the Rockyview with their 80% epidural rate. My next child would be so easy, she said. You’re right, I retorted, because the next one’s adopted! At around quarter past 9 that morning, I had the distinct feeling that I had to push. I said this to Ken. We looked at each other and both said, Rectal Pressure! Another mantra that made us both smile in the midst of labour.

Sure enough, when Nancy returned, she checked and the baby’s head was fully engaged and dropping. It was 9:25 am when she gave me the go ahead to give the first push. This is where my memory gets a little fuzzy! I know we used the birth bar, the ball, the stirrups, the birth stool and even all fours. The first time I tried the stirrups I thought my hips were going to dislocate! My legs would start shaking and I thought they would cramp. I really liked the stool. Ken sat behind me and I sat between his legs, facing out. I wound my arms around his legs and bore down for all I could. I remembered at this point, our teacher telling us about how we my pass a little, well, you know, as we pushed and how it didn’t really matter. I wondered if I was - cuz ya know ya can’t tell! - and I was surprised that I didn’t really care! I just knew one thing, I was in labour, giving birth as natural as I could. I know that I only really opened my eyes to change position. I would feel that contraction building and my body told me that I needed to push. I didn’t bother with counting to 10 to keep pushing, I just pushed until that contraction subsided and then I either lay back or leaned on the closest stable object in a total state of limp exhaustion. I remember thinking, this is so damn hard!!

After pushing for an hour, I asked Nancy when they might consider some sort of intervention. Oddly I was thinking about a C-section, not forceps or a vacuum. As if they would skip right to surgery! Thank goodness the doctor I had been going to for 9 months, who I’d thought of as totally uncaring, was on call that night and at the hospital. She knew my desire for an intervention-free birth and held off calling in any specialists.

After an hour and a half, I thought I couldn’t do it anymore. I told Nancy and Ken that. They both reassured me that I could indeed do it. Nancy said no one left that room not pregnant, I’d be no different. She realized that I was becoming a little frustrated and asked me to start getting a little mad at myself for the length of time it was taking me to deliver. Use the energy from your anger to push, she instructed. That gave me the little boost I needed. Just after 11 am, she began putting warm compresses on my perineum; little did I know this would save me some serious pain. She explained that it helps to make that area stretch easier; there’s less of a risk of tearing. At this point, though I didn’t know it yet, my baby was about an inch away from the world. I heard nurses calling for my doctor, there seemed to be a lot of activity happening down south there, everyone was having a boo to see how close I was. Not that I cared at this point, but I should’ve charged admission. Soon enough my doctor arrived, dressed the part with the little hat and gloves, perkier than I thought she should be after this all nighter (she’d delivered 6 other babies that night!). The nurses from the Special Needs unit were there incase of any breathing problems due to the amount of micconium in the water. That reassured me more than anything and really signaled that things were about to happen. I did feel quite a bit of discomfort for a moment down in the nether regions there, but didn’t realize that he had crowned until the doctor asked if I wanted to feel the baby’s head. Now that’s an odd feeling – you reach down and feel something very similar to a soft, wet coconut protruding from a place that you wouldn’t think could accommodate a coconut! But it made so happy I laughed and cried at the same time. We were almost there. During class, Ken had said that he wasn’t looking down there for nuthin’! I agreed that he didn’t have to; he could stay at my shoulder. I was surprised again when he raced around to look over the doctor’s shoulder. His expression was priceless, I can’t even describe it, but he just said “whoa!” with his eyes wide and mouth open. Can’t say I’d really like to see it from that end, as amazing as it might be!

Next thing I know they are telling me to stop pushing, but only for a moment while they suction my baby’s mouth and nose. One last one they say and I am pushing, waiting for this glorious “slpoosh” you are supposed to feel if you are giving birth naturally. Then there it was. It is one of the best feelings, all of this pressure and then a big wet splooshy release. I’ll admit, writing it doesn’t sound near as cool as feeling it! In one wonderful and beautiful moment they announce that it’s a boy and heave this wet, shiny creature onto my belly. I look down and all I see is one great big mouth yelling for all he’s worth, “Here I am” he seems to be saying. He’s so shiny, not at all gross looking, none of the white stuff, as he’s overdue (I restrained at this moment from pointing that out to my doctor!) and just the slightest little elongated head from so long in the birth canal. It was 11:24 am Sunday morning.

Ken was crying and shaking as he kissed me and told me how proud he was of me, and that he loved me. He cut the cord and the special needs nurses took him to check him over. Nancy had been right when she’d told me that no matter how tired I was of pushing, I’d wake up immediately after the baby was born. So much adrenaline was going through my body I was quivering and quaking in the bed. Ken and I hugged and kissed, I don’t think I have ever felt so happy and so right in this world. Even Nancy was crying, which really touched me. How many babies she must see come into this world and she still cries. Only now do I understand that.

The nurses quickly swaddled our new baby, Michael, and handed him back to us. I can still remember looking down into his deep, inky blue eyes. He blinked and blinked as he adjusted to the light and the new sights. He was so quiet, just listening to our voices. Within minutes he was latched on to my breast. I knew at that moment that my world was in much sharper focus than it had ever been before.
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 7:16 PM
  4 comments



Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Katie is Knocked Up!

This is great, this is awesome! My friend and cubie-buddy Katie is preggo! Granted, she is only about 4.7 days officially pregnant when you take into account the conception date/gestational age and what not; But it works out to be about 2 weeks along.

Why is this so great, I mean for her it's great, but for me... because it's all about me, isn't it? It's great for me because I'm a birth junkie and I have a project! I can talk to her about herbs and vitamins, and due dates and induction methods, epidurals and episiotomies. Wahoooo!!

She's already said I can be there for the birth. Which also rocks because I was missing my doula work. It was hard to balance with a full time job, and being single with a kid. I have nine months of hanging out with Ms. Preggo and living vicariously through her womb!

Speaking of living vicariously.....

September 1 - 7 I will be in Southbend, Indiana.

I'm so excited I can't stand it.

  The Writing Mother
  posted at 7:28 PM
  2 comments



Tuesday, August 10, 2004
I Can't Contain Myself

You know when you get the chance to do one of those things that you've been casually contemplating for years.... when by some little twist of fate you can see the thing in front of you... when it suddenly is no longer an impossibility, but something that just might, could be feasible, by the skin of your Mastercard.... be possible?

Yeah.

I booked a flight to go visit a friend in Indiana. A friend who was once a smidge past the just-a-friend designation. And a friend who I'm looking very much forward to seeing again.

I must remind myself that we cannot recreate the past. And interestingly enough, I find that a relief. Because recreating the past would be like trying to recreate the most romantic and fulfilling time of my life. No. This is different, this is an adventure. It's a new experience. Like skydiving.

I want to write more, I really do. I'm afraid. I'm afraid to put anything down in writing, lest it build up any hopes, or anchor me too much in reality.

I'm Jealous

Yep, I'm jealous. I can't take my jealousy of other authors who have put pen to paper and are creating novels while their kids mill about their feet.

I can do this. I will do this. Dammit I need to get my ass in gear and just do what I know I can do. I found this quote today and it was timely:

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to bloom.
Anais Nin.
That's a what I'm a talkin' about.
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 6:55 PM
  1 comments



I had to copy....

My Lemonade Life posted this speech, I don't know why she did, but I love it, so I'm being a copy cat! (I'm also linking to her so you'll all go read her witty blog!!)

Eugene V. Debs ~ 1908 speech
Now my friends, I am opposed to the system of society in which we live today, not because I lack the natural equipment to do for myself but because I am not satisfied to make myself comfortable knowing that there are thousands of my fellow men who suffer for the barest necessities of life. We were taught under the old ethic that man's business on this earth was to look out for himself. That was the ethic of the jungle; the ethic of the wild beast. Take care of yourself, no matter what may become of your fellow man. Thousands of years ago the question was asked; ''Am I my brother's keeper?'' That question has never yet been answered in a way that is satisfactory to civilized society.Yes, I am my brother's keeper. I am under a moral obligation to him that is inspired, not by any maudlin sentimentality but by the higher duty I owe myself. What would you think me if I were capable of seating myself at a table and gorging myself with food and saw about me the children of my fellow beings starving to death.

~~~

This is why I do not always understand the business world, where it is all dog eat dog and accountant eat accountant.

Does no one understand common courtesy or was it eaten as an appetizer?
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 12:07 PM
  0 comments



Sunday, August 08, 2004
Why?

You know what the worst problem on the dating scene is? The abundance of men who have been royally screwed over by a poor example of the female species. I have run into so many. Granted, for the most part, I've only been able to hear the male version of the story - and bitter it usually is - but I can't believe that every single story is completely fabricated. There's a thread running through each and every one that makes me cringe.

What is it that causes some women to become vipers. Doing all that they can to hurt someone, or causing hurt by just not having the courage to be honest. And then what is the world left with? Another bitter man to perpetuate the single-till-I-die stereotype.

Would you (not specifically you, who read my blog, because I know you and love you... but the other yous, the yous who have stepped from one man to another....) just stop it already?

You are wrecking some good ones! They start off with hopes and dreams, just like you, and you crush them, or suck the life out of them. Then the good apples like me are left with guys who think all apples are alike. Oh I realize that they are not perfect. They mostly realize that, too. But that does not give you license to wreck perfectly good men for the rest of us.

It is tiresome dealing with the wreckage you created.

I may be speaking pretty high handed here, but I have a right to. I did not leave my ex-husband in a vast wasteland of bitterness. I still support his dreams, his hopes, his aspirations. I go out of my way to be nice to his new girlfriend, hell, I even kinda like her! I include him in my good news, I like to hear about his. I phone him to see what he's up to sometimes, not just to find out his schedule for our son. When he comes over I feed him and visit for a while.

I could not imagine purposefully hurting him. At one point in my life, I loved him enough for the both of us. Unfortunately love does not have an on and off switch, and though it's cooled considerably, I will remain friends with him.

In fact, there are still pictures of him in my house. They are the good-time pictures. And embrace just minutes after I had our son. A wedding picture. Him holding his newborn son and smiling. The grin when we moved out on our own for the first time. These are the memories I cherish because ... they were good.

  The Writing Mother
  posted at 10:08 PM
  1 comments



Thursday, August 05, 2004
Stewin'

I did a lot of thinking today. The problem with me and thinking, is it's a lot like trying to run on a big round ball. I get running one way, look back and can't see the landscape. So I backtrack and end up going too far back and I forget the point I left off at. So I launch again forward, then back. And so on. Honestly.

I had a whole blog laid out in my head tonight after I left the girls-night movie. Where it's gone I can't say, but I hope it comes back soon, it was a good one.

A friend said something to me today, and I'll paraphrase here. Basically that I should make a decision on my own instead of asking everyone else.

I'm not sure I know how to do that. I like to research my decisions. And I tend to get blinded by emotions and feelings. So there have been decisions in my life that have not been sound. So I research. I ask my friends what they think.

But I don't always take their opinions as my own. That's the major difference. I do think for myself (see the ball rolling paragraph above). But I know a lot about myself. And I know that it is really hard for me to see the big picture from where I stand. So by asking friends, a couple in particular, I am virtually guaranteed another vantage point.

So I scramble over to their viewpoint for a moment, see my life at a distance and then return to my spot. Usually I'm better equipped to make a decision at that point.

  The Writing Mother
  posted at 10:18 PM
  0 comments



Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Free Time

What is free time? Honestly.

Every square inch of my life seems taken up by some kind of activity. Is it ever ok to just do nothing? I've planned nothing-ness times on the weekends, only because I know the spot will be filled by Friday evening. Like this weekend.

Knowing I have a stag/stagette to attend on Friday, I have chosen to book nothing-ness time on Saturday morning. In the event that Dom Perignon or one of his friends decides to play a major role in the festivities, I have time booked to deal with the aftermath. Though after more recent wine soaked blogs, I may pass on that.

Besides, Jose is a much better friend than Dom at a Stagette!

Was asked to go play ball tonight and I was more than happy to say no because I was having difficulties finding a babysitter. It's hard enough to schedule my time without cramming another activity in there. Next year I may play ball, but this year I appear to be the we-can't-find-another-girl-to-play girl.

Ok, I need to return to my office-cleaning. Transforming the 'tiny' office into 'my sanctuary' while resisting the urge to just chuck it all in the closet and slam the door.
  The Writing Mother
  posted at 5:54 PM
  0 comments



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