beer is gross, or i love my little anemone

baby m is one month old. holy crap.

my broken beer palette

i was so excited to be able to enjoy a guilt-free drink after safely depositing baby into the world. i hoarded a Belgian gem - the Trappist Westvleteren 8, you know, one of the best rated beers in the entire world, for almost two years to savor.

after a particularly arduous bout of feeding this kiddo and right before kickoff, we poured the bottle into the Westvleteren chalice. the color was perfect, the bubbles were perfect, the aroma was perfect, and the taste...i hated it.

WHAAAT THE EFF?!?

yes. i have apparently lost tastebud sensitivity with regard to the hoppy, bitter, fruity, smooth nuances of one of my favorite beverages - beer. i had Dan open an American blond - too bitter. a wheat ale - too bitter. a Bud Light - TOO BITTER?!!?!

i was near panic. as a last ditch effort, we had a Yuengling in the fridge, and it tasted palatable. i can't believe i just wrote that.

i'm terrified to open a bottle of Rioja and discover that now i like reisling or white zinfandel or boone's farm strawberry hill.

must. keep. trying.

things i never thought i'd do, but have now done

• wear Crocs in public. shame. 
• worry about running out of tucks medicated pads
• not care about 12 ounces of milk barf covering me from neck to thigh
• not care about 12 ounces of baby poop covering my lap about an hour after a milk barf bath
• hate having giant boobs

misguided

on principle, i purchased a device called a Boppy. the Boppy is a breastfeeding pillow shaped like a horseshoe. the theory goes that you put it around your waist and the baby will be supported comfortably while you feed her and not have to hold her whole weight up. millions of these Boppys are sold, and they have cute name. 

i could not, on principle, purchase the competitor to the Boppy, despite it having better reviews, solely because it was called "My Brest Friend Nursing Pillow." Seriously? My Brest Friend? this rivals Nads hair removal cream for top horrible product names of all time. 

so, i have a Boppy. sad part is: it totally blows. the thing won't stay around my waist, so it creates a little bowl space where the baby keeps falling in against my belly (albeit this space is convenient for corralling milk barf in a tidy pool). i have to use a second pillow to prop the Boppy against me, so between the burp cloth, the blanket covering the couch to protect from milk barf, and two pillows, i am toting around a Bed-in-a-Bag just to do some nursing. 

with a well-timed Target gift card, i splurged on the "My [insertstupidnamehere] Friend." And, of course it is my freaking best friend. damn. 

troubleshooting

remember when your computer didn't work and Windows would pop up one of those "troubleshooting" choose-your-own adventure screens? that shit never worked. just re-start the junker. 

luckily, newborn babies are much easier to read. 

• cry 1: feed me
• cry 2: i have to burp or poo or fart
• cry 3: i keep hitting myself in the face and would rather be sleeping, so please swaddle me 
• cry 4: my diaper is cold and wet against my tooshie

easy. 

granted, we seem to have an easy baby. no food allergies, colic, or other ailments thus far. she even slept 4.5 hours in a row last night. hooray! (my boobs were pissed.) 

parenting a newborn is basically just troubleshooting on a three-hour cycle. i was reading three different medical/science-y texts and all of the doctors said a variation of the same thing:

theory: after millions of years of evolution, the human frame has gone from hunched-over, wide-hipped cave person, to tall-standing, narrow-hipped condo person. what this has done is shortened our gestation period from 12 months to 9 months, because the baby has to fit out of our narrower hip opening. so, all human babies, according to this theory, are three months premature. 

it makes sense, really. newborns can't hold up their own heads. their eyes can't focus as the cones aren't fully developed. they have reflux because the keep-puke-down muscle isn't strong enough. they're not social learning yet (i.e. babies don't exhibit human social emotion, like pleasure or manipulation, until after 6-9 weeks or so).

someone asked me about how it was going, and i related it to taking care of a really squirmy and demanding plant or ocean creature, like a venus fly trap or sea anemone. the reflex of clamping shut is like baby's clamp on my nip. plus, you have to tend to both, feed them, clean them, and adore their little interesting perfect biological construction, but neither are cognizant or aware like you'd prefer, well at least prefer for the tiny human. even a kitten or puppy has 100-times the situational awareness after a week of life than a newborn.

i spend most of my troubleshooting hours admiring the warm perfect baby. her biological adorableness in the form of tiny perfect fingers and the heartbreaking and sincere wails where her little lower jaw shudders as she inhales for another cry. i love when she slumps, milk drunk, onto my belly and snoozes for 20 minutes. it's so cute when she cries loudly, lets out a big burp, and immediately is silent and serene, staring at the lamp, because all is suddenly well again.

this phase is more about us enjoying baby rather than baby enjoying anything. we have an adorable little bundle of squirmy who would really rather still be in the womb. she's a blank canvas. she is a biology miracle. she is not quite ready for the hard lessons or learning of a social being yet. i envy her.

so, our task as the parent of the newborn is simple: enjoy the innocence and keep the baby alive until her own life begins. i am enjoying every little minute watching her and wondering who she is going to become

i think the next set of phases that include "don't mess her up,""don't let her manipulate you," and "don't hate her just because she's a hormonal teenage monster" are going to be much more challenging.

be careful what you wish for

of course this is more about my boobs.

what? there's more?

yeah. it's surprising how much of my life involves my own boobs now (approximately 40% of my life, actually). so, if you don't care about my boobs, you might want to skip most of this. 

after four weeks of breastfeeding, i can see why the invention of baby formula was heralded as the best thing to happen to women since, say, ever.

breastfeeding, especially at first, isn't all natural instinct and happiness. it's painful, raw, and animalistic. i think the only way the human race survived pre lactation consultant, double-electric breast pump, and nipple shield, is that some women figured it out and just kept the milk supply going. other women had to have been passing around their babies to these community wet nurses to keep them alive until they, themselves, had the hang of it.

from triple-A to triple that

for my entire tween life to present, i've had to psychologically and foam-paddingly compensate for my lack of boobs. luckily, i rock in other areas, so my boobs took up way less than 40% of my time. more like .0000004%. 

then i got knocked up. and they grew. and grew. it. was. awesome. and fun! like having a new toy for the whole family to enjoy (note: our family was just two people at this time). 

then someone mentioned that they would get even bigger when the milk showed up. what? more!? yay! and no huge belly to overshadow their awesomeness. 

and they did. and i now hate them.

they are either engorged and painful or have a tiny human attached to them. and then there is the soreness and the cracking nipples. and thrush. 

oh, thrush, you feel like tiny shards of glass embedded in my angry red nipples. why this whole new dimension of pain. to top it off, i now i think i have a bit of a vaspospasm, so when they inflate every two hours, it's like they're filling with lava. 

the moral of the story: be happy when your body is in stasis. change can be hard. really, really hard and painful. 

old faithfuls

currently i'm making enough milk to feed octomom's brood.

before baby, i was so worried that, because i am such a sound sleeper, that i wouldn't wake up right away when she started to fuss at night.

no need to worry. my boobs wake me up like two competing geysers of pain and hot liquid. i go from a sound sleep to a milk bath in 20 seconds every two hours. during the first days, i would stand over her bed begging her to wake, or i just woke the child up, just to get some relief.

and not only that, but the ladies are not the same size. they compete for dominance, and ms. righty is definitely winning. she's huge. it's annoying (only to me).

chug

i think the pain is slowly ebbing as the days pass, but poor baby has to deal with my production issues. for her, attaching is a lot like trying to get a good grip on the side of softball. and for me, well, when she does get a grip it's vice-like before things settle down.

the last few days after she attaches, around four minutes in, she'll start to gag a little, detach, and re-attack. i wondered why, until i saw a shooting stream of warm milk spray her in the face when she let go last night. poor thing is trying to drink by putting her whole mouth around a garden hose.

but, based on the quantity and heft of dirty diapers, she's getting enough to eat. and all that extra goes in the freezer for the time where i want to drink a whole bottle of wine and celebrate the fact that my sacred vessel has made it through pregnancy, childbirth, and breastfeeding all in one calendar year.

sorry boys

to top it all off, these milk producing fun bags are off limits until everything feels under control. poor, poor husbands of new moms.

oh, wait, screw them. they're not up every two hours nor did they have to push this cantaloupe out into the world and then have it clamp on to their other most sensitive body part just minutes later.

leave me alone and change a diaper or something. i'll let you know when and if my commitment to celibacy ends.

Non-committal

Check up

Went to the doctor to have a follow up on the healing process of my Franken-vag. Needless to say, when I saw said doctor I got dizzy and thought "fight or flight!?" My instructions were: Please stay outside the touch zone. I made it through the visit, sort of.

Anyway, the nurse was doing her routine questioning and asked, hesitantly, eggshell-esque, "Weeeellllll, in a few weeks the doctor will be asking you about your plans for birth control. Have you thought at all about that?"

Me: "Yes."

Her: "Um, well, um, what would you say your plans are? Are you familiar with the options? I, uh, ..."

Me: "Dude, whatever is MOST effective."

Her, obviously relieved.

Apparently there are people who have two kids inside of 12 months. Psychopaths.

Modern medicine and its Stadol and dissolvable stitches got me through this; modern medicine and its birth control methods are going to ensure I have control over whether I ever do it again. 

Politics

Baby M watched her first presidential debate. I decided to vote for the candidate who was not talking when she barfed all over me. Halfway through the very first question it was decided: we are officially abstaining in 2012. Tough crowd.

Back off

So, it has been about 14 days since my childbirth experience. Days 2-14 have been textbook with  late nights, tired self, soreness, lovey-dovey baby oggling, taking pictures, being typical "oh, look at what she just now did, isn't it cute?" parents, etc. I am absolutely enjoying all of it (well, my nipples have seen better days), but there is also this big grey shadow hanging over me.

It is you. You know who who you are. You're the "next time" people. People who have already staked a claim on one of my unfertilized eggs and are asking me if we've picked out names yet.

"Next time, you can go to the hospital earlier and get the epidural if you have back pain."

"Next time, breastfeeding is so much easier."

"Next time, they seem to grow up faster." 

"Next time, maybe you'll have a boy...or twins!"

Now if that last statement isn't enough to send me to the land of celibacy, I am not sure what is. 

But, really, it took us eight freaking years to decide whether or not to have this one single little person join our insular little duo. We don't even know if the three of us are compatible yet. It's like roommate roulette - no chance to even interview her to see whether she likes dogs, is vegan, or has crazy relatives (she does!). And already everyone has their Jump To Conclusions Mat out and is predicting due dates for Baby Next Time.

As far as I'm concerned, I have one, single baby. Will there be a next time? We're back where to where we were before I got knocked up this time: maybe, maybe not, in five years, none of your business.

Just like couples who don't have any kids can have a complete, whole-life existence with the appropriate amounts of self-fulfillment and happiness, so can people with a single kid, or two kids, or five kids, or...well, more than five seems a little extreme. (It's like throwing a sausage down a hallway?)

Jelly belly

I know that the baby belly can't magically disappear overnight, but it doesn't even disappear after two weeks?!? I still look five months pregnant, but now it's all squishy and ugly. All my tight little  belly showing maternity gear now looks gross. I need more zip front hoodies and sweatpants. 

Snurgle

It's a noise this kid makes. Like a gurgle, a snore, and a stuffy nose. So cute. 

Disturbing

It is slightly disturbing that I keep thinking, "I wonder when her parents are due to come pick her up? We should call them."

I still can't believe that she is ours, for good, with no background check or competency test. Also, two weeks feels like a fun little foray into parenting, but it hasn't sunk in that this is a whole-lifestyle modification. We. Are. Parents. Luckily she's perfect and I'm smitten. And, of course if someone tried to come take her from me, I would scratch out their eyeballs, but the back of my mind lurker is still skeptical about whether we are capable of this.

One day at a time we go. 

Week 1: From PTSD to parenthood

Immediately after baby went safely to the nursery, I crawled into bed. I was more sore, exhausted, hungry, and thirsty than I've ever been. I felt like I was baby M. I felt fetal, small, and helpless. My ankles crossed and my knees tucked up in this big hospital bed that could fit two of me. I needed help just standing up. Finally, I was alone for the first time in hours and only thought one thing: What have I done?

Each time the nurse aide woke me up to check my vitals, I sucked in my breath with a little panic and adrenaline surge through my ears thinking that, for some reason, she was coming to get me to take me into the delivery room. Nooo! No! Then relief when I realized that I had already done it. I already had the baby. No more labor. I was suffering from back labor PTSD.

Dawn came, and the nurses were in to check on me every hour. By 8:30 a.m., I thought, "Hm...I'm here for a reason. I am pretty sure I had a baby early this morning. Wonder where she is?"

Slowly, I could feel myself going from, "What have I done?" to "Holy shit! I actually DID that! WOW!"

Every minute baby M was with me, I could feel that warm mother-y feeling growing and growing. It's like a wash of emotion containing an equal parts terror of something happening to this little person you've just been given and the simultaneous relief that nothing has, yet. It's the "I would throw myself in front of a bus for you" feeling? Extreme.

On daddy
He is a saint, doula, hero, perfect daddy in every way. Everyone knew that would be the case, so I am just happy to see him performing at this exceptional level of perfection. I am the luckiest person on Earth, even though I feel sad when he does something way better than me - like I'm a worthless, mother-instinct-lacking failure. It's one of those things I'll just keep dealing with because it's all about baby and not about me. And I'll catch up. Luckily I have boobs, so baby and I get some great bonding time, and I get to practice my solo skills.

I did thank him profusely for being so amazing during delivery. I was so out of it, there was none of that glow-y mother-father-baby perfection. It was more like me demanding ice chips and cursing his virility. I think he forgives me. 

Good news
I almost have a belly button again
I can admire my pedicure without bending over
My boobs are even bigger!

Did someone say boobs?
My random thought after a week of breastfeeding and simply "dealing" with the exacting pain this baby delivers every three hours or less was, "Wonder if I was into nipple clamps, would this hurt so much?" My terribly un-kinky side will never know I guess. But aside from the painful swelling and tender, tender nips, my boobs are fabulous. Porn-star quality when the milk first came, and pretty damn decent after. Yes, I will do as suggested and wear a v-neck that fits loosely around the waist to hide my bulging belly and enjoy my, probably temporary, time as a C-cup. Rock it!

Girl, girl, girl!!! Shows 10-times daily! More on boobs. I pretty much spend half the day with them hanging out. Why is this important? Well, my own father lives a continent away and the decision as to whether he should accompany Grammy Jackie for the birth of his second granddaughter was a weighty one. It takes 13 hours, three airplanes, and a car ride to get from his house to mine, and we didn't know if baby M would even be on time. This all being said, I'm pretty pleased that we decided to keep him at home taking care of the ranch and just sending photos and Face Time-ing. The extreme awkwardness of trying to cover the ladiez between feeding, air drying, testing out milking apparati, and general boob awareness would have been too much to bear. It's a little awkward just reading this.
Lessons
Never have unprotected sex. Ever. Well...
Hospital-grade stool softeners are your friend
Stock up on laundry soap because babies are dirty laundry factories
If you plan to breast feed, you might consider letting your cat start gnawing on your nipples now to prepare

Things I never thought I'd say
I milked myself today
I lost 19 pounds this week

Rest and recovery
Thanks to my domestic - Grammy Jackie - I have been able to sleep when baby sleeps, eat as meals come hot from the kitchen, shower daily, brush my teeth daily, and avoid many of the exhaustive trappings of new parenthood. Of course, I'm keeping odd hours due to late night/early morning feedings, but with naps, hydration, ibuprofen, a heating pad, and food, I am starting to feel human again. I am amazed at how sore my body is, like I was put in a washing machine on the agitate cycle for 24 hours. I am slowly able to walk around the block, readjusting my posture and strengthening my back. Baby M, Henry, Grammy and I took the B.O.B. out for a spin, awesome. I know it's just Week 1, but I'm hopeful that we can feel physically better soon - more so I can enjoy baby before she's all grown up and going off to college.  

Evacuation complete

Dear reader,
Don't read further.
I'm just saying.
-hh

Horror show

I don't know where to begin. First, at the end. I am a parent. Mom. Holy crap. Here's how I got there.

January 2012

• Unprotected Sex.

September 22, 2012

• 1:30 a.m. - Wake up with tiny baby contractions. So exciting. Tug on the belly muscles. About 12 minutes apart. Closing to 10 minutes as the early morning progresses. So, I watch a DVD about baby swaddling, Google some stuff about healthy eating while breastfeeding, check my email, start a little notepad to track contraction time and duration.
• 7:00 a.m. - Still awake. Time for breakfast and to make sure we have everything ready. Contractions are 6-8 minutes apart. Need food. Everyone says, "Stay at home as long as you can, because once the hospital ties you down to IVs and monitors, there's no more eating or drinking." So, that was our plan. Home labor as long as the nurse says it's OK.
• 8:00 a.m. - Breakfast! Contractions are getting a bit stronger, but the nurse says take some Extra Strength Tylenol and lie down for a while.
• 9:00 a.m. - Drive to Food Lion to get Tylenol and Gatorade. I had to hide behind a display of Ritz Crackers so I wouldn't freak out the other shoppers while gasping with my more-painful contractions.
• 11:00 a.m. - Tylenol slows everything down. I'm starting to get pissed off about that. I've been awake since 1 a.m., and now Google says pre-labor can last up to 24 hours. The contractions aren't horrible, but I still can't sleep through them. So, I'm tired and irritable and in the whole, "Is this ever going to happen?" Phase.
• 12:00 p.m. - Lunch! I take the whole, "Eat like you're going to run a marathon" seriously. I burn calories faster than the average person anyway, so there's no way I want to bonk during labor. Eat, eat, eat. Drink, drink, drink.
• 1:00 p.m. - Stupid labor. It's all hovering around 6-7 minutes apart, 30-55 seconds in duration. Now my lower back is starting to ache a little bit with each contraction, too, so maybe that's progress.
• 2:00 p.m. - Might as well do some work. Grammy Jackie and I start stuffing envelopes for a direct mail campaign. My back aches more each time a contraction comes, but I can bear it. No progress.
• 4:00 p.m. - Now shit is starting to hurt a bit more. Got the exercise ball so I can watch football during the pain - wooosahh - but we're going along OK. The nurse says to come in as soon as I feel like it - either five minutes apart or when the peak of the contraction takes my breath away.
• 5:30 p.m. - Dinner! I am wondering if each meal will be my last. I keep thinking, "Why does my back continue to ache? Isn't the uterus a huge muscle in my belly? What the hell?" I'm alternating between the ball, all fours, and having Dan shove his balled-up fists into my lower back as the contractions peak. Definitely taking my breath away.
• 7:30 p.m. - Driving to hospital. Three contractions in 12 minutes. I'm writhing in pain in the car. This doesn't seem like any f$*(#ing movie I've seen.
• 8:30 p.m. - Checked in to hospital and waiting for the doctor. I've got to get an IV, and I'm practically in tears, asking Dan if I can have an epidural. I didn't want an epidural, but I can't handle this pain. This excruciating, increasing, horrific, back pain. "Nurse Ashley, please give me drugs. Any drugs. Please. ARGGH!" Of course, only the doctor can prescribe drugs, so we wait and I have Dan massaging (i.e. kneading with fists) my lower back. 

Intermission: With regards to pain medication
My co-pregnant and previously pregnant friends all have varying views on pain medication. I, personally, didn't have a birth plan. It was "try to get as few drugs as possible, but if it's unbearable, ask for the drugs." I secretly hoped that my pain tolerance was high and I was warrior woman. When I realized that I couldn't do it without the epidural, I was crushed. IV drugs seemed OK, but I didn't really want to not feel anything. My friend M just had a baby boy a few weeks ago, and also had similar pain to mine - back pain. She had previously had a natural labor, but the pain here was too much, and she opted for the epidural. The word she used was "validating." It is validating to know that you're not alone and you're not a huge wimp if you have to reach out for help from God of Anesthesia.

• 9:30 p.m. - Doctor says, "You're at 4 cm." Me: "I need drugs. Seriously. Drugs. Anything. Please help me. Why does my back hurt?" Doctor: "Oh, you're having back labor." Me: "Excuse me? I don't give a shit. Give me drugs. ASAP. I want to die." Doctor to Dan and Jackie: "We are probably going to have a baby by 5 a.m." Me: "Oh, shit. I can't do this for another five hours!" Nurse: Giving me an injection into the IV tube.

Intermission: With regards to back labor
At this point, I have no idea what is happening. The Googles say that contraction pain starts in the back and radiates around to the belly. I know the contractions are getting stronger, but they're all in my back. I didn't know that such a thing as "back labor" existed. (Really? After all the time spent on the Googles, I didn't come across back labor? Probably because I refused to read anything that would lead me to worry about anything. The whole, "what if" this or "in rare cases" that. I avoided that content like the plague.)

During gestation, the doctors said everything was fine, so everything was fine. I did think my kid was on her side, but the doctors were all vague and like non-committal about her positioning, so I just went along with that, hoping for a routine delivery. Anyway, the lowdown on back labor, Googled after the fact is this (from moms):

• "Back labor is very, very, very, very, very painful"
• "My sister said it was like hot pokers from her lower back down through the backs of her legs, and my chiropractor gave a similar description - that the pain seems to be ongoing - it doesn't stop with contractions and that it extends from your lower back down through the backs of your legs."
• "My back felt like someone was pulling my back apart then stopping."

I abso-f-#$@ckn-lutely agree. Imagine giving some sturdy midget lumberjacks access to your lower back and spine with a full set of serrated bread knives. Yeah, those strong little bastards just saw on your spine, your muscles, your tailbone. It's excruciating, and you can't "relax" like the fucking nurse says you should. I'm curled into a tight ball every time the wave comes, literally begging for mercy from whatever horrific sins I've committed to deserve this. There is no joyful bringing of this beautiful child into the world together with Dan at my side, glowing. It's me, writhing in pain every three minutes, saying very mean things to everyone on the planet. Die midgets. Die.

• 9:31 p.m. - Stadol. Hallelujah. A warm, delicious envelopment of hospital-strength narcotics fills my whole body head to toe. Swimming in my brain as my cheeks get poofy and I say silly things like, "Wow, I can see the plus side to being a drug addict." I was high as a kite and in and out of clarity. Contractions came and went - oh, I could still feel them - and Dan's fists continued to massage me. I cursed the midgets. I cursed the pain, but with the edge off and the ability to do so colorfully with jokes and less panic. Woosah.

September 23, 2012

• 12:00 a.m. (-ish) - Literally, my eyes snap open. It's like someone turned off my drug pump or plugged me into my power source. All of my muscles are knotted and being serrated. My spine might tear apart. Now Grammy Jackie is kneading my back and Dan is massaging my hip tendons. I'm lying on my side and it's very obvious to me that the Stadol supply has run its course. More drugs. More. More. I'm practically frantic in my desire to take one of those knives from a midget, crawl into the pharmacy and start stabbing a pharmacist to get more drugs. If only I could roll over. I want this epidural N-O-W!
• 12:01 a.m. (-ish) - Panic, panic, panic. Pain, pain, pain. Dan is my breathing coach. Eye contact. Innnn - out, out, out. Innnnnn - out, out, out. I'm gripping his hand thinking, "Lock it up! You can't panic. Breathe. Follow instructions." I work hard to avoid hyperventilating. The nurse is giving more advice about not screaming and instead breathing.  I would rather scream, but I'm willing to try anything.
• 12:15 a.m. (-ish) - Doctor comes in. Time to "check progress." Him: "Can you roll onto your back for me after the contraction?" Me: "NO! The contraction isn't ENDING! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT!?! [insert PAIN noises]; I HAVE TO POOP. [insert PAIN noises]; WHERE IS THE EPIDURAL?" (Note: You can't get an epidural right away, it takes 2-3 hours for the team to hydrate you with IV fluids so you can get the injection. So, at 12:15, I'm finally ready.) Him, wrestling me onto my back with everyone's help: "Oh! Well, we're at 8 or 9 cm." Me, with a complete clarity and understanding that epidural administration cannot take place after 8 cm has a fit of the whitest, hottest rage in the universe. Me: "YOU, YOU! You tricked me! You told me I could have an epidural! [insert PAIN noises] Now you say I can't! You didn't want me to have one in the first place, so you lied all along. Why did you do this? I need more drugs! ARCHAGHTSGH![insert PAIN noises]."  

Intermission for things said/cried:
Me: "The Ducks game started at 10:30, why can't I have an epidural?"
Me: "I would like a time machine to go back an un-have sex with you." Others in room: "Do we have to go?"
Me: "Guys (meaning everyone in the room) I don't think I can do this anymore. Can we please stop. I just think that I can't make it."
Me: "I wonder why they did that with their mailboxes? The mailboxes and the driveway are the same thing....What the hell am I saying?"
Me: "You'd better enjoy this, husband, because I'm never doing it ever again. ARGHAHCH!"
Me: "Me, guys I want to go home."
Me: "Guys, I don't want more contractions. I want more drugs."
Me: "Ice chips please, water please" (x1,000) Those bastards dehydrated me. I was parched the entire time.
Me, as my sweaty hair is sticking to my head and neck: "There HAS to be a goddamn piece of circle elastic in this place. I'm so HOT."
Me: "I must poop. I neeeeed to poop. Is this me needing to push? Ugh. Poooooooooop."

• 12:17 a.m. - Doctor to nurse: "Give her (some small dose) of (something)" Me: "I need to push. Seriously. If I can't have more drugs, I feel like pushing. It's like having to poop, right? Let me push." Doctor: "Yes, you can push." Exit stage left, Grammy Jackie.
• 12:18 a.m. - A bit more Stadol. Not nearly enough, but enough that I find this focus outside of myself. Sort of like what people that have taken LSD describe - the ability to be outside yourself, but still aware of yourself. I can feel everything, but I have this little blue place with a lot of light where I can visualize this baby descending. I can feel her moving south as I push.
• 12:20 - 1:50 a.m. - Pushing. This is not easy, but it's so much better than letting a contraction rip your body to shreds. You fight back. Seriously. BIG breath. Grip these conveniently placed handles down by your hips, and PUSH. Inhale, HOLD/PUSH: 10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1 - Exhale, Inhale, HOLD/PUSH: 10,9,8....repeat. There are now breaks between contractions, thankfully. I keep asking, "Is she moving? Is it working?" Nurses: "Yes. You're fine. Just focus. Tuck your chin to your chest. Try to hold the tension between breaths and...." Inhale, HOLD/PUSH: 10, 9, 8,.... It's so crazy that I was sort of high, but I don't know what I would have done without the IV drugs. I could feel her head, I could feel the pressure, the stretching, more pressure. My abs fatigued on the third set of 10 in each contraction and I didn't know if I could go on. Nurse Ashley took a towel and tied a knot in one end and I gripped it. She pulled one end, I pulled the other end through a few contractions. I kept going to my blue place and feeling/seeing the head get closer and closer to being through. They told me they could see her hair. I could see her hair. I could.

Intermission for disgusting things:
Peeing on the staff - check
Tearing - check
Pooping - check, I think, but minor

• 1:40 a.m. - Doctor is in place and I'm pushing like a champion. There is a huge tray of surgical instruments off to his right, and I swear I almost panicked. Me: "Is everything normal? Are we getting there?" Everyone: "YES! Ready to go again? Let's push!" BREATHE, PUSH, VISUALIZE. Doctor is giving me local anesthetic, and it feels like tiny bee stings and I don't even flinch.
• 1:57 a.m. - Doctor: "OK! Here we go! PUSH. You're going to feel some burning. PUSH."

Result: Baby. 
Conceived on game day, born on game day. The circle is complete.

That random extra footage during the credits:
Stitches
Cutting the cord
Staring into crying baby face
Exhaustion, so much in fact that I needed Dan's arms to help me hold my baby for the first time because I am shaking with weakness
Holding baby for the first time
Photos
Random bouts of shuddering/shivering
Baby declared perfect
Dan shows me the Ducks score. My first laugh in hours.

Finale

• Oh, now the big question (say this with one of those sickly sweet voices, full of patronizing mommy-love syrup, that stupid people use): "Wasn't it all worth it when you held her in your arms for the first time?"
• Answer: I am not dignifying this question with a response.

Days, not weeks (or hours, not days?)

Dear baby girl (or boy?) Harper,

Our time "together" is almost over. From a flutter to a real moving-around person inside my belly, I can't believe this is going to happen soon. I'm actually getting excited, as being pregnant at this stage is uncomfortable, both in the physical sense of having an 8 lb. human squirming under my skin, and also that I'm fairly claustrophobic myself and am having a hard time thinking about you in there without feeling a little unhinged and anxious. It's soon time to come out. I just wish you'd be as portable, quiet, and low-maintenance out here as you have been in there. Not counting on it.

Love, (OH MY GOD I can't believe I'm writing the next word)
Mom

Overdue

I heard the story of a girl whose baby was well past the due date and she practically went feral with white hot rage. I think that might happen if we get too far past the mid-20s on the calendar. I also wonder if it would be fair to charge late fees on the baby if she doesn't come on time. The library standard is 25 cents per day, I'm thinking more like $25,000 per day assessed at the time she's ready to start begging for a new car when she turns 16 or decides that backpacking across Asia should be financed by Bank of Daddy. And if she's early or on time? Well, that's just good manners.

Topping out

The doctor says he thinks I've reached my peak weight since I haven't gained any more over the past 10 days. After nine months of carefully eating everything in sight and insisting on dessert nightly, I would like to set aside this space to sincerely thank some "special" folks for my genetic gifts of high energy, extreme metabolism, and borderline hyperactivity: the Hunt family.

What we lack in refinement, social niceties, and tact, we make up for in producing some hot (even while pregnant!) ass.

Drugs and advice

I don't mind advice about this kid business. Many women I've talked to complain about all of the unsolicited thoughts from friends and family about birth, feeding, sleeping, discipline, but I like to see and hear about what others are up to. The truth is: I'm going to do what I want, but I'm happy to take your well-intentioned advice into consideration.

The big question: will I get the epidural. Truth: depends. I am guessing that I will be such a bitch that someone is bound to tie me down and drug me at some point. Dan has been hiding under the covers reading books about anesthesiology.

Recent horrors

• Pooping my pants (well, a complex story, but this isn't far from the truth)
• Breaking down crying at lunch in the hospital cafeteria on the day of childbirth class (why did she pass around the giant steel salad tongs?)
• I think I saw a prostitute yesterday. Unrelated to being pregnant, yes, but a Goldboro prostitute is definitely a horror. Hot pink, skin-tight, tube-top body suit and no pants on a 5' 10" "curvy" women wearing pink stilettos walking down William Street? Yes. Not sure how business is at 3 pm, though.

Facebook

Dan is a passive member of the Facebook community, so I am not too worried about a minute-by-minute live feed of my life on the social sphere. We have an agreement that all delivery room photos that may include any part of my bare skin be pre-approved by me before any posting takes place.

This brings me to over-posting in general. My co-pregnant friend and I were complaining about the number and frequency of slimy newborns, ultrasound pics and the even-creepier 3D ultrasound pics on the newsfeed. The 3D version has always reminded me of that scene from Robocop where the dude is melting from an acid bath right before the car hits him and he splatters. Ugh. No thanks.

Me: "I also think its gross when people post a pic of the positive pregnancy test. That's a photo of pee."

Her: "What's next, a photo of the broken condom?"

Ha! Love.

non-stop service to...

dreaming (week 34) 

i'm sure all parents-to-be have nightmares about worst case scenarios. my dreams have been ramping up lately. there isn't anything to do about it, so i'm trying to stay calm. twice last week i dreamed that she is actually a he. now that i think carefully about it, could my little ditsy ultrasound tech actually be skilled enough to tell at 12 week old penis from a 12 week old vagina? that's just crazy. how could she know? she was guessing; i'm convinced. and i'm so looking forward to our little girl - pinked out, if you will - but i suppose a little cross-dresser boy will be welcome if s/he comes out with a different set of family jewels.

feeling great (week 35)

everyone asks 'how are you feeling?' everyone assumes i'll start to suffer any time now. any time. tick tock. i'm also waiting and watching the calendar. this little boxing gym inside my belly seems to enjoy mealtime and being in bed, and now i know how those awkward american tourists in europe feel when they lamely wear their 20-lb. backpacks on their front sides because they're terrified someone will steal their Rick Steves guidebook and Notre Dame snow globe. at least they could take their damn pack off and make someone else carry it for a few hours.

i can't touch (or see) my toes, i have a difficult time bending over for any reason, i roll out of bed and off of couches, but otherwise i feel fine. appetite: normal. sleeping: normal. aches and pains: normal. no cankles, ugly veins, or obesity issues. my ass is a tad bit larger and i am guessing some stretch marks will appear after the fact, but my hair is thick and glow-y, my skin is clear and glow-y, my boobs remain huge, and i was able to spend three hours trimming bushes and mulching said trimmings on saturday. three hours of yard work at 35 weeks along, and i felt rockstar-ish. 

brick wall (week 35.5, or 10 minutes after i finished writing the above section)

what has happened to my easy pregnancy??!? mild discomfort has turned into discomfort. i am practically waddling. i have experienced this Braxton-Hicks thing where you feel like you've eaten 100 Thanksgiving dinners and the skin is going to simply tear open any second. i can't walk more than two miles without wanting an hour-long nap. i tried to help dan in the yard this weekend and almost died from watching him - it was exhausting. i still was able to haul wheelbarrows of branches to the compost, clean the hot tub, plant some shrubs, and sweep the porch, but i needed a two-hour nap right in the middle of the day. 

i am hungry, often. right now, in fact, i could probably eat a meal. i don't have a sweet tooth, but twice this week already i've had a milkshake. goodbye ankles. crap. 

i normally just have to pee once per night. this week 2-3 times a night, easy. at least i'm still sleeping well. i can't start that insomnia shit, i need all the shut-eye i can bank. 

also, this child has easily doubled in size overnight. she is literally jabbing her joints and appendages out of my belly, making painful lumps that are almost grab-able. i looked for bruises multiple times. none yet, but holy crap, she's kicking my abs, and it seems to be non-stop. i thought they were supposed to sleep in there at some point? i hope this isn't foreshadowing. 

things i wish i didn't ever have to say: 

• i think i have a hemorrhoid 

saturday

• dan: football is on, want a beer? me: i hate you.

panic, episode I

a few months ago my friend went into labor and i was on "team late-night babysit." i was watching her talk to the OB nurse and have contractions. it was pretty intense. i asked her husband whether or not it was too late for me to get off this one-way train to Laborville. he said, "sorry, you've got your ticket punched. see you in a few months." at the time it was amusing. 

a few weeks later, at the doctor's office, i was asked about a birth plan - did i plan to make one? i said, does Harry Potter deliver babies? a magic wand would be preferred. ha. ha. no dice. 

today, based on the advice of a friend, i packed a hospital bag. jammies, undies, toothbrush, other things you don't want me to list, car seat, baby outfit, diapers. i was about finished, sitting on the floor of my lovely little baby room, and out came a full-on panic attack. 

i actually almost started crying - holy f$*(@ i am having a F#*$ing KID in less than a MONTH and it has to come out of my VAGINA or be cut out of my BELLY and i will probably need an IV and there are NEEDLES and then what if something is WRONG and THEN THEY ARE GOING TO GIVE THIS THING TO ME AND TELL ME TO TAKE IT HOME FOR-EV-ER!!!!! $(*$*#(@#)!#*$_@@#*4!!!!!?!?!??!?!?!?

i still think i am in a mild state of panic right now, actually, but i just baked a cake. hungry.

home alone

after bath

monday morning:
i feel like dying. i can't breathe, my heart is tight, and all of my muscles ache. i went to the doctor and they wanted to test my O2 levels because of my long days of travel this weekend. the test is called a blood gas and that bitch from the lab stabs your arm with an ice pick so all of the nerves light up like electric shock treatments and your bicep cramps. then she comes back and says i'm within normal range. the test, i think, made my adrenaline spike, so i recovered. the doctor thinks it was mild altitude sickness from the airplane.

monday afternoon:
i've slept for four hours since 10 a.m. my muscles still ache. the dog is looking at me with sad eyes. he needs a walk. i can't walk. it's too hot.

monday evening:
i have enough energy to get on my bike and take the dog around the two-mile loop so he can stop putting his nasty, soggy stuffed rat toy on my leg in protest of his confinement. i get the leash, and around halfway through my journey, my front tire goes completely flat. the bike is in protest of my extra 20 pounds. stupid bike. the dog has success in his mission of pooping. these tiny gnats are swirling all around me and it's pitch black. i only have one mile to go.

3 minutes later:
AHRGAAAHAHAHGRH!!! A fucking gnat flew right into my eye. It feels like acid. I almost crash my bike into the grass. An oncoming car flashes its  brights in my good eye. Tears are streaming down my face as I claw at the invisible gnat corpse burning my cornea. I am out of water and can't flush it out. I'm not sure I'm going to make it home.

10 minutes later:
i am home. i never want to leave again.

tuesday, via an email i sent to dan:

subject: crushing my will to live
I wish I was joking, but I'm not. The yard is crushing my will to live. I need to fire the maids and get a gardener. I know how to clean toilets, I don't know how to get this invasive grass to stop growing throughout the landscaping or how to demolish the growing infestation of carpenter ants that thrive in our forest. I think mulch isn't just for looks, it's for weed prevention. We made a mistake by not heavy mulching this spring, and now it looks so white trash. We will now need chemicals, fire and then to mulch heavy next spring. It's awful. The bushes are overgrown. The mosquitoes are eating me alive. The hanging baskets are almost dead. The dove eggs died. Henry ran away and I had to poo, so I left him outside. I have no clue where he is. Come home. I'm getting desperate.

30 minutes later:
the neighbor kids return henry. he's happy to have  seen his three friends again. i want to kick him.

wednesday morning:
the upstairs toilet won't flush all the way. if i ignore it, it will probably fix itself.

wednesday afternoon:
i feel so much better than monday. little baby is stabbing me with her extra sharp heel every chance she gets, but it's nice to have company. time for a midday walk with henry, and he's happy, too. so happy, in fact that he ran to the back yard after our walk to celebrate by shoulder-dropping into a pile of fetid, rotting mystery goo that smelled worse than anything i've smelled on the last 10 dairy farms i've visited. it wasn't recognizable as a corpse, maybe the result of high-temperature, high-humidity decomposition of the afterbirth of a small mammal after three days in the sun. i resisted the gag reflex. i. can't. puke. now. i ushered him into the shower and tried to bend over with my huge belly in the way to scrub him as he resists water and soap. it's awkward, baby is unhappy. i am winded and covered in dog hair, but after lather, rinse, repeat, repeat, henry's back to normal. i wish he would run away again.

dan returns in six days.

scrapbook moments - knocked up

The "how did you find out you were pregnant" story: 

Funny, that. I thought I was pregnant the month prior, but nothing going. So, I booked a trip to Pittsburg for an epic party weekend, I mean to attend our dear friends' elegant celebration of matrimony.

Now, I have made no secret of my love for the drink - but I am a moderate drinker, not a daily or binge-y drinker. This wedding was the annual exception to the rule. About 48 hours and 48 gin and tonics later, I wasn't sure I was going to ever recover from this undergraduate-esque hangover.

Sunday was miserable. Monday I woke up to bacon and eggs and OJ but still felt like crap. "Ugh, how can I still be hungover after not drinking for 24 hours? My head hurts, I want to puke, and my boobs ache."

**lightbulb moment** breast tenderness is not a symptom of hangover. it indicates the time when you need to pee on a stick.

Luckily the OB nurse said that drinking doesn't effect the little fella at that early stage. I freakin' hope she's right.

The "when did you get pregnant" story:

This isn't an oft-requested party tale, but some people have asked. What you do is punch in some dates the doctor gives you from the ultrasound on this handy Internet calculator. It can tell you the most likely DAY that your little lonely egg met her perfect sperm mate.

Now, this may be too much for you, but face facts: I had s-e-x sometime between late December and early January. Sack up and read on.

Anyway, my calculator happily reported that Baby H was conceived on the very day that the Oregon Ducks won the 2012 Rose Bowl. Fitting. I had a lot of extra energy and anxiety before kickoff. Enough said.

For months I referred to her as Kiko Black Mamba Lamichael Kelly, or Kiko for short. Dan was pleased, not.

Things I never thought I'd say:  

• "Oh, sweet, they have O'Douls!" 
• "I peed my pants, again. But just a tiny bit this time." 
• "I can't see to shave my bikini line. How bad is it?" 
• "I need to pick up a bigger bra this week."  
• "Touch my belly." 

Things I never thought I'd hear:  

• "Wow! Your boobs are huge!" 

Nice moment, or raging hormones: 

The other day I felt her move as a whole person. I think there was either a butt or a head jabbing me, all round and discernible. Then, all at once I feel four limbs. It wasn't clear whether it was hands, elbows, knees, or feet, but it was four distinct limbs. The first time I saw a person versus an abstraction.

The next day I was driving through the Wisconsin countryside, and I sort of had this overwhelming sense that I loved this new person. How can you love someone you've never met and/or barely recognize as human most of the time? A mystery of nature, but a lovely emotional bath. I hope I get more of that soon.

Not so nice moment, or raging hormones 

Mood swings are real. I have a very powerful temper and can rage with a full biting tirade if provoked. Luckily, these occasions are as infrequent as they are memorable, normally.

While some pregnant women cry and others worry, I get white hot rage. Literally, my face blanches and my arms and chest get hot and I have the instant compulsion to throw something. The yelling, throwing, cursing outburst is immediately followed by the equally powerful wash of shame. It's like being a two-year-old all over again. Instead of tossing my sippy cup on the floor, I'm chucking the heavy-duty dog leash clasp at Dan's head. Crap.

The worst part is feeling it happening and not being able to stop. I say "whitehotrage" and try to plead with my eyes for the other person help in diffusing me. Dan fails miserably by telling me, in a very annoyed way, to calm down and stop being crazy. This only escalates the problem.

On the other hand, Mom has simply hung up on me and then texted, "I love you. Call you tomorrow." So simple and effective. Amy froze like a deer in the headlights and changed the subject, also a successful strategy.

I do find myself having more empathy for toddlers. They don't have impulse control, can't communicate their frustrations, act out, and then - the very worst part - feel so ashamed after realizing they are in the wrong that they want to die rather than have to apologize to their righteous accuser.

Perks

I got a free bagel the other day. At the airport others generously carried, lifted and loaded my luggage. I get more smiles (often directed at previously mentioned cleavage and then immediately replaced by horror as the eyes travel further south to the belly. Yes, hot, 30-something fellow airport traveler, you just checked out a pregnant chick). I am offered seats and rides from strangers. I have an "in" with people who like kids as they assume I'm one of these glowing, happy new mother types who want to bask in pregnancy bliss - this has paid off in getting priority seating on an airplane, with clients, and at the dentist (extra toothpaste samples!).

Can the baby read my mind?

Although I am changing, I can feel it, I haven't fundamentally changed. I am still an abrasive personality with a tendency to lean far too close to the inappropriate side of things. Is the baby reading my mind? She's a little too young, yet, for my high level sarcasm, but maybe she is soaking in some bitter juices. I need more of that love shower thing.

Cuteness

The checker at Goldsboro's urban Wal-Mart (read: ghetto) said to me, "You're the cutest pregnant girl I've ever seen!"

My first reaction: "Uh, look around, we are in a Wal-Mart in central Goldsboro. If I'm not in the top 10, I would feel depressed." It would be like having a British dentist say my teeth are lovely. Seriously, I know what you put up with, so my teeth better make your wall of fame.

I'm not just saying that about Goldsboro, either. My doctor actually said, when discussing my weight, "Almost ALL of my non-pregnant patients wish they weighed what you do at six months. Don't tell anyone in the waiting room or you might get beat up."

My cuteness seems more of a geography issue than an appearance issue - the relativity theory. Although, I'm not too gross and flabby yet. Fingers crossed.

 --- This is as close as I get to a journal. I don't want to forget some of these charming life moments.

what a baby feels like inside my belly - month 7

The thing about newborn babies that I've always been a little intimidated by is their water balloon style poor posture and lack of head control. They don't seem breakable in the traditional dry pasta sort of way, but more squishable or flexible in the gross cirque de soleil sort of way.

I just don't want to accidentally squish or flex something the wrong direction. So, now at 7 months, I'm wondering how she can be so strong and painful up against my ribs, but really so squishy that I fear I'll crush her when I roll over halfway onto my belly at night.

Lately, it's like a set of billiard balls rolling around in there. I can see the skin move as they pass each other and often imagine that  click sound you hear when you shoot pool. The billiard ball has always seemed like a great weapon to have in a bar fight if you have decent aim or a good grip, so heavy and eerily dangerous for a sphere. How can she feel so heavy and strong and multi-spherical? She's powerful. My right abdomen often has a slight burning pain as she shoves the cue ball up under my ribs.

Also, we've had our first hiccups. That's just like feeling a little heartbeat, but instead she's probably annoyed that she can't get rid of them by swallowing a teaspoon of sugar or holding her breath.

Dan has also spent a lot of time with his blazing hot hands on my belly. He'd love to try out this pregnancy thing, in theory, and loves feeling her move, especially as she adds new techniques. The other day as she was showing off her billiard/boxing gym/butterfly moves, he said, "It's like she's in there with a hammer trying to bang out some room as if your belly is a crushed fender." Yep. That sounds about right.

what a baby feels like inside my belly

at first, a butterfly. a flutter. a first kiss. like that feeling when you first drop off the tall part of a roller coaster, but this time the feeling is so brief you wonder if it's just an odd gas bubble or an effect from yesterday's yoga class. but then it happens again, and you can recognize that it's different.

later, a twitch. like when your eyelid starts twitching and you can't stop it and it sort of tickles. 

then a thump. like when the dentist has your mouth all numbed up but the anesthetic is starting to wear off and you can feel pressure, so you flick your cheek with your middle finger to make sure it's still attached. it's like that.

later, a jab. most people say, "oh, she's kicking." she does kick, i suppose, but how am i supposed to know if it's a kick or a slap or a kiss with a fist? so, it's a jab. i'm not sure what body parts are moving which ways, but all of a sudden there will be a pretty decent knock to the belly wall coming from the inside. this one's hard to explain because i don't think there's anything like it. but, you can feel it on the outside by now.

sometimes, a strum. imagine if your ab muscles were stretched to tension, like guitar strings. and then a little tiny foot or hand or knee moved quickly across one of them, catching just slightly so that if it was an instrument it would produce a loud, clear note. it's not comfortable, but not painful. she's quite the musician on my insides.

lately, a bucket of lizards or snakes or eels or other slithery reptiles who are wrapped up in a knot like those snakes on that one Indiana Jones movie that they tried to serve for dinner. imagine what that big snake felt like with all those baby snakes writhing around inside. across the belly to the left, and then a flip or a spin, sliding all about. and you can see it and feel it from the outside. to dan it feels like a flutter, to me it feels like a zoo.

lately, a constant combination.

and i still have three months left.

thanks, El Jefe, for reminding me to write this stuff down.

redneck riviera or "You punched me in the face, Kyle."

it has been almost nine years since I last visited the state of Florida. after two weeks of wonder, I'm glad to see that nothing much has changed down in the panhandle. my time here during the summer of 2003 inspired me to begin blogging before blogging even existed.

i was a waitress working the day shift at The Reef, a combination biker bar and fish restaurant, where, because I had no children at the geriatric age of 23, the others asked if I was barren. where the "fresh coconut shrimp" was frozen and the cocktail sauce was often stirred up in a five-gallon bucket by the busboy, using his bare arm. where Linda, the chain-smoking bartender told stories about her 10 children - one in jail for grand theft auto, one a fry cook at Hog Heaven (a BBQ joint down the beach), one pregnant, one in the marching band, one in diapers...and it went on.

but it wasn't just the reef - it was the stock car races where beer came in buckets, the greyhound track where t-shirts read things like "How 'bout a nice warm glass of shutcha mouth," and the everyplace where no respectable mullet was shorter than shoulder length. the long days on the beach, the long nights at the Flora-Bama, and the idea that paradise means something different to everyone, and everyone can find his paradise, were inspiring and hilarious from my Oregon perspective. i began sending choice emails to friends and family chronicling my time here - primitive blogs.

well, i'm back, and here is my choice email after two weeks of sunny Panama City Beach:

Day 1: I don't give a shit if you're driving straight-through, 26 hours from Maine with your "Disneyworld or Bust" finger paintings all over every window of your damn Dodge Caravan, please move the f*ck OVER on the I-95 when you see me coming up behind you. There are two lanes for a reason - not fast and slow as people think - but passing and cruising. I'm passing. You're just an asshole.

Day 2: With 669 miles of sandy beaches in the state, why is Henry only legally allowed on 669 feet of them? Seriously, my dog is cleaner than half of the cigarette flicking Alabama tourists, and I follow him around with an arsenal of plastic bags to scoop his poo. He doesn't swim much, and he can't catch any wildlife unless it's almost dead (or already dead, as we'll find out tomorrow). He's harmless, so get us some bigger dog beaches, Florida. Or ban the other animals, too.

Day 3: When Henry disappears behind a large dumpster near the ocean, bad things are probably going to happen approximately three hours later. Bad, smelly, horrible things on the hotel room couch. (Unrelated side note: Try Marco's Pizza, it's delicious.)



Day 4: Pregnant people lying on sunny, sandy beaches are sad when their husbands are doing the same, but the husbands are enjoying ice-cold Corona.

Day 5: I'm starting to doubt people who favor dogs over cats. Lizzie slept the entire 12 hour car journey not begging me for a walk, using a designated toilet area, avoiding getting wet and rolling in sand, and tossing her cookies in our 150-square-foot hotel room exactly zero times to Henrys' three. Lesson: Sharing a hotel room with your cat is decidedly less stinky and sandy than sharing it with your canine. (Unrelated side note: Try Sweet Racks, it's delicious.)

Day 6:

The scene - 10 p.m. in a crowded La Quinta parking lot, cicadas buzzing in the jungle nearby. Man 1, sitting on prone Man 2's chest on the asphalt. Man 3 nearby with can of beer. Two women, southern accents, yelling. Two pit bull dogs. Drunkenness is obvious.

Man 1: "You punched me in the face, Kyle."

Man 2 (Kyle): "You're sitting on me."

All people: Expletives

Man 1: "All this over a damn girl!"

Action: Kyle, struggles to get up. Women outraged. Dogs passive and bored.

Enter stage left: Bay County Sheriff cruiser.

All people: Expletives.

Exit stage left: Me

Fin 

Day 7: I am dangerously close to failing the prescribed one-pound-per-week weight gain recommended by the M.D. Missing: Vegetables. Oh, there they are! In the deep-fat fryer.

Day 8: Nine summers ago, Dan took me on a lazy-float canoe adventure on the Blackwater River. Halfway downstream, we moored on a sandy beach for a romantic picnic where he presented me with a diamond ring and an invitation to be his person forever. As I accepted enthusiastically, our celebration was punctuated by the almost immediate opening of the heavens in a torrential, violent Florida downpour. Between the lightning and the thunder, I asked, "Is this a sign?" Almost a decade later, I believe it certainly was a sign. (Insert appropriate song lyric/sentimental quote re: weathering storms and/or metaphor re: life as river, here).


Day 9: I recently noticed that we've been packing around some of the same old junk for nearly a decade. Things we acquired in Florida '02 that we are using on our vay-stay-cay in '12 - two beach towels, one Coleman water jug, one Coleman wheelie cooler, two University of Florida jersey coozies. Some cheap junk is actually built to last.

Day 10: I love the word "housekeeping" when it refers to someone else doing it.

Day 11: Florida fact - If you order ice cream sundaes and eat them while walking, the net calorie gain is zero. The pace and distance of the walk is irrelevant.

Day 12: I have never visited the ocean without somehow returning home with a new collection of seashells. Note: I don't collect seashells; I don't "collect," in general. I will, however, diligently protect and display Dan's treasure and try really, really hard not to "accidentally" misplace or crush any of them.

Day 13: We decided to end our summer vacation with a final glorious day on the nearly empty stretch of dog-friendly beach that we discovered mid-stay. During our three-hours in the sand and surf there were three torrential downpours, one dog that insisted on drinking stagnant tidal pool salt water and then swimming in it, and a vicious and day-ending attack of biting flies. Best laid plans.

Day 14: Please add Savannah, Georgia, to the "places I would rather live" list.

valley girl

every time someone lets me out of Goldsboro, i get lifestyle envy. all of the people eating at sidewalk cafes after hot yoga and before valet parking at the tapas bar for dinner...oh, why isn't any of that stuff in my town?

but southern california is a bit of a stretch - it's nice and shiny and full of (suddenly dead) celebrities (RIP W.H.), but it is way out of my normal.

Goldsboro: parking as far away from other cars as possible to avoid idiot drivers when shopping at Carlie's IGA for multiple types of pork products (rinds, chitlins, souse, skins, bacon, chops, etc.)
Southern California: sitting on the patio at Whole Foods watching two matching white Range Rovers fight over a parking space while eating an organic banana and reading the Jewish Journal

Goldsboro: a recent hepatitis B outbreak at Tootie Frootie, a sketchy new frozen yogurt establishment next to a Mexican restaurant that doesn't serve Corona (blasphemy!)
Southern California: eating a lavender-lemon gourmet popsicle at a popsicle-only establishment called "Suck It" in a town called "Studio City."

Goldsboro: hoping my dog doesn't eat a dead turtle in the backyard and get sick on my Turkish carpet (again)
Southern California: driving down a single street with two doggie day cares, a 24-hour veterinarian, a U-Wash-Doggie laundropet, two organic dog food stores, and a hound hotel (four diamonds, i'm sure)

Goldsboro: Wal-Marts - 2
Southern California: Wal-Marts - 0

Goldsboro: normal house price - $180K
Southern California (for same house): $1.8 million

nice for a visit, but not sure i could swing it long-term. but, if it gets me out of G-boro, I could give it a try.

Lifestyle envy: The painful and resentful awareness that others, outside of one's current geographic location, enjoy life advantages that may include Wal-mart free grocery shopping, sidewalks/cycling paths (possibly with cafes/other cyclists), non-Jesus-based bookstores, and cultural events not centered solely around the cooking of pork products. This awareness is joined with a strong desire to possess the advantages of those others.