Sep
7
All Pink Is Not Salmon
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, J.Q. the Sna-que, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 8 Comments
His hands are small, sticky and perpetually wriggling free from mine.
His ambitions are bigger than his britches. The latter are a petite 2T, the former a grandiose “dismantle entire Western hemisphere (and possibly insert into mouth)”.
He’s big enough to scale the obstacles, small enough to require abundant kisses when he falls off. The most constant refrain is also the most futile: “J.Q., stay near mommy.”
Literally, figuratively… doesn’t work for either one. Time and toddlers are both way more stubborn than me.
Time has seemed especially fleeting as of late. Months pass like bites of cotton candy… bursts of sweetness which dissolve almost instantly. He periodically refuses to sit on my lap, spurning my advances with a devilish grin and a squeaky, “No! Go away, mommy!”
One day, “periodically” will become “frequently”. One day, “frequently” will become permanent. He will giggle, slide to the floor and never look back. It will happen before I know it. He’s already two (”… an’ a half!”, as he reminds me).
It’s thrilling and heartbreaking.
I want him to explore the world, the solar system, to discover far-flung galaxies made entirely of molybdenum.
I want a million more Toddler Astronomy Lessons… lying next to a Sagan in dinosaur pajamas, being kicked by tiny warm feet and regaled with tales of how, “It nighttime… the moon comes! When sun comes, it gonna be… daytime! Evybody get up!”
I want his sense of joyous adventure to persist long after he’s left the lap.
I want this to happen, even as it’s killing me.
What I don’t want? Is another baby.
For years – even prior to his birth – I’d envisioned J.Q. having siblings. My sisters and I are extremely close; our bond has been a frequent comfort (and occasional lifesaver). The concept of what I wanted for myself didn’t even register on my consciousness. It was an equation even my math-challenged brain could comprehend… siblings were good, I wanted good things for my child, ergo, producing a few more chilluns would be desirable.
Then my marriage collapsed, my life changed and the math got a lot more complicated.
August 1st, 2006. Independence Day. I tossed a few lawn ‘n leaf bags full of clothing into my Civic and hit the highway. Not quite “Easy Rider”, but still the wildest trip I’ve ever taken. Literally overnight, I went from doing the majority of the childcare in a dull, far-flung suburb to sharing half-’n-half custody while living in the heart of a major (if slightly urine-dampened) metropolitan area.
I fell in instantaneous love with the city. It was surly, grimy, difficult and entirely mine. I loved my block. I loved my neighborhood. But I especially loved a tiny stretch of I-676, just north of Center City. It’s a magical patch of macadam if ever there were one. You’re tooling along, surrounded by nothing but asphalt, contemplating ordering a pizza for dinner… then you make a tight left, and you’re suddenly ENVELOPED by Philadelphia. It swells around you on all sides, twinkly and bright and enormous. You are hurtling straight towards the center of a place where anything can happen.
Not to kill a perfectly lovely analogy, but my life didn’t always feel like that little stretch of highway. Much of the time, it felt like certain areas of West Philly… circuitous, confusing and terrifying.
However, the feelings of excitement and potential never fully waned. Sometimes – as I fumbled through challenges and gained a modicum of self-confidence – they were massive. They sprawled across the entire skyline.
I wasn’t at all sure of my course. But I could feel myself being gently propelled forward… away from an unexamined life which had never really felt like my own, toward something brand-new, uncertain and scary, but definitely, unequivocally mine. Each aspect was carefully considered, wiggled into place, lab-tested again and again. Certain things immediately “clicked”… running, brutal honesty, walking home from work and letting the baby throw things in each and every fountain we encountered.
Other things took time. Relationships, responsibility, managing to wash the dishes before the apartment turned into Fruit Fly Island.
Some things just never seemed right. When I thought about having more children – immediately, at some nebulous future point, ever – my reaction was always complex. I’d imagine holding a tiny newborn against my bare chest. I’d sigh and smile. I’d imagine the late nights, the tears, the milestones, the sacrifice. I’d tense. I’d imagine embarking upon full-time parenting once again. My personal time, drastically reduced. My ability to pursue my own interests, harshly curtailed. My chances to revel in unabashed selfishness? More or less annihilated.
And I’d go out of my mind with terror and claustrophobia.
I’m a good mom to J.Q. Rather, I try to be… I’m a bit distrustful of anyone who claims to be a “good parent”; like being a good person, it’s a continuous process. The effort must be renewed each day. So I try. I let him know how much he’s loved. I give him relatively free reign to explore, experiment and play. I celebrate his quirks. I nudge him towards some semblance of morality. I buy him eminently cool shoes.
Do I love the almighty hell out of my kid? Yes.
Do I love parenting him? Yes, I adore it.
Every single minute? No.
Do I love the idea of parenting in general, outside of my own somewhat-unique situation? No. Absolutely not.
At first, I worried that sharing custody would make me a worse mother… that my parenting acumen was directly tied to the number of hours logged with my kid.
If that sentiment were any further from the truth, it’d have to be included in J.Q.’s Enormous Honking Book of Fairy Tales.
I’ve been a half-time parent for a little over a year. I am much, much better at this than full-time parenting. I’m happier. J.Q. is happier. I can’t imagine going back.
When I’m with J.Q., I’m with J.Q. I’m not distracted by housework, hobbies or other errata - I try my damndest to take care of those on non-custodial days. I’m not teetering on the brink of burnout - I’m never more than a few days removed from a break, complete with adult libations, extra sleep, and eerie silence. My interests and J.Q.’s interests don’t often conflict… they each have their time to be fulfilled.
Sound like luxuries? They are. They were bought at the expense of time with my child. While I cherish my personal time, I also miss the hell out of my little boy. I wonder about how he’s doing, what acts of cute devilry he’s plotting. Sometimes, I feel guilty. Sometimes, deeply so.
Nonetheless, our current arrangement feels right. Not right for everyone, of course… but it works for us. Parenting, Version One never felt this comfortable and copacetic. I was permanently exhausted. My stress level rarely dipped below the “OH HOLY SHIT!!!” range. I had a hard time summoning up energy, enthusiasm or much sentiment beyond nose-to-the-grindstone determinism.
Things would be different today, of course. There would be a different spouse… different living situation… different experiences… different me.
It’s the last item which makes the real difference, of course.
The spouse, the house, the atlas of scars to guide my path… they’re largely irrelevant. I’m different. Siblings might be in J.Q.’s best interests. However, my interests now get a say. They’re a frustrating bunch… inconsistent and often unintelligible. However, one sentiment almost always seems to rise above the din. It’s one of my son’s favorite’s, too: “Noooooo!”
Why would I want anything less for myself than I want for my child?
I want to explore, to branch out, to try and do and touch and feel.
I want to retain that little spark. I want to burn down a brushfield with it, race away with a grin on my face and embers in my hair.
I want a gamut of feelings as broad as Lake Baikal and as deep as the Marianas Trench. I want memories of both locales… being a speck of static on a vast field of gray frost, bobbing languidly above something unimaginably deep.
I want these things for J.Q., which is why I want him to grow up. It kills me, it really does… he’s three feet tall. He uses an assortment of pronouns. He can solve problems which would stump your average reality-TV participant.
The baby years are over, for both of us. Because I want these things for me… or at least the opportunity to pursue them. Further years of child-rearing would put me further away from my goals and aspirations. Of course I’d love any hypothetical future kids… but that’s not even close to sufficient reason to have them. I’d take a bullet for J.Q., but I’m not going to encourage the universe to start taking potshots.
I hope - fervently - that my reluctance to have more children isn’t viewed as a reflection of my feelings on J.Q. He’s the love of my life. Being his mother has been more profound than the greatest (or the schmaltziest) writer could ever express.
My heart is already tethered to his… wound up tight with Kevlar cord. Is it any wonder that it throbs so furiously when he’s scared or upset?
That tie will remain even after his hand slips out of mine. It will still hurt. The ache won’t - and couldn’t - be soothed by the presence of another, tinier hand.
I want these things for us. Having tasted potential, I’ll be better suited to describe it to J.Q. Having been suffused with hope and excitement, I’ll be able to give them proper reverence.
I want him to dig his fingers into the damp sand on the beach at Pitcairn Island.
I want him to fall in love.
Hands and hearts.
May ours go wherever they wish.
Aug
27
A Birth Story - Pt. IV
Filed Under A Birth Story, Best Of, J.Q. the Sna-que, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 10 Comments
| Pt. I Pt. II Pt. III Pt. IV |
2:05 PM : a United States Marine can field-strip his M16 in three minutes. Baby Mill Memorial Hospital can prep a delivery suite for business in about the same amount of time. Both enterprises feature a good deal of sweating, cursing and grunting. Only one of them, however, offers the option of an overhead mirror for your viewing pleasure.
“No… no… mirror,” I eke out as nurses and med students swarm the bed. I’m usually quite eager to watch any medical derring-do; “America’s Most Thrilling Cranial Lawn Dart Extractions” is my idea of fine prime-time programming. In this case, however, I feel it might be prudent to minimize distractions.
It’s showtime.
Well… not strictly speaking. I haven’t gotten any “push pains”, overwhelming urges to bear down or little bottled-up notes from the Uterine Archipelago reading “OKAY, TIME TO PUSH NOW.”
However, I’m incredibly fed up with labor. Labor sucks a big fat speculum. I want to do something - anything - other than continue to be ravaged by contraction after incessant, Pitocin-amped contraction. As “have a nice tumbler of single-malt in the sitting room with the lads” isn’t an option… I elect to push.2:10 PM : A Few Words of Advice From Dr. Professional
“Start pushing on the count of three. Don’t hold your breath. Ready?”
Ready as I’ll ever be, cap’n.
2:12 AM : After spending hours in relative silence, it’s a relief to be able to talk once again.
Well, “talk” is something of a misnomer.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
It’s a scream typically heard in more phallocentric venues… gymnasiums, rubgy fields, World’s Strongest Man competitions. It’s the sound of extreme exertion mixed with deep personal satisfaction. And while I’m not using my uterus to, say, drag a mobile home across a football field, I’m suffused with a similar level of macho pride. I’m delighted to finally be DOING something… something which, wonder of wonders, doesn’t hurt one bit. As a matter of fact, I feel fantastic. I share this sentiment with the medical staff.
“PUSHING ROCKS!” I shriek.
The medical student to my left giggles. I dig my sweaty head into the pillow and grin.
“Okay, another push?” asks Dr. Professional.
“YES! I’M NOT YELLING BECAUSE IT HURTS I’M YELLING BECAUSE THIS IS PRETTY INTENSE BUT IT’S GOOD I LIKE THIS PART!” I say, bracing myself for another round.
“Ready?”
“YES! AAAAGGGHHHH!”
In between primal screams and giggles, I furrow my brow, bear down and push harder than Salt, Pepa and Spinderella combined. Baby-Daddy and the cadre of med students cluster around my upper half, holding my splayed legs, murmuring encouragements. Dr. Professional patrols Birth Canal Concourse, briskly massaging the exit ramp and dispatching orders.
“Push harder,” she snaps, “Harder!”
Erm… excuse me? Are my shrieks not quite hearty enough? Have I burst an insufficient quantity of facial blood vessels?
Oh, I’ll give you harder, bitch!, I think. I take a deep breath, bear down and pretend I’m trying to expel Orson Welles rather than a being the size of an Oven Stuffer Roaster.
“Harder! Try to push HARDER! Look, look, dad… you can see the head!”
“DON’T YOU DARE - ”
Baby-Daddy scampers to the foot of the bed before I can dissuade him, whether verbally or via a vigorous jab to the scrotum. I sigh. So much for that particular illusion remaining intact. Baby-Daddy seems more excited than repulsed, however. As he returns to my side, Dr. Professional resumes her litany.
“Harder!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!”
“Harder! One more push! One more!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!”
“Just one more!”
“Hey, you just SAID thatTTTTTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!”
Dr. Professional’s hands, previously just “busy”, are now twisting and turning as though she were conduction the London Philharmonic.
“This is the last one!” she barks, “Push!”
There is no pain… just pressure and single-minded purpose. I clench my fists, give one last emphatic push…
2:32 PM : … and seconds later, a beaming Dr. Professional is holding up my child.
“Look at all that HAIR!” she says.
“Look at all that HAIR!” say the nurses.
“Look at all that HAIR!” says Baby-Daddy.
It is the first thing one tends to notice… J.Q. has a wild mop of jet-black hair. His eyes are closed, seemingly in a scowl. “What the hell’s going on here?” he seems to be thinking, “I was just settling in! I was going to put in a wet bar!”
I’m given a cursory glimpse of the kiddo before he’s whisked away to be weighed, wiped off and Apgar’d. His first cry comes as the nurses administer a bath. Apparently, warm tapwater and sterile towlettes are a piss-poor substitute for the comforts of the womb. J.Q. howls in protest, I keep a wary eye on the proceedings and hospital staff bustle about. As my de-gooed and blanket-wrapped infant is placed in my arms, the reality of the situation hits me.
“Hey! I did it without drugs!”
Baby-Daddy gives a brief, bemused smile and adjusts J.Q.’s blanket. The baby’s tiny hands are identical to my own; I tuck one into my palm and grin. We have a gorgeous, healthy little son… the specifics of his arrival should be largely irrelevant. However, I can’t help but feel tickled. I survived labor - labor augmented by Pitocin, the bat-wielding thug of obstetric medications - armed with nothing more than grim resolve and a few sips of apple juice. There is a miniature human snoozing on my chest… squished-faced, cone-headed and much beloved. And save a few ministrations from the nimble-fingered Dr. Professional, he was ushered into the world via force of will alone. I should be exhausted… instead, I’m exhilarated. I’ve spent years as a Zen master of self-loathing. Feeling this powerful, confident and competent is a better drug than any of the controlled substances available down the hall.
Dr. Professional appears with a clipboard and a smile. “You really ought to teach pushing classes!” she says. I grin and blush. “Oh… well… y’know… those damned contractions…”. Immediately after she leaves, my fantastic mother-in-law walks in the door bearing a celebratory post-labor meal of takeout barbecue. The room smells like baby powder and hickory smoke, both intoxicating.
The following weeks will be difficult… exponentially harder than delivery. There will be nursing problems, sleep deprivation, guilt, doubts and projectile defecation. However (as Dick Valentine says), the future is the future; I’ll surf those choppier waves when they arrive. For the moment, I’m at peace with the world, awash in residual endorphins, enjoying a pulled-pork sandwich (and being careful not to drip sauce onto J.Q.’s spiky black ‘do). Life is a struggle, parenthood particularly so. They’re deep and complicated, unruly fractals. This moment, however, is a single crystal… the essence of simplicity and clarity. My belly’s full of cornbread, my heart is bursting with love. I cover J.Q. in kisses. His tiny nose feels like it was custom-designed for the contour of my lips. It - and him, and me, and this, and the world - is absolutely perfect.
Aug
23
A Birth Story - Pt. III
Filed Under A Birth Story, J.Q. the Sna-que, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 3 Comments
| Pt. I Pt. II Pt. III |
1:30 PM : Really, really awful pain is a lot like really, really fantastic sex. You’ll have to bear with me on this one.
When ratcheted up to a certain level, both agony and ecstasy become more than physical sensations, or even smorgasboards of sensation. Sometimes it’s with a wail, sometimes it’s with a whisper… but eventually, it all goes supernova. Walls are vaporized, lines of demarcation char and flake away. What you’re feeling is everything, everywhere. A whole world in a cramped single bed. Indianapolis to Indochina in the creases of the sheets.
It is a plane of existence with overeager hands and sharp fingernails. All your running, writhing and caterwauling only tighten its grip.
In the case of pleasure, of course you want to press against it. Tension begets tension, and tension is delicious. Friction begets friction, the kind that urges you a little deeper down the rabbit-hole, that twists your hair a bit tighter around its fist.
This is not a sex story, however. That was nine months ago. It is now a labor story, and to say that the context has changed would earn you the Understatement of the Year Award, as well as a soul-cauterizing stare of incredulity from our protagonist.
The fourth dimension has lost all importance (as have the other three, the bastards). People, places, things… irrelevant. World events? Of no consequence. There is only pain – pain which cannot be described as “sharp”, “dull”, “achy”, “crampy”… really, by any term other than “omnipresent”. Movie villains are perpetually threatening to administer “a world of pain”. It would appear that I’ve relocated to said locale.
Mere minutes after the first squirt of Pitocin trickled down my IV, I thought, “Oh… fuck. Not in Kansas anymore!” A few seconds after that? “Okay, champ… so how do we hold it together until we get back to the farm?” Yes, my conscious mind talks like a high school football coach. It gives my superego the occasional hearty ass-slap, too.
You don’t fight against the pain. That would exacerbate it a hundredfold. You don’t tense - feel those fingers against your trachea? Do you really want them to dig any deeper? You don’t cry, scream, rend your hospital gown or fling your whale song CD across the room like a rainbow-festooned throwing star.
You make like Modest Mouse - you float on. You make like Jeff Spicoli - you surf. You make like Ron Jeremy and you ride that bitch… as long. And as hard. As it fucking takes.
How I discovered this, I haven’t the slightest idea. Luck and desperation, most likely. But for the past few hours, I’ve relaxed my body, focused my mind and managed to perch atop the wave of contractions. I’m still in the ocean. But thankfully, amazingly, I’m not going under.
Balance? Not me. Born a klutz. Perpetually speckled with bruises. Fear of drowning and Dodge Caravan-sized squid kind of precluded surfing. Never really cool enough to mount a skateboard. Failure to master the art of skipping earned me amazed scorn and a “NEEDS IMPROVEMENT” from my preschool gym teacher.
And yet here I am. I’ve found the balance. Didn’t even bash my forehead against the doorjamb while looking for it.
Breathe, relax, be still. Be quiet. Go inward. Totally in. Ouroburos ain’t got nothing on you. Breathe.
Breathe.
Medical personnel wander in and out. They adjust the electronic fetal monitor, ask questions I refuse to answer and increase my Pitocin levels. Baby-Daddy hovers, anxious, sympathetic and (thankfully) silent. I surf the pain, primarily from the confines of my bed. Visits to the bathroom, while soothing (lots of cool tile and industrial disinfectant), are curtailed by the nurses (”Let’s try to keep these trips closer to five minutes than fifteen”, chastizes one).
Amazingly, even from deep within the maelstrom of pain, my elementary school Voice of Shame is still quite audible.
“YOU HAVE TO MAKE SURE NOT TO POOP WHILE PUSHING!” it instructs at one point, “THAT WOULD BE EVEN WORSE THAN THE TIME YOU DRANK TOO MUCH CHOCOLATE MILK BEFORE LIBRARY HOUR AND WOUND UP PEEING YOURSELF AGAINST THE CARD CATALOGUE!”
“IS YOUR BUTT HANGING OUT?” it inquires at another point. I’m on the floor, on my hands and knees, rocking back and forth and counting backwards by fives.
I was walking back to bed following an illicit bathroom break; the pain spiked before I got there. Voice of Shame is highly amused. “I THINK YOUR BUTT’S HANGING OUT! WATCH OUT, FOLKS, THERE’S A FULL MOON OVER THE LABOR PAVILION!”, it crows. “Seventy-FIVE, seventy, sixty-FIVE, SHUT UP!”, I say.
After a few minutes, I pull myself back upright. I clumsily remount the bed. I prop myself up on my hands. I relax, and I breathe.
1:50 PM : Garbo ain’t got nothin’ on me. After hours of nothing but hissed breaths and tiny sighs, I finally speak.
“This… can’t… continue,” I tell Baby-Daddy. My face is chalk-white, my eyes wide. I’ve been surfing, surfing hard… and suddenly, without warning, I feel like I’m about to be pulled under. A few minutes ago, I inadvertently tensed up; the pain became indescribably worse. I’m worried that I won’t be able to stop myself from doing it again. It’s going to happen. And it’s going to swallow me.
“You want me to tell the doctor?” he asks, taking my hand. I nod mutely.
1:55 PM : “Let’s see if you’re dilated enough for an epidural!”, chirps Dr. Professional, “Hopefully you’ll be up to four or five, so we can get the anaesthesiologist in here”. Dr. Professional is an older woman, tidy gray crewcut, all business. She lays me flat, splays my legs… and emits a very uncharacteristic cluck.
“What do you know?”, she says, “You’re at nine centimeters!”
Huh, I think, that would certainly explain a lot.
Extricating her rubber-gloved hand from my Love Canal, Dr. Professional pauses for a moment. “Whenever you feel like pushing, you just let us know,” she says.
Pushing? Pushing, meaning I push out a baby? And this horrific process will be over? My body doesn’t feel like pushing… my body feels nothing but wretchedness. My mind, however, ever the sensible party, is settled.
“Now,” I say, “I want to push NOW.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
Aug
14
A Birth Story - Pt. II
Filed Under A Birth Story, J.Q. the Sna-que, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 3 Comments
| Pt. I Pt. II Pt. III |
8:00 AM: State of the Ute Address
Sack o’ amniotic goodness: officially breached!
Private room: officially obtained!
General mood: wheeeeeeeee!
Was that a contraction?: fuck, yeah!
The sun is up, the birds are delivering spirited avian renditions of Broadway classics and we are kickin‘ back in the Labor Suite. The Labor Suite is part of the hospital’s brand-new Julius and Ethel Rosenberg Memorial Baby-Poppin‘ Pavilion. It is nicer than some hotel rooms I’ve visited. Hell, it may be nicer than my house (my delicate condition having led to a rather indelicate degree of filthiness as of late). My contractions are coming on slowly and leisurely; I’m finding them to be quite manageable. “This is IT?” I think, twining my fingers in the bedsheets and slowly exhaling, “I can deal with THIS!” I’m clutching the sheets – rather than, say, a birthing ball or a soothing CD (Now That’s What I Call Atonal Whale Songs! Vol. XI) – due to my ol‘ bacterial nemesis, Group B Strep. Wondering how that works? Permit me to explain.
GBS leads to IV antibiotics. IV antibiotics lead to – duh – an IV. An IV leads to a restricted range of motion. A restricted range of motion leads to a the medical equivalent of a hazing ritual, wherein a hospital worker says, “Okay, folks, so whadda we got here? A globe? Chained to a pole? What do you say we strap a big, uncomfortable elastic band around that bitch?” A big, uncomfortable elastic band (otherwise known as an electronic fetal monitor) leads to a snarl of wires, which leads to a plug, which leads to a discarded prop from “2001: A Space Odyssey”, which is beeping softly next to your bed… which, incidentally, you are not permitted to leave for more than a minute at a time. Eat it, globe. (But don’t eat anything else. That’s not permitted.)
9:00 AM: The Pitocin Patrol!
[Disclaimer: exaggerated for comedic effect... but only barely]
Dr. Speculina: “I recommend that we augment your labor with Pitocin. Your water’s broken, but you’re only a few centimeters dilated. We need to speed things up to make sure we’re not putting the baby at risk.” [Ed. Note: the longer the labor, the greater the chance of Little Lord Fetus' holding tank being contaminated by GBS germs]
Jul: “Well… um… I’ve heard some pretty bad stories about Pitocin, so I was kind of hoping to… not…”
Dr. Speculina: “Well, if you WANT to put your baby at enormous risk…”
Jul: “No, no, of course not! I was just wondering if there were any other options, maybe wait a little while and see how things go…”
Dr. Speculina: “I mean, technically, we could jam a manure-crusted garden trowel up there, too, just to ’see how things went’.”
Jul: “You’re pretty dead-set on the Pitocin, aren’t you?”
Dr. Speculina: [glare comparable in frostiness to the one Gloria Steinem would deliver if slapped on the ass and instructed to rustle up a pot roast]
Jul: “Okay! Okay! I give!”
Dr. Speculina: “Eeeeeeexcellent.” [whips open white coat, eagerly yanks out baggie of high-grade Columbian "P-Toc".]
[fade to black]
9:30 AM:
Baby-Daddy: “Can I get you some juice?”
Jul: [turns head away, does not respond]
Baby-Daddy: “Do you need some more Chapstick?”
Jul: [turns head away, does not respond]
Baby-Daddy: “Want to sit on your birthing ball for a minute?”
Jul: [silent glare, the intensity of which makes Dr. Speculina's best effort look like that of a puppy begging for a tummy rub]
Baby-Daddy: “Um… whoa… well… do you want us to go to the cafeteria for a little while?”
Jul: [nods vigorously, turns head away]
Poor Baby-Daddy. He’ll never really get over the snubbing he’s currently enduring. He hates to see me in pain… but he really, really hates not being permitted to help. His forced exodus from the Labor Suite will be the subject of black humor for years to come.
Typical Account of Labor, Jul: “Well, I felt very strongly compelled to focus… without any distractions.”
Typical Account of Labor, Baby-Daddy: “So I was like, ‘What can I do for you, honey?’ And you were like, ‘GET OUUUUUUUT!‘ And I was like, ‘Well, can I rub your back?’ And you were like, ‘GET OUUUUUUUT!‘ So I was like, ‘Is there ANYTHING I can do?’ And you were like, ‘YES, YOU CAN DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE!‘”
This account - while amusing - is not entirely accurate. I don’t yell, I don’t scream. Nor do I speak, or interact in any fashion beyond the occasional blistering glare. My demeanor can best be described as a charming amalgam of autistic and homicidal. Baby-Daddy and Mother-In-Law slowly creep out the door, praying that the squeak of their shoes on linoleum doesn’t cause my spooky, silent wrath to flare.
10:00 AM: Pit of Despair
Ah, Pitocin. Ol’ buddy, ol’ pal. How I wish to draw you near, to hold you in my arms… to squeeze you… harder… and harder… and HARDER…
Pitocin is a synthetic form of oxytocin, a hormone released naturally during childbirth (as well as many other non-agonizing moments, such as breastfeeding and orgasm). Per the manufacturer (Merck), faux-tocin is intended to “[produce] the rhythmic uterine contractions characteristic to delivery”. Like Baby-Daddy’s characterization of my behavior during labor (“Do you want some whale songs?” “THE WHALES SHOULD ALSO DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE!”), this is both hilarious and a teeny, tiny, eensy-weensy bit inaccurate.
Well, let me rephrase. It’s a fucking lie.
The contractions characteristic to a natural, non-augmented delivery wax and wane. They begin slowly, then build in frequency and intensity. They feature a well-defined beginning, middle and end; it is this nifty “end” feature which allows the laboring woman to relax, breathe deeply, listen to Shamu belting out “Inagaddadavida” and prepare for the next onslaught.
Synthetic oxytocin is not released in dribs and drabs. It is delivered at a steady clip via infusion pump, the dosage increased every half-hour or so until a “desired labor pattern is achieved”. In many cases – and certainly in mine – “desired labor pattern” is a euphemism for “slavering hellhound of a contraction which gnaws at your uterus like it’s a goddamned Booda Bone. For hours. Houuuuuuuuuuuuurs.”
It’s brutal, exhausting and unrelenting. It’s also, as I discovered quite by accident, entirely endurable.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Aug
7
A Birth Story - Pt. I
Filed Under A Birth Story, J.Q. the Sna-que, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 3 Comments
| Pt. I Pt. II Pt. III |
4:00 AM : oh, not again… not again not again not again. Soft indigo light wafts through the mini-blinds, birds sleepily practice their scales… and I have to pee. My requests for an extra-extra long homemade catheter having been thwarted (”Do you know how disgusting it would be to trip over a fifteen-foot long tube of urine?”), I must lamentably get up. I yawn, fling aside blankets and begin the long dismount. I am 38 weeks pregnant, an unwieldly pink globe. Much like “Kirby” from the classic Nintendo game, jellybean-devouring proclivities and all. While Kirby was capable of unassisted flight, however, I’m incapable of taking a whiz without an intricate series of contortions. I wriggle to the left… wriggle to the right… inch my hips towards the edge… and finally, thank Yaweh, slide off the bed. I manage to take a single step towards the bathroom before feeling a tiny gush of warmth. My underwear’s soaked. My eyes are wide. “Well,” I think, brain whirring like an overtaxed hard drive, “My life thus far has been mercifully free of urinary incontinence. This… might… mean something.”
4:30 AM : The Best E-Mail Our Heroine Has Ever Composed
Sent: 04/__/05
To: Jul’s Boss
Subject: I Will Not Be In Today…
Body: … and I think you know why. Thx.
4:45 AM : “… and then I collected some on a towel? And it LOOKED kinda, um, amniotic?” On the other end of the line, my obstetrician yawns. “Yeah, you’re going to want to head in.” “Now? Like, right now?” I say. My doctor murmurs his assent. Some months earlier, I’d tested positive for Group B strep. GBS is a member of the “common-yet-rogueish” subset of infectious agents (such as escheria “E-Dogg” coli). 25% of the population harbors GBS at any given time; it’s generally an innocuous little beastie. Under certain circumstances, however (such as the gooey operetta of childbirth), GBS rages out of control. It throws a microscopic keg party which grows way too large, way too rapidly. An infection that boisterous can be problematic… sometimes fatally so. As as result, Group B strep carriers generally receive IV antibiotics during labor. Which - if the telltale towel is any indicator - I’ve just begun. Surprise!
5:15 AM : these are my last moments as a childless individual. Do I panic? Do I ponder? Do I laugh? Do I cry?
No. I waddle into the kitchen and devour a protein bar. “No eating during labor?” I sneer, “My hormone-bloated ass!” It is not my most flagrantly defiant move as a patient; that honor belongs to “removing own stitches after oral surgery.” Nonetheless, brushing soy crispies from my chin, I feel a twinge of pride.
Or is that a contraction?
6:00 AM : Rousing the Baby-Daddy
“Psssst!”
“Whuuuu?”
“Pssssst!”
“Whaddisit?”
“Um… I think my water broke!”
“Huh? What?”
“We have to go to the hospital!”
“Ohhhhhhhh. Really? Wow. Do you feel anything?”
“Maybe a twinge? I think?”
6:15 AM : the Toyota MR2 is a fun, feisty little death trap; a Hot Wheel-sized convertible with plenty of pickup and not much side-impact protection. I have no way of knowing if I’m the only laboring woman who has ever arrived at the hospital via MR2… but I secretly hope so.
“Uh… so how are we getting the baby home?” I ask, attempting to hoist myself from one of Ladybug’s deep bucket seats.
Earlier that week, my Accord had thrown an uncharacteristic mechanical wobbly. We weren’t pleased, but as my due date was two weeks away, we’d assumed it would be off of jacks and back in action in plenty of time.
“Well… huh. I guess we borrow a car… or rent one… or something?” ventures Baby-Daddy. We giggle nervously. Sure, there are disadvantages to having kids early in life. But the ability to shrug off “lack of non-deathtrap vehicle” as “Eh, Something That Kinda Sucks, But Not Too Bad”? Priceless. We grab my suitcase and lock up Ladybug. Holding hands, we walk towards Baby Mill Memorial Hospital’s automatic double-doors and our new lives.
7:00 AM :
“First, do no harm” - Hippocrates
“Another day, another potential malpractice suit” - Baby Mill Memorial
It is a squat suburban behemoth, acres and acres of tidy brick and close-cropped grass.
As you turn into the hospital’s main entrance, an LED sign cheerily informs you that “BABY MILL MEMORIAL HAS DELIVERED ___ BABIES THIS YEAR!” It’s early spring. “___ ” already requires a comma. Ushering a new life into the world has historically been a sticky, erratic business. Baby Mill Memorial holds no truck with all of that. It is their aim to ensure that each infant arrives as smoothly and predictably as a new Volkswagen rolling off the line.
“No, you can’t do that.”
I hear it within minutes of being admitted. I’ll hear it dozens - perhaps hundreds - of times over the next several days. It is by virtue of exhaustion alone that I refrain from shivving an allied health worker in the ass with a sharpened otoscope.
Minutes after trundling up to the intake desk, I am tagged, classified, handed a standard one-ply hospital gown and parked in a semi-private waiting area. Triage Terrace features an uncomfortable-ass molded plastic chair, an uncomfortable-ass bed (to which I’m promptly confined) and several pieces of relentlessly benign wall art (“Thomas Kinkade Tossses Back Too Many Brandy Alexanders and Spews All Over the Canvas”- 2005). Baby-Daddy and I crack jokes as nurses bustle about… filling out forms, recording vital signs, taking fluid samples, denying any and all requests.
“Um… I really have to go to the bathroom…”.
“Can’t do that.”
“But I - ”
“We’re still waiting for your lab results. Here, use this.”
Baby-Daddy is handed a gleaming metal bedpan. We stare at each other in mute horror. Somehow, this is not what we envisioned when we sealed our love with fifty orders of Poulet Chasseur and “’til death do us part.”
Nurse Wretched scurries away. We manage to position my lower half atop the bedpan - an operation not unlike squeezing a banacle-crusted freighter into dry dock - and I am granted sweet, sweet urinary relief. After a hearty sigh of relief, I reach over my globe, delicately dab my female region… and pull back a prop from “Saving Private Ryan”. I stare at the handful of bloody goo, shocked. “Damn it, look somewhere else!” I tell Baby-Daddy. “Good news, it looks like your water DID break!” says Nurse Wretched, stepping through the (semi-)privacy curtain. “Ummmn… YEAH,” I mutter, displaying my palmful of gore.
TO BE CONTINUED…
May
18
Happy (Belated) 2nd Birthday, J.Q.
Filed Under J.Q. the Sna-que, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 10 Comments
He’s in love with language; his demands, cajolings and jokes are all made in five- and six-word sentences. The way in which he describes his world is heart-crushingly cute… a flashlight is a “make-sun”. Dandelion heads are “bubbles” (because they’re round and you blow on them). He is a master of metonymy; he requests sips of soda with a plaintive, “J.Q. dwink it gwown-ups peeeeeeeeease!” This is due to my incessant refrain of, “No, baby… Diet Coke is for grown-ups.” However, it sounds wonderfully vampiric; the next time he busts out “dwink it gwown-ups” in public, I may respond with a sinister, “Yessss… drink it, my pretty… DRINK IT DRY!”
He’s the most adaptable kid I’ve ever met. He went from a conventional nuclear family to a 50-50 joint custody arrangement and didn’t bat an eye. He doesn’t cry while being handed off… he’s too busy lurching towards his other parent, grinning and yelling, “Hug! Hug! Huuuuuug!”
His eyes are brown AND blue.
He’s had his share of Category-5 meltdowns, but it’s clear even as he’s rending his tractor-printed vestements that he doesn’t want to be tantruming. He’s readily distractable; “J.Q. HOLD IT SCISSORS J.Q. HOLD IT SCISSORS J.Q. HOLD IT SCISSORS J.Q. HOLD IT SCISSORS WAAAAAAH!” can be nipped in the bud by a can of squishy Play-Doh goodness or an acapella rendition of “Dazed and Confused”.
He’s recently developed a pretty intense case of stranger anxiety. While I feel for him, I also secretly enjoy how he darts behind my leg and clutches my hand. Wide-eyed, overall-clad and cowlicked, he looks like a 50’s kid… I’m tempted to rename him Opie.
“J.Q. share it!” = “Give it to J.Q. RIGHT NOW, YOU HORRID BITCH!”
He troubleshoots. He can sit down with a toy for 45 minutes, taking it apart, putting it back together, rearranging it, making it 37% lighter and undetectable to commercial radar.
He loves crayons, but doesn’t actually color. He methodically peels the wrappers off of each stick (occasionally thrusting one towards me and saying, “Start it, mama!”)… then snaps them into the tiniest possible pieces. He am become J.Q., destroyer of Binney & Smith.
Two principles keep us happy:
1. Do as few things as possible which necessitate arriving somewhere on time, and
2. Do as few things as possible which must be completed in a fixed time span.
The everyday world is a source of immense wonder and joy. I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible. He can dye his hair fuschia, he can go on the road with a kazoo-based Primus tribute band, he can come home in a patrol car after spray-painting “COACH MURPHY IS A DOOSHBAG!” on the side of the gym… but please, please, please, don’t ever let that little electric glimmer in his eyes fade away.
He’s learning proper names. He calls me “Joo-la.” Very Star Trek. Joo-la, who has a third hand protruding from the base of her spine, clutching a baby wipe and nagging via telepathy… “COME TO YOUR PROGENITOR AND ALLOW HER TO CLEANSE YOUR COPIOUS NASAL DISCHARGE AT ONCE, YOUNG ONE! IT HAS BEEN ORDAINED!”
You love a one year-old for what they are. You love a two-year old for WHO they are.
I love you, kid.
Apr
9
[Note: there is still time to complete The 'Screw Interview. Um, all the time in the world, actually. It ain't goin' nowhere. Just DO IT, goddamn it! I was hoping to get at least ONE affirmative response to the cannibalism question!]
I am imperceptive at best, oblivious at worst. To-do lists, fantasies, 80’s song lyrics and muffin recipes flit around my head like fairies from the Magical Kingdom of Cluelessness. I walk into signs. I fall up stairs. Informed of an imminent natural disaster, I’d probably chirp, “ROCK YOOOOOU LIKE A HURRICANE! Oh. Um, better nail up some plywood, then.”
Today may very well have taken the cake, though.
I stayed inside all day, diligently studying for an upcoming round of standardized testing goodness. As the sun set, I grew weary of psychology. I believe my exact words were something along the lines of “Oh, go sit and spin on your goddamned hierarchy of needs, Maslow!”
Thus, I hopped into the DecrepiCivic and zoomed off towards the Big Box-intensive side of town. Arriving at Best Buy, I was dismayed to find it closed. My disappointment mounted as I drove past IKEA, Target and Wal-Mart… all closed.
Driving back home, it finally hit me: “Oh, yeah. Easter. Thaaaaat thing.” This despite the fact that my son spent yesterday consuming naught but Cadbury eggs (and transforming into a fondant-slathered little demon incapable of uttering anything beyond, “More chockit, WIGHT NOW!”). And the trip to mom’s house… and the pastel decorations… and the large hunk of pineapple-studded swine on the table… it all made sense!
Ashamed at my own idiocy (and saddened that I would be unable to scratch my consumerist itch), I spent the ride home devising Easter-themed sales promotions, in order that stores might actually remain open on this intensely-holy day.
“Our Savior is risen… and so is the new Bacon-Cheddar baguette, only at Panera!”
“Christ busted out of the cave, and Southside Hyundai is BUSTING OUT THE SAVINGS!” *
I hope the Easter bunny isn’t a vengeful holiday icon… if so, I’m getting a basket full of rabbit pellets next year.
* Credit for this must go to the illustrious Priscilla, preparer of world-class Easter baskets and beauteous blasphemy.
Mar
19
The Ice Storm (Uh, Not The "Key Party" Kind)
Filed Under J.Q. the Sna-que, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 6 Comments
Not So Good : torrential sleet whipping into your face like icy buckshot. Philadelphians' inclement-weather driving techniques (screaming, "BUT IT HAS TRACTION CONTROLLLLLLLL!" as they skid across six lanes of traffic). Stepping in a puddle and feeling your Docs fill up with something remarkably akin to a Slurpee, only a lot less sweet and a lot more likely to make you scream expletives in the middle of Market Street.
Worse : "Wow, this came out of NOWHERE! It was pretty warm this morning! I even put the baby in a spring-weight jacket before I dropped him at daycare!... oh, crap."
Good : Baby's seasonally-inappropriate wardrobe means only one thing: agonizing guilt. Oh, screw that. It means BABY GAP TIME!
No So Good : Baby Gap employees not amused by intro line of, "So... who do I have to blow to get some heavily-discounted winter garments in here?"
Worse : struggling to hold a heavily-bundled toddler, a purse, a bag full of recently-procured Baby Gap goodness and a perpetually-inverting umbrella while being pummeled by aforementioned freezing rain.
Really Freaking Awful : one of those items can now talk.
J.Q. : "Cold, mama! Cold! Scary!"
Jul : "I know, J.Q., I know, mama is sorry, we'll be inside soon..."
J.Q. : "Soon!"
[After thirty more minutes of slogging through Hell on Ice]
J.Q. : “Inside… soon? Brrr!”
Jul : [affixes sign to toddler reading "FREE TO MORE COMPETENT PARENT", curls up on icy pavement and dies of guilt]
Good : hallelujah and pass the Annie’s Cheddar ‘n Tiny Semolina Anarchy Symbols, the market is OPEN!
Not So Good : the market contains yogurt raisins.
Worse : due to overwhelming parental guilt, by the time we reach the check-out, J.Q. ALSO contains yogurt raisins. All of them.
Really Freaking Awful : [the following morning] “It’s WHITE?! What the - ? Oh, yeah… damned yogurt raisins.”
Good : the kind, lovely and musically-discriminating Kateri provides us with Dylan-style shelter from the storm.
Not So Good : our shelter contains three children. By the time morning rolls around, one of these children will have crapped enough times to send Mr. Huggies‘ children to a very nice graduate school indeed. One of them will have experienced a “night terror”-style bad dream (complete with the type of bone-chilling screams capable of stopping the heart of every mother within a five-block radius). One of them will have decided that the ideal sleep position is “draped across nearest adult’s face” and woken up in annoyance each time they were moved.
Worse : It’s 10 AM. I’m exhausted. Kateri is exhausted. The previous night was harrowing enough to make even the bravest woman’s Fallopian tubes spontaneously twist into tidy little knots. When J.Q. starts rooting around in my purse and chirping, “Makeup! Makeup!”, neither of us feels motivated enough to stop him. Trust me, this will be important later.
Good : a sleepy and eyeliner-smeared J.Q. actually consents to ride in his sling.
Not So Good : he winds up riding in it for about an hour and a half, which is how long it takes us to get home (public transit, hurrah!).
Worse : [while rummaging in purse] “Why do all of my lipsticks have bite marks in them? And WHERE ARE MY KEYS?!”
But Not So Bad After All : we drive to New Jersey (my car keys being kept wisely separate from my house keys). J.Q. is spoiled rotten by his grandparents. I take a sojourn to the local Beauty Emporium Not Strictly Intended For Those of the Caucasian Persuasion and pick up a box of the reddest hair dye I’ve ever seen (I’m never going back to Lady Clairol… Creme of Nature rocked my lily-white ass). We all enjoy some vegan General Tso’s. And Junket* is kind enough to replace my AWOL keys with fetching animal-printed ones. I’m trying to come up with a little saying to help me differentiate them… “Okay, so a CHEETAH would be capable of eating a DALMATIAN, so… oh, screw it“).
* For this act of sisterly kindness, I am willing to forgive her for not agreeing that “LOCKSMITHS DO IT ‘TIL YOUR PINS ALIGN AT THE SHEAR POINT” would be a good t-shirt.
Feb
10
Counterintuition
Filed Under J.Q. the Sna-que, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 13 Comments
J.Q. : Yogur!
Mama : No. Eat your veggie burger. It’s soy-tastic. I have even included a sidecar of dip-dip (a generous squirt of barbecue sauce, a.k.a. colorful candy shell for savories)!
J.Q. : YOGUR!
Mama : No.
J.Q. : Yoguryoguryoguryoguryogurrrrrr!
Mama : No.
J.Q. : [bursts into agonized, o'er-dramatic tears, ala Nancy Kerrigan. If he was a little older and had discovered The Joy of Interrogatives, I'm sure he would've tossed in a, "WHY NO YOGIT? WHY NOWWWWW?"]
So what did I decide to do? Why, take my child to an art exhibition, of course! DUH.
And I’ll be god-damned if we didn’t have a fantastic time.
J.Q. was amazingly well-behaved*. He rode in his carrier, flirted with graduate students, analyzed art (blue-hued, quasi-Modernist painting of a woman crying: “Mama!” Thanks a pantsload, kid). He only opened his mouth to say adorable, squeaky things.
Oh, and to shove cookies in it.
His dinner? After all of that shrieking and pleading and bib-rending vis a vis the subject of yogurt?
Cookies. Lots. And lots. Of cookies.
And a lick of sauce from a chicken satay skewer.
And sips of diet Coke.
Gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em and know when to say “screw it” and play 52 Pick-Up.
I promise to do lots of staggeringly educational things to tip the karmic scales AWAY from “child growing up to be serial-killing Republican”.
* Despite this, tonight marked the momentous occasion of my first piece of unsolicited parenting advice in TWO YEARS (there is something to be said for the Russo-kranian “stoic” expression). While I was checking out some photographs, a woman tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Mama… the LIGHTS are too bright for our little EYES!” Excuse me?
1. It’s an art gallery. There are bright lights everywhere.
2. In addition to being able to identify numerous polygons and subsist entirely on yogurt and cookies, my child has reached the exciting milestone of “being able to turn head”.
3. You fucking whore.
4. I jest, I jest. He also eats grapes (*rimshot*).
Jan
25
State of the J.Q.-nion
Filed Under J.Q. the Sna-que, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 5 Comments
It is worth it, however, this taming of my own personal shrew. In the past twenty-four hours, J.Q. has:
1. Discovered Led Zeppelin. While driving to New Jersey, a block of Zep came on the radio. The child damn near voided his car seat’s warranty, what with the gleeful whipping around. During “Misty Mountain Hop”, he also kept yelling, “GO! GO! GO!” Were there such a thing as a Fisher-Price Baby’s First Zippo (and why the hell ISN’T there, I ask?), he would have held it aloft over his tiny head. When we arrived at his grandparents’ house, he requested more “Zeppin“. Thus, I found myself encouraging my one year-old to dance to “Heartbreaker” at 10:00 PM. Perhaps I should start funnelling his college fund directly to the local bail bondsman.
3. Devised the awesomest method of misbehaving, ever. J.Q. became somewhat agitated while we were browsing the local beauty supply store. Perhaps he grew weary of mommy’s repeated demands that he not touch/lick/fling various products, lest he get killed/indelibly stained/Jheri-Curled. After being systematically relieved of four pairs of sunglasses, ten bottles of hair dye and a massive tub of leave-in conditioner, J.Q. finally had it. “Night-night!” he declared, flopping sulkily to the carpet. “Uh… sure. Knock yourself out,” I muttered. He remained prostrate long enough for me to finish choosing between “Mutagenic Maroon” and “Known To The State of California To Cause Cancer Crimson”. In retrospect, I probably should’ve feigned extreme annoyance in order to guarantee a repeat performance. “For the love of god, will you PLEASE stop lying motionless in one place and thereby enabling your mother to enjoy this retail excursion?”
He’s sleeping now, no doubt dreaming of the lustrous golden locks he was thwarted from achieving (well, ingesting). And I am retiring to the bathroom to dump a batch of rouge goopiness on my scalp. Should I wind up looking more like Bozo the Clown than Franka Potente, I’ll just have J.Q. sue Clairol for me. It’s clear that he’s already very much an American.
Jul
25
Eldritch Aims
Filed Under J.Q. the Sna-que, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 8 Comments
Chief among the parenting principles which I am young, foolish and untested enough to possess is the notion that one should HAVE as few principles as possible. This is part of my larger theory that the universe truly enjoys making its sentient inhabitants retract, recant and generally eat their words and beliefs like so many spit-drenched graham crackers. While I cannot objectively prove this theory, I’ve encountered way too many fundamentalist Christians with delightful, leather-swathed gay offspring to dismiss it entirely.
That the Big U should take extra pleasure in blasting new parents’ intentions to smithereens is no surprise; most of us approach this massively daunting task with a level of earnestness not seen since we first read “Our Bodies, Ourselves” in seventh grade and vowed to retain our maiden names, celebrate womynhood and run to the next Lilith Fair as fast as our unshorn little legs would carry us.
Despite my belief that standing on principle is generally as wise as standing on a banana peel, I have managed to accumulate a few of my own over the years (principles, not banana peels… although I do have a couple of those distributed throughout the house, getting nicely black ‘n fragrant in case any lizards wander in and need a pick-me-up). And, as I should’ve been all too aware, it was only a matter of time before they were shot irrevocably to hell.
Belief: I am the diapering Zen Master.
Based On: My ability to swap out a J.Q.’s sodden undergarment with one hand while restraining his screeching, flailing, plush block-brandishing form with the other.
Also, my secret desire to be the fall cover story of “Ultimate Parenting” magazine.
[cue extreme diaper-changing montage, perhaps set to Iggy Pop's "Search & Destroy"...]
- Jul changing J.Q.’s diaper while both balance precariously atop a surfboard (with J.Q. sucking on the tentacle-end of a squid).
- Jul wielding a wipe in one hand while employing the OTHER to cling to the side of one of the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur!
- J.Q. and mama drifting in mid-air, suspended from matching parachutes, while a package of Econo-Tushiee Brand Discount Diapers floats gently towards them on its own chute.
- End with Jul on stage at CBGB’s, rocking out with Mr. Pop himself… LOOK OUT, BABY, I GOT WIPIN’ TECHNOLOGY! IF YOU START FLINGIN’ POO, YOU’LL OWE ME AN APOLOGY!
The Universe’s Way of Letting Me Know I’m Roughly As Full of Shit As An 8-AM Huggie: last Saturday, following the inaugural diaper change of the day, I noticed that our house was still awfully… fragrant. “Damn,” said I, “Wonder if the Diaper Dekor isn’t all it’s cracked up to be? Huh huh huh… crack!” An hour passed, J.Q. and I staged some baby-centric Consumer Reports tests (”While DuPont Stainmastoo a good cawpet, it not weawwy stand up to da wigors of pwotwacted Goldfish-gwinding”) and yet the odor of Eau De Feces did not disappate. “Aw, man,” I said, “Maybe I’d better go empty that stupid diaper pail.” I stood up, brushed my hair behind my ears… and felt a patch of dry, crackly material on my cheek. “Oh… no!” Oh, YES. Thankfully, I had not ventured out into the world with a dried wad of dung on my face. After a “Crying Game”-esque scrubbing, my face was as good as new. My ego, however, may never recover.
Belief: A good parent can prevent their child from ingesting foreign objects.
Based On: the cheesy videos I was forced to watch in Infant/Child CPR class, in which a dippy daycare teacher’s ill-advised coffee break invariably led to Resuscitation Ricky getting an entire set of Tinker Toys lodged in his little plastic trachea.
The Universe’s Way of Telling Me to Go Suck an Erector Set: “Come over for dinner!” said Caer last weekend, “I really miss you and the baby!”
Yes, Caer. LET’S take my toddler to a child-free person’s non-child-proofed house! After THAT, why don’t we go on a field trip to the foundry, THEN take a spin around the Discount Faqir Supply Warehouse, your one-stop source for beds of nails, strings of razorblades and snake-infested wicker goods?
In all honesty, we had a lovely time at Caer’s place. Good times, good company, good food (pizza bedecked with buffalo sauce and blue cheese? Genius!). As always, J.Q. enjoyed the opportunity to explore a new environment. Unfortunately for us, most of the exploration took place in his drooly little mouth.
Every sixty seconds, one of us shrieked across Caer’s apartment. Our alerts ranged from, “Aaagh! He’s got a safety pin!”, to, “Aaagh! He’s got seventy-eight cents’ worth of change!” (Ed. note: this child resembles nothing so much as a vending machine in hell. Eats all available coinage, returns nothing except the occasional Diaper Danish… which, while often studded with intact blueberries, isn’t really suitable for human consumption).
Take That Out of Your Mouth RIGHT NOW RIGHT NOW RIGHT NOW-athon 2006 culminated with a rousing, “AAAAGH! CAER! HE’S GOT NAIL POLISH REMOVER!”
“It’s okay,” chirped Caer, sounding for all the world like a housewife in a 50’s television commercial, “It’s got BITREX, the INGESTION DETERRENT!” “Dude,” I hissed, prying the bottle of Cutex X-Tra Acetoney out of J.Q.’s little claws, “That DOES NOT MAKE IT A GOOD IDEA.”
Belief: No baby-talk. No, no baby-wayby talkie-walkie, no, no, no! WAIT A SECOND! NO FUCKING BABY-TALK!
Based On: My moratorium on gooing and gahing was based on two factors: for one, baby-talk has always made me a bit uneasy; it seems like the infantile equivalent of speaking REALLY LOUD in an attempt to coerce a non-native speaker into understanding English (”THEN YOU TAKE THE TURNPIKE- ” “Que?” “THE TURNNNNPIIIIIKE!” “Que?” “El Turnpike-o!”).
Also, I entered parenthood with vague, unarticulated dreams of raising a Really Smart Kid; unarticulated, perhaps, because I was also somewhat afraid of creating my own tiny version of “Quiz Kid Donny Smith” from “Magnolia”. I doubted, however, that either a genius OR an emotionally-damaged freak would benefit from baby-talk. So I refrained… except, alas, when MOST inappropriate.
A few recent lapses:
Following a day during which all of baby’s communication, from “Hello, mother, I am delighted to see you” to “My word, biting the coffee table is MOST unpleasant” was expressed via ultrasonic shriek (att’n, local bats - I know it SOUNDED like you were all being invited over for a giant gnat party, but it was a big mistake):
“Keep it up and you’re going to go to BABY PRISON! That’s right! And you are WAAAAY too pretty for pwison! You’re gonna be somebody’s BIT-TH!”
Following a particularly horrible home haircut:
“Oh, no! Mama gave you a MUWWITT! It’s business in fwont, poo-poo in back!”
While driving around Suburbiaville, listening to “Immigrant’s Song”:
Jul: “J.Q., this is Wed Zeppwin! Dey GOOD!”
Robert Plant: “AAA-AAA-AAAAA-AAA!”
J.Q.: “AAA-AAA-AAAAA-AAA!”
Jul: “Oh my god. This is truly my proudest day as a parent.”
May
26
How to Replicate Nursing a Thirteen Month-Old Baby
Filed Under J.Q. the Sna-que, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 25 Comments
Note: Part II of Project Nutra-Log has been briefly delayed due to lack of free time and our Head Researcher’s dismally poor math skills (midway through calculating various nutritional information, we were briefly convinced that yams were a freakish super-tuber endowed with deity-like powers [not to mention an affinity for mini-marshmallows]; turns out we’d multiplied rather than divided its stats. Nice try, yam!).
1. Why replicate? J.Q. would be abundantly happy to crawl over to your house and deliver the real deal! What’s that, you say? “Alas, my breasts are not lactating, merely firm, perky and able to be contained by a bra which doesn’t resemble a restraining device for a 400-lb. mental patient?” Or perhaps, “No thanks, I’m really trying to cut back on the number of strange men coming over my house and mouthing my boobs.”
2. Okay then, be that way.
3. Purchase a mango, a papaya and one of those cute lil’ rainforest monkeys which are always appearing on the cover of National Geographic under a headline like “CHIMPS IN CRISIS” (see also: “LORIKEETS IN LIMBO”, “SPRINGBOKS IN STAGNATION”).
4. Attempt to strap your newly-acquired monkey into a car seat before heading home. The biting, clawing, feces-flinging, etc. will add to the authenticity of the experience.
5. After such a big adventure, your monkey could probably use a snack. He also needs to bond with his new upright-walking overlord. Why not combine the two activities? Remove your shirt and lie down on the floor. Place a papaya on one breast, a mango on the other and let the fun begin!
6. Grow slightly annoyed as your torso is repeatedly pummeled by twenty-some pounds of frantic simian. First mango, then papaya. Mango, papaya. Mango, papaya. PICK A FREAKING FRUIT AND STICK WITH IT, WHY DON’T YOU?
7. Feel your annoyance wane as the monkey curls up on your chest and gazes into your eyes adoringly. This would be such a sweet moment… if only he weren’t simultaneously kicking you in the groin and methodically poking papaya seeds up your nose with his razor-sharp little claws.
8. Attempt to trim claws and/or apply socks to monkey without disrupting monkey’s blissful snuffling and flailing.
9. Ooops… that wasn’t a good idea, now was it?
10. Cover uninjured eye with hand. Daydream about windsurfing in Hawaii with Josh Holloway while monkey spends next forty-five minutes happily grunting and licking subatomic particles of fruit off of your chest.
Apr
19
May you have a hundred and fifty more, and smoosh a generous serving of cake into your hair on each and every one.
If you took everything else that’s good in the world, compacted it into a sphere, inserted it in a mammoth interstellar waffle cone and drizzled it with butterscotch, I still wouldn’t love it 1/1000th as much as I love you, little boy.
Note: The person holding J.Q in the cake-carnage shot is his grandpa (dyetta, in pidgin Russo-kranian). His given name begins with a “B”, but since he’s small, wise and somewhat wrinkled, everyone in our family has referred to him as “Boda” for the past decade. Nicknames just don’t get much cooler than that (although last night, while Sam and I were discussing the Bean Bag Chair Manufacturer Mafia [a long an convoluted conversation, and one which came AFTER the one about which part of Post-It notes a tapeworm would be allowed eat {only the sticky part, duh}], I came up with the ultimate B.B.C.M.M. member name: Joey “The Pellet” Fagiola).
Apr
7
My Brand Is Crisis
Filed Under J.Q. the Sna-que, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 9 Comments
J.Q. got dropped.
The dropping happened after his emergency room visit.
Damn… at this rate, I’m NEVER going to be able to sell this kid.
Let’s make like Tarantino and back up for a second (or, should I say, BACK THE FUCK UP, MOTHERFUCKERS!):
J.Q. and I spent last week with my parents while the lord of the manor was away on “business” (the definition of which was loosened to include both a steak-eating contest and the consumption of drinks with names like the “Tallahassee Thong-Yanker”; amazingly, he did not return home with any “… and then I did a shot of hollandaise and hurled all over Wacker Drive” stories). I’d hoped that our return to the Thumbscrews childhood manse would be a fun, relaxing trip with abundant opportunities for free childcare and grown-up recreation. Those of you who’ve traveled with small children are now laughing hard enough to dislodge major organs.
Spirit-Crushing Events Which Occurred In New Jersey:
1. Illness! Shortly after we arrived, J.Q. got sick. I still have no idea which ailment he acquired; his only symptoms were fever, crabbiness and three hours of high-pitched shrieking at bedtime. This virus would make a perfect bioweapon; I’d like to see the Nukehavistanians get all up in our geopolitical grill after spending a few nights pacing the floor with an infant who’s making a noise like someone trying to reverse a backhoe out of a tar pit (”EEEEEEEEE - AAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH - ERRRRRRR - EEEEEEEE!”). In any event, it soon became apparent that I could greatly truncate the evening shriek-a-thon by allowing the kid to sleep with me. However, J.Q. is more active when asleep than most people are when break-dancing. Between that and the fever, it was like co-sleeping with an ignited ferret. Ed. Note: not that it would’ve made that much difference if he’d been perfectly immobile for twelve hours; even the slightest change in sleeping arrangements makes it really difficult for me to nod off. I’ve written a fable to illustrate.
2. Injury! Midway through The Week of Collective Insomnia, my mother momentarily perked up enough to notice that J.Q. hadn’t been using his left arm at all… no crawling, no pulling up on furniture, no ripping at the cats’ tails like one might try to pull-start a lawnmower. “Huh,” I said, “I guess this explains why I’m so much less exhausted today.” High ho, high ho, to the emergency room we… went. After five hours and numerous x-rays, we discovered that J.Q. most likely had a strained ligament, treatable with TLC. As TLC isn’t effective in treating Overtired, Indignant, Stop-Trying-To-Make-Me-Wear-a-Tiny-Lead-Apron-NOW Infant Syndrome, a sympathetic nurse administered a squirt of baby codeine. Soon, J.Q. was all bleary-eyed grins. Aunt Sar, who’d stayed with us through the entire ordeal, found this to be hilarious. “Awww,” she cooed, “You’re high as an itty-bitty kite!” Gazing into his eyes, she began gently singing, “When the TRUTH is FOUUUUUND, to BEEEE… LIES!”
Side Note: J.Q. really, REALLY loved the ER’s poster of Rabies-Carrying Animals of the Northeast. “Here, angry raccoon!”, he seemed to be thinking, “I can’t wait to pull THAT nice bushy tail!”
3. More Injury! After we returned home from the hospital, my mom volunteered to watch J.Q. so I could get a little sleep. I ripped off my hospital bracelet, fell into bed and passed out… only to be awakened by a loud thump, hysterical shrieking and my mother yelling, “OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!” Utterly worn out, she’d fallen asleep while rocking him; he’d taken a tumble directly onto his bad arm. In a rare burst of motherly intuition, I whisked him into the spare bedroom and cuddled up with him on the futon. He was asleep within five minutes and well enough to try flinging himself off the bed shortly after awakening in the morning. Fuck Rubbermaid… NOTHING bounces back like a baby.
Special Bonus Fable: Why Jul Cannot Co-Sleep
Remember the story of “The Princess and the Pea”? No? It goes a little something like this:
Prince Goodfellow decided that it was time to get married. However, the prince didn’t wish to select a mate via the usual criteria… “pretty”, “nice sense of humor”, “ass the consistency of an executive stress-relief ball”. No… Goodfellow wanted to wed the most “sensitive” lady in all the land. And he wasn’t referring to the damsel who’d disgorged the most tears and snot into her box of Sno-Caps during the last half hour of “Titanic”. Nay, the prince desired a PHYSICALLY sensitive woman. It’s never explained why he’d try to deliberately introduce a genetic weakness into the royal bloodline; I suppose that would explain why Prince Charles looks like he could use a lump of sugar and a vigorous curry-combing.
So. Princess, pea, etc. The prince began inviting various princesses over to Snootyshire for sleepovers. “C’mon,” he said, “It’ll be fun! We’ll watch “Adult Swim” and make Jiffye Poppe!” What the princesses didn’t know, though, was that the prince had planted a surprise in the guest bedroom. No, not a hidden camera… you’re thinking of “The Princess and the Perv”. Hoping to test his guests’ sensitivity, Goodfellow had slipped a small stone beneath their mattress. Princess after princess failed to detect the tiny lump, however. “So… how’d you sleep?”, Goodfellow would ask over Jollyos and ewe’s milk. “Totally great!”, they’d invariably reply, “Those sheets have gotta be, like, 500-count!” The prince despaired of ever finding his true love… that is, until Princess Gertrude arrived.
“So… howdyasleep?”, muttered Goodfellow, dejectedly stabbing a crumpet with his butter knife. “Horribly!” said Gertrude, “It felt like I was sleeping on a frickin’ boulder!” “No shit!”, said Goodfellow, “Um… I mean… I’m terribly sorry to hear that. Why don’t you stay over again tonight, and I’ll try to find you a more comfortable bed?” Over the next several nights, the prince began slipping increasingly tiny objects under an increasingly tall and rickety stack of mattresses. He put a thimble under two mattresses (”Ow!”, said Gertrude, “It feels like I slept on an open manhole cover!”, a human hair under ten mattresses (Gertrude developed red welts on her back; it looked like she’d been to Ye Olde S&M Convention) and finally, under a deluxe coil boxspring, seventeen mattresses and one of those fancy feather-topper things… a pea.
“I trust you slept well?” asked Goodfellow in the morning. “God, no!” said Gertrude, “It felt like there was a basketball under my bed!” “Do you know what this MEANS?” exclaimed the prince, voice quivering. “No, what?” said Gertrude. “I’m marrying Princess Melba!”, said Goodefellow, “She doesn’t whine half as much as you. Boy, I’d sure like to get in HER wimple!” “Your loss,” said Princess Gertrude, “Maybe if you hadn’t been so busy hiding shit under my mattress, you would’ve found out that my back isn’t the ONLY part of me that’s extra-sensitive.”
As They Say in The Hood… The End
Mar
3
Milestones: Ten Months
Filed Under J.Q. the Sna-que, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 10 Comments
It’s been ten months since we brought our little Badtz Maru-lookin’ baby home.
While he has not yet netted us a distribution deal with Sanrio, he has greatly reduced his efforts to kill mommy, so I think we’ll hang onto him.
1. He got his first haircut this week. As much as it pained me, it was either that or start referring to him by some pseudo-Native American sobriquet like “Drooling Eagle” and dressing him in tie-dyed onesies from the local head shop. He took it like a champ… which was of absolutely NO help, because even at his most sedentary, J.Q. exhibits a level of motion akin to a methamphetamine addict covered in fire ants. The hairdresser, apparently the only woman in the world immune to his shaggy-headed charms, spent the majority of her time yelping, “NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! DANGEROUS!”, as he frantically attempted to grab her scissors. Eventually, realizing that a $5 tip wasn’t worth incurring My First Lawsuit, she traded the scissors for a moustache trimmer and buzzed him. I managed to stop her before he was transformed into world’s tiniest Marine (”Ah-ten… HUT! Fall in! I said, FALL IN, MAGGOT! STOP CHEWING ON THAT PEEK-A-BLOCK AND FALL THE FUCK IN NOWWWWW!”), but not before my fuzzy-headed little baby had morphed into a Big Kid. Sob! Although I believe the majority of my grief was due to the loss of his uber-cool punk rock spikes, rather than my ability to correlate his first haircut with the fact that he will eventually grow up, leave home, begin dating a heavily-pierced Womyn’s Studies major and only visit to borrow money and remind his parents that we’re petit-bourgeois sacks of shit.
2. New foods tried this week: graham crackers (with an emphasis on the “crack”; they were VERY popular), a cinnamon-sugar soft pretzel (inhaled, then attempted to eat my finger because it was coated in cinnamon-sugar), and, last night, a burrito. The latter went over particularly well, with J.Q. crawling onto my lap every two minutes or so to beg for another bite of Mexi-rice. While I know it would be Wrong and Unhealthy and Sure As Shit Not Approved By The AAP to feed him eviscerated Taco Bell innards ALL the time, his behavior when eating actual baby food makes it sorely tempting. Lately, if he gets bored while eating, he’ll reach in and grab the mashed carrots directly out of his mouth, or splatter them all over a three-foot radius via raspberry-blowing. By the time I’ve managed to get a few jars of liquefied deliciousness down him, his high chair looks like what would happen if someone did a remake of “Reservoir Dogs” starring the cast of “Veggie Tales”. Which would actually be pretty damned cool, now that I think about it… who WOULDN’T want to see Eddie the Evangelical Eggplant or Percy the Proselytizing Parsnip get mowed down in a hail of gunfire and snappy dialogue? “Do NOT fuck with me, you fuckin’ pesticide-coated piece of shit zucchini motherfucker! ‘Giving praise to the lord’, huh? Where’s your lord now? He ain’t exactly present and fucking accounted for when you’ve fucked with me to such a degree that I’m about to bust a cap in your fucking ratatouille-hole, NOW IS HE?”
Oh, boy. I’m going to hell. Straight to hell, do not pass purgatory, do not collect jaunty little halo. I’m going to spend all eternity with chortling demons spitting Gerber products in my face. Except I think that, down there, they’ve got flavors like “Napalm ‘n Rice” and “Sandblasting Compound Delight”.
Special Section For Philadelphia-Area Bloggers: I’ve been thinking about putting together a Philadelphia-centric scavenger hunt. A friend of mine orchestrated one last year and it was ridiculously fun. This one would be geared more towards introverted, geeky types (my team during the last hunt was comprised entirely of, well, dorks, which put us at a slight disadvantage). I was also thinking of charging a nominal entrance fee, to be used as prize money for the winning team. Here are some sample items I came up with:
- Photo: a team member holding a live animal intended for human consumption. [50 points, +10 extra points if animal is NOT a lobster]
- Competition: Strangest Foreign Snack Treat (Prawn-Flavored Pudding, Etc.) [25 points]
- Craft Project: a polygon made entirely of beer coasters [20 points, +25 points for dodecahedron]
- Competition: Most Phallic Piece of Locally-Grown Produce [15 points]
- Item: A t-shirt from any now-defunct Philadelphia radio staion [10 points, +15 points for WDRE because I miss them so]
- Photo: graffiti containing at least one word of three syllables or more (”motherfucker” and “cosksucker”, while amusing, do not count) [30 points]
- Photo: a team member eating a cheesesteak while standing on Frank Rizzo’s grave [100 points]
If you or anyone you know would be interested, drop me a line at me@thumbscre.ws.
Jan
30
The Killer In Zee
Filed Under J.Q. the Sna-que, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 9 Comments
J.Q. is pretty selective with his playthings. And by that I mean he refuses to SELECT anything actually manufactured for use as an infant recreational aid (”Apply to infant as needed until desired level of merriment is achieved. Discontinue use if excessive glee occurs”), preferring instead to cavort with the remote control, the cell phone, whatever horror the cat has most recently deposited on the carpet. I’m getting ready to petition the AAP to rename “pincer grip” to “grip which allows your child to finally consummate his torrid love affair with cat litter”.
Kiddo’s disdain for the plebeian concept of “toys” hasn’t stopped me from encouraging him to make use of his existing cornucopia of plush ‘n plastic. In this I am as enthusiastic as an infomercial hostess. “Wow-EE… look at this thing! It rattles! It crinkles! It jingles! It has many pleasing primary colors and rubbery textures to stimulate your developing brain! Which obviously NEEDS developing, as you are licking Balmex off your foot! Kindly stop that!” Foremost among the toys with which I have pestered my boy is the zebra teething ring.
While I grudgingly accepted his rejection of most playthings, I took the zebra personally. This was a GREAT toy, one which I myself would’ve employed if I also possessed an overpowering urge to jam things in my mouth (insert misogynistic stand-up joke here, perhaps “Whaddya mean, IF? BOOYAH!”). It was cute. It was well-made. It was a perforated African equid! What more could a baby want? Apparently, a toy not contaminated by antibiotic-resistant bacteria. Yup. I repeatedly encouraged my son to sink his little fangs into a teeming colony of pseudomonas aeruginosa. Sorry, Julie… I DEFINITELY have you beat.
When things like this happen, I don’t know whether to cry, or scream, or laugh, or curl up into a little ball and die. After my first big parenting mistake (forgot to strap kid into carseat, discovered mistake only after driving on a major highway for half an hour), I was damn near catatonic with guilt and fear. I was a worrier even before J.Q. was born. I worried about money, work, nuclear war, the rising price of yogurt (seriously… $0.80 a carton? F that S, I’ll ferment my OWN milk!), my husband getting crushed by the Space Needle during a business trip to Seattle. After the little guy arrived, all of that disparate worry was concentrated and focused on the squeaky pink bundle in the bassinet. Rather than making things easier (hey, no more laying awake at night worrying about whether a duckbilled platypus is a “monotreme” or a “metronome”), this made them incredibly hard. The downside of parenting can be summed up in nine words: you’ve got a new worst thing in the world. Before parenthood, I was sure I could handle anything life threw my way. Death, disease, destruction? Undesirable, sure, but certainly surmountable. After all, shit happens, right?
Right. That’s exactly what’s so terrifying. Sam and I have a term for the collection of insufferable behaviors often seen in bright kids. “Gifted Child Syndrome”, we call it (on the assumption that maybe giving it a snappy name will make up for our own years of being horrible little shits). One of the hallmarks of Gifted Child Syndrome is an inability to accept that sometimes, despite trying your best, you still fail. I thought I’d shed all traces of GCS a long time ago, along with the half-read copy of “The Brothers Karamazov” and ego the size of a major-league football arena. But once again I find myself railing against the very thought of failure. Shit happens, but the thought of it happening to my son is unbearable. I live - quite literally- to walk into J.Q.’s room in the morning and see his smiling little fuzzy-head peeking out at me from between the crib slats. I won’t forget to strap him in again, and I won’t buy him another toxic teether (I’m supposed to send it in for a replacement and a “free gift”. Like, “Sorry we tried to kill your child! Here is a cheery sippy cup to make up for it!”). But I’m going to make other mistakes, and it chaps my ass in a way not even Triple Paste (which costs so much per ounce I’m surprised you can’t get high off of it) can heal.
Shit happens. Between that and the baby, my happiness is greater and more fragile than it’s ever been. All I can do is take a deep breath, love my son as fiercely as possible and hold on to whatever I can. Just not that fucking zebra.
Jan
20
Photo Special: He Likes to Move It, Move It
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I’m not sure if someone with hair like this should be granted the power of independent locomotion. He’s probably just going to use it to wriggle down to the drugstore and buy out their entire stock of Dippity-Do.
In any event, today’s category is “Things On, In, Or Squirming Frantically Towards My Entertainment Center:
1. It’s the end of the world as I know it: J.Q. is now mobile. Like a teeny-tiny archvillian, however, he only uses this ability for evil. Last night, he refused to inchworm into his daddy’s waiting arms, choosing instead to take a side-trip to the enticing snarl of electrical cords several feet away. I’m pretty sure that if I wanted him to walk (which, given his lust for all things which can choke, strangle and electrocute, I DON’T), all I’d have to do would be put a big ol’ spool of barbed wire on the other side of the room. You want to find out where Iran is keeping its fissionable material? Don’t send the U.N. - send my boy!
2. Kant-Leak Wax Toilet Ring. I have several things to say about this:
A. Oh, yes it Kan.
B. What, you don’t keep YOUR toilet rings in your entertainment center? What could possibly be more entertaining than the sticky beige wad of goo which lives under your crapper?
C. Every time I see a Kant-Leak (or chisel the remnants of one out from under my fingernails), I imagine Immanuel Kant striding into our bathroom to take a whiz. I suspect I would find this more annoying than Enlightening. “Listen up, ‘Mannie… your ‘Categorical Imperative’ is to zip up der lederhosen and find my spackle knife, pronto!”
3. The TV Which Can Be Seen From Space. Shortly before J.Q. was born, we knew Sam would have to exchange his lil’ red-and-black deathtrap of a convertible for something more Practical and Grown-Up… a tool-of-the-man-mobile, as it were. While he willingly agreed to sacrifice The Ladybug, the decision was still painful. He began driving with the top down in ALL weather conditions, including torrential sleet, as well as stroking his keys in a particularly heart-rending fashion, as though they were a cute little puppy with a fatal disease. I figured Sam should have one last fling of bachelor-esque selfishness before beginning his life as a parent. Had I known that the product of this fling would be as large as the monolith in “2001: A Space Odyssey”, I probably would’ve just encouraged him to sleep with a cut-rate call girl or snort a wheelbarrow full of coke.
The TV Which Can Be Seen From Space arrived at our house in a semi truck one rainy night, and was wrangled inside by Sam and the awe-struck truck driver. “It’s so BIG… so CLEAR!”, said Sam, voice quivering like he was having a profound religious experience (”Imagine how much better the Burning Bush would have looked in HIGH-DEF!”). Since then, I have grudglingly tolerated its presence. Reaaaaally grudgingly. It’s the electronic equivalent of the wretched old uncle you just can’t bear to eject from your home because you know that within the half-hour, he’ll be rolling up his sleeve at the local Phlebot-o-Kwik Discount Blood Bank for $10 and free cookies.
In summary:
- Most Dangerous Game is no longer “man”. “Attempt to stick drooly little finger into open PC case” way more dangerous.
- TV gigantic, ostentatious, guilt-inducing. Possible solution to all problems: donate TV to local mendicant population for use as a spacious shelter.
- Selling point for Thumbscre.ws: it’s probably the only place where you’ll find influential German philosophers and toilet wax mentioned in the same sentence.
Jan
10
I’ve got a pretty long daily commute. I’ve also got a constant need for stimulation… maybe not the best combo. Once I’ve grown bored with my newspaper and snack and book and MP3 player and making my cell phone play “Don’t Fear the Reaper”, I often invent things in my head. Here are a few recent ideas:
1. A portable spigot which I can affix to the bottom of the silo at the apple cider factory down the road in order to get a nice, cold slug of juice whenever I’d like.
Pro: All the apple cider I want! After thorough dishwashing, could also affix spigot to milk silo at local dairy, bust out a wheelbarrow of cookies and have the most wholesome keg party EVER.
Con: My husband claims that, A) the silo is either decorative or full of water, and B) I’m an idiot. He may be right, considering that I recently spent half an hour pondering the question “If the Johnny Five robot from ‘Short Circuit’ were in an L.A. street gang, would he be a Blood or a Crip?” (Answer: a Crip. Well, DUH!)
Con: Spigot malfunction might lead to inadvertent consumption of 50,000 gallons of apple cider.
Pro: That sounds like exactly the kind of freak industrial accident pivotal to the creation of many superheroes!
Con: Do I really want to be the Cider Cyclone, capable of temporarily stunning my enemies with a powerful blast of sweet-tart goodness? “Say YOUR PRAYERS, little missy, because I’m going to - ZAPPPP! - Mmmn, that IS refreshing! Huh… where were we?”)
2. A hot water bottle shaped and weighted exactly like my hand for those nights when J.Q. refuses to drop off to sleep without 45 minutes of parental back-patting. I’d probably call this one the Neglecto-Matic Parental Comfort Simulator.
Pro: Extra free time means extra “Lost”, aka “Calvin Klein Underwear Model Reject Island”. There are some who claim the show will end with everyone being rescued, or the revelation that “it was all just a dream”. Me? I think that, after enduring months of sexual tension dense enough to be cut with a tungsten-carbide drill bit, the survivors will descend into a frenzy of raw, no-holds-barred carnality. The island will be discovered two months later by a bass-fishing expedition, but the silk scarf-clad corpses and unusually skittish local fauna will forever remain a mystery.
Con: if the offspring of B.F. Skinner and Joan Crawford had a child, this is EXACTLY the kind of horrific parenting idea it’d come up with.
3. The world’s first all-substance, no-style automobile. It would be incredibly reliable, yet stark and horrendously unattractive. It would run for 500,000 problem-free miles, yet look like a miniature Pinzgauer and have a plywood bench instead of a seat. I intended to call it the “Churro” (a bastardized amalgam of “cheap” and “reliable”) until I realized that people might confuse it with the tasty Mexican pastry, which doesn’t have substance OR style… just cinnamon-sugar.
Pro: I’m somewhat obsessed with reliability. I’m pretty sure that if Consumer Reports endorsed, say, a particular brand of hot dog as being the most reliable, I’d rush out to buy it. “We have to go to Genuardi’s RIGHT AWAY! Can’t have our weiners falling apart on us!” For someone like me, this vehicle would be a dream come true.
Con: Thankfully, I don’t think there are a whole hell of a lot of people like me.
Dec
27
Scattershot: Late December Festivities
Filed Under J.Q. the Sna-que, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 1 Comment
He’s So Happy Because His Aunt Kept Letting Him Lick Eggnog Off Her Fingertip:
Christmas Song Least Likely to Be Heard in the Mall, Nevertheless Heard in the Mall - “Merry Christmas”, Wesley Willis
Nothing says “happy holidays” like the musical stylings of an obese, obscene, schizophrenic “outsider artist”. Hearing Willis in the mall is like hearing The Mentors in the orthodontist’s office (although that certainly would have livened up those interminable bracket-tightenings and dire warnings about the hell which would be unleashed in my mouth if I kept eating hard foods). Although Willis is still preferable to hearing Wham!’s “Last Christmas” for the 10,000th time. Every time I hear George Michael crooning about how he’s going to “… give it to someone speeeeeeeeecial”, I inwardly leer, “Yeah, like you did in that public bathroom?”… and now you will, too (inwardly leer, that is. Not “give it to someone special” in a Port-o-John. Unless that’s your method of spreading Christmas cheer). You’re welcome.
Special Unrelated Note on the Orthodontist’s Office:
I was quite possibly the worst orthodontic patient of all time. I whined, cried, came to appointments with bits of peanut brittle still clinging to my braces and wore my retainer for approximately 0.00002 seconds before flinging it permanently under my bed (just in case there were any maloccluded dust bunnies under there). Of all my dental transgressions, Dr. L chose to focus on my constant impertinent consumption of hard foods. He grew so frustrated that he once made me sit down and WATCH A VIDEO on the subject. “The Hellacious Horrors of Herman Hard-Food-Eater” was so inadvertently hilarious that, even to this day, I would pay serious cash to obtain a copy.
Every Previous Christmas Present Now Looks as Crappy as Slipper Socks:
My haul this year….
Two (2) movie passes
One (1) certificate for a one-hour massage
One (1) directive from husband to, “… just go and have fun. I’ll watch the boy.”
At first, I was planning to spread this gift of free time luxuriously thin, like foie gras on the toast point of the coming year. However, in the past three days, my beloved little boy has:
- Pooped on mom and dad’s bed (I was unaware human excrement could exit the body so quickly. I was unaware human excrement could travel that fast under ANY circumstances, except perhaps when propelled by cannon).
- Once mom and dad’s bed was cleaned, stripped and decked out in a new sheet, promptly peed on it (you’d think I would have learned).
- Bit mom’s boob hard enough to draw blood.
- Grinned and looked especially adorable with mom’s blood ringing his little mouth… kind of like an itsy-bitsy vampire.
So I’m considering just blowing my entire free-time wad at one go. Assuming I stay away from the kind of art-shock flicks to which I’m inexplicably attracted (”Le Monde est Merde”, “Le 120 Minutes de Violence Sans Le Discernible Raison D’être”), it should be five blissful, excretion-free hours.
Dec
21
The LEAST those bastards could have done was sent me some free boob-cones or something.
Dear Good People of Medela,
I have been a proud user of your Pump in Style Original breast pump since my son’s birth earlier this year. For the past five months, “Pumpy” has been my constant companion, my buddy in black leatherette. It is truly the Rolls Royce of breast pumps – or perhaps, more aptly, the Honda Civic: a simple, well-designed, supremely reliable machine. Unfortunately, a dreadful event has recently befallen my pump. I need you to help rectify this situation, as it is more upsetting, disturbing, and flat-out yucky than I am able to bear.
At some unknown point, one of the containers of milk contained within my pump bag sprung a catastrophic, last-half-hour-of-“Titanic”-type leak. As I am both working and caring for a boisterous little boy, my mental state can best be described as “a few Twinkies short of a picnic”. Thusly, it was quite some time before I discovered the leak. By then, the damage had been done. And, oh, what damage it was.
My pump bag is saturated with breast milk. More specifically, sticky, smelly, rotting breast milk.
It oozes from every crevice of the bag. Prior to my discovery of the dairy disaster, several utility bills placed in the back pocket were saturated. A pair of 100% wool dress slacks was cruelly stained. A beloved Mission-style dining chair now has a Pump In Style-shaped rectangle branded on its top-grain leather seat.
Before this milky mayhem began, my pump was able to masquerade as a “laptop case”. Alas, as laptop cases don’t generally leak, stink or attract swarms of eager fruit flies, I fear its cover has been blown.
I hesitate to criticize the Pump in Style. As previously stated, it has been a true-blue breast pump. It has allowed me to both work full-time and provide my son with plenty of mom-juice, for which I’m extremely grateful. However, its inability to be cleaned following a serious milk leak is a horrendous design flaw. And, contrary to popular belief, it CANNOT be cleaned.
Immediately after discovering the leak, I whipped out a bottle of antibacterial cleaner and a roll of paper towels and got down to business. Over an hour later, I collapsed in a chair, dejected. My hands, shirt, face, kitchen counter and stovetop were all covered in goopy fermented breast milk. However, Pumpy was still as sticky, stinky and grimy as ever. In a glaring design defect, the Pump in Style’s case contains numerous nooks and crannies which simply cannot be accessed, let alone cleaned. This astounds me. I mean, it’s just common sense: things which contain milk will, from time to time, get milk on them, and therefore must be cleanable. Observe:
PLUS
EQUALS
PLUS
EQUALS
PLUS
EQUALS
PLUS
EQUALS
PLUS
ENOUGH CLEANSERS, SCOURING POWDERS, DEGREASERS, IONIZING AGENTS AND SUFACTANTS TO DEFOLIATE A SMALL SOUTH AMERICAN NATION.
EQUALS STILL FREAKING…
Get the picture? Things that hold milk should be cleanable.
I called your customer service line and was assisted by a young woman who, while friendly and sympathetic to my plight, was unable to offer any real solution. When I voiced the opinion that I couldn’t possibly be the first woman whose pump had taken an inadvertent milk bath, she concurred, and was as perplexed as me as to why Medela didn’t manufacture replacement pump bags. It seemed that, among the numerous replacement parts offered by Medela, a replacement bag would be a given. Because (lest we forget)… THINGS THAT HOLD MILK SHOULD BE CLEANABLE.
Please excuse my outburst. I’m a bit irritable lately, perhaps because I’ve spent the past few weeks lugging around the dripping, stinky albatross which is my ruined Pump in Style. I now ask – nay, beg – you to help me. Medela has helped millions of nursing mothers throughout the world, and I’m humbly requesting that you help one more. I’d like a response to the following questions:
Why can’t the Pump in Style be cleaned? After all, IT HOLDS MILK (perhaps I grow repetitive).
Given that the Pump in Style cannot be cleaned, why are no replacement bags available?
Given that the previous two items are true, and given that my Pump in Style’s bag is pretty much destroyed, what do you suggest I do? Spend $300 on an entirely new pump? Cry?
Thank you kindly for your time,
Jul
Working & Nursing Mom and Still-Proud Medela Pump User
Dec
15
Keep On Rockin’ Me, Baby
Filed Under J.Q. the Sna-que, La Musica, The Compleat Thumbscrew | Leave a Comment
J.Q. does not get classical. He does not get Barney or The Wiggles or godforsaken Raffi. My boy gets ORIGINAL ARTISTIC CREATIONS! Well, that’s not entirely accurate. He gets an assortment of minor pop hits from the last several decades, reworked by mama in the silliest possible manner. I am basically like an a capella bar band. Some favorite selections:
Nirvana… “In The Crib”
My boy, my boy, don’t lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night
In the crib, in the crib, I drool so much, I need a bib
Or I will shiver the whole night through
My boy, my boy, where will you go
I’m going to where the warm milk flows
To the boob, to the boob, it is round and not a cube
And I will eaaaaat, the whole night through
Public Enemy… “Baby Food is a Joke”
Get up and get, get down
Baby food is a joke in yo town
Get up and get, get down
They feed ya squash you better throw it on the, the ground
I’m still working on another P.E. cover, “Fuck Tha Strained Peas”.
The Beatles… “Norwegian Prune”
I once had a prune
Or should I say, I once had two
I put them on a spoon
You laughed like a loon
I fed them to you
Oh, isn’t it gooood
Gerber baby fooood
Note: this was the LAST thing which was funny about feeding my child prunes. I have no idea why I did such a thing. I think I assumed that “prunes will make you poop” was an urban legend, like “green M&Ms are an aphrodisiac” or “Mountain Dew reduces sperm count”. In this case assuming not only made an “ass” out of “u” and “me”, but it also made my son’s crib resemble that scene in “Dogma” where the shit-monster is killed via grenade launcher.
“Turkey and Sweet Potato Suite” (an original!)
We just had some sweet potatoes
We just had some turkey, too
They used to both live on a farm
Now they’re both inside of you!
First we take the sweet potato
We dig it up out of the ground
We put it in a jar in the store
Where it is more easily found
(Chorus)
Next we’ve got to have some turkey
It tastes good with butter and spice
But before we can eat the turkey
We gotta do something not so nice
We’ve got, got, got, to kill the turkey
We’ll chop, chop, chop, its neck in two
But it’s okay to kill the turkey
‘Cause we’re omnivores and it’s what we do
(Chorus)
Nov
22
I had three nosebleeds today. It’s not a warning of an incipient brain tumor or anything (first act: three nosebleeds, second act: poignant pre-death romance, Peter Saarsgard tenderly handing me wads of Kleenex). I just have a very delicate nasal cavity, and during the dry winter months, it periodically shrieks, “Oh, good heavens!” and disgorges a pint of blood down the front of my shirt.
Anyway… three nosebleeds. The first occurred as soon as I got up to go to work (”The worst part, of wakin’ uppp, is blood all over your beige rugggg!”). As I lay on the couch in the dark, attempting to staunch the flow, I heard a mouse-sized squeak from the direction of J.Q.’s crib… and promptly began leaking milk. A better writer than I might’ve reflected on blood, milk and the self-sacrificial nature of motherhood, but I’m just gonna say: Jesus CHRIST, I’m disgusting!
Nosebleed II occurred once I’d finally managed to stumble into the kid’s room. He was doing his usual pre-awakening contortions, which can best be described as “vogueing, but while fully horizontal and wearing footie pajamas”. Like all great artists, J.Q. deplores interruptions. When I halted his gyrations and offered him a nice, warm boob, he began wailing. “My word! That ruffian’s cacophony is simply monstrous!”, said my nose, unleashing a fresh spurt of gore. “Son of a BITCH!” I hissed. Ten minutes later, a nearby sock had dammed the red Danube, and the boy had grudgingly sacrificed his artistic integrity for a hit of sweet, sweet milk. Let us now salute the resiliency of the working mom: in the next fifteen minutes, I
managed to:
- Finish feeding infant
- Cover milk-engorged infant in kisses, re-deposit in crib
- Clean up, stop looking like cover of Andrew W.K. album
- Throw on outfit, start looking like I parachuted naked into Old Navy’s clearance section
- Catch train and head to work
Once at work, I had several happy, productive hours during which no part of me sprung a leak. My nose, however, had come to enjoy having fluffy white things pressed against it more often than a teenage bunny. At 2 PM, I felt the now-familiar warm dribbling sensation, muttered, “DAMN IT!” and shoved a handful of fast food napkins against my face. Nosebleed III, unlike its predecessors, would not be thwarted by such tricks. My napkins soon looked like I’d been frequenting a Saladworks franchise owned by the Donner Party. I tipped my head back, pinched the bridge of my nose and staggered off to the bathroom.
It is now that we come to the Dumb part of the tale. For having nasal capillaries which explode at the drop of a hat isn’t really dumb, except maybe in a genetic sense (note to self: cancel trip to Shark, Tiger ‘n Easily Excitable Mother Grizzly Nature Preserve):
While running to the bathroom, I’d passed the company’s vending machine restocker-guy (what IS that job title… Dorito Deployment Operative? Ho Ho Utilization Engineer?). We’d exchanged pleasantries a few times before, and he’d always seemed like a pretty nice guy (if a bit rotund and dorky). As I walked back to my desk, I figured I’d grab a diet soda to replace some of the precious fluids lost via my gushing scnozz. When the Twizzler Allocation Analyst saw me heading for the soda machine, he said, “Hey, how about I treat you to one?” “Uh… sure,” I said. “I’ve seen you around here a couple of times,” he said, “What’s your name again? Which department are you with?”
During the boring and awkward (borkward?) conversation which followed, vending machine guy managed to slip in the facts that he, too dabbled in the computer industry, and that he was divorced. “Divorced?”, said my poor, blood-deprived brain, “Why is he telling you this? Why won’t he let you go suck down your free diet soda in peace?”
Uh-huh. It took me several MONTHS to figure out, but vending machine dude was interested in me… and as more than just a snack-treat consumer. He wanted me. Or at least my enormous, life-giving boobs. I was horrified at my own obliviousness, and slightly mystified at the attraction (I mean, c’mon… the boobs ARE pretty impressive, but I’m a new mom: I’m usually tired, cranky, have the complexion of Stephen Hawking and a gob of mashed sweet potatoes stuck to my eyebrow).
“I… I… uh… gotta go… reboot… some stuff,” I stammered, bolting past him at the first opportunity. And thus concludes the tale of the first man who has expressed any interest in me in two years (last guy? A gas station attendant on the New Jersey Turnpike who
kept insisting, “But baby, I don’t CARE that you got a man!”).
Sam, if I haven’t told you before, let me say it now: I am so very glad we’re married.
Nov
7
Dumb Jul Stories Flashback - Shitstorm: July ‘05
Filed Under Best Of, J.Q. the Sna-que, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 1 Comment
Nov
7
The Boy and I went to visit my parents in New Jersey yesterday. My dad made beef with black bean sauce and kung pao chicken (featuring those delightful little peppers which react with human oral mucosa very much like Drano does with a wad of moist hair). After much kissing and hugging and costume changes and "Bouncy Bouncy Baby" and such, we hopped in the Civic and headed home. J.Q., however, must have thought I was hauling him off to the Iron Binky Infant Disciplinary Ranch, because as soon as we hit Rt. 42, he began shrieking. He managed to sustain his a capella rendition of "Metal Machine Music" for the next 40 miles. It was impressive, I’ll tell you what. While every motherly bone in my body was shrieking, "PULL THE FREAKING CAR OVER AND CHECK ON YOUR SON!", logic dictated that the kid could not possibly be in any greater danger than that presented by an emergency nighttime stop on the Schuylkill Expressway (motto: "Lanes?… lanes are for pussies!"). So I attempted alternate calming techniques. In case you were wondering, calming an infant who is, A. Overtired, B. Hysterical, and C. Strapped firmly into one of the Graco corporation’s fine child restraints… it’s just not possible. But I tried! All of the following were ineffective: - Patting his head. - Playing Bruce Springsteen (J.Q. was not even swayed when I pointed out, "But Bruce is one of the greatest lyricists of our time!"). - More patting. - Playing AC/DC (theorizing that maybe Bon Scott’s caterwauling would make the kid realize what his OWN vocal exercises were doing to mommy’s nerves). - Singing along with AC/DC (and despairing that I CAN’T EVEN SING AS WELL AS BON SCOTT!). - Further patting. - Singing a song of my own composition… can’t recall the exact lyrics, but I believe it was a blues spiritual ("Baby, why you screamin’ all the time… oh baby, why you screamin’ all the time? You gonna drive your poor momma, straight outta her mind! My wiper blade done broke, the rain’s coming down thick, all the other drivers on 76 are actin’ like a dick!"). Eventually, he exhausted himself and passed out in as heart-wrenching a manner as possible… his little over-patted head slumped pathetically against his chest, his breath periodically hitching as if to say, "I may be unconscious, but I am STILL MISERABLE!" How do I know this? As soon as we reached civilization, I veered into a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot and checked to make sure he was okay. Throughout the entire interstate Scream-a-palooza, I was terrorized by thoughts such as, "What if a tarantula escaped from the Museum of Natural Sciences, found shelter in my car and is now nipping my infant with its mandibles while I ignore his shrieks for help?!" See how insane motherhood is? I’m afraid of my child being menaced by animals which are NOT EVEN INDIGENOUS TO THE EASTERN SEABOARD! See how awesome motherhood is? Sure, he subjected me to the second-worst car trip of my lifetime (first? Newark, DE to Danbury, CT, in one shot, after not sleeping in 48 hours. Boring AND dangerous!). But when I wrestled his little body out of the car seat and stood in the driveway, holding him close as he kvetched and clung to my sweater, there was still nowhere else I’d rather be.