My little supermodels

I'll be finishing the story soon but I'm too excited to wait on this.
Check out the front page of shutterfly! Click on the picture to make it bigger or go to the actual website: http://www.shutterfly.com/ Obviously that's them on the upper left, but they're also in the little Christmas card in the front.

Sorry, no photos! (on Random Photo Tuesday)

I've never had professional photos taken of my kids. Nobody ever seems appropriately horrified when I tell them that. At the very least I expect a little gasp or something… at worst a huffy what kind of mother are you? lecture. But nobody even raises an eyebrow. Everybody says, "Oh but you take such great photos. It's not a big deal."

But to me, it's a big deal. If you know me at all, it's pretty obvious that photos are important to me. For the first year or two of their lives, my kids probably thought that big clunky black thing was just a part of Mommy's face. My kids have been photographed. A LOT. Just not professionally.

It's not that I didn't want professional photos. During the time my biological clock was ticking so loudly that it blocked out all rational thoughts, I saw cute baby photos everywhere I turned and imagined having those same photos taken of MY baby one day. I imagined all those photo sessions, with my adorable baby dressed in an adorable outfit propped into some adorable pose next to an adorable prop.

But as soon as the actual adorable baby was born, my focus changed a bit. Of course I still wanted cute photos, but beyond being consumed by the obvious stuff: non-stop nursing, burping, diaper-changing, never sleeping … We had suddenly become a single income household and suddenly the thought of staying home with this brand new baby had become critically important. Unnecessary purchases fell out of the budget. And though I'm fairly certain professional photographs felt like a necessity at the time, I eventually had to face the fact that they weren't an actual requirement.

I remember early on, thinking oh, we could just get professional pictures taken a few times and just buy a few photos and it wouldn't cost that much. But deep down, I knew that when it comes to photos, I have no self-control. The way that other women lust over shoes, purses, jewelry… that's how I am with photos. I'm impulsive. I can't even be trusted not to purchase BAD photos. This was proven to me years earlier in the event I shall refer to as the Glamour Shots from Hell incident.

This wasn't even the real Glamour Shots… It was some knock-off outfit visiting a department store… They lured me with a free sitting and I thought oh sure, why not? That sounds like fun! I can't say it was so much fun though, as it was agonizing, watching my transformation in the mirror and thinking Really? They call this Glamour? But I told myself they knew what they were doing and maybe somehow this would look better in photographs than it did in real life.

After it was all over, they sat me down for a consultation, where a salesman slowly went over the prices of the extremely overpriced packages. They had a huge gold-leafed tri-fold display of my photo proofs on the table in front of me… And I sat there like a deer in headlights, wanting to look away but finding myself unable to. The photos… they were... well what can I say? They were horribly embarrassing. I mean RIDICULOUSLY EMBARRASSING.

In some of the photos I look like I'm wearing my grandma's fur coat and I appear to be naked underneath. Let me tell you, my grandma would not be happy about that! And that thing I'm doing with my eyes... I'm assuming they were trying to get me to look sexy, but really, it's just disturbing. In others I'm wearing a black leather (well probably pleather) halter top, flashin' some naked shoulder and I have a black leather jacket on BACKWARDS… No clue what the backwards jacket was all about, but my head is somewhat resting on my hands, which seem to be clasped in prayer. I assume I was praying that I didn't look as ridiculous as I felt.

After looking at the proofs, I immediately thought to myself that this would be easy. I would not be buying any of these photos.

But the longer the sales pitch lasted, with the sales guy ogling over the obvious beauty that had been captured in those photos… and with the receptionist dropping by to mention that WOW my photos had turned out so gorgeous, some of the best she'd seen… Really? Ya think? You don't think I look completely ridiculous? Was it possible that they were seeing something I wasn't? (Yep, probably COMMISSION CHECKS, you moron!)

I mean it was such an obvious ploy. But my brain must have started to melt away as I sat there. I started to think well maybe someday I'll look back and be glad I took these. (It's been well over a decade now, and someday has not yet arrived.)

It started harmlessly enough and I thought well maybe I could just buy one or two photos… But then it was revealed that the price for even the smallest package was in the high $200 range, which was INSANE especially considering that I HATED THE PHOTOS. But there I sat, feeling guilty… not wanting to offend anyone… thinking that I had wasted so much of these peoples' time, not to mention my own. The salesman, with his long agonizing speech. The hairstylist, who had worked so hard curling and teasing my hair into that big, poofy, curly do that had been quite popular only a decade before. The makeup artist, who worked magic with blush and eyeliner… as long as you think harsh, obvious makeup is magic. The outfits they chose were so creative. I mean really… fake diamonds, feather boas, fur, leather, lace…sometimes all at once. The photographer, who worked tirelessly to bend me into the most painfully awkward poses imaginable. This amazing team had put a huge amount of time and effort into making me look like an incredibly awkward high-priced hooker. Could I really just walk away, ungratefully?

So yes, I bought the photos, cringing painfully as I handed over the credit card. I still have them. I keep them filed away in the painfully expensive lessons-learned category along with my first car (lesson: don't pick a car just because it's cute) and an ex-boyfriend or two (don't pick a boyfriend just because he's cute). I didn't actually keep the car or the ex-boyfriends, but I do have the photos.

I'm not sure I've ever shown the photos to anyone… maybe my mother, but I wouldn't give her any for fear she would proudly display them on the mantle. I did put one in Scott's Christmas stocking one year, seriously intending it as a gag gift. Like look at what a seriously hot mama you landed!!! Thank goodness I gave Scott the photo with the smiling pose rather than the trying-way-too-hard-to-look-sexy pose, because I will never ever forget the moment when many, many years later, I walked into Scott's office at PeopleSoft for the first time and saw that horrifying photo, framed and displayed prominently on his desk.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOoooooo! What's this doing here?" I asked , trying to quickly hide it in my purse. But he wouldn't let me. He said he loved that photo. Oh the horror.

So back to the baby pictures, knowing myself well enough to know I wouldn't be able to just buy a few photos, I started doing my own photo shoots at home. I thought I would save the professional photos for the milestones. I planned to have newborn photos taken and then I figured I'd have them done again for her first birthday. But I'm a natural born procrastinator. The problem with newborn portraits is that there is a very small newborn window. Somehow I didn't realize this. Turns out if you procrastinate long enough on the newborn portraits, you might be able to use them as senior portraits.

Really, try calling a photo studio to schedule a newborn portrait session. When they ask how old your baby is and you say something along the lines of say five or six… they will ask if you are talking about days or weeks. When you say, "years" there will be a cold silence on the other end of the phone during which they are deciding what to write about you in the margin of the appointment book… Crazy? Cuckoo? Loony? Pick your adjective. It doesn't matter. That icy silence tells you that they are scheduling your appointment with either the new guy who has ZERO photography experience or the photographer who everyone knows is hitting the crack pipe on his lunch hour.

So before I knew it, the newborn days had passed, and then I didn't get around to having photos taken on Amanda's first birthday. Pretty soon I'd totally missed the baby stage. Once I got on the no pro-photo-roll, I started thinking that when I finally got around to it, these better be some darn nice photos… which made me a little nervous. Nervous about picking the perfect adorable outfit, and doing her hair in some totally adorable style, neither of which I consider myself particularly good at… And then I'd have to find a good photographer… probably not the department store variety because we all know I'd spend a ton of money even if they were awful and then I'd probably be scarred permanently by the experience and it would be another five years before we went again. So I continued to procrastinate because really, it was just so much easier to take my own pictures.

Fast-forward to August 2009, when Shutterfly calls and asks if they can photograph Amanda and Alyssa. Umm. Gee that's a tough one…. YES, YES, YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

Tune in soon (and when I say soon, don't hold your breath) for part two: "Amanda & Alyssa, Shutterfly Supermodels!"

The Best Birthday Gift Ever

I’ve been meaning to post this for over a month. I got the best gift on the planet for my 40th birthday. My sister-in-law, Cara, put this photo book together with help from my family and friends. For more of the story, see the "Impatiently waiting..." post below.

Click here to view this photo book.

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(Im)patiently waiting for my "surprise" birthday photo book

Most of you know that I’m the photo book maker in my family. I’ve made gift books for several family members and friends over the years but honestly never expected to receive one as a gift myself. When I made Dan and Darin’s birthday books, my mom kept joking that when my 40th birthday rolled around, I would have to make my own book. I thought I probably would too. EXCEPT that at the end of April, several months before my birthday, I was accidentally blind-copied on an email from my sister, trying to track down email addresses of my friends for the photo book they were putting together in my honor for my 40th birthday.

I was totally shocked and excited because YAY! They’re making me a photo book! I immediately decided that I would keep the news to myself because the surprise element has always been one of the most fun parts of making a photo book for me. I didn’t want to ruin that for my family. So I did a little happy dance and prepared to wait patiently.

Except, as it turns out, I’m not nearly as patient as I thought I was.

The first person I spilled my guts to was my sister-in-law, Cara. She was listed on that first email so I knew she was involved. Plus we’re very close so I knew she wouldn’t rat me out. Her response: Huge relief. She said she was sorry the surprise was ruined but she had stories to tell and I was the only one who could truly appreciate them. Most of these stories revolved around the fact that…and I quote… “your family is NUTS!”

I hope nobody is offended by this… I adore my family, every single member… if you’ve seen my Shutterfly gallery you’ll know I cherish them, BUT they do come equipped with a normal amount of crazy. We’re just one big happy, though slightly dysfunctional family, like most families, I think. So when my sister-in-law said that, I just nodded my head and smiled a knowing smile. And asked her to tell me everything, of course.

It seems that when my sister-in-law received that first email, she responded by saying that she would be happy to help in any way. She could gather photos, edit text, whatever they needed. My mother responded by saying, she was incredibly grateful and ever-so-relieved and appreciative for my sister-in-law’s generous offer to MAKE THE ENTIRE BOOK.

HUH?

My sister-in-law said she reread her own email at least 50 times and couldn’t figure out how the mistake had been made, but decided that rather than argue, she would make the book. Not only that, but she decided that to make a book that I deserved (her words, not mine :-)) she wanted to make it in Photoshop and then print it through Shutterfly (of course!). My mom was even more thrilled when she heard that. She told my sister-in-law that she’d wanted to learn Photoshop for a long time so this was going to be great and she would love to sit with her while she did it. So yes, at this point my mom has managed to volunteer my sister-in-law to a) make my photo book and b) teach her Photoshop in the process.

Mind you, the photo book part is somewhat amusing because not only have I made more than one gift album for my sister-in-law, but also she has pushed off nearly every photo project that came her way on me in kind of a “ha ha… it sucks to be the creative one, doesn’t it?” kind of way. So the photo book part I didn’t feel that bad about… The teaching my mom Photoshop part however, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.

I adore my mother, truly, I do. She is one of the most creative people I’ve ever met and watching her make amazing, funny, creative handmade gifts all my life is probably the main reason I make photo books now BUT I’ve spent at least 15 years trying to teach the woman how to “copy & paste” on her computer. Photoshop isn’t something she should attempt. It’s just not.

I gave my sister-in-law every bit of photo book/working with my mom advice I could think of, including “whatever you do, do not give her your phone number.” She said, “Funny, both of your sisters gave me that same advice”, along with my sincerest apologies, wished her well and then waited patiently for my photo book.

Except I’m not that patient.

The next person I spilled my guts to was one of my closest friends, Wendy, my photo-fanatic-Shutterfly-photo-book-making-friend. She said I should tell my sister-in-law that she would love to help. I said yeah that would be great. But whatever you do, don’t mention that to my mom. She was also oh so very “you just put this whole thing out of your mind” about it. Which was really no fun at all. I said, “As long as the surprise is ruined I might as well enjoy this right? And how better to enjoy it then with some behind-the-scenes-dirt?” But she said, “Just put it out of your mind and try to be patient.”

But you know I’m not good at that.

Luckily I would get an occasional puzzling call from my sister-in-law. “Do you know what alliteration means?” Umm… I think so… It’s when you repeat the first letter in several words in a…”

“Ha! I knew it! Your mom didn’t think… She’s just questioning every single thing I… no…I’m biting my tongue. I told myself I would bite my tongue until this was over. I’m biting my tongue.”

“Oh come on. That’s no fun,” I pleaded. “I’m really concerned that a lot of the very most amusing details could be forgotten by then. Or that you won’t be speaking to me… Come on. You can tell me.”

“Nope. I’m biting my tongue. You’ll just have to be patient.”

Of course. I’ll do that.

So then I went on vacation for a week with Beth, another close friend from childhood. And how could I NOT spill my guts to her? She was greatly relieved because she’d almost accidentally slipped at least four times on the ride up and did I know that my mom was contacting my ex-boyfriends and asking them to contribute to my photo book? I-yi-yi. Oh but only a couple of them. Ex-boyfriend A, who my mom detested and Ex-boyfriend B, who she adored (both from the high school/very young adult era).

I often don’t understand the way my mom’s brain works. The fact that she felt the need to contact ex-boyfriends at all is weird to me. After all, I am married with children now. The fact that she took the time to locate an ex-boyfriend she couldn’t stand? Even weirder. Then my friend tells me that, even better, she told Ex-boyfriend A (who she detested) that she didn’t like his contribution and asked him to revise it! Wheeeeee! This is fun. Please tell me she doesn’t have the email addresses of my former employers? Perhaps I should whip up a list of my worst enemies?

But by the time my sister-in-law called to ask how I felt about having ex-boyfriends in the book, I said as long as the contributions are tasteful and it’s not totally in-your-face that they are exes I would let it go. My husband isn’t a jealous guy. And she didn’t need another battle to fight with my mom.

Next I heard from one of my close friends that trouble was brewing… and they didn’t want to bother me with it but… “Oh come on YOU HAVE TO TELL ME NOW,” I insisted.

So apparently in an effort to prod my husband (her brother) into finally getting his contribution in, my sister-in-law had jokingly said something along the lines of, “Come on. How’s it going to look if all of her ex-boyfriends took the time to write but her own husband didn’t?” She thought he would be amused.

He wasn’t amused.

“Her mom is contacting ex-boyfriends?!?”

So then my sister-in-law and my mom argued over whether or not the ex-boyfriend pages should be in the book. Obviously my sister-in-law thought they shouldn’t be. But my mom was hell-bent on keeping them in. Because she was sure that I would want them in.(???) Well gee it’s too bad this is a surprise or they could ask me.

Eventually the ex-boyfriend pages were removed. And then I just went back to being patient.

Well my version of being patient. Which meant I tried my very hardest not to stick my nose into it at all… really, I did… because with my sister-in-law in charge I knew the book would be amazing. It’s just that now and then I would get curious. And sometimes I couldn’t avoid asking a question. Like the time I wondered aloud to one of my friends, “Gee I wonder if anyone asked my kids to contribute… probably, right? But you know how some people don’t think kids have… oh never mind, not my business…"

The very next day my sister-in-law called. I anxiously awaited some frustrated rant about my mother but instead, “Hey, is Amanda around?” Ah ha. “Sure. Just a second.” I said, pretending we both didn’t know what this was about.

Amanda took the phone and after a second, shot me a look, scurried off to her bedroom and shut her door behind her.

Darn it.

Several minutes later she returned to playing and I casually drilled her for details. “Hey, so what did Aunt Cara want?”

“Nothing.” She answered each of my questions either with that or something equally as informative. Clearly she’d been sworn to secrecy. How annoying.

But then there was this: “Oh, I told her that story about the time you had the toilet seat cover stuck to your butt.”

“You told her what? (pause.) What about the rule?”

“What rule?”

“You know what rule, Amanda. The what-happens-in-the-bathroom-stays-in-the-bathroom rule… or to be more specific the what-happens-in-the-amusement-park-bathroom-after-mommy-feels-like-she’s-going-to-puke-her-guts-out-after-riding-that-awful-banana-ride stays in the the-amusement-park-bathroom-after-mommy-feels-like-she’s-going-to-puke-her-guts-out-after-riding-that-awful-banana-ride rule.”

“Oh. Sorry Mommy!” she said as she returned to her Barbies.

No problem. I knew that story was totally making it into my book now. Which is perfect. Because I was wondering how I could get the Dione-with-a-toilet-seat-cover-stuck-to-her-butt story published in the Shutterfly Gallery. Awesome.

So then I started thinking… Amanda only talked to her aunt for a few minutes. How did that specific story come up so fast? CRAP. What if this book is "Dione’s Top 40 most embarrassing moments" or something?

Nah… they wouldn’t do that to me…. Or would they?

“Hey Amanda, Cara didn’t ask to talk to Alyssa?”

“Nope. I’m supposed to talk to Alyssa and then she’ll call me back tomorrow."

Perfect. That should give you two more time to come up with another embarrassing story. I’ll just wait patiently. My birthday is rapidly approaching. I can wait.

Except that at some point I heard that the book was complete…and honestly was washed over by the same huge amount of relief that I feel when I complete one of my own photo books... but that my birthday party… the one to celebrate my July 23rd birthday and be presented with the much awaited photo book…was expected to be held sometime in LATE AUGUST.

HUH?

Seriously. I’m trying to be patient but this is getting ridiculous. I explained to my sister-in-law that yeah, my family sees no problem with delaying things to a more convenient time so as not to disrupt schedules. We’ve even been known to put the occasional body on ice so that the funeral could be held at a more convenient time. No really, we have.

Normally I’m okay with this. I’m usually a “just roll with it” kind of girl. I can live without a party. Absolutely. But come on people. I’M WAITING ON A PHOTO BOOK HERE.

About a week after my birthday, Ex-boyfriend A (the one my mother detests) tracked me down on facebook, wished me a happy a belated birthday and asked me how I liked the photo book my mom had put together and asked if his contribution had made the cut.

Photo book? What photo book? I don’t know a thing about any photo book.

It was right about at this point that I told this story on my Shutterfly Gallery Guru message board. It's a small private message board, and I figured, who better to tell then a group of people who love making photo books as much as I do? I wish I’d posted the story earlier. They seemed nearly as anxious to see the photo book as I was, which was nice. Up until then, I felt like the only one on the planet who hadn't seen the book. Having company was nice.

A couple of days before my birthday party I started getting nervous that I wouldn't be able to act surprised about the book. I am NOT a good actress and at that point I figured it was going to take all of my self-control not to walk into the party and demand, "Hand over the photo book and nobody gets hurt!" When I told my sister-in-law I was nervous about it, she said, "No worries. All you have to do is cry."

Crying would be easy. I am a crier. Cara knew I would cry. I knew I would cry. My mother included a box of Kleenex with the book because she knew I would cry. I cry at complete strangers' books in the Shutterfly gallery on a regular basis. I nearly cried three times on the way to the party just thinking about my book. But with every eye on me, not to mention cameras and video cameras trained to capture my reaction, I, who desperately hates to be the center of attention, barely worked up a tear. I hope it was completely obvious that I was thrilled to itty bitty pieces though. Trust me, I couldn’t have been any happier. It's the best birthday gift in the universe.

When I woke up at 4:30am the next morning thinking about some detail from the book, I suddenly remembered that the book was now mine (FINALLY!) and I could read it any time I wanted. So I got up and bawled my eyes out as I read it from cover to cover while drinking coffee and eating leftover birthday cake. (Please don't tell my mom. I swear I didn't get chocolate on the book!)

Anyway, as I've already said, I LOVE the book. It's so much fun to be on the receiving end of a photo book. It was totally worth the long and somewhat torturous wait. By the way, I felt totally guilty lying to my mom when she casually asked at the party, "You didn't know, right?" so I ended up spilling my guts to my mom and sisters the very next day.
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Since the text is hard to read for some in Shutterfly, Cara was kind enough to put together a slideshow version. Hopefully you'll be able to view these pages a bit larger. It looks like only partial pages show up after I post this. I think my blog margins are too narrow or something BUT if you do want to see larger versions of the pages then click on the photo. The "view all images" tab may give you an error message, but clicking on the photo should take you to the album where you can zoom in and get huge versions of each page.

Seven years ago, part 2

We arrived at the hospital around 9am maybe. A quick test determined that my water had indeed broken, and they admitted me to the labor and delivery floor.

I have a hard time remembering details… well certain kinds of details. When I hear other moms tell the stories of their labors and deliveries, I feel inadequate when they start throwing out very specific moment-by-moment facts, like by 3:42 pm my contractions were coming every 5 minutes but I was only 3 cm dilated, his head high up, 60% effacement but after they started the pitocin drip I was 10 cm dilated, full effacement, and his head fully engaged by 4:18. That kind of information does not stay in my brain for long.

I asked Darin to write down some of the details but of course I can’t find those notes now. I did run across endless emails written during my pregnancy and I may have to write another post with funny pregnancy moments, like the time a casual acquaintance at work asked me if I planned to breastfeed the baby. When I told her I was, she replied, “Well even if you don’t do anything else, I would strongly recommend that you start preparing your nipples now!”

I just smiled and nodded as if preparing my nipples was something that I had obviously given a lot of thought to and had completely under control. And then I ran from the room horrified. Who knew you had to prepare them? And how??? Should I be talking to my nipples? Warning them about what they’re in for? Should I get a puppy and let him chew on them for a while?

What I can tell you now, two kids later, both breastfed far longer than I ever planned, is that my nipples were completely, entirely, utterly unprepared. My nipples had absolutely no clue what they were getting themselves into. Once living a life of leisure they were forced into servitude. Endless hours of on-demand feeding. They were yanked on, chewed on, they’ve been through hell and back. Yet, even now, I still have absolutely no idea how I might have prepared them. Even if I had tried to warn them, they would not have believed me.

Oh but back to labor and delivery, I was saying that I don’t remember the technical details. I do remember other details though. I remember that my labor & delivery nurse had short blonde hair and made me feel totally at ease right from the first moment I arrived. I remember that she had two kids, named Amanda and Chase. Since Amanda was my chosen girl’s name and in the homestretch I still hadn’t decided on a boy’s name, I thought maybe it was some kind of sign and I was heavily weighing "Chase" as an option… not remembering that Scott had vetoed it because he didn’t want his son named after a bank.

I remember that the door to my room, along with several spots in my room were plastered with signs warning that it was a latex-free zone because of my latex allergy. When I casually mentioned that it seemed like they were making an awfully big deal of it, I got a very stern lecture from a nurse who explained that latex allergies are extremely dangerous and not to be taken lightly. She made it clear that if I wasn’t careful, one day I might drop dead, killed by a pair of latex-soled tennis shoes.

I can’t remember who arrived at the hospital first: Darin or Grandma & Grandpa T. When I was still at home, Grandma and Grandpa T had called to ask if we had a baby yet. I was annoyed at Scott, instantly assuming, that rather than sleeping as I had instructed, he had been in bed calling everyone we knew on his cell phone.

I reported, “Don’t worry, we’ll be leaving for the hospital shortly!” They were shocked. Turns out they’d only been calling to check in. As Grandpa stood by my bedside chatting with me, I had to stop talking during the contractions… to catch my breath from the pain…but I continued to smile, not wanting him to feel uncomfortable. Nobody wants to see someone they care about in pain, right?

It was a relief when my sister Darin arrived. I think I invited her to the delivery when I was about three minutes pregnant. I seriously have no clue how women deliver babies without her there. I personally would not do it. Darin is like a one-woman show... a Swiss Army knife in sister form. She’s my mediator/counselor/PR person/personal assistant/birthing coach. And most of all she makes me laugh.

I wasn’t quite sure how Scott would handle the delivery room. An incident early on in the pregnancy made me think it might not go well. He’d gone with me to my second doctor appointment and nearly had to pull the car over when I casually mentioned that there was a possibility I might have another ultrasound and they might have to do it vaginally instead of the other way where they rub the instrument over your belly.

He FREAKED. “They’re going to do it HOW???

He seemed fine when we got to the office though and had all of the nurses giggling when he insisted on weighing me himself and loudly announcing my weight to everyone as I growled, “You’re never coming here again!” The nurse said she was surprised my blood pressure was so low after meeting my husband. Yeah, you’re tellin’ me.

Scott started to look pale when the nurse told me I would need to disrobe from the waist down for my ultrasound. He asked her if he could have a hit of nitrous oxide. Thinking it would distract him, I handed him the digital camera suggesting he do a video clip of the baby. But it was too late, he was already in full force panic, his face white, his forehead sweating. He said he’d taken one look at the medical equipment on the counter and got woozy.

“Umm, Sweetie…those are tongue depressors and Q-tips.”

He explained that it was just the whole doctor’s office thing. “You know they tortured me as a kid...I hate doctors… I can’t stay.” I took the camera away before he dropped it and was trying to figure out if he was going to pass out or if I was going to have to chase him down the hallway wrapped in this giant paper napkin… when the doctor walked in and Scott snapped back into manly-man-mode. I still can’t believe he tried to sell me on that whole, “I hate poop, you hate blood; you change the diapers, I’ll change the band-aids” routine when this is how he reacted to a routine doctor appointment.

Oh but back to labor and delivery…

I don’t remember how much I was dilated the first time they checked me. I just remember I wasn’t nearly as far along as I expected or hoped. I was irritated that Scott had rushed me because had I stayed home, I would have had time to reorganize my closet and clean the ceiling fans. At some point they started me on pitocin to help move things along.

The nurse showed me a chart similar to the one above to measure my pain. I remember Darin and I laughing about that chart. It just seemed ridiculous and completely inadequate. Was that chart designed for a child? Was it designed by a child? I mean I’m a woman. I've already mentioned that I smile through my pain. A woman can get a 104 degree fever and be in danger of coughing up a lung but as long as she can stand up, she will paste on a smile and go on as normal.

They might as well have handed me a chart covered with photographs of several smiling women and let me guess which one was in the most pain: The virgin Mary smiling weakly after having just ridden endless miles on a donkey before giving birth to Jesus in a manger… Maya Angelou, smiling serenely while transforming 80 years of pain into poetry… Mother Teresa smiling peacefully as she witnesses endless suffering and poverty…perhaps Martha Stewart smiling happily from behind glass in prison while holding up a beautifully calligraphied sign for her lawyer, saying “Get me out of this f*ing place NOW or heads are going to roll.”… Lorena Bobbit smiling brightly holding a knife in one hand and her husband’s severed penis in the other.

I thought a more helpful chart would have cartoon drawings of actual injuries:

A stick figure with a splinter, a stick figure with a skinned knee, one with a severed arm, one with a gunshot wound to the head… that type of thing. How would you rate your pain compared to these? I really think I could wrap my brain around those possibilities.

Early on in my pregnancy I watched dozens of episodes of TLC’s “A Baby Story”. Each show follows a pregnant woman from shortly before birth through labor and delivery. I noticed that women who were completely determined not to have an epidural during the pre-labor interviews, quite frequently ended up begging and pleading in a high pitch rage for them at some point during labor. So I decided very early on not to do that whole brave face thing myself. Sign me up for the epidural, please!

I can’t remember the magic number I had to choose on the pain chart before it was epidural time, but I really thought I’d have to suffer more first. I do remember falling head over heels in love with the anesthesiologist who gave me that epidural. We only spent a brief few minutes together, many of them with him shoving a ginormous needle into my spine. But I loved him, nevertheless. Somewhere there is a photo of him and me together. I’m in my hospital gown smiling a happy, giddy, suddenly pain-free new love smile… meanwhile he’s smiling that oh brother, another laboring woman has fallen in love with me smile…

My entire outlook changed after I got my epidural. The rest of the day is a bit of a blur, but a happy, mostly pain-free day. It was late in the day before I got to start pushing and it did seem like I had to push FOREVER.

Finally, at 8:33pm the baby arrived. I waited several long agonizing seconds before the doctor gave me the information I was waiting for: “She is perfect and beautiful.”
SHE!?! She??? … It’s a girl!!!

Amanda Noelle was 8lbs, 20 1/4 inches long and with a full head of dark hair. She was perfect and beautiful just like the doctor said. And I was happier than I’d ever been in my life.

Seven years ago (on Random Photo Tuesday)

Years ago I read a lovely story about this woman who, each year on her children's birthdays, tells them the story of the day they were born. Well you know me with my screwed up inability to say no to anything even vaguely resembling a tradition, I latched on to that puppy right away. Traditions always sound like such a great idea in the beginning... it's all that darn follow-through that's hard to live with.

So each year at bedtime on their birthdays, if we have time and if I remember, I tell the girls all about the day they were born. Well okay, I tell them a very watered down, shortened version of the events of the day. Because at this age I don't think they really need the blood, puke and swearing version right before they drift off to dreamland. I've always meant to write down the long version though so here goes...

Seven years ago today I awoke somewhere around 2am, startled. Sat bolt upright on the couch and flipped the light on immediately. I may have said something along the lines of, “Oh crap!” because it was either that or the light being turned on that woke Scott up. Before he woke up, clearly also startled, half asleep on the floor, mumbling, “What??? What’s wrong?” I had no clue that he was in the living room with me.

I’d taken to sleeping on the couch during the later months of my pregnancy because it was more comfortable and easier to get up for the what seemed like dozens of trips to the bathroom each night. Plus I wasn’t sleeping well and I could watch TV without disturbing Scott. But on this night, we’d both fallen asleep watching a movie and he hadn’t gotten around to moving to the bed. When I realized he was there I switched the light off and said, “Oh, it’s nothing. I think maybe my water just broke. You should go get in bed.”

This didn’t go over as peacefully as I’d hoped. “WHAT?!? Your water just broke and you want me to go to BED?!!??!”

“Yep. Yeah… I think so. That would be good. I’m not actually sure it broke.”

I really didn’t want to tell him that part. That I wasn’t sure. A week or so before I’d gone to the doctor because I was spotting and they hooked me up to a monitor to make sure all was well. The nurse, looking at the print-out as it rolled off of the machine, said calmly, “Tell me when you’re having a contraction.”

“Tell you when I’m having a WHAT?!?” I asked, slightly shocked, then quickly deciding there’d probably just been a lack of communication, I explained, “Oh I’m not having contractions. I just came here because I’m spotting a bit and wanted to make sure everything is okay.”

She looked at me and then at the print-out and then back at me with confusion and asked, “You didn’t feel that?!?”

“Feel what?”

“You’re having contractions. Strong ones.”

Holy crap. Breathe.

“I didn’t feel anything.”

“Nothing? No pain at all? No cramping?”

“Nope. Nothing.”

At that moment I was a happy little mixture of terror (Is the baby coming NOW?) and relief (If I can’t feel strong contractions at ALL, perhaps this childbirth thing is going to be way easier than I thought!)

Scott, on the other hand, was not even a tiny bit happy about my lack of feeling. It scared him. A lot. “You’re a woman. You’re supposed to know when you’re having contractions, aren’t you? It’s a good thing we came here. Otherwise you might have just woken up one morning and the baby would be laying there next to you and you’d be like How did that get there!?!” I told him that apparently living with him for so many years had completely numbed me to pain.

They ended up sending me home that day since I wasn't actually in labor yet. The contractions I was having were just preparing my body for labor. But when I had to tell him in the middle of the night that I thought my water broke instead of that I knew… I figured he was going to give me a hard time.

In the movies the water breaking is so OBVIOUS. It floods out all over the poor woman's shoes in a gush and usually provides a moment of comic relief for the audience. But it doesn't always work that way in real life. Often there’s just a small trickle and often your water doesn’t break at all and the doctor has to break it for you. I’d decided I was going to go that route. Better that the doctor breaks it than an embarrassing scene at the grocery store or something. Unfortunately, it turns out that you don’t actually get to decide.

At 2am, I awoke thinking I’d heard a POP! and then felt some wetness, but not much. One of those glamorous details they don’t always mention about pregnancy is that bladder control isn’t necessarily a given in the later months. Sometimes hard laughter or a good sneeze can lead to a little surprise. I’d been pretty lucky in that way in my first pregnancy but that night I wondered… Did I just wet my pants? Did I imagine that sound or dream it?

I’ll admit now, that I was pretty sure my water had broken but when it did, panic set in and I headed straight into denial. Scott was being all calm and logical about it… Okay well not calm exactly, but logical, and thought we should go to the hospital. Because when your water breaks that’s what you do, right? Except that I wasn’t ready to go to the hospital… and so I said, “Don’t you remember what the doctor said?”

We’d attended the “Everything You Need to Know About Labor and Delivery” lecture shortly before and my doctor had run down the list of ways you would know that it was time to go to the hospital. If you’re just having contractions it can be a little tough to figure out. But if your water breaks, that’s a pretty clear sign. He said if your water breaks you need to go to the hospital, because once your water breaks you need to deliver the baby within 24 hours… But then he added… unless of course this is your first delivery and your water breaks in the middle of the night while your husband is sound asleep. In this case, as long as you're feeling okay, there’s really no need to wake him right away.

He said that. I swear he did. I remembered it clearly because it completely pissed me off.

I loved my doctor too. He was this great combination of years of experience, a great reputation, a completely laid back attitude and a really wacky sense of humor. The first two things were important but the laid back attitude and the off-the-wall sense of humor were critical in my mind. I loved him because he would tell Scott stuff like, “You know she’s building a baby in there right? She’s doing all the hard work so at this point your job is to worship her like the goddess she is.”

Later he advised Scott to give me foot massages and to take over doing the dishes because it’s hard for her to lean over a sink with a big belly in the way. So this “let your husband sleep if your water breaks in the middle of the night,” comment threw me off and pissed me off as I already mentioned. Now I like to think that he was joking and I just missed it. At the time I was thinking you’ve got to be kidding. I’m the one about to go through labor and delivery, one of the most difficult physical experiences of my life, and I’m supposed to be worried about HIM getting enough sleep?

But suddenly at 2am I appreciated the advice. Because suddenly I wasn’t ready to go to the hospital. I wasn’t READY to give birth. It’s only the 8th of September. Hulloooooo… the baby is due on the 9th. I’m a procrastinator. It’s hard enough for me to get anything done on time… let alone EARLY. This has to be a mistake.

I ordered Scott back to bed. "JUST GO TO SLEEP. It’s fine. Sleep."

“Yeah right. You really think I can sleep now?!?”

“DOCTOR’S ORDERS! GOOOOOO!”

And then I did a load of laundry. Emptied the dishwasher. Finished packing my hospital suitcase. Showered. Did my hair and make-up. Composed and sent several emails. Ate some oatmeal because I knew I'd be cranky enough on that delivery table without adding HUNGRY to the mix. All of this was between painful contractions, which I was trying to pretend weren't happening, and all while Scott yelled occasionally from the bedroom, "NOW what are you doing???"

“Watering the plants. Go to sleep.”

And as long as he was already awake, I vacuumed. I mean my mother-in-law would be visiting, right? Somewhere along the way I called the doctor, who was just as laid back as I needed him to be. He did tell me it was time to head to the hospital. But that there was no need to run any red lights.

Mind you, I’m not one of those obsessive compulsive the house must be perfect at all times types. I’m somewhere on the other end of that spectrum, unfortunately. My cleaning the house and other tasks were mostly just serving the purpose of keeping me away from the hospital at that point. Because here’s the thing: I’m not really a worrier. Well okay I’m an extreme worrier. No. Well okay, the thing is that I’m a product of both of my parents....my dad was the calmest dude on the planet. His words still ring out in my ears on a regular basis: There’s no point in worrying, Dione. If there’s something you can do about it, do it. If there’s nothing you can do about it, then what’s the point in worrying?

My mom, on the other hand, wrote the book on worrying. She could find something to worry about in the most harmless of situations. At best those roller skates would lead to bumps and bruises. At worst you’d roller skate past some kid practicing fishing in a bucket and you’d lose an eye when that hook hit you. (Okay, this actually happened to my sister. Though she sees fine today, it permanently ruined roller skating for all of us. Because roller skating is DANGEROUS!)

When it came to this labor and delivery thing I’d chosen to go with my dad’s theory. Though I worried about the baby, I didn’t bother worrying about the actual delivery. I’d hear other pregnant women freaking out about every detail...the pain, the embarassment, the possible complications... and just think this kid is coming out one way or the other whether I like it or not. Worrying would be pointless. This worked out pretty darn well for the first nine months. More precisely, it worked right up until my water broke or until I thought my water broke and then all bets were off. I immediately turned into my mother and I completely freaked out and worried about EVERYTHING.

At some point Scott told me if I didn’t hurry up he was going to the hospital without me. Such a tempting offer… Could we make that work somehow, do you think?

But THEN we went to the hospital.

(Sorry this post got way longer than I expected. At this rate the story might last longer than the actual labor. I'm on official birthday-celebrating-duty today so consider this "to be continued...")