Best Present Ever

Today is my birthday, which means I usually: 1) get a massage, 2) go to Starbucks, and 3) write a blog post.  Today is no exception.

So far, today has been fabulous.  My little girl started sleeping through the night about 3 days ago, which has been a godsend because everyone in the family (including her, poor thing) is sick.  Today, my babies let me sleep in til 9am.  NINE. In the MORNING.  Best birthday present ever.

We snuggled and breastfed and ate breakfast and danced and sang.  I tried on my pre-pregnancy jeans (always a gamble) AND THEY (just barely) FIT.  Let’s just take a moment to glow in that last sentence.  Aah.  As if that weren’t enough, I saw a rainbow on the drive here.  Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw a leprechaun today.  Or maybe Bigfoot.

So.  Since last year I blogged about my own birth, and since then I’ve given birth, so let’s talk about that one.

The two times I’ve given birth were extremely different.  For my first, I was induced, labor took 32 hours (including 2.5 hours of pushing), and ended in a vaginal birth aided by an epidural.

The short version of my second L&D is as follows: labor was so fast that it only took 3 hours and ended with me giving birth on my bathroom floor while my baby was delivered by firefighters.  It was the most physically painful and intense experience of my entire life.

Allow me to back up.  Because I was induced last time at 41 weeks, I was determined to do everything in my power to try and go into labor naturally.  I asked my OB to sweep my membranes on Tuesday, December 20 when I was 39 weeks +1.  Initially I had some cramping, but nothing major.  At 2am Thursday morning, I woke up with contractions.  They were mild, but strong enough to wake me up, and I found that they were coming at regular intervals once I started tracking them.

I woke my husband and we called L&D.  The nurse asked me a bunch of questions but she wasn’t convinced I was in labor because the intensity of my contractions just wasn’t there.  She advised to call my childcare person to come over but to wait another 30 minutes and see if the contractions ramped up at all.  Her guess was that this was false labor and they’d go away and she was right.  I felt horrible for getting my friend (who was also pregnant) out of bed for a false alarm, but we all went back to sleep.

That day I took it easy and had a few wimpy contractions here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary.  We went to bed.  I woke up at 3am Friday morning with contractions again.  This time, as I tracked them, their intensity increased but their frequency was all over the place.  Around 5am Brian woke up and I told him what was going on and we talked about what to do between contractions.  At 5:20 we decided to call L&D, so I said I’d get up to pee and then we’d call.

I stood up and quickly discovered that I couldn’t walk as the intensity of my contractions rapidly increased.  I turned around, grabbed the side of the bed and instinctively swayed and moaned to get through the waves of pain.  Brian was still quite groggy and wasn’t grasping onto what was happening so I finally barked at him to get up and help me walk to the toilet.  As we moved I started to panic because my body no longer felt like it belonged to me; some force had just taken over.

As soon as I sat down on the toilet, my water broke.  I turned to my husband and told him (screamed at him) to call L&D.  Immediately, my body was rocked to the core by a contraction that started pushing my baby out of me.  I couldn’t believe what was happening.  My instinct was to try to suppress the urge to push because there was no way my baby was coming so early.  In hindsight, this probably made things all the more painful.

My husband couldn’t hear what the nurse was saying over my screams, but she could most definitely hear me scream that I needed to push, I need to push!  She told him to hang up and call 911.  By this time it was 5:40am…and my baby was born at 5:57am.  It took the firefighters 9 minutes to get to our house, and Audrey was born 8 minutes after that.

The dispatcher told my husband to get me flat on my back and to get some towels.  It was only then that it dawned on me that they were getting me ready to have the baby right there on the bathroom floor.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so terrified in my entire life.

My husband started grabbing our good towels we got as wedding presents and, in true form, I was still able to scream, NO!  NOT THE GOOD TOWELS!  GET THE OLD ONES! because I’m a freak.  And bless him, he got the old towels for me.  The dispatcher continued to ask questions, one of which was, Do you see the head?  He looked once, no.  He looked again, and yes, yes he could.  YOU CAN SEE THE HEAD?!  I screamed in reply.  I was still in shock and denial about what was happening.  Contractions were back to back at this point and  I was screaming pretty much the whole time.  In case you’re wondering, my two-year-old was down the hall and slept through the whole thing.  Like I said, my kids (angels) are sleepers.

We could hear the firetruck arrive and B ran downstairs (still in only his boxers) to let them in.  They had trouble finding me at first but I think they just followed the screams.  I immediately asked them for pain meds – ANYTHING! – and they sadly shook their heads and said they couldn’t.  I was devastated.

Pretty soon her head was born (worst pain of my entire life) and they told me to keep pushing to get the rest of her body out, and I remember thinking that I just couldn’t.  I needed that 15 second rest between contractions.  I pushed again and she was out.  She wasn’t crying right away and I held out my arms for her, but it felt like an eternity while he rubbed her back, suctioned her mouth and got her properly breathing.  Once it was apparent that we were both just fine, the 6 firefighters who were crammed into my bathroom were overjoyed.  They proudly announced the time of birth and her Apgar score.

They had B cut the cord and gave us the shears to keep, joking that they make great cigar cutters.  One firefighter asked for our phones and started snapping pictures.  She was here.  My little girl was in the world.  I couldn’t believe it.


We were carried downstairs and into the ambulance and taken to the hospital.  A few firefighters even stayed behind at the house to wait for my childcare person to get there.  Later that day, she brought my son to the hospital so he could meet Audrey.  We came back home the next day – Christmas Eve – to start our lives as a family of four.

Best Christmas present ever.


Dress Me in Lace and Awkwardness

Shopping for a wedding dress is awkward. vulnerable. Fucking scary.
First of all, they make you write all of your identifying information down on a pretty piece of paper.  They even ask where you keep all your porn, so you know they really have you by the ladyballs.

Each boutique is different on purpose, because they don’t want you to get too comfortable.  Who are they, you ask?  They are the The Powers That Be.  The bridal industry.  Those doctors who insist you get an exploratory colonoscopy “just to rule some things out.”

What do I mean by different?  I mean that all the rules change, bro.  In one place I was allowed to paw through the gowns like my cat paws through a pile of dead rodents.  Expensive albino rodents.  And in another place I wasn’t allowed to touch anything.  Indeed, I couldn’t even scratch my own ladyball without my keeper attendant yelling at me and swatting my hand away.

Another variable involves unmentionables.  When I first went dress shopping, I didn’t know what to expect, and so I made sure I wore my best skivvies with minimal amounts of unsightly holes and skid marks, just to be safe.  You know, I even removed my leg hair and made sure my head hair was in socially acceptable condition.  The preparation that went into this expedition wasn’t unlike the grooming needed for a blind date where you were promised some second base action good conversation.

Once I was half naked in front of huge mirrors and cold because I was missing all my winter leg fuzz, I had to actually put some dresses on.  Getting into a dress was like trying to claw my way up through an igloo that had collapsed on top of me.  I could feel my world closing in on me.  It was hard to breathe.  My arms were stuck up over my head, groping through endless, fluffy white matter.  I could hear my attendant, just barely, reassure me from the other side.  Don’t worry, she said, I’ll get you out.  Even if I have to cut you out! 

I requested that if she couldn’t get me out to please refrain from cutting of any kind and call some hot firefighters to sexily rip me out.  And have some cold glasses of milk ready and waiting.  At that point, who needs a bachelorette party, amirite?

Once I emerged with a second degree tulle-burn from the white abyss, a complicated pattern of zipping, tugging, lacing, and clamping ensued.  For a moment I was not sure if I felt more like Kate Winslet in Titanic when her mom is doing up her corset and reminding her -yet again- that the money’s all gone, or if I felt more like the stuffing in a Thanksgiving turkey.  Eh, the latter involves more butter so I’ll go with that.

Then I was made to stand there displayed on a platform while people took my picture and commented on various parts of my body as if I were that amazingly tasty-looking pig from Charlotte’s Web.  And don’t get me wrong, because I am rather tasty, but where the hell is my motherly, not-at-all-creepy, talking spider who is supposed to save me from torture and almost certain death?!  You and your web of lies!

Taking all this into account, I am somehow supposed to have an opinion about which dress I like the best doesn’t make me look like a Big Fat Greek sparkly snowstorm.  There are so many things to take into account.  It’s gotta be slutty, but not too slutty.  Pure and chaste, but not too pure and chaste.  It’s a delicate balance. And remember, all this is provided the dress costs less than what Oprah’s “s” shaped poop goes for on eBay.

So there you have it.  I feel like a poor barnyard animal lost in a snowstorm.  With no firefighter milk and no under the shirt action in the car on the way home from that cheap restaurant with the colorful crap on the walls because Blind Date Man “thought it would be fun.”

I must be a masochist, because even after all this, I am still going back for more.  I have an appointment at yet another new boutique for a week from Sunday.

Wish me luck!

Vote with me, baby, one more time

I love voting.

It makes me feel all grown up and stuff.

When I went off to college, and even when I lived across the country for grad school, I still stayed registered to vote in my home county because I knew I’d eventually move back to California (and plus I’ve never lived in a swing state, or I would’ve re-registered before you could say “Bain Capital”).

Because of this setup, I voted absentee via the mail.  That was cool an’ all, but it wasn’t the experience I was craving.  I wanted the anticipation of standing in line at the polling place.  I wanted to feel the rush as my name was crossed off a list and I was handed a ballot.  I wanted to feel the urge to do something naughty in the privacy of the voting booth – and then feel proud when I resisted it.  I wanted to actually physically participate in the action, the ritual of voting rather than just putting a piece of paper in the mail like I was sending off a bill.

And, let’s face it, I wanted that damn sticker.  I wanted the bragging rights.

Needless to say, when I found my Big Girl Job and moved permanently back to Norcal, I registered in my new county and got to start voting in person on election day, and boy it was everything I had hoped for and more.

My local polling place turned out to be the fire station that is down the street from my apartment.  Can you believe my luck?!  Few things are sexier than voting, and one of those things is a firefighter drinking a glass of milk or washing a fire truck (or both).  Put those things together, and you have one civicly responsible, hot-and-bothered pair of Lyssapants.

This explains why I carry a gallon of milk with me when I go to vote.

Happy voting, everyone!!