This potty-training thing is making me crazy. I'm somewhat convinced that I'm going to be sending the kid off to college still wearing pull-ups. (Or, as noted in the post title, Depends because I doubt that they make pull-ups THAT big.)
But seriously. I tried being low-key about it (which, as anyone who knows me can attest, was quite the battle) and now think that was part of the problem. I didn't emphasize that yes, this is something that she has to be able to do, not just a random whim kind of thing.
And what really drives me crazy is that she has the capacity to both pee and poo (and honestly, the things I find myself saying and typing these days) on the potty, and she knows when she has to go, she's just too busy with other things to do it. And she'll even say, if I ask if she needs to go potty, "I'm busy." Really. And I know, her mother's daughter and all, but even I will get up from a riveting game of "let's hide the portable phone" to go to the bathroom.
My mother is no help whatsoever. (Must... refrain... from... adding... joke.) According to her, I potty-trained myself at age 2 1/2. Of course, I also turned straw into gold and was writing tomes by age five, so we're working with a bit of revisionist history here. But it seems like, with the exception of a few, every other parent--and, more importantly, child--is handling this process (of elimination, hee hee) just fine. So, that's also helpful.
At any rate, I'm feeling even more pressure because she just moved into the three-year-olds room at daycare and I learned from the teachers that there's one poor little boy still in there at 4 1/2 who can't move into the next room with the other fours until he's potty-trained. Can you imagine the counseling that kid's going to need later in life? Not to mention, of course, that that's precisely the scenario I'm envisioning for A in a year. Or six. AIIIEEEEE...
But, no pressure, or so sayeth Drs. Phil and Spock and all the other experts out there. I'll get right on that...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
???
I need a little help here, folks. This morning, I'm getting things ready for work/daycare (the latter is for A, not me, although I would appreciate the notion of naptime far more than she does). Among them is a list I made of things to pick up at Target later today. On that list is "Pos. Adv." And I haven't the foggiest what in the world that's supposed to be. "Positive advantage?" Can you buy such a thing at Target? (Well, they do seem to have everything... but no.) "Position advertisement?" It's true, we are hiring, but again: not at Target. "Positive adverb"? "Postulating adversary"? "Positing advantageously"? All possibilities, I suppose, but none of them are nouns and, therefore, are not available for purchase. At least, I think you can only buy a noun--I've never heard of anyone buying something that can be described as a verb or an adjective... "Yes, hello, I would like to buy some running and some yellow, thank you."
And now it's clear that this is making me crazy(ier). Any thoughts? What in Hades am I supposed to be buying today?!?
And now it's clear that this is making me crazy(ier). Any thoughts? What in Hades am I supposed to be buying today?!?
Friday, July 25, 2008
Too busy to be funny
Which is tragic. But this piece outdistances anything I could have posted, anyway:
http://igiveupagain2.tripod.com/tald2.html
http://igiveupagain2.tripod.com/tald2.html
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Hand in the cookie jar
Terrible week at work, which is why I've been MIA, but at least I survived A's third birthday, which I consider quite a feat.
As anyone who has a child knows, a birthday is not just a birthday but rather An Event. One that requires a ton of planning, preparation, and forced festivity along the lines of Clark Griswold's "We're gonna have so much fucking fun they're gonna need plastic surgeons to remove the smiles from our fucking faces. We'll be whistling zippity-doo-dah out of our assholes!"
In our case, we're lucky to still be able to get away with a family-only party, but that still involves 14 people descending upon our house (huh, my eye just started twitching again--that's odd), including my mother, whom you've already read about in the previous post. Plus, T was away for the entire preceding week, which meant some extra work and is also a relevant fact later in this post.
At any rate, we had all the bells and whistles, and spent a ton of money we don't have, but all went well and people seemed to have fun (although I don't think anyone needed plastic surgery). A got tons of toys as well as a lot of clothes, which she of course tossed aside in search of things that beep and sing. And naturally, if you ask her what her favorite present was, she'll cheerfully say, "Chocolate ice cream!" Something that I should keep in mind for next year before I go crazy for the 4th birthday party but that I know I won't, thus ensuring the perpetuation of the cycle of Birthday Madness.
However, as any parent of a child at daycare/school knows, there is not only the home birthday party but also the outside birthday to consider. If you're lucky, your child's birthday falls on a Saturday or a Sunday and it's not an issue. A's, of course, was on Monday. So in the midst of the party-planning frenzy, I also had to take into account the daycare birthday treats. By that point, I was heartily sick of frosting and decided to buy "festive" (M&M-laden) cookies homemade at the grocery store bakery. It took me a good five minutes to diligently count the number of cookies in each box because there are 16 kids in the class plus three teachers, and while you can hope that a few kids will be out, you can't rely on that, and of course, no self-respecting bakery would box 19 cookies--they seem stuck on counts of six, for some reason. But finally, I found one with 20 cookies and waltzed out satisfied that I'd gotten at least one thing checked off my list.
Or so I thought.
On Monday morning, the day after the family party, I staggered down to a kitchen still festooned with a personalized birthday banner and streamers hanging limply from all corners. I was up early and desperate for a cup of coffee because I had to shuttle Mom to the airport, which is 40 minutes away, and then turn right around and come back home to pick up A and take her, her sheets/blanket/lovey, and the cookies to daycare. As I blearily rummaged for a coffee cup, I saw, sitting on the counter, the box of daycare cookies sans six, their former spots marked by a few sad crumbs. My subsequent gasp was along the lines of "the horror! the HORROR!" as though I'd discovered that our roof was missing or that my car had been stolen. And I knew who the criminal was: T, who has a sweet tooth unrivaled by that of any man or woman alive.
At just that moment, he tripped happily downstairs and chirped, "Good morning!"
Me (giving him the steely eye of death): Do you know what you get to do today?
T (smile faltering): Uh, empty the dishwasher?
Me: Well, that too. But no. You get to go to Kroger and REPLACE THE COOKIES YOU ATE THAT WERE FOR YOUR DAUGHTER'S BIRTHDAY AT DAYCARE!!
T: What? (looks around wildly) But... but I didn't know. Other people were eating cookies yesterday!
Me: THOSE WERE DIFFERENT COOKIES!!
T: Oh.
It's true, there are points that both of us could offer up for the jury. In T's defense, yes, there were other cookies that my grandparents had brought and that other people were eating at the party. In mine, however, is that the daycare cookies were, in fact, different cookies--they looked nothing like the other cookies (remember, M&Ms?)--and that they were in a SEALED box next to my purse, which is where I leave anything that I have to take to work/daycare. Not to mention that there was still an entire half of a damned birthday cake left to sacrifice to his sweet tooth.
At any rate, he went to the grocery store, got some mini-cupcakes, and all was well. And really, in the grand scheme of things, my reaction of absolute horror and subsequent urge to kill were, yes, a bit much. But as a last exhibit in my defense, I blame Birthday Madness. I'm pretty sure that no jury comprised of parents would convict me.
As anyone who has a child knows, a birthday is not just a birthday but rather An Event. One that requires a ton of planning, preparation, and forced festivity along the lines of Clark Griswold's "We're gonna have so much fucking fun they're gonna need plastic surgeons to remove the smiles from our fucking faces. We'll be whistling zippity-doo-dah out of our assholes!"
In our case, we're lucky to still be able to get away with a family-only party, but that still involves 14 people descending upon our house (huh, my eye just started twitching again--that's odd), including my mother, whom you've already read about in the previous post. Plus, T was away for the entire preceding week, which meant some extra work and is also a relevant fact later in this post.
At any rate, we had all the bells and whistles, and spent a ton of money we don't have, but all went well and people seemed to have fun (although I don't think anyone needed plastic surgery). A got tons of toys as well as a lot of clothes, which she of course tossed aside in search of things that beep and sing. And naturally, if you ask her what her favorite present was, she'll cheerfully say, "Chocolate ice cream!" Something that I should keep in mind for next year before I go crazy for the 4th birthday party but that I know I won't, thus ensuring the perpetuation of the cycle of Birthday Madness.
However, as any parent of a child at daycare/school knows, there is not only the home birthday party but also the outside birthday to consider. If you're lucky, your child's birthday falls on a Saturday or a Sunday and it's not an issue. A's, of course, was on Monday. So in the midst of the party-planning frenzy, I also had to take into account the daycare birthday treats. By that point, I was heartily sick of frosting and decided to buy "festive" (M&M-laden) cookies homemade at the grocery store bakery. It took me a good five minutes to diligently count the number of cookies in each box because there are 16 kids in the class plus three teachers, and while you can hope that a few kids will be out, you can't rely on that, and of course, no self-respecting bakery would box 19 cookies--they seem stuck on counts of six, for some reason. But finally, I found one with 20 cookies and waltzed out satisfied that I'd gotten at least one thing checked off my list.
Or so I thought.
On Monday morning, the day after the family party, I staggered down to a kitchen still festooned with a personalized birthday banner and streamers hanging limply from all corners. I was up early and desperate for a cup of coffee because I had to shuttle Mom to the airport, which is 40 minutes away, and then turn right around and come back home to pick up A and take her, her sheets/blanket/lovey, and the cookies to daycare. As I blearily rummaged for a coffee cup, I saw, sitting on the counter, the box of daycare cookies sans six, their former spots marked by a few sad crumbs. My subsequent gasp was along the lines of "the horror! the HORROR!" as though I'd discovered that our roof was missing or that my car had been stolen. And I knew who the criminal was: T, who has a sweet tooth unrivaled by that of any man or woman alive.
At just that moment, he tripped happily downstairs and chirped, "Good morning!"
Me (giving him the steely eye of death): Do you know what you get to do today?
T (smile faltering): Uh, empty the dishwasher?
Me: Well, that too. But no. You get to go to Kroger and REPLACE THE COOKIES YOU ATE THAT WERE FOR YOUR DAUGHTER'S BIRTHDAY AT DAYCARE!!
T: What? (looks around wildly) But... but I didn't know. Other people were eating cookies yesterday!
Me: THOSE WERE DIFFERENT COOKIES!!
T: Oh.
It's true, there are points that both of us could offer up for the jury. In T's defense, yes, there were other cookies that my grandparents had brought and that other people were eating at the party. In mine, however, is that the daycare cookies were, in fact, different cookies--they looked nothing like the other cookies (remember, M&Ms?)--and that they were in a SEALED box next to my purse, which is where I leave anything that I have to take to work/daycare. Not to mention that there was still an entire half of a damned birthday cake left to sacrifice to his sweet tooth.
At any rate, he went to the grocery store, got some mini-cupcakes, and all was well. And really, in the grand scheme of things, my reaction of absolute horror and subsequent urge to kill were, yes, a bit much. But as a last exhibit in my defense, I blame Birthday Madness. I'm pretty sure that no jury comprised of parents would convict me.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Mamma mia
So. My mother has been here for only (and I use that word loosely) about 24 hours now and thus far, she has:
* Complained vehemently about how difficult our vacuum cleaner is to use (keep in mind that I didn’t actually ask her to vacuum),
* Vowed to chop down our cherry tree (a long story and an unintentionally hilarious threat),
* Been attacked by our wok (hey, she knows that our closets are booby traps at best—caveat mater),
* Gone grocery shopping twice (we were out of hand soap in one of the bathrooms and she doesn't like our brand of toilet paper), and
* Run over a curb while dropping me off at work (giving me the fullest confidence in her ability to not actually wreck my car when she hits—hopefully not literally—the grocery store for the inevitable third time).
And she’s here until Monday. Whee!
* Complained vehemently about how difficult our vacuum cleaner is to use (keep in mind that I didn’t actually ask her to vacuum),
* Vowed to chop down our cherry tree (a long story and an unintentionally hilarious threat),
* Been attacked by our wok (hey, she knows that our closets are booby traps at best—caveat mater),
* Gone grocery shopping twice (we were out of hand soap in one of the bathrooms and she doesn't like our brand of toilet paper), and
* Run over a curb while dropping me off at work (giving me the fullest confidence in her ability to not actually wreck my car when she hits—hopefully not literally—the grocery store for the inevitable third time).
And she’s here until Monday. Whee!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Awesome
With thanks to Jody, who unearthed this in response to my diatribe about kids' cartoons. It's the SNL short that parodies Dora the Explorer. If you've ever watched Dora and never seen this, watch it immediately. Even if you have, watch it again. To borrow from Chuck's reply, "That's gold, Jerry. Gold!"
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1603878540293446653&q=snl+maraka&ei=nlh9SP6kHYSkr
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1603878540293446653&q=snl+maraka&ei=nlh9SP6kHYSkr
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
For your consideration: Our entry for the Parents of The Year Award
In response to my post (diatribe, harangue, whatever) about today’s kids’ cartoons, my friend K posited, What do I think of today’s kids’ movies? Which is a legitimate question, yet it's one that I am can't answer because for the most part, A really hasn’t been exposed to any aside from the few Disney-princess movies they've show at daycare. In January, however, we did have encounters with two so-called child-friendly movies that did nothing to make me think that exposing A to such movies is a hot idea. Let the tale unfold...
We Are Awesome Parents (Part One):
We were in Best Buy because T was itching to get a new tv, in theory so that we’re ready for the transition to high-def, in reality because he’s a man and he always wants the latest technology. (And while I usually steer away from men/women stereotypes, I have yet to see a case where this one isn’t true.) Anyway, while he was browsing, I was trying to entertain A, so I wandered around with her until we found a tv showing a Pixar short called “Jack Jack Attack.” Never having seen "The Incredibles," the movie this is based on, I knew nothing about the precocious little Jack Jack. So we watched the short, A all kinds of interested, and then suddenly, the baby self-immolates. I was a bit surprised; A freaked. Her face crumpled and she started screaming “Baby's on fire! Baby's on fire!” Needless to say, this alarmed the other customers a great deal and we were forced to beat a hasty retreat from premises. And for the rest of the day, we had to reassure her that babies don't randomly catch on fire and that the baby she’d seen was just fine. (Which is tricky, because you certainly don’t want to imply that it’s good to be on fire, either. At least, I don’t think you do.) So every time she asked, “Is the baby on fire?” we’d say, “No, the baby took a bath and he's fine.” (Because really... what the hell DO you say?) She seemed dubious but finally, grudgingly accepted this, sometime after the millionth time we told her. Problem solved, right? Of course not.
No, We Really Are Awesome Parents (Part Two):
In an effort to stave off potential nightmares, T downloaded the whole short. We figured that if we couldn't convince her that the baby was fine, we could fast-forward to the end and show her that all was well and good with Fire Baby. T also downloaded my favorite Pixar short, "Mike's New Car" from “Monsters Inc.” (Which, if you haven't seen it, is hysterical.) Because we are complete morons, we still hadn’t yet realized that A, at age 2 1/2, was going to see things through different eyes than we do. So we decided to show her the “Mike” short. And really, she did okay with it until the part where Mike is standing in front of the car and the hood suddenly pops open, he falls in, and the hood slams shut again, trapping him inside. At which point her eyes bugged and she started yelling “No want to watch! No watch this!” and then ran away to go hide in the kitchen.
So, at least we've given her something good to talk about in therapy.
(And P.S.: Wouldn’t “Baby’s On Fire” be an awesome blog name? I gotta get A working on that…)
We Are Awesome Parents (Part One):
We were in Best Buy because T was itching to get a new tv, in theory so that we’re ready for the transition to high-def, in reality because he’s a man and he always wants the latest technology. (And while I usually steer away from men/women stereotypes, I have yet to see a case where this one isn’t true.) Anyway, while he was browsing, I was trying to entertain A, so I wandered around with her until we found a tv showing a Pixar short called “Jack Jack Attack.” Never having seen "The Incredibles," the movie this is based on, I knew nothing about the precocious little Jack Jack. So we watched the short, A all kinds of interested, and then suddenly, the baby self-immolates. I was a bit surprised; A freaked. Her face crumpled and she started screaming “Baby's on fire! Baby's on fire!” Needless to say, this alarmed the other customers a great deal and we were forced to beat a hasty retreat from premises. And for the rest of the day, we had to reassure her that babies don't randomly catch on fire and that the baby she’d seen was just fine. (Which is tricky, because you certainly don’t want to imply that it’s good to be on fire, either. At least, I don’t think you do.) So every time she asked, “Is the baby on fire?” we’d say, “No, the baby took a bath and he's fine.” (Because really... what the hell DO you say?) She seemed dubious but finally, grudgingly accepted this, sometime after the millionth time we told her. Problem solved, right? Of course not.
No, We Really Are Awesome Parents (Part Two):
In an effort to stave off potential nightmares, T downloaded the whole short. We figured that if we couldn't convince her that the baby was fine, we could fast-forward to the end and show her that all was well and good with Fire Baby. T also downloaded my favorite Pixar short, "Mike's New Car" from “Monsters Inc.” (Which, if you haven't seen it, is hysterical.) Because we are complete morons, we still hadn’t yet realized that A, at age 2 1/2, was going to see things through different eyes than we do. So we decided to show her the “Mike” short. And really, she did okay with it until the part where Mike is standing in front of the car and the hood suddenly pops open, he falls in, and the hood slams shut again, trapping him inside. At which point her eyes bugged and she started yelling “No want to watch! No watch this!” and then ran away to go hide in the kitchen.
So, at least we've given her something good to talk about in therapy.
(And P.S.: Wouldn’t “Baby’s On Fire” be an awesome blog name? I gotta get A working on that…)
Monday, July 14, 2008
Why kids' cartoons annoy the crap out of me, by me
I've been working on this little doctrine for awhile and am finally ready to post it. I wanted to address a subject that has long compelled me, one that's been the source of many a conversation with other parents: today's kids' cartoons/shows.
I've done so in part because it's funny to see who advocates which cartoon, and why. For example, I think that The Upside-Down Show is clever and amusing for adults, but most parents I've talked to dislike it intensely. Then there's Yo, Gabba Gabba!, which weirds me out but which plenty of parents—including T, but that may be just to annoy me—really seem to enjoy.
It's also been funny to watch, over the years, as football-weekend discussions have turned from sports and politics to debates over whether Little Bear is too much of a mama's boy and why he doesn't wear pants (more on the latter in a moment). I've found that any parent who's been exposed to cartoons for too long of a time—whether due to exhaustion, bad weather, illness, or the simple inability to amuse your child on your own without assistance any longer before you lose your freakin' mind—invariably forms opinions on said cartoons. I think it's some semblance of trying to hang on to your sanity/avoid dropping IQ points. So, in no order whatsoever, here are my unsolicited, deep thoughts on certain cartoons that I have been far, far too exposed to:
Little Bear (Noggin): This is a cartoon that on the surface seems rather innocuous, and I do have to appreciate that unlike other shows [cough *Oswald* cough], there were more than five episodes ever made, meaning that you stand a decent chance of watching one that, even if it's not new to you, you can't necessarily deliver a thesis on the dialogue and plot point. However, the aforementioned clothes issue bugs me. I mean, really bugs me. Little Bear dons a raincoat when it's raining. His friend Emily changes into a bathing suit to go swimming. And his entire family—including Uncle Redneck Bear (okay, that's not his name, but it's apt)—is fully clothed, so clearly, they are familiar with the concept of and are able to afford clothing. So why doesn't Little Bear wear any damned clothes?! Alas, I fear that this may be one of humankind's enduring mysteries.
Mickey Mouse Clubhouse (Disney): I must offer the disclaimer that I'm a rabid Disney fan. I even got married at Walt Disney World. I know, shut up. Anyway, naturally, I'm delighted that my daughter is already being indoctrinated into the club—literally. However, since it's a reasonably new show (we're either in the second or third season), there are only about 15 episodes, I would guess, floating around. Which means that from the first two seconds of an episode, I: a) know which one it is, b) can successfully name all of the Mousketools that will be used, and c) wonder again at the strange shift in Pete's character arc between the first season(s) and this one. But A loves it, so it stays on, leaving me much time to ponder random things about the show, including the background stories of the characters. For example, I think that the only reason Toodles hangs around is because Mickey's got some dirt on him. That's the only explanation why, less than a minute into the episode's particular challenge/quest/story, Mickey's already calling him up—it's because he's fucking with him. I picture Toodles hanging around the clubhouse having a smoke, and then suddenly Mickey cheerfully calls, "Oh, Toodles!" and the poor bastard has to drop everything and zip into action. He probably hates Mickey, really. And you can't blame him; every time Mickey calls for him, now, there's a little bit of a sinister overtone.
I also think that Mickey has the hots for Minnie, yes, but she's a "good girl" and won't let him go below the neck. So I think he's boinking Daisy on the side. Trust me on this—just watch a few episodes and tell me you're not picking up on that. And then there's Goofy. Heaven help me, I hate Goofy. I know that's kind of the point (if it's not, I don't know what is), but lately, I cringe whenever he mispronounces a word—"trombone-y" is the worst, by far—and I find myself hoping that an Acme two-ton weight takes him out. Really, he's on par with Jar-Jar Binks in terms of character annoyance factor. And that's saying a lot. Finally, there's a new-ish episode where they're looking for Goofy's hat, during which they sing a merry song that ends "now we have to find out where it's at!" The editor in me dies a little death every time I hear that particular refrain.
Max and Ruby (Noggin): Honestly, there's not much that I can say about this that hasn't already been said all over the Internets. I mean, there's even a Facebook group called "Where the hell are Max and Ruby's Parents?" Not that I joined or anything. Ahem. But seriously. Where the HELL are their parents?
Oswald (Noggin): Let me be quite clear about this: I totally fucking hate Oswald. I hate that his character is a pansy-ass doormat, I hate that every episode centers around him fretting about something entirely inconsequential, I hate that every episode lasts only about five minutes but feels like five years, I hate Fred Savage for voicing the character, I hate anyone or anything even remotely involved with this godsforsaken cartoon. Got it?
Thomas the Tank Engine (PBS, Sprout): Two words: Terminally dull.
Dora the Explorer/Go, Diego, Go! (Noggin, Nick Jr.): These two can be safely lumped in the same entry. You see, I used to dislike them both horribly, but I think I've developed annoyance amnesia with these two—they just don't bother me as much as they used to. Perhaps it's simply that I've directed my cartoon issues elsewhere, yet I find that I've gotten used to their eerie, Children-of-the-Corn-esque vacuous-smile stares as they wait patiently for me to answer a question. ("Do you see the beach?" "Yes, because I'm not bloody well blind.") Even Tico the Squirrel, my one-time arch-nemesis, has become nothing more than a mild irritant. I've escaped your web of terror, Dora and Diego. You no longer have a hold over me! BWAH HA HA HA HA!
The Wonder Pets (Noggin, Nick Jr., Hell): Of course, my near-indifference to Dora/Diego may be due to my newly honed focus on The Wonder Pets. This is one of those shows that, if I sense that it's coming on, causes me to dive across the room for the remote in slo-mo, Mission: Impossible style to change the channel before it can start. Because once it does, A insists on watching it and I end up contemplating suicide. This show actually surpasses my hatred of Oswald. It's created a new feeling of dislike, one so profound that I don't know if there's actually a word that could encompass it. From the same-damned-plot-different-day aspect of each episode to the feeble attempts at moralizing, this show embodies the worst of all cartoons out there today. I cannot make this point strongly enough. Were these characters real, I would cheerfully line up Linnie, Tuck, and the lispingly grating Ming-Ming and laugh maniacally as I threw grenade after grenade at them until the last refrain of "What's gonna work? Teamwork!" was nothing but a whisper in the wind. Then I would likely be carted away in a straitjacket, but that's another story for another day.
Pinky-Dinky-Doo (Noggin): This is one of those curious shows that I dislike but others, including T, like. I'm not sure I can pinpoint why I don't like it but I think that it may come down to one simple line that pops up in every episode: "Pinky, are you going to tell a story?" Yes. Yes, she is. Because that's ALL she does. And that's the only reason the entire show exists. So quit. Freaking. ASKING.
Oobi (Noggin): Seriously. It's a hand. With eyes. And it's wigging me out. Also: I get bad vibes from Grandpoo. But who wouldn't?
Yo, Gabba Gabba! (Nick Jr.): As I stated in my preface, this one is just plain weird. For one thing, half of the characters are just plain scary. The one that looks like a red condom Ribbed For Her Pleasure? The kitty with the Jaws-like teeth? The one with the freakishly long arms? Who came up with these? Then there's the fact that many of the segments are, like, only 10 seconds long. Seriously—what's with fostering the ADHD? Finally, the overall feel is that someone was tripping when the storyboard was created. Maybe if I dropped a tab, I'd appreciate the show more. I dunno. This is definitely a head-scratcher for me. And another one that I'll sacrifice life and limb to get to the remote in time to stave off because it is most certainly not Designed For My Pleasure.
Well, since this has all been a tad negative, I'll list, for the sake of discussion, shows that I do like. (Although I think I like The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, once you get past my psychological evaluation of the characters).
The Upside-Down Show (Noggin): As I previously noted, most adults that I've talked to dislike this show, many of them intensely. As also noted, there are only, what, seven or so episodes ever made? So you're looking at a lot of repetition (which is T's main complaint). Still, I think it's pretty clever, the adult humor makes me laugh (I'm easy that way), and I find the characters to be pretty well developed. Plus, A likes it, and it's rare enough that we're simpatico on these things.
Jack's Big Music Show (Noggin): It's creative, you've got lots of songs/videos, which A loves, and it's reasonably humorous. That works in my book.
The Backyardigans (Noggin, Nick Jr.): I confess, I will actually watch this one when I'm by myself, depending on the episode. And yes, I actually have favorite episodes ("Race Around the World," "Into the Thick of It," and "Stone on Hilltop High," thanks for asking). I can't help it—I love the way it stirs the imagination, I particularly love how they have a music theme for every episode (that disco is the theme for "Stone on Hilltop High" is one reason it's a fave), and the characters are unique (especially Uniqua, ha ha ha… ahem). A actually has a crush on Pablo, which is adorable, and I don't particularly blame her. Overall, it's a well-done, engaging show, enough so that I don't mind watching repeat episodes of it. Which, when it comes to children's cartoons, is a must.
Blue's Clues (Noggin, Nick Jr.): Please note that I do mean Blue's Clues, NOT Blue's Room, which is a travesty that I shall not even dignify with further words. (Seriously: Blue is not supposed to talk and she is certainly not supposed to be a puppet and she most definitely does not have a mind-gratingly-annoying little brother named Sprinkles! Way to kill the franchise, folks.) Um, back to the point. Yes. Blue's Clues was actually the first kid's cartoon I started watching back in the day when A was a non-sleeping baby (now she's just a non-sleeping toddler) and in my sleep-deprived state, I thought that it would be okay to have the tv on as long as it was a child's cartoon. However, I was unused to the proclivity of many of today's cartoons for the main character to ask a question of the audience and then stare blankly at you for a minute, giving kids time to answer. So I'd kind of start freaking out (remember: sleep deprived) and would snap, "Why are you looking at me? Stop looking at me!" But once I got the hang of it, I decided that I really liked the show. I don't know why; perhaps it's merely for nostalgia's sake, now. It does help that the show ran (in the more preferable format) for about 12 years, so you definitely have a good chance of seeing an episode you haven't seen 1,000 times. And both of the hosts (although I'm a Steve gal, myself; A prefers Joe) are innocuously pleasant enough and sell the naïve "gosh, who'da thunk" bit pretty well. Overall, it's cute, somewhat educational, and mostly harmless.
Franklin (Noggin): I know a lot of people don't like this one, and I'll agree that Franklin's inevitable whining is irritating, but I'm putting this one in the "like" list for only one reason: I have literally never seen a repeat episode of this show. That alone makes it worth its weight in gold.
Miss Spider's Sunny Patch Friends (Noggin): This one is a bit of a puzzle because I feel like it should annoy me but it doesn't. It's altruistic, it always delivers a moral, and Miss Spider is incessantly cheerful. Any one of those factors should make me hate it, much less all three. Yet there's some kind of intangible charm about this one—I find myself actually paying attention, often more than A. Odd. But I like it nonetheless.
Okay, not much more to say about any of the others at the risk of committing the foremost cartoon sin, that of mind-numbing repetition. Thoughts? Arguments? Medication?
I've done so in part because it's funny to see who advocates which cartoon, and why. For example, I think that The Upside-Down Show is clever and amusing for adults, but most parents I've talked to dislike it intensely. Then there's Yo, Gabba Gabba!, which weirds me out but which plenty of parents—including T, but that may be just to annoy me—really seem to enjoy.
It's also been funny to watch, over the years, as football-weekend discussions have turned from sports and politics to debates over whether Little Bear is too much of a mama's boy and why he doesn't wear pants (more on the latter in a moment). I've found that any parent who's been exposed to cartoons for too long of a time—whether due to exhaustion, bad weather, illness, or the simple inability to amuse your child on your own without assistance any longer before you lose your freakin' mind—invariably forms opinions on said cartoons. I think it's some semblance of trying to hang on to your sanity/avoid dropping IQ points. So, in no order whatsoever, here are my unsolicited, deep thoughts on certain cartoons that I have been far, far too exposed to:
Little Bear (Noggin): This is a cartoon that on the surface seems rather innocuous, and I do have to appreciate that unlike other shows [cough *Oswald* cough], there were more than five episodes ever made, meaning that you stand a decent chance of watching one that, even if it's not new to you, you can't necessarily deliver a thesis on the dialogue and plot point. However, the aforementioned clothes issue bugs me. I mean, really bugs me. Little Bear dons a raincoat when it's raining. His friend Emily changes into a bathing suit to go swimming. And his entire family—including Uncle Redneck Bear (okay, that's not his name, but it's apt)—is fully clothed, so clearly, they are familiar with the concept of and are able to afford clothing. So why doesn't Little Bear wear any damned clothes?! Alas, I fear that this may be one of humankind's enduring mysteries.
Mickey Mouse Clubhouse (Disney): I must offer the disclaimer that I'm a rabid Disney fan. I even got married at Walt Disney World. I know, shut up. Anyway, naturally, I'm delighted that my daughter is already being indoctrinated into the club—literally. However, since it's a reasonably new show (we're either in the second or third season), there are only about 15 episodes, I would guess, floating around. Which means that from the first two seconds of an episode, I: a) know which one it is, b) can successfully name all of the Mousketools that will be used, and c) wonder again at the strange shift in Pete's character arc between the first season(s) and this one. But A loves it, so it stays on, leaving me much time to ponder random things about the show, including the background stories of the characters. For example, I think that the only reason Toodles hangs around is because Mickey's got some dirt on him. That's the only explanation why, less than a minute into the episode's particular challenge/quest/story, Mickey's already calling him up—it's because he's fucking with him. I picture Toodles hanging around the clubhouse having a smoke, and then suddenly Mickey cheerfully calls, "Oh, Toodles!" and the poor bastard has to drop everything and zip into action. He probably hates Mickey, really. And you can't blame him; every time Mickey calls for him, now, there's a little bit of a sinister overtone.
I also think that Mickey has the hots for Minnie, yes, but she's a "good girl" and won't let him go below the neck. So I think he's boinking Daisy on the side. Trust me on this—just watch a few episodes and tell me you're not picking up on that. And then there's Goofy. Heaven help me, I hate Goofy. I know that's kind of the point (if it's not, I don't know what is), but lately, I cringe whenever he mispronounces a word—"trombone-y" is the worst, by far—and I find myself hoping that an Acme two-ton weight takes him out. Really, he's on par with Jar-Jar Binks in terms of character annoyance factor. And that's saying a lot. Finally, there's a new-ish episode where they're looking for Goofy's hat, during which they sing a merry song that ends "now we have to find out where it's at!" The editor in me dies a little death every time I hear that particular refrain.
Max and Ruby (Noggin): Honestly, there's not much that I can say about this that hasn't already been said all over the Internets. I mean, there's even a Facebook group called "Where the hell are Max and Ruby's Parents?" Not that I joined or anything. Ahem. But seriously. Where the HELL are their parents?
Oswald (Noggin): Let me be quite clear about this: I totally fucking hate Oswald. I hate that his character is a pansy-ass doormat, I hate that every episode centers around him fretting about something entirely inconsequential, I hate that every episode lasts only about five minutes but feels like five years, I hate Fred Savage for voicing the character, I hate anyone or anything even remotely involved with this godsforsaken cartoon. Got it?
Thomas the Tank Engine (PBS, Sprout): Two words: Terminally dull.
Dora the Explorer/Go, Diego, Go! (Noggin, Nick Jr.): These two can be safely lumped in the same entry. You see, I used to dislike them both horribly, but I think I've developed annoyance amnesia with these two—they just don't bother me as much as they used to. Perhaps it's simply that I've directed my cartoon issues elsewhere, yet I find that I've gotten used to their eerie, Children-of-the-Corn-esque vacuous-smile stares as they wait patiently for me to answer a question. ("Do you see the beach?" "Yes, because I'm not bloody well blind.") Even Tico the Squirrel, my one-time arch-nemesis, has become nothing more than a mild irritant. I've escaped your web of terror, Dora and Diego. You no longer have a hold over me! BWAH HA HA HA HA!
The Wonder Pets (Noggin, Nick Jr., Hell): Of course, my near-indifference to Dora/Diego may be due to my newly honed focus on The Wonder Pets. This is one of those shows that, if I sense that it's coming on, causes me to dive across the room for the remote in slo-mo, Mission: Impossible style to change the channel before it can start. Because once it does, A insists on watching it and I end up contemplating suicide. This show actually surpasses my hatred of Oswald. It's created a new feeling of dislike, one so profound that I don't know if there's actually a word that could encompass it. From the same-damned-plot-different-day aspect of each episode to the feeble attempts at moralizing, this show embodies the worst of all cartoons out there today. I cannot make this point strongly enough. Were these characters real, I would cheerfully line up Linnie, Tuck, and the lispingly grating Ming-Ming and laugh maniacally as I threw grenade after grenade at them until the last refrain of "What's gonna work? Teamwork!" was nothing but a whisper in the wind. Then I would likely be carted away in a straitjacket, but that's another story for another day.
Pinky-Dinky-Doo (Noggin): This is one of those curious shows that I dislike but others, including T, like. I'm not sure I can pinpoint why I don't like it but I think that it may come down to one simple line that pops up in every episode: "Pinky, are you going to tell a story?" Yes. Yes, she is. Because that's ALL she does. And that's the only reason the entire show exists. So quit. Freaking. ASKING.
Oobi (Noggin): Seriously. It's a hand. With eyes. And it's wigging me out. Also: I get bad vibes from Grandpoo. But who wouldn't?
Yo, Gabba Gabba! (Nick Jr.): As I stated in my preface, this one is just plain weird. For one thing, half of the characters are just plain scary. The one that looks like a red condom Ribbed For Her Pleasure? The kitty with the Jaws-like teeth? The one with the freakishly long arms? Who came up with these? Then there's the fact that many of the segments are, like, only 10 seconds long. Seriously—what's with fostering the ADHD? Finally, the overall feel is that someone was tripping when the storyboard was created. Maybe if I dropped a tab, I'd appreciate the show more. I dunno. This is definitely a head-scratcher for me. And another one that I'll sacrifice life and limb to get to the remote in time to stave off because it is most certainly not Designed For My Pleasure.
Well, since this has all been a tad negative, I'll list, for the sake of discussion, shows that I do like. (Although I think I like The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, once you get past my psychological evaluation of the characters).
The Upside-Down Show (Noggin): As I previously noted, most adults that I've talked to dislike this show, many of them intensely. As also noted, there are only, what, seven or so episodes ever made? So you're looking at a lot of repetition (which is T's main complaint). Still, I think it's pretty clever, the adult humor makes me laugh (I'm easy that way), and I find the characters to be pretty well developed. Plus, A likes it, and it's rare enough that we're simpatico on these things.
Jack's Big Music Show (Noggin): It's creative, you've got lots of songs/videos, which A loves, and it's reasonably humorous. That works in my book.
The Backyardigans (Noggin, Nick Jr.): I confess, I will actually watch this one when I'm by myself, depending on the episode. And yes, I actually have favorite episodes ("Race Around the World," "Into the Thick of It," and "Stone on Hilltop High," thanks for asking). I can't help it—I love the way it stirs the imagination, I particularly love how they have a music theme for every episode (that disco is the theme for "Stone on Hilltop High" is one reason it's a fave), and the characters are unique (especially Uniqua, ha ha ha… ahem). A actually has a crush on Pablo, which is adorable, and I don't particularly blame her. Overall, it's a well-done, engaging show, enough so that I don't mind watching repeat episodes of it. Which, when it comes to children's cartoons, is a must.
Blue's Clues (Noggin, Nick Jr.): Please note that I do mean Blue's Clues, NOT Blue's Room, which is a travesty that I shall not even dignify with further words. (Seriously: Blue is not supposed to talk and she is certainly not supposed to be a puppet and she most definitely does not have a mind-gratingly-annoying little brother named Sprinkles! Way to kill the franchise, folks.) Um, back to the point. Yes. Blue's Clues was actually the first kid's cartoon I started watching back in the day when A was a non-sleeping baby (now she's just a non-sleeping toddler) and in my sleep-deprived state, I thought that it would be okay to have the tv on as long as it was a child's cartoon. However, I was unused to the proclivity of many of today's cartoons for the main character to ask a question of the audience and then stare blankly at you for a minute, giving kids time to answer. So I'd kind of start freaking out (remember: sleep deprived) and would snap, "Why are you looking at me? Stop looking at me!" But once I got the hang of it, I decided that I really liked the show. I don't know why; perhaps it's merely for nostalgia's sake, now. It does help that the show ran (in the more preferable format) for about 12 years, so you definitely have a good chance of seeing an episode you haven't seen 1,000 times. And both of the hosts (although I'm a Steve gal, myself; A prefers Joe) are innocuously pleasant enough and sell the naïve "gosh, who'da thunk" bit pretty well. Overall, it's cute, somewhat educational, and mostly harmless.
Franklin (Noggin): I know a lot of people don't like this one, and I'll agree that Franklin's inevitable whining is irritating, but I'm putting this one in the "like" list for only one reason: I have literally never seen a repeat episode of this show. That alone makes it worth its weight in gold.
Miss Spider's Sunny Patch Friends (Noggin): This one is a bit of a puzzle because I feel like it should annoy me but it doesn't. It's altruistic, it always delivers a moral, and Miss Spider is incessantly cheerful. Any one of those factors should make me hate it, much less all three. Yet there's some kind of intangible charm about this one—I find myself actually paying attention, often more than A. Odd. But I like it nonetheless.
Okay, not much more to say about any of the others at the risk of committing the foremost cartoon sin, that of mind-numbing repetition. Thoughts? Arguments? Medication?
So, I needed a laugh... (7/11/08)
A LOT going on right now--impending birthdays, family visits, part-time single momhood again, so I could definitely use a laugh. And I got one: I took a look at the birth plan I ever-so-carefully drafted when I was about seven months pregnant.
You see, having a child is definitely like crossing a threshold. You think you know beforehand what things "should" or "might" be like. But if you haven't been there, you don't know squat. I know that I was a much better parent before I had a child.
Delivering a child is similar. I'm Type A+, as I've previously mentioned, and when I was pregnant, I will admit, in hindsight (and as others will corroborate) that I was OBSESSED with my pregnancy. I read everything in print and online, I bored people shitless with the minutiae of what I was experiencing (although I still think it's cool when your baby gets the hiccups inside of you), I relentlessly posted on baby boards, I fantasized about every possible worst and best case scenarios.
Toward the end, I became fixated on the delivery itself. What if I got the OB from the practice whom I loathed? What if it became necessary for a C-section? What if the birth wasn't the most absolutely perfect thing to EVER HAPPEN? So I got the bright idea to draft a birth plan, based on one I'd found online. For shits and giggles, as suggested by Julie Bulie (who really bore the brunt of my obsession--I am so sorry, Miss Hathaway!), I'm posting the funnier parts of it followed in brackets by what really happened:
The XXX Birth Plan
Due date: July 26, 2005
Obstetrician: Dr. XXX
Birth center: XXX
Dear Dr. XXX/other obstetricians and the Birthing Center Staff:
I look forward to sharing the upcoming birth of my first child with you. I have created the following birth plan to help you understand my preferences for labor and delivery. I have shared this plan with my husband and Dr. XXX, and I hope that you will assist me in making this the wonderful experience a birth should be!
[HA HA HA HA HA!!!! "Wonderful experience"? What the frack was I expecting? Disney World?]
In general, I am hoping for a calm, not rushed or frightening, environment. [Riiiiight.] However, if you see anything that looks like it might become a problem, I would like to have the opportunity to discuss it well in advance. I understand that I likely will be nervous and not thinking clearly [no shit!] but my husband is well aware of my wishes and is to act as my advocate. [This is the same man who, when we were leaving for the hospital, looked at me as I was doubled over with a contraction and said, "Is that what you're wearing?"] If possible, I would prefer a woman obstetrician to attend my labor and delivery. [Unbeknownst to me pre-delivery was that a janitor could have overseen the birth and I wouldn't have given a damn.]
If you have any questions or suggestions, please let me know. Thank you for being part of a special day in our lives! [They must have been pissing their pants laughing at this when I sent it over. I sure would have been.]
BEFORE LABOR BEGINS:
If the baby and I are fine, and if I go past my estimated due date, I would like to wait until I go into labor naturally. [A was five days early and even then, I was asking my OB how she felt about inducing early labor. I wanted that baby OUT!]
FIRST STAGE OF CHILDBIRTH: LABOR
First Stage, Phase I - Latent Labor
General Background:
Upon entering my hospital or birth center, it is crucial for me that I will not be separated from my partner(s) at any point during labor or birth. [Had I been able to do anything other than focus on my contractions, I would have ordered T to go away because all he was doing was peering at the monitor and offering such helpful comments as, "Looks like you're having another contraction" and "Hey, that looks like a big one!" Sadly, I was far too focused to swear mightily at him and a glare had to suffice.]
Environment:
Ideally, I would like my environment to have dimmed lights, lowered voices, and possibly include music I provide. [When I re-read this, I was almost crying, I was laughing so hard. You see, my water broke at 10:30 pm, I had my first contraction around 11:30 pm and the second around 11:32 pm. By the time I was admitted and checked at midnight, I was already at 7 cm. In other words, things were moving so quickly that they could have brought in a high-school band and lit the room up like a runway and I wouldn't have even noticed.]
First Stage, Phase II - Active Labor - Getting to 10 cm
Exams:
I would like to keep internal vaginal exams to a minimum and I would like to be informed of them in advance and to be walked through them as the doctor is performing them, rather than an abrupt examination. [Right. I was vaguely aware, between contractions, that there was occasionally someone's hand checking on things. I can only assume it was the doctor's.]
Eating / Drinking:
I understand that I will be working REALLY hard. Therefore I would like no restrictions on food or drink. If hospital rules do not allow food, I would like access to clear fluids like water and/or ice-chips. I recognize that this depends on the anesthesiologist. [I dimly recall Tom offering me ice chips and me taking about two minutes to hazily say "yes" each time.]
IV Preparation:
If an IV drip is started, I would like to remain as mobile as possible. [HEE HEE HEE!! What, was I going to be running marathons up and down the hallway? I couldn't even turn over without it causing excruciating pain!]
Pain Relief:
My birth partner and I would like to take a few moments to privately discuss my pain-relief options before a decision is made. [This is probably the funniest part. Our "private discussion" took place in the car as we were speeding to the hospital. Keep in mind that we live five minutes from the hospital and that I had three contractions between our front door step and the check-in desk. Me, groaning in pain: "HURRY. UP." T: "Try the breathing exercises, honey!" Me: "I have been breathing for my entire fucking life and it's never helped with pain before! I need a fucking epidural and NOW!"] However, please suggest medications if you see I am uncomfortable and please discuss my options for medication as soon as possible. [Fortunately, my nonstop screeching for the nurse to "start the IV NOW! NOW" earned me some Nubain, which, for the uninformed, is a muscle relaxant. Basically, I could still feel the contractions, I just didn't care. T says I turned from the cartoon cat clinging to the ceiling into Bob Marley humming "don't worry/'bout a thing."]
I would like the opportunity to try non-medical, non-invasive pain-relief methods. Some therapies I feel would be useful for me include massage, guided relaxation, change in position, and hot/cold therapy. [SNERK!]
Ideally, I would like to be allowed freedom of movement -- to walk, rock, use the bathroom and move as my body dictates. [See earlier IV/movement comment. Then double it.]
First Stage, Phase III - Transition
At this point, my body may be most sensitive. If I am feeling that my support person's or staff member's voice and/or touch feels too much, I will indicate so. [Again: It was all a blur. Dick Cheney may well have stopped by, I don't know.]
SECOND STAGE OF CHILDBIRTH:
PUSHING AND DELIVERY
Pushing
Coaching Preferences:
I will trust the nurses/doctor to let me know when to push and when my husband should coach me to push. [True story: T was supposed to support me and do three counts of 10 for each contraction. Several contractions in, he starts going, "9, 10, 11, 12, 13." And I turn and pant, "What the fuck are you doing?" He says, "I thought it would go faster if you pushed more." I ask you...]
Time Limits:
As long as it is clear that my baby's heart tones are good and that she/he is receiving sufficient oxygen, I would like to be free of time limits on pushing. It is important to me to allow my body to operate in its natural rhythm and timetable. However, if it is not working/clear that it is not going to work, I'd like to discuss options. [Please note that the primary reason I put together this stupid birth plan in the first place was some irrational fear that I was going to be forced into having a C-section without actually needing one. I don't know why. I was pregnant. 'Nuff said. Anyway, what actually transpired is that I ended up pushing for nearly two hours. About an hour in, after every contraction, I whimpered, "Are you sure we shouldn't do a C-section? I really think we should do a C-section." Luckily, everyone was ignoring me by that point.]
Positions:
If my doctor or midwife feels that pushing may not be progressing efficiently, I would like to be reminded that sometimes changing positions helps. Because I may be very internally-focused, I would like to be encouraged to alter to one or more of the following delivery positions: squatting, side-lying position, standing upright, hands and knees on floor, kneeling, semi-reclining on bed with knees pressed to chest with support person behind me providing counter-pressure, or whatever else may help. [Seriously? No... seriously?]
Vaginal Delivery:
Ideally, I would like to avoid an episiotomy. [Wouldn't we all, honey?]
THIRD STAGE OF CHILDBIRTH: DELIVERY OF PLACENTA OR AFTERBIRTH
If a procedure is necessary, please explain it to me. [I don't even remember when this popped out--A was born a little pale and it took some doing to get her to cry, so I was so anxious that I didn't even notice what was going on with me. All I know is that the doctor proffered the placenta in a tray and said, "Do you want to see it?" I looked at what looked like my liver and said, "Oh, that's gross." Miracle of life, my ass.]
So, there you go. Fact versus fiction, fantasy versus reality. But in the end, no matter how it happens, it only matters that you've got a healthy baby in your arms. And a good story to boot.
You see, having a child is definitely like crossing a threshold. You think you know beforehand what things "should" or "might" be like. But if you haven't been there, you don't know squat. I know that I was a much better parent before I had a child.
Delivering a child is similar. I'm Type A+, as I've previously mentioned, and when I was pregnant, I will admit, in hindsight (and as others will corroborate) that I was OBSESSED with my pregnancy. I read everything in print and online, I bored people shitless with the minutiae of what I was experiencing (although I still think it's cool when your baby gets the hiccups inside of you), I relentlessly posted on baby boards, I fantasized about every possible worst and best case scenarios.
Toward the end, I became fixated on the delivery itself. What if I got the OB from the practice whom I loathed? What if it became necessary for a C-section? What if the birth wasn't the most absolutely perfect thing to EVER HAPPEN? So I got the bright idea to draft a birth plan, based on one I'd found online. For shits and giggles, as suggested by Julie Bulie (who really bore the brunt of my obsession--I am so sorry, Miss Hathaway!), I'm posting the funnier parts of it followed in brackets by what really happened:
The XXX Birth Plan
Due date: July 26, 2005
Obstetrician: Dr. XXX
Birth center: XXX
Dear Dr. XXX/other obstetricians and the Birthing Center Staff:
I look forward to sharing the upcoming birth of my first child with you. I have created the following birth plan to help you understand my preferences for labor and delivery. I have shared this plan with my husband and Dr. XXX, and I hope that you will assist me in making this the wonderful experience a birth should be!
[HA HA HA HA HA!!!! "Wonderful experience"? What the frack was I expecting? Disney World?]
In general, I am hoping for a calm, not rushed or frightening, environment. [Riiiiight.] However, if you see anything that looks like it might become a problem, I would like to have the opportunity to discuss it well in advance. I understand that I likely will be nervous and not thinking clearly [no shit!] but my husband is well aware of my wishes and is to act as my advocate. [This is the same man who, when we were leaving for the hospital, looked at me as I was doubled over with a contraction and said, "Is that what you're wearing?"] If possible, I would prefer a woman obstetrician to attend my labor and delivery. [Unbeknownst to me pre-delivery was that a janitor could have overseen the birth and I wouldn't have given a damn.]
If you have any questions or suggestions, please let me know. Thank you for being part of a special day in our lives! [They must have been pissing their pants laughing at this when I sent it over. I sure would have been.]
BEFORE LABOR BEGINS:
If the baby and I are fine, and if I go past my estimated due date, I would like to wait until I go into labor naturally. [A was five days early and even then, I was asking my OB how she felt about inducing early labor. I wanted that baby OUT!]
FIRST STAGE OF CHILDBIRTH: LABOR
First Stage, Phase I - Latent Labor
General Background:
Upon entering my hospital or birth center, it is crucial for me that I will not be separated from my partner(s) at any point during labor or birth. [Had I been able to do anything other than focus on my contractions, I would have ordered T to go away because all he was doing was peering at the monitor and offering such helpful comments as, "Looks like you're having another contraction" and "Hey, that looks like a big one!" Sadly, I was far too focused to swear mightily at him and a glare had to suffice.]
Environment:
Ideally, I would like my environment to have dimmed lights, lowered voices, and possibly include music I provide. [When I re-read this, I was almost crying, I was laughing so hard. You see, my water broke at 10:30 pm, I had my first contraction around 11:30 pm and the second around 11:32 pm. By the time I was admitted and checked at midnight, I was already at 7 cm. In other words, things were moving so quickly that they could have brought in a high-school band and lit the room up like a runway and I wouldn't have even noticed.]
First Stage, Phase II - Active Labor - Getting to 10 cm
Exams:
I would like to keep internal vaginal exams to a minimum and I would like to be informed of them in advance and to be walked through them as the doctor is performing them, rather than an abrupt examination. [Right. I was vaguely aware, between contractions, that there was occasionally someone's hand checking on things. I can only assume it was the doctor's.]
Eating / Drinking:
I understand that I will be working REALLY hard. Therefore I would like no restrictions on food or drink. If hospital rules do not allow food, I would like access to clear fluids like water and/or ice-chips. I recognize that this depends on the anesthesiologist. [I dimly recall Tom offering me ice chips and me taking about two minutes to hazily say "yes" each time.]
IV Preparation:
If an IV drip is started, I would like to remain as mobile as possible. [HEE HEE HEE!! What, was I going to be running marathons up and down the hallway? I couldn't even turn over without it causing excruciating pain!]
Pain Relief:
My birth partner and I would like to take a few moments to privately discuss my pain-relief options before a decision is made. [This is probably the funniest part. Our "private discussion" took place in the car as we were speeding to the hospital. Keep in mind that we live five minutes from the hospital and that I had three contractions between our front door step and the check-in desk. Me, groaning in pain: "HURRY. UP." T: "Try the breathing exercises, honey!" Me: "I have been breathing for my entire fucking life and it's never helped with pain before! I need a fucking epidural and NOW!"] However, please suggest medications if you see I am uncomfortable and please discuss my options for medication as soon as possible. [Fortunately, my nonstop screeching for the nurse to "start the IV NOW! NOW" earned me some Nubain, which, for the uninformed, is a muscle relaxant. Basically, I could still feel the contractions, I just didn't care. T says I turned from the cartoon cat clinging to the ceiling into Bob Marley humming "don't worry/'bout a thing."]
I would like the opportunity to try non-medical, non-invasive pain-relief methods. Some therapies I feel would be useful for me include massage, guided relaxation, change in position, and hot/cold therapy. [SNERK!]
Ideally, I would like to be allowed freedom of movement -- to walk, rock, use the bathroom and move as my body dictates. [See earlier IV/movement comment. Then double it.]
First Stage, Phase III - Transition
At this point, my body may be most sensitive. If I am feeling that my support person's or staff member's voice and/or touch feels too much, I will indicate so. [Again: It was all a blur. Dick Cheney may well have stopped by, I don't know.]
SECOND STAGE OF CHILDBIRTH:
PUSHING AND DELIVERY
Pushing
Coaching Preferences:
I will trust the nurses/doctor to let me know when to push and when my husband should coach me to push. [True story: T was supposed to support me and do three counts of 10 for each contraction. Several contractions in, he starts going, "9, 10, 11, 12, 13." And I turn and pant, "What the fuck are you doing?" He says, "I thought it would go faster if you pushed more." I ask you...]
Time Limits:
As long as it is clear that my baby's heart tones are good and that she/he is receiving sufficient oxygen, I would like to be free of time limits on pushing. It is important to me to allow my body to operate in its natural rhythm and timetable. However, if it is not working/clear that it is not going to work, I'd like to discuss options. [Please note that the primary reason I put together this stupid birth plan in the first place was some irrational fear that I was going to be forced into having a C-section without actually needing one. I don't know why. I was pregnant. 'Nuff said. Anyway, what actually transpired is that I ended up pushing for nearly two hours. About an hour in, after every contraction, I whimpered, "Are you sure we shouldn't do a C-section? I really think we should do a C-section." Luckily, everyone was ignoring me by that point.]
Positions:
If my doctor or midwife feels that pushing may not be progressing efficiently, I would like to be reminded that sometimes changing positions helps. Because I may be very internally-focused, I would like to be encouraged to alter to one or more of the following delivery positions: squatting, side-lying position, standing upright, hands and knees on floor, kneeling, semi-reclining on bed with knees pressed to chest with support person behind me providing counter-pressure, or whatever else may help. [Seriously? No... seriously?]
Vaginal Delivery:
Ideally, I would like to avoid an episiotomy. [Wouldn't we all, honey?]
THIRD STAGE OF CHILDBIRTH: DELIVERY OF PLACENTA OR AFTERBIRTH
If a procedure is necessary, please explain it to me. [I don't even remember when this popped out--A was born a little pale and it took some doing to get her to cry, so I was so anxious that I didn't even notice what was going on with me. All I know is that the doctor proffered the placenta in a tray and said, "Do you want to see it?" I looked at what looked like my liver and said, "Oh, that's gross." Miracle of life, my ass.]
So, there you go. Fact versus fiction, fantasy versus reality. But in the end, no matter how it happens, it only matters that you've got a healthy baby in your arms. And a good story to boot.
For the love of...
Okay, this is going to be brief because I'm swamped, but I just had to take a moment to marvel at the stupidity of some people. (And yes, I'm still PMSy, why do you ask?)
But seriously, folks. I park in a lot at work that's gated. All you have to do to get into the lot is swipe your ID card through the little slot and voila! (or as a former boss used to type, viola!), the gate magically opens. Technology is a wonder, no? So, to review: drive up to gate, position driver's side window so that you can lean out, swipe card through, drive into parking lot. Not that difficult, or so one would think.
Yet I repeatedly witness the startling ineptitude of people who park here EVERY DAY (hence they should know the drill) and who a) don't pull up the right way and have to open their car door to access the card swiper, b) manage to pull up correctly but then spend two minutes searching for their ID as if it were a surprise that they had to swipe it through, c) are unable to correctly swipe it through [this baffles me, honestly--there's even a diagram showing how to do it] and have to put the car in reverse and back away from the gate to torture some other souls in some other parking lot, or d) all of the above. What's even more fun is when several cars in a row do this, as if they didn't learn from watching the idiot who just pulled this nonsense. It's like being in line at a fast food joint for several minutes and the guy in front of you, when he gets to the counter, finally takes a look at the menu to figure out what he wants.
Anyway. This morning's idiot pulled up incorrectly, put his car in park, tried to get out but realized that the car was too close to the machine and he couldn't open the door wide enough, got back in, put the car in reverse, pulled up incorrectly again, got out, started fumbling for his wallet, eventually found his card, and took (by this point, I was watching, gape-mouthed, and I counted the swipes) EIGHT TRIES to get his card through. Oh, and after every failed swipe, he'd get back in the car, realize that he'd not managed to open the gate, and get out again. I shit you not.
Finally, FINALLY, he made it through, and I shook myself from my stunned reverie, reminded myself yet again why it's a good thing that I don't have a laser beam attached to the front of my car (although my god, I could take car of all the bad drivers here within a day), and drove up, card at the ready, swiped it, drove in, parked, and was out of the car before the idiot had finally successfully negotiated his car into a parking space.
And people wonder why I'm in a shitty mood by the time I make it into the office?! Ye gods...
But seriously, folks. I park in a lot at work that's gated. All you have to do to get into the lot is swipe your ID card through the little slot and voila! (or as a former boss used to type, viola!), the gate magically opens. Technology is a wonder, no? So, to review: drive up to gate, position driver's side window so that you can lean out, swipe card through, drive into parking lot. Not that difficult, or so one would think.
Yet I repeatedly witness the startling ineptitude of people who park here EVERY DAY (hence they should know the drill) and who a) don't pull up the right way and have to open their car door to access the card swiper, b) manage to pull up correctly but then spend two minutes searching for their ID as if it were a surprise that they had to swipe it through, c) are unable to correctly swipe it through [this baffles me, honestly--there's even a diagram showing how to do it] and have to put the car in reverse and back away from the gate to torture some other souls in some other parking lot, or d) all of the above. What's even more fun is when several cars in a row do this, as if they didn't learn from watching the idiot who just pulled this nonsense. It's like being in line at a fast food joint for several minutes and the guy in front of you, when he gets to the counter, finally takes a look at the menu to figure out what he wants.
Anyway. This morning's idiot pulled up incorrectly, put his car in park, tried to get out but realized that the car was too close to the machine and he couldn't open the door wide enough, got back in, put the car in reverse, pulled up incorrectly again, got out, started fumbling for his wallet, eventually found his card, and took (by this point, I was watching, gape-mouthed, and I counted the swipes) EIGHT TRIES to get his card through. Oh, and after every failed swipe, he'd get back in the car, realize that he'd not managed to open the gate, and get out again. I shit you not.
Finally, FINALLY, he made it through, and I shook myself from my stunned reverie, reminded myself yet again why it's a good thing that I don't have a laser beam attached to the front of my car (although my god, I could take car of all the bad drivers here within a day), and drove up, card at the ready, swiped it, drove in, parked, and was out of the car before the idiot had finally successfully negotiated his car into a parking space.
And people wonder why I'm in a shitty mood by the time I make it into the office?! Ye gods...
Alexandrites (6/30/08)
First, I'm posting these mostly to remind myself that my life is pretty good and lots of interesting and amusing things happen to me. Today just happens to be a shitty day--people are beating upon my absolute last nerve at work. I'm normally pretty bloody optimistic and able to roll with it when the more artistic types, let's say, act out. But today, I lost it with one who was resisting a graphic change that I wanted him to make to the placement of a byline. Normally, I don't get on my high horse about such things but this was a pretty obviously necessary one for readability issues (the age-old struggle between editors and designers and one that I face daily). Finally, after arguing with G for FIVE MINUTES about this, he muttered that he'd shown it to another designer, M, and that she liked it. I stood up, pointed to the change, and said, "I don't give a shit what M thinks, change the fucking byline!" You have to understand, this is totally not me--sure I might think it, but I rarely actually say it. All I can say in my defense is, PMS is a bitch and right now, so am I. (But he did make the change and it looks MUCH better, thankyouverymuch.)
And second, I don't think I've explained (and am too lazy to see whether this is indeed true) why I call the amusing (to me, at least) A stories "alexandrites." Alexandrite is my birthstone and given that A's name is Alexandra and these are little soundbites from her life, well, it seemed to fit. On with the show...
On Saturday, we went for our usual walk (well, me pushing her in her stroller) on a local walking/bike path. At one point, where the path is only about 100 feet away from the road, I was huffing along when she spotted a young man (and I am officially old for typing that) walking along the side of the road. She said loudly enough for him to hear, "Mommy! He's walkin' inna road!" I smiled feebly at the nice young man and said, "Well, honey, that's because there's no sidewalk there." But my Junior Traffic Safety Patrolwoman was undeterred. Frowning darkly at him, she said, "He's gonna get SQUISHED." He, needless to say, started walking faster in the opposite direction. Already winning friends and influencing people--that's my girl.
Yesterday saw a great display of her comedic timing. T and I were watching the UEFA (United European something something--again, too lazy to look) soccer championship game between Germany and Spain. T was rooting for Germany because of his Swiss-German heritage and I was rooting for Spain primarily because their goaltender is pretty hot. T called me out for being superficial so I pointed out, "Well, I don't speak German but I do speak Spanish." And Alexandra turns and cheerfully says, "Hola!" I think we've been watching a bit too much Dora/Diego/Handy Manny, si?
And second, I don't think I've explained (and am too lazy to see whether this is indeed true) why I call the amusing (to me, at least) A stories "alexandrites." Alexandrite is my birthstone and given that A's name is Alexandra and these are little soundbites from her life, well, it seemed to fit. On with the show...
On Saturday, we went for our usual walk (well, me pushing her in her stroller) on a local walking/bike path. At one point, where the path is only about 100 feet away from the road, I was huffing along when she spotted a young man (and I am officially old for typing that) walking along the side of the road. She said loudly enough for him to hear, "Mommy! He's walkin' inna road!" I smiled feebly at the nice young man and said, "Well, honey, that's because there's no sidewalk there." But my Junior Traffic Safety Patrolwoman was undeterred. Frowning darkly at him, she said, "He's gonna get SQUISHED." He, needless to say, started walking faster in the opposite direction. Already winning friends and influencing people--that's my girl.
Yesterday saw a great display of her comedic timing. T and I were watching the UEFA (United European something something--again, too lazy to look) soccer championship game between Germany and Spain. T was rooting for Germany because of his Swiss-German heritage and I was rooting for Spain primarily because their goaltender is pretty hot. T called me out for being superficial so I pointed out, "Well, I don't speak German but I do speak Spanish." And Alexandra turns and cheerfully says, "Hola!" I think we've been watching a bit too much Dora/Diego/Handy Manny, si?
You just can't make this stuff up (6/19/08)
I've had a pretty nasty cold all week--today's the first day I've felt human in some time. Of course, this was exacerbated by the fact that my husband (T) has been gone for nearly a week, meaning that I've been doing the single mom thing for nearly a week. Honestly, I don't know how real, full-time singles do it--my hat, my bra, and anything else I've got go off to them.
That being said, there have been a couple of amusing moments. Such as the following:
Scene: Wednesday, 6:30 a.m., my bed, to which I've retreated with a wide-awake and energetic toddler...
Me: [croaking voice] Honey, please don't jump up and down on Mommy. She doesn't feel good.
[silence]
A: You want some milk?
Me: No, thank you.
A: You want crackers?
Me: No, but thank you for asking.
[pensive silence]
A: How 'bout some smoked salmon?
She's definitely my kid.
Then today, I forced myself out for my daily lunchtime slog, er walk. On the way back, I happened to glance into a car parked on the side of the road... and did a triple take. Because sitting in the driver's seat and looking back at me was a small white dog wearing--I shit you not--an even smaller red cowboy hat. Needless to say, hilarity ensued. That was immediately followed by intense speculation on my part: Where on earth was that dog going next? I'm half tempted to go back and see.
I think that's a great way to lead into my birthday (I'll be 36 tomorrow): everyday reminders that we all just bide our time here in the theater of the absurd.
That being said, there have been a couple of amusing moments. Such as the following:
Scene: Wednesday, 6:30 a.m., my bed, to which I've retreated with a wide-awake and energetic toddler...
Me: [croaking voice] Honey, please don't jump up and down on Mommy. She doesn't feel good.
[silence]
A: You want some milk?
Me: No, thank you.
A: You want crackers?
Me: No, but thank you for asking.
[pensive silence]
A: How 'bout some smoked salmon?
She's definitely my kid.
Then today, I forced myself out for my daily lunchtime slog, er walk. On the way back, I happened to glance into a car parked on the side of the road... and did a triple take. Because sitting in the driver's seat and looking back at me was a small white dog wearing--I shit you not--an even smaller red cowboy hat. Needless to say, hilarity ensued. That was immediately followed by intense speculation on my part: Where on earth was that dog going next? I'm half tempted to go back and see.
I think that's a great way to lead into my birthday (I'll be 36 tomorrow): everyday reminders that we all just bide our time here in the theater of the absurd.
One of those days (6/9/08)
So, today I declare war on the cows.
You see, I have a theory about a certain type of person. The person who, when asked to do something, either does it incompetently because he/she doesn't think or does it until he/she hits a roadblock, something that could be easily figured out but proves to be a stopper because he/she doesn't think. I liken these people to cows. A cow will meander until it hits a barrier. Then it stops. It doesn't look for a way around the barrier, nope. It just stands there until someone comes to show it where to go. I work with a lot of cows. I end up doing a lot of people's jobs for them, it seems like. And I am bloody well tired of it.
A message to those around me: think, people. Just think. Or you're going to be receiving end of a cattle prod.
(Today's bitchiness quotient: 9 on a scale of 10, 10 being "I'm going to kick you for no good reason." Perhaps the prozac, she is not working quite so well today... did I mention that I've got my period? Did I actually have to?)
Anyway... this entry sort of sums up the point of this blog, which is mostly a forum for me to vent without totally annoying the crap out of the people around me. Sometimes, it actually works. Everyone's got something to vent about--their own personal cows, I suppose. Me, I'm a full-time working mother of a rather precocious (although everyone says that, don't they?) soon-to-be-three-year-old daughter (A) and my husband (T) is, insanely enough, commuting to a graduate school that's more than four hours away, meaning he's gone a lot during the fall and spring. Which has given me incredible respect for "real" single mothers--may all the deities bless you, ladies.
At any rate, maybe I don't have any more to vent about than anyone else, maybe I do. This is simply space where I can try to see the humor in all the insanity and, perhaps, even in the cows.
(Later in the day:) The cows are still winning, I think. Karmically, at least. Anything that could go wrong today, did. There are the epic failures, such as paying $1,300 to get my car's a/c fixed and then, whilst driving home, watching the engine warning light come on, which evidently could mean anything from "Eh, this light shouldn't be on" to "Hey, dummy, your engine could blow AT ANY MINUTE." Comforting, no? Work is still a heap o' steaming poo. Deadlines are whooshing by--making Douglas Adams a happy man in the twilight realm--and it's totally out of my control, which I just loooove. I get new responsibilities by the day yet there is no increase in my pay. (Hey, was that a haiku? Nah, just a shitty rhyme.)
And then there's the small stuff, which is what tends to be my breaking point: daycare sends home a note that A needs pull-ups, wipes, and a water bottle. The first, fine; the second, not so fine--we were out of town this weekend and I didn't get to do my usual Target run. The third... huh? Because we are the home of the Tour de France and just happen to have hundreds of water bottles lying around... except that we're not, and we don't. Some desperate rummaging managed to turn up one from T's undergraduate days, oh-so-many years ago. Well, at least she'll stand out...
[Editor's note: I'm moving several posts over from another site due to technical difficulties. So ignore the posting date if another one is specified in the title. And yes, I'm just Type A enough for that to bug me.)
You see, I have a theory about a certain type of person. The person who, when asked to do something, either does it incompetently because he/she doesn't think or does it until he/she hits a roadblock, something that could be easily figured out but proves to be a stopper because he/she doesn't think. I liken these people to cows. A cow will meander until it hits a barrier. Then it stops. It doesn't look for a way around the barrier, nope. It just stands there until someone comes to show it where to go. I work with a lot of cows. I end up doing a lot of people's jobs for them, it seems like. And I am bloody well tired of it.
A message to those around me: think, people. Just think. Or you're going to be receiving end of a cattle prod.
(Today's bitchiness quotient: 9 on a scale of 10, 10 being "I'm going to kick you for no good reason." Perhaps the prozac, she is not working quite so well today... did I mention that I've got my period? Did I actually have to?)
Anyway... this entry sort of sums up the point of this blog, which is mostly a forum for me to vent without totally annoying the crap out of the people around me. Sometimes, it actually works. Everyone's got something to vent about--their own personal cows, I suppose. Me, I'm a full-time working mother of a rather precocious (although everyone says that, don't they?) soon-to-be-three-year-old daughter (A) and my husband (T) is, insanely enough, commuting to a graduate school that's more than four hours away, meaning he's gone a lot during the fall and spring. Which has given me incredible respect for "real" single mothers--may all the deities bless you, ladies.
At any rate, maybe I don't have any more to vent about than anyone else, maybe I do. This is simply space where I can try to see the humor in all the insanity and, perhaps, even in the cows.
(Later in the day:) The cows are still winning, I think. Karmically, at least. Anything that could go wrong today, did. There are the epic failures, such as paying $1,300 to get my car's a/c fixed and then, whilst driving home, watching the engine warning light come on, which evidently could mean anything from "Eh, this light shouldn't be on" to "Hey, dummy, your engine could blow AT ANY MINUTE." Comforting, no? Work is still a heap o' steaming poo. Deadlines are whooshing by--making Douglas Adams a happy man in the twilight realm--and it's totally out of my control, which I just loooove. I get new responsibilities by the day yet there is no increase in my pay. (Hey, was that a haiku? Nah, just a shitty rhyme.)
And then there's the small stuff, which is what tends to be my breaking point: daycare sends home a note that A needs pull-ups, wipes, and a water bottle. The first, fine; the second, not so fine--we were out of town this weekend and I didn't get to do my usual Target run. The third... huh? Because we are the home of the Tour de France and just happen to have hundreds of water bottles lying around... except that we're not, and we don't. Some desperate rummaging managed to turn up one from T's undergraduate days, oh-so-many years ago. Well, at least she'll stand out...
[Editor's note: I'm moving several posts over from another site due to technical difficulties. So ignore the posting date if another one is specified in the title. And yes, I'm just Type A enough for that to bug me.)
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