I caught two bass in Lake Coeur d’Alene with my dad this week. Sure, they were only about 0.011 ounces each, but they were real fish. That I caught. With a rod. All by myself. Here’s the shot to prove it.
It felt a little wrong catching bass, of all things. So I tossed them back.
I'd smile too if I didn't have a baby on a plane.
At the prompting of a concerned friend, I write this brief post to announce that Seabass and I have indeed made it to Idaho alive. That is the good news.
You may remember a post from two weeks ago regarding the terror I felt in anticipation of flying with my 13-month-old Seabass. It turns out I had every reason to fear flying with him: It’s bloody horrific. Rant: Would you believe that TSA requires babies to remove their shoes during security screening? He wears a size 5 shoe and they checked Seabass for explosives. I mean COME ON.
For the first flight, we were seated next to a very nice young woman (a college student?) who read a magazine the whole time. That is, she read a magazine when Seabass wasn’t yanking on it. Or screaming. Or disintegrating with rage when I wouldn’t let him tug the hair of the poor man sitting in front of us.
Yeah, that first flight was pretty much hell on wings. When the stewardess asked for my drink order, I, like a rookie idiot, requested ginger ale for myself and apple juice for a thirsty Seabass. Since he was sitting on my lap, I couldn’t pull the tray table down, so I had to hold the drinks in those clear plastic tumblers they hand out. (note to self: deny the beverage service!) Double-fisting the cups, I attempted to let Seabass drink from one cup while getting a sip or two out of my own. Apple juice cascaded down the front of his shirt (note to self: work on cup-drinking) and then he pulled my ginger ale down all over both of our pants. A whole cup. The wet spot was perfectly positioned to look as though I’d peed my pants. Our skin stuck together from the dried sugar. Oh, oh, I’m starting to twitch just thinking about it.
Seabass wailed during the descent of the aircraft until I donned my nursing cover and let the little dude have a boob. I was willing to do pretty much anything to relax him at that point. I also let him nurse during our 90-minute layover in Phoenix when he wasn’t running around the airport trying to grab everyone’s laptop, food, or SmartPhone. (note to self: next time, bring the Ergo carrier!)
The second flight was easier than the first for a few reasons:
It was so wonderful to disembark the plane and to see my beautiful mom awaiting us at the baggage claim. And it’s been POSITIVELY HEAVENLY to be cooked for, cleaned-up after, and pampered the way Seabass and I have been at Oma and Oompa’s house. So I’m happy to report that being here is worth the pain it took to arrive.
By the by, the little “I’m sorry” goodie bags for my seatmates went over extremely well. Comments included:
“Well, this is a first.”
“What a lovely gesture.”
“Oh, this isn’t necessary!”
and, my personal favorite,
“Can I have another Kit Kat?”
Endless Summer takes on an entirely new meaning.
Today is the first day of summer! And you know what that means: relaxing by the pool, trashy novels, and tropical vacations.
Unless, of course, you happen to be a young mother.
Okay, so Seabass isn’t exactly school-aged yet, but like mothers of school-aged kids over the summer, I am all too familiar with the thought What the heck will entertain you today? Thankfully, I have a friend who is far more proactive than me. Her name is Stephanie and she has made a terrific list of activities to turn to whenever the kiddos get antsy this summer. I recently asked her permission to share this list with you all, and she graciously agreed.
Granted, many of these are specific to where I live, San Luis Obispo, where it’s never too hot or too cold to do much of anything. (Gloat, gloat.) But many are applicable wherever you live. Just get out there and do stuff. If you’re anything like me, it will provide sanity when you’ve squeezed the life out of all your other ideas.
Out and About
Fun at Home
Warning: You’re about to learn a lot more about me than you may want to know. I’m looking at you, Dad.
When Jake and I were married in 2002, we discovered that hormonal birth control methods (e.g. the pill, the patch, etc.) turned me into a raving lunatic. In fact I’m pretty sure my dear, precious husband was questioning his choice of bride during those first painful months.
Eventually, we landed upon the method of “charting” to keep Seabass at bay. This entails watching a few of my body’s signals to predict when I will ovulate – information useful either for avoiding or promoting conception – and charting the results. All of our information for how to practice charting came from the fantastic book Taking Charge of Your Fertility by Toni Weschler. (By the by, I highly, highly recommend this book to all women, especially young ones. Learning how to read your body’s signs is incredibly empowering and helps minimize the frustration of becoming a pimply, weepy psychopath once a month.)
Giddy up!
One of the signs to read during charting is my early morning body temperature. So, every morning when the alarm went off at 6:30am Jake would jam a thermometer in my mouth. Despite how unappealing that sounds, it was actually a beautiful way to wake up. I got to lay there for a full minute, completely still, while preparing to take on the rest of the day. When the thermometer beeped, we’d note the temp on a chart. If my temperature spiked one day, it was a sign that I’d ovulated. When that spike descended after several days, we knew I’d soon be visited by Aunt Flo.
When we left for our year-long trip around the world, we dutifully packed the thermometer and a chart, thinking everything would continue as planned. But it didn’t, because my ovaries didn’t drop an egg for 150 days. I would have believed I was pregnant if my temperature had ever spiked, but it hadn’t. You see, my sensitive reproductive system is a lot like a turtle: The slightest change or stress, and everything goes into lockdown.
Eventually my cycle re-emerged and my timid body managed to ovulate. It wasn’t until a few months after our return home that we decided to change our objective with charting and try to conceive. In Taking Charge of Your Fertility, the author describes how it’s possible to conceive on Monday, but not technically be pregnant (i.e. fertilized egg implanted in the uterine wall) until Tuesday or Wednesday. Furthermore, she states that the implantation process can be felt, and can be “a little uncomfortable.”
So it was with Seabass. We *ahem* did the deed on a Friday, but the fertilized egg didn’t implant and get me pregnant until I was shopping at Trader Joe’s on Saturday. Pushing my cart through the cheese aisle, I felt a sharp, searing pain not unlike a knife in my pelvis. It was so uncomfortable I couldn’t walk or move. So I just stood there squeezing a wedge of brie until it passed, about a minute later.
And I guess that’s when I first knew we had a Seabass on the way.
Just between you and me, I have a fear that runs deeper than my fear of snakes, heights, and nuclear war combined:
Flying on an airplane with Seabass.
It’s not because he’s a baby. It’s not even because he’s a crazed psycho baby. It’s because in all of my travels, whenever I saw a baby on board, I would inwardly roll my eyes and curse the parents. WHY in the WORLD does this family INSIST on traveling with their baby?!? Audible sigh.
And now I’m the one insisting on flying with a [loud, demanding] baby and everyone else will be cursing me. Because? Seabass is making his airplane debut in just a matter of days.
I feel safe placing all of the blame on my mother. She’s the one who suggested I bring the baby up to Idaho for three weeks this summer. She enticed me with descriptions of warm sunshine, free babysitting, and hours floating in the lake. It sounded like a good idea at the time. So I agreed to fly up with Le Seabass – ALONE – at the end of June.
Jake will fly up on his own for the middle week, lucky bastard. He’s already planning all of the fun things he’s going to do the weeks preceding and following his trip. “As many crappy action movies as I want!” was his reponse when I asked how he would fill up his lonesome nights.
I asked a friend in the know what to do about traveling with C. “Just shut up and take it like a man,” she said.
So I asked a different friend how to go about it. “Hm,” she mused. “I once received a little goodie bag from a mom with a young child sitting next to me on a flight. It contained a set of new earplugs, a mini Snickers bar, and a note saying ‘Sorry about the kid.’ It was brilliant.”
Indeed, it is brilliant. So I’m putting together goodie bags of the same nature to give to my seatmates on the six – count ’em: SIX – flights to and from Oma’s house in Idaho. I plan on using the same formula of note, candy, and earplugs. I’ve already made up the notes. Would you like to read one?
The thing I like most about this goodie bag idea is that it reaches outside the boundaries we put around ourselves as air passengers and diffuses a little of the pain of an uncomfortable situation. (A little, but not all. I’m guessing that Snickers bar will only be halfway eaten before my seatmates return to cursing me.)
P.S. For those of you who might suggest drugging the little guppy for the flight, please see Exhibit A.
New Mom: My baby just started standing up on his own! I can’t wait for him to take his first steps.
Crusty Veteran Mom: Take it from me, girl: You do *not* want him to start walking. When mine started taking his first steps, I pushed him down repeatedly because I didn’t want to have to chase after him all the time. That’s what happens when you’ve had a few kids – you know what’s coming so you prolong their immobility for as long as possible.
First course: Dirt. Second course: Camera.
This is the conversation I had about fifteen bajillion trillion times before Seabass started teetering on two legs a couple months ago. To be honest, I always found it pretty annoying to be told I didn’t want a walking child. The truth is, I wanted it more than anything.
You see, we always knew Seabass would be an early walker – not because he’s so advanced or anything, but because he utterly detested crawling. All he ever wanted was to be upright and into everything. But since he couldn’t, Jake and I were forced either to
1. listen to his painful, skin-crawling whine whenever he couldn’t get something he wanted, or
2. break our own backs getting it for him.
Everything’s different now. If Seabass wants something, he gets it. If that something is a toy, book, or Cheerio, hooray! If it’s a broken Pacifico bottle, knife, or can of Ajax, boo! So we have eliminated all “boo”-type implements at his level.
But there are some things that simply can’t be removed, such as DIRT. Dirt belongs, by its very nature, at ground level. And Seabass is a true dirt connoisseur. How often does he partake of it? Oh, I’d say at least every day now. I know that seriously bugs some of you. But a) I’m too tired to hover, and b) if it doesn’t kill him, it will only make him stronger.
And at this rate, this kid is going to be really, really strong.
Friends,
This is a guest post stolen (with permission) from my friend Jill’s blog. She just gave birth to her second son last Friday. When she had her first son almost two years ago, her labor stalled and took forever. Obviously, she was slightly *concerned* about the whole shenanigan this time around. Turns out she didn’t need to be.
Principal Players
Tim=Husband
Jude=First Son
Linda=Tim’s Sister
Kona=Dog
Enjoy!
I am not sure where to begin with all the thoughts mixing up in my head, but I’ll do my best to tell the birth story of our second son, Elijah Ryan Whitacre.
As I have said before, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes about three months ago. It has been a trying journey in discipline, attitude and acceptance. One of the major concerns with the condition is the risk of a large baby – aka too large for the mother to deliver. Our OB wanted him out and about by 39 weeks to avoid this situation. At 37 weeks I was 70% effaced, 3cm dilated and the little one was sitting at zero station. By all counts he looked ready to go and the doctor didn’t see any reason why he wouldn’t come on his own. Then 39 weeks came and went and she started talking about induction. I was adamantly against it and she willingly heard me out and we continued waiting. I went in for a routine appointment on Friday (39 weeks, five days) and we had a “heart to heart” about the risks of waiting too long. We compromised as I agreed to have my membranes stripped to try to get things started on Friday, May 20th at 11am. I was already 5cm at this point. My water had been leaking slowly since noon on Thursday as well.
Contractions and some cramping started at noon. I put Jude down for his nap, took a shower, ate and laid down for a nap myself. Tim came home about 2pm and began getting our final things together for the hospital. After napping, we decided to start walking. With Jude and his tricycle we set out around the block. I was talking and walking through the contractions, but having a hard time telling when they were starting and ending. After the walk, I laid down again and the contractions slowed so we decided to get up and at it again. This time Linda, Tim’s sister, was with us and we set out for a longer walk. Every few contractions, I would need to pause and breathe through but nothing that seemed “strong enough” to be doing much from my perspective.
On a random side note, we had Kona with us on the walk and a car drove by with two dogs in it that were barking their heads off at her. One of the dogs actually fell out of the truck window it was barking and leaning so hard. Tim helped the owner calm the dog and get it back in the truck. Maybe we should have known the drama was on the horizon with dogs falling out of trucks around us.
By around 7pm, contractions were continuing, but I was still working through them without much difficulty. At this point I was feeling discouraged and that there wasn’t much more I could do to speed things along so I tried to come to terms with the fact that this too would be a long labor.
My mom arrived at about 7:20pm. At 8pm, I was officially discouraged and decided to go to bed. At about 8:35, Tim came in to check on me and I told him to tell my mom and Linda to get some rest. It was going to be a long night. While he was talking with them, everything changed.
My water broke with fury. I don’t know how else to put it. It was very painful and sudden. I called to Tim and burst into tears. The tears were a mix of the surprise pain and disappointment that my water had broken and we were definitely headed for the hospital. At this point, things might start to get graphic so if you don’t want details I suggest you stop reading. I can be very good at giving too much information.
Tim began talking me off the ledge as I was very upset. He got me off the bed and tried to get my now very wet clothes off and get me on the toilet. Then the contractions started with wild abandon coming one on top of another. I collapsed onto the floor shaking uncontrollably with my teeth chattering really hard. I think I kept saying, “I need to get a grip” and “breathe”. Tim began trying to dress me so we could get in the car. I could not fathom getting in a car at this point, but had little to no ability to communicate what I was thinking. After another contraction on the floor I told him I needed to get on the bed to be more comfortable. If you have ever seen our monster bed, you know this is ridiculous. Doesn’t matter. We got on the bed and I let out a very primal scream as I felt the unstoppable urge to push. Tim yelled for help and Linda ran in (Linda and my mom had been getting our things into the car and trying to take care of last minute details as quickly as possible). She assured me that I was having a bowel movement and it would all be okay. Yep, I am openly telling you that I pooped on our bed. Welcome to the land of childbirth. This is when Linda called 911. Another contraction hit, I grunted and pushed while digging my nails into Tim’s arms and telling him not to leave me. Then I finally get out what I have been thinking for the last minute: “He’s here. He’s coming.” The next thing we know is Eli’s head crowns and less than two seconds later the rest of Elijah followed caught by the steady, strong hands of his hero father at 8:55pm. Eli cried out right away to everyone’s relief. The 911 operator said she could hear a baby crying in the background.
Thanks to our Bradley class we had reviewed what to do in case of an emergency birth so we worked to make sure Eli’s airways were clear and then we laid him on my chest and covered us with blankets. From there Tim spoke reassuringly to me until the paramedics arrived. I was in shock and remained in some state thereof for almost 24 hours. We took a ride to the hospital in an ambulance and were very well taken care of.
Tim, Linda, my mom and everyone did such an amazing job in a very surprising and stressful situation. All I can say is that everything literally changed in a moment’s time. We are so thankful that both Eli and I were fine and there were no complications. That is without a doubt due to the grace of God.
To say the least, we have talked about the events of Friday night over and over and over again. Were we missing the signs? What should we have done differently? What the what?!?
Then there have been comical moments remembered like when Linda was frantically looking for something to wrap me in and brought out one of Tim’s favorite flannels and I refused to put it on. I was in shock and not answering anyones questions, but I managed to refuse to mess up my husband’s jacket – Ha!
I think that might top our list of most exciting Friday nights. What’s yours?
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| Jude and I hanging out before our first labor walk. |
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Walking
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| Paramedics Team hard at work. |
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| I have decided to shut out the world at this point. |
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| Tim cutting the cord |
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| Even in the back of the ambulance, there is no denying Nani’s excitement that her grandson has arrived. |
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| In the hospital hanging with my new man |
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| 7 lbs 9 oz and 20.5 inches long |
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| Cutie Patootie |
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| I heart heat lamps |
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| I heart my Auntie Da |
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| I double heart my goofy Daddy |
Higher Highs, Lower Lows 