I know, I've been uncharacteristically absent (well, more so than usual). Let's just say there's been a lot going on. I leave this morning for Spain (yay!) and will return with pictures and details. But in the meantime, here is an Elliotism to get you through:
"Dear Heavenly Father, please bless us that we will be safe and good, and that this food will make us strong so we can fight villains."
--Elliot, blessing lunch
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Tortilla Hands
Are you a foodie? I mean, do you read cookbooks like novels? Could you watch the Food Network 24/7 (this is truly why I don't have cable). Do you plan your next meal while eating?
Do you have food-friends? Friends with whom you gather to share meals, recipes, kitchen and grocery tips?
Have you ever found yourself sitting around a fabulous meal with these friends, so very full, yet somehow you're still talking about food? (like the asian evening full of bulgogi, gyoza, kimchi and so much more)
Do you find yourself inviting certain friends to dinner, or out to eat based on shared food preferences? (um, can you say Naan Bread and a Sweet Lassi, please?)
Do you often ponder which type of cuisine is your all time favorite, only to struggle to narrow it down to your top three? (I'd have to say 1. Indian or Thai--depending on my mood, followed by 2. Mexican 3. Then probably Italian, but I'm picky about my Italian food. How about you?)
It seems I find food friends most places we've lived. We find each other. Like magnets, we are drawn together.
Here in my new(ish) home, I've found them.
Last week we gathered at my home to make Lasagne--the real deal, authentic style Lasagne.
Before that it was Enchiladas, refried beans, tomatillo salsa--the real Enchilada sauce, made almost completely from dried chilies. (Did you know that Enchilada is short for Tortillas Enchiladas, meaning the tortilla is en-chilied, or soaked in a sauce made of chilies? Niether did I.)
A couple of weeks ago we had a Falafel lunch complete with Tza-Tziki and humus.
Earlier that same week, I went to my friend's home because her friend Consuela was visiting from Honduras.
Consuela has tortilla hands.
My friend rightly assumed that I would appreciate a lesson in tortilla making from Consuela-- with the tortilla hands. She assumed correctly.
Consuela tells me I have Tortilla Hands. We got along well.
I don't speak much Spanish.
In these recent kitchens with food friends from Honduras, Michigan, Taiwan and elsewhere, I came to the realization that food is not just an obsession, it is a language all it's own. I'm glad I speak it.
P.S. Sometimes I sit and ponder Garlic.
P.P.S. Is that weird?
P.P.S.S. Did I tell you we're going to Spain in a month?
P.P.S.S.S. I'm very excited about the food.
P.P.P.S.S.S. I've checked out a cookbook to study before my trip. So I'll know what to order.
Do you have food-friends? Friends with whom you gather to share meals, recipes, kitchen and grocery tips?
Have you ever found yourself sitting around a fabulous meal with these friends, so very full, yet somehow you're still talking about food? (like the asian evening full of bulgogi, gyoza, kimchi and so much more)
Do you find yourself inviting certain friends to dinner, or out to eat based on shared food preferences? (um, can you say Naan Bread and a Sweet Lassi, please?)
Do you often ponder which type of cuisine is your all time favorite, only to struggle to narrow it down to your top three? (I'd have to say 1. Indian or Thai--depending on my mood, followed by 2. Mexican 3. Then probably Italian, but I'm picky about my Italian food. How about you?)
It seems I find food friends most places we've lived. We find each other. Like magnets, we are drawn together.
Here in my new(ish) home, I've found them.
Last week we gathered at my home to make Lasagne--the real deal, authentic style Lasagne.
Before that it was Enchiladas, refried beans, tomatillo salsa--the real Enchilada sauce, made almost completely from dried chilies. (Did you know that Enchilada is short for Tortillas Enchiladas, meaning the tortilla is en-chilied, or soaked in a sauce made of chilies? Niether did I.)
A couple of weeks ago we had a Falafel lunch complete with Tza-Tziki and humus.
Earlier that same week, I went to my friend's home because her friend Consuela was visiting from Honduras.
Consuela has tortilla hands.
My friend rightly assumed that I would appreciate a lesson in tortilla making from Consuela-- with the tortilla hands. She assumed correctly.
Consuela tells me I have Tortilla Hands. We got along well.
I don't speak much Spanish.
In these recent kitchens with food friends from Honduras, Michigan, Taiwan and elsewhere, I came to the realization that food is not just an obsession, it is a language all it's own. I'm glad I speak it.
P.S. Sometimes I sit and ponder Garlic.
P.P.S. Is that weird?
P.P.S.S. Did I tell you we're going to Spain in a month?
P.P.S.S.S. I'm very excited about the food.
P.P.P.S.S.S. I've checked out a cookbook to study before my trip. So I'll know what to order.
Monday, March 15, 2010
War of the Rodents
Dear Mice,
I've been passive aggressive about this whole thing for far too long. You know, a poorly designed mouse trap here and there (from which you kept stealing the peanut butter as if we run some sort of cheap buffet around here), the well fed cat who merely toys with you when she feels like it, and the just general high tolerance of your filthiness. Well, no more. We've entered a new era. My level of tolerance has plummeted. And, for the record, you brought this on yourself.
A little mouse poop under the sink by the garbage? I don't get overly excited. Mouse-poop in my silverware drawer? Smell that? Yep, that's the smell of my wrath. Bring it on my small friends, Bring. It. On. What? What's that you say? You're already dead, what more do I want? That's right, 2.5 of you little invasive bastards bit the dust on the first evening of my rampage (didn't I just post about foul language? Well, this was justified). As for the half? Wherever you ended up when kitty was done playing with you, I'm sure we'll smell you out sooner or later.
And now that I've squealed for my husband to dispose of your little peanut butter encrusted bodies, and emptied, vacuumed and sanitized everything in every drawer and cupboard in my kitchen, literally crawling inside (or sending my children spelunking) each one to sanitize, lay new shelf paper and stuff every last crevice with wads of steel wool, you ask what more do I want?
I want your relatives.
And all the other critters that think my home is hospitable to uninvited guests.
To you, Mr. Squirrel and Mr. Chipmunk who have spent a cozy winter living in my walls. I watched your footprints in the snow. I found the secret entrance to you lair. And today, that little episode where you had a little crazy dancin' freak out inside my wall until I scared your little furry behind out of there with some serious wall pounding? Yeah, I watched you run your cowardly self up a tree. And while you hid in your tree, I stuffed your little entrance with an enormous wad of the mighty steel wool. And every other possible entrance too. And if there are more? I will follow you until I discover them as well. You may as well find a new home.
And you, large creature that has taken to crawling into your cozy den at the foundation of my home from under my porch? Yes, you. Whatever you are, be you mole, groundhog, raccoon or even furry bunny. Just try and find your den now. What you will discover is a wooden plank screwed over your front door. And stapled to that plank so that it extends another foot below ground? Oh yeah, chicken wire. In front of that chicken wire? Large rocks. On top of those large rocks? About a foot of dense clay soil. Packed down. Jumped upon by my small children and my 270 pound self. Next step? A large planter will be placed in front of the plank, on top of the buried wire and large stones and dense clay. Buh-bye.
As for the bats in my attic? Well, I'm tired. Just stay out of where I store my stuff--no guano on the luggage-o--and keep eating the mosquitoes and you may just live to see another day. Besides, I'm not really sure how to tackle you just yet . . .
With much disdain and wishing you a happy spring,
Jen
Dear Mr. Squirrel,
So maybe I was a tad bit smug in my last letter. Just a tad. And perhaps, given that, you were somewhat justified in doing a victory dance inside my wall again today. All smugness aside, I hope you encountered the large, inhospitable wads of duct tape intermingled with back-up wads of steel wool that I left you as a house-warming gift.
Frustratingly Yours,
Jen
1/17/10
Dear Mr. Squirrel,
Alright, since you want to play that way, consider this fair warning that all that steel wool and duct tape wads that you tauntingly scattered about my garden? Well, that was just the beginning, my pint size force of nature. Consider more steel wool, more duct tape, completely covering your entryway, and, for the kicker, a couple of stones forcefully lodged in your door. Deal with that you little fur ball!
Determinedly Yours,
Jen
1/17/10 Later
I'm having Chip 'n Dale flashbacks. Not the dancers, the rodents . . .
I've been passive aggressive about this whole thing for far too long. You know, a poorly designed mouse trap here and there (from which you kept stealing the peanut butter as if we run some sort of cheap buffet around here), the well fed cat who merely toys with you when she feels like it, and the just general high tolerance of your filthiness. Well, no more. We've entered a new era. My level of tolerance has plummeted. And, for the record, you brought this on yourself.
A little mouse poop under the sink by the garbage? I don't get overly excited. Mouse-poop in my silverware drawer? Smell that? Yep, that's the smell of my wrath. Bring it on my small friends, Bring. It. On. What? What's that you say? You're already dead, what more do I want? That's right, 2.5 of you little invasive bastards bit the dust on the first evening of my rampage (didn't I just post about foul language? Well, this was justified). As for the half? Wherever you ended up when kitty was done playing with you, I'm sure we'll smell you out sooner or later.
And now that I've squealed for my husband to dispose of your little peanut butter encrusted bodies, and emptied, vacuumed and sanitized everything in every drawer and cupboard in my kitchen, literally crawling inside (or sending my children spelunking) each one to sanitize, lay new shelf paper and stuff every last crevice with wads of steel wool, you ask what more do I want?
I want your relatives.
And all the other critters that think my home is hospitable to uninvited guests.
To you, Mr. Squirrel and Mr. Chipmunk who have spent a cozy winter living in my walls. I watched your footprints in the snow. I found the secret entrance to you lair. And today, that little episode where you had a little crazy dancin' freak out inside my wall until I scared your little furry behind out of there with some serious wall pounding? Yeah, I watched you run your cowardly self up a tree. And while you hid in your tree, I stuffed your little entrance with an enormous wad of the mighty steel wool. And every other possible entrance too. And if there are more? I will follow you until I discover them as well. You may as well find a new home.
And you, large creature that has taken to crawling into your cozy den at the foundation of my home from under my porch? Yes, you. Whatever you are, be you mole, groundhog, raccoon or even furry bunny. Just try and find your den now. What you will discover is a wooden plank screwed over your front door. And stapled to that plank so that it extends another foot below ground? Oh yeah, chicken wire. In front of that chicken wire? Large rocks. On top of those large rocks? About a foot of dense clay soil. Packed down. Jumped upon by my small children and my 270 pound self. Next step? A large planter will be placed in front of the plank, on top of the buried wire and large stones and dense clay. Buh-bye.
As for the bats in my attic? Well, I'm tired. Just stay out of where I store my stuff--no guano on the luggage-o--and keep eating the mosquitoes and you may just live to see another day. Besides, I'm not really sure how to tackle you just yet . . .
With much disdain and wishing you a happy spring,
Jen
Dear Mr. Squirrel,
So maybe I was a tad bit smug in my last letter. Just a tad. And perhaps, given that, you were somewhat justified in doing a victory dance inside my wall again today. All smugness aside, I hope you encountered the large, inhospitable wads of duct tape intermingled with back-up wads of steel wool that I left you as a house-warming gift.
Frustratingly Yours,
Jen
1/17/10
Dear Mr. Squirrel,
Alright, since you want to play that way, consider this fair warning that all that steel wool and duct tape wads that you tauntingly scattered about my garden? Well, that was just the beginning, my pint size force of nature. Consider more steel wool, more duct tape, completely covering your entryway, and, for the kicker, a couple of stones forcefully lodged in your door. Deal with that you little fur ball!
Determinedly Yours,
Jen
1/17/10 Later
I'm having Chip 'n Dale flashbacks. Not the dancers, the rodents . . .
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
My Young Padawan
Today, after Elliot requested my presence to wipe his bottom, he casually explained to me that he uses The Force to flush the toilet.
I'm so proud.
Later, at dinner, I was informed by both my children that they are One With The Force.
You'd think they could use that to clean their room.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
A Minor Rant
When did foul, offensive language become not just acceptable, but laudable? I'm not just talking about swearing, I'm referring also to just plain ugliness. I was in the grocery store last evening and as I was browsing the produce, a woman and a young man (maybe her son?) of about 16 or so were likewise shopping for veggies. I had the pleasure of listening to this kid "jokingly" berate his mother (?) saying things like "dumb-a**" and calling her fat (her whole body was as big as one of my thighs). And she is just laughing, half-heartedly telling him to cut it out. Then she pulls out her cell phone to call someone about their stock of potatoes at home and says something about how she shouldn't have brought Vincent because he's just abusing her, and laughs.
I agree, not only should he have been left home, but she should have asked him to go sit outside in 15 degrees until she was done, unless he chose to knock it off (if you act like a child, expect to be treated like one). Seriously, I avoid taking my kids to the store because of their occasional behavior issues, but they got nothing on this kid and would have been taken outside in a cool minute.
Then he started saying something about killing and maiming her in horrible ways while they both laughed. I nearly said something, maybe I should have, but the best I could muster was a dirty look and a move to another part of the store. I think he just laughed at me and made a joke as I walked away. I did consider reporting them to management, but frankly, I just wanted to get out as quickly as possible. Perhaps my ignoring it is as much to blame as his mother's tolerance. Later as I doubled back to grab something I forgot, from the next aisle over I heard the kid drop a couple of f-bombs. I again considered saying something to the store personnel as I headed for check out. But, the two kids running the register looked younger than this kid, and I then noticed Mr. potty-mouth heading out of the store on his phone saying something about he should have remembered to take his meds. Ya think?
I remember when I was engaged and noticed that it was common practice amongst my in-laws to "tease" each other in really cruel ways. To this day, I regret not saying something the day I heard someone "jokingly" call his daughter "thunder-thighs". Really, don't we have enough constant barrage of negativity to face without expecting it from those who claim to love us the most? But that is another post entirely.
I'm not a prude--I experimented a bit in my youth with offensive language, and I have to admit that there are some times I've heard a bit of foul language used in a very effective way. And, occasionally in moments of stress, I have been known to slip a colorful word in. But generally, it just makes people (me included) sound uneducated and makes those around us uncomfortable. Maybe that's the point.
As my children discover language, we've had this conversation quite a bit. "Mom, is XXXX a bad word?" "Well, not technically, but it certainly isn't a very polite word, so we should try not to use it."
I heard someone describe foul (and I'll include rude and crude) speech as useless, unnecessary words. Really, cut to the chase. Let's quit wasting our time on the pointless and rude and strive for the purposeful and eloquent.
Seriously, who am I to talk about unnecessary words after the birth epics I just posted . . . sheesh!
I agree, not only should he have been left home, but she should have asked him to go sit outside in 15 degrees until she was done, unless he chose to knock it off (if you act like a child, expect to be treated like one). Seriously, I avoid taking my kids to the store because of their occasional behavior issues, but they got nothing on this kid and would have been taken outside in a cool minute.
Then he started saying something about killing and maiming her in horrible ways while they both laughed. I nearly said something, maybe I should have, but the best I could muster was a dirty look and a move to another part of the store. I think he just laughed at me and made a joke as I walked away. I did consider reporting them to management, but frankly, I just wanted to get out as quickly as possible. Perhaps my ignoring it is as much to blame as his mother's tolerance. Later as I doubled back to grab something I forgot, from the next aisle over I heard the kid drop a couple of f-bombs. I again considered saying something to the store personnel as I headed for check out. But, the two kids running the register looked younger than this kid, and I then noticed Mr. potty-mouth heading out of the store on his phone saying something about he should have remembered to take his meds. Ya think?
I remember when I was engaged and noticed that it was common practice amongst my in-laws to "tease" each other in really cruel ways. To this day, I regret not saying something the day I heard someone "jokingly" call his daughter "thunder-thighs". Really, don't we have enough constant barrage of negativity to face without expecting it from those who claim to love us the most? But that is another post entirely.
I'm not a prude--I experimented a bit in my youth with offensive language, and I have to admit that there are some times I've heard a bit of foul language used in a very effective way. And, occasionally in moments of stress, I have been known to slip a colorful word in. But generally, it just makes people (me included) sound uneducated and makes those around us uncomfortable. Maybe that's the point.
As my children discover language, we've had this conversation quite a bit. "Mom, is XXXX a bad word?" "Well, not technically, but it certainly isn't a very polite word, so we should try not to use it."
I heard someone describe foul (and I'll include rude and crude) speech as useless, unnecessary words. Really, cut to the chase. Let's quit wasting our time on the pointless and rude and strive for the purposeful and eloquent.
Seriously, who am I to talk about unnecessary words after the birth epics I just posted . . . sheesh!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
On Having a Baby
Part 1C of my self-indulgent trip down memory lane: Really Committed
(I just realized that anybody tuning in at this point may have the mistaken impression that I've recently given birth again . . . let's clear that right up. This is the conclusion to my long ramblings about my first baby's birth. I still have only two. Maybe in a few weeks, I'll post Part 2. Though Elliot's birth was somewhat less exciting, thankfully.)
My hospital stay began with a bit of an attitude. I felt fine. My pregnancy had been fine. Really, I'm sure my high reading was due to me vacuuming my car on an overly warm spring day. Can I please just go home now?
I think my nonchalance about the whole predicament contributed to the decision to keep me there.
Finally a nurse had to get blunt with me: Last week we had a woman come in fully eclamptic. She and her baby both died. I'm not telling you this to scare you, but you need to realize how serious your condition is.
I began to adjust my attitude. After the first night of watching infomercials (good thing Matt took my wallet home), I started to wrap my brain around the fact that I would be here until the baby was born. Hopefully, that would be at least two weeks. I realized I could either spend that time in utter frustration and boredom, or I could embrace my role as incubator, and enjoy a couple of weeks of being taken care of prior to my future role as caregiver. I opted for the latter. It took some deep thought, some prayer and wonderful friends who dropped by books and movies and a laptop. There were still tense moments like when for a couple of days Matt thought he was losing his job. But all in all, It wasn't so bad.
I don't know what y'all know about pre-eclampsia (I still don't quite understand), but the gist is, your blood pressure goes up, your organs begin to shut down, your body goes into protective mode and can reject the baby. Eclampsia is when you have a seizure and your organs do shut down. It can indeed, if not caught soon enough, be fatal to mother or baby, or both. If they catch it early enough, and if it doesn't onset too early in the pregnancy, it can usually be controlled with bedrest until the baby is healthy enough to be born. If it doesn't respond to bedrest, they will deliver prematurely in hopes of saving both mother and baby. The cure for pre-eclampsia is childbirth. Once the baby is born, symptoms generally disappear. (Though I can say I have had problems with my blood pressure ever since, though not before). The cause is unknown, though there are some factors that increase your risk. (Including being overweight . . . hmmm).
In my case, they caught it early, it wasn't too advanced, and I was well along in my pregnancy. They hoped to keep the baby in me for another two weeks, and planned, once I reached "full term" at 38 weeks, to induce me. Possibly earlier if tests indicated the baby could handle it. Begin week one of hospital stay.
What tests you ask? How about an amniocentesis? If you don't know, this procedure involves a very, very long needle (my distorted memory would say it was about 18 inches long). They stick the needle in your belly and suck out amniotic fluid. Then they analyze the fluid to tell if the baby's lungs are ready for the outside world. The dangers of an amnio are that it can induce labor (more of a danger early in pregnancy) and inadvertently poking the baby (more of a danger later in pregnancy when the baby is bigger). I noticed no one is too concerned about poking the mother. The interesting thing I didn't realize is that they do the amnio while they're doing an ultrasound--this is how they attempt to not poke the baby. They just look around with the ultrasound until they find a pocket large enough to stick the needle. Highly scientific. After that whole involved procedure, the results showed my baby's lungs were borderline, meaning that he might be ready, he might not. Thank you Captain Obvious.
I hunkered down to wait another week to do another amnio. Despite my best efforts at being an incubator, I was beginning to go a little stir crazy. I'd been moved to one of the larger rooms reserved for us long-term residents. I considered myself lucky when they told me the woman across the hall (with the do not disturb sign on the door) had been there about three months. It was about this time that I began to forget what the outdoors smelled like. I was allowed to get up only to go to the bathroom, and to shower occasionally. Once a day I also got an exciting wheelchair ride down to be hooked up to the monitor.
My sweet husband successfully petitioned the doctor to take me on one 10-minute wheelchair ride every afternoon--my daily treat (in addition to the hospital cuisine--thank heavens for friends and take out Taco Del Mar.)
One day shy of 38 weeks, I went in for another amnio. The baby had gotten so much bigger and the fluid level had decreased so much that they were unable to find a safe pocket to poke me. They gave me the option of waiting 24 hours and trying again or waiting 24 hours and just starting the induction--assuming that having hit the magic 38 week number, baby's lungs would be fine. I praised the Lord and chose induction.
I will not go into detail. Suffice it to say that it involved two doses (full 24 hours) of cervical ripener, (which just is not fun), lots of walking and stair climbing after being immobile for 2 full weeks, pitocin, the breaking of my water with a big knitting needle, an epidural which worked in every place but the important one, a second epidural to remedy that situation, a midnight encounter between my nether regions and a gentleman OB I had never before met, a near vacuum extraction, an episiotomy, a hefty dose of magnesium sulfate and a catheter.
But, there was also a lovely, healthy, large baby boy. At 8 pounds 11 ounces, I'm very glad we didn't wait another two weeks, because really, I don't need to birth a 10 pound baby to make me feel complete. We named him Ethan Asher, and he was beautiful.
My ugly baby fears were completely unfounded (lie to me if I'm deluded).
I was wheeled back to my room amidst applause from the nurse's station--we were all old friends by then--as I waved like Miss America--on dope. You see, by then I was fully into the truck-running-over-me effect of the magnesium sulfate. They give you mag after a pre-eclampsia induction to prevent seizure. You can apparently still seize shortly after birth. It prevents seizure by relaxing EVERY muscle in your body. You cannot stand up (hence the catheter), or really move much at all. You are also not allowed eat. So, given the 24 hours or so pre-delivery fast, the energy-sucking birth experience and the 24 hour post-delivery fast, all I did was drool over MickeeDees commercials in my darkened hospital room. I cannot remember what I ate at the end of those, the longest 48 hours of my life, but it was delicious. I was not allowed visitors (or lights) for those 24 hours, so I recall Matt wheeling the baby out to greet guests in the waiting room. It's all a sort of weird, hazy memory.
Here I am, under the influence
Ethan was a bit beat after the ordeal himself
We spent another 24 hours in the hospital and brought our precious baby home on Easter Sunday. I'll save you the breast-feeding fiasco that ensued and the long days filled with diapers, baby talk and the mamma baby code, but it was quite the ride. Friends wondered if I'd ever have another given the traumatic experience and all the courage I had to muster up in the first place. What they didn't realize is that the whole thing was far, far less traumatic than the scenarios I had imagined.
Through all this, I've realized a few things about myself. One is that God understands me far better than I can begin to understand myself--and He understands what will make me happiest, far better than I. I hope you don't read from these posts that somehow my children were unwanted. Quite the opposite. I had to choose to have these children. I had to overcome my fears and inadequacies, and put my faith in my Heavenly Father--to trust that He could make more of my life than I could ever on my own. And it's been quite the adventure. Parenting is not my forte, but I'm so glad I chose it. And I'm getting better at it. Slowly. By the time they're adults, I just might be very good at it.
(I just realized that anybody tuning in at this point may have the mistaken impression that I've recently given birth again . . . let's clear that right up. This is the conclusion to my long ramblings about my first baby's birth. I still have only two. Maybe in a few weeks, I'll post Part 2. Though Elliot's birth was somewhat less exciting, thankfully.)
My hospital stay began with a bit of an attitude. I felt fine. My pregnancy had been fine. Really, I'm sure my high reading was due to me vacuuming my car on an overly warm spring day. Can I please just go home now?
I think my nonchalance about the whole predicament contributed to the decision to keep me there.
Finally a nurse had to get blunt with me: Last week we had a woman come in fully eclamptic. She and her baby both died. I'm not telling you this to scare you, but you need to realize how serious your condition is.
I began to adjust my attitude. After the first night of watching infomercials (good thing Matt took my wallet home), I started to wrap my brain around the fact that I would be here until the baby was born. Hopefully, that would be at least two weeks. I realized I could either spend that time in utter frustration and boredom, or I could embrace my role as incubator, and enjoy a couple of weeks of being taken care of prior to my future role as caregiver. I opted for the latter. It took some deep thought, some prayer and wonderful friends who dropped by books and movies and a laptop. There were still tense moments like when for a couple of days Matt thought he was losing his job. But all in all, It wasn't so bad.
I don't know what y'all know about pre-eclampsia (I still don't quite understand), but the gist is, your blood pressure goes up, your organs begin to shut down, your body goes into protective mode and can reject the baby. Eclampsia is when you have a seizure and your organs do shut down. It can indeed, if not caught soon enough, be fatal to mother or baby, or both. If they catch it early enough, and if it doesn't onset too early in the pregnancy, it can usually be controlled with bedrest until the baby is healthy enough to be born. If it doesn't respond to bedrest, they will deliver prematurely in hopes of saving both mother and baby. The cure for pre-eclampsia is childbirth. Once the baby is born, symptoms generally disappear. (Though I can say I have had problems with my blood pressure ever since, though not before). The cause is unknown, though there are some factors that increase your risk. (Including being overweight . . . hmmm).
In my case, they caught it early, it wasn't too advanced, and I was well along in my pregnancy. They hoped to keep the baby in me for another two weeks, and planned, once I reached "full term" at 38 weeks, to induce me. Possibly earlier if tests indicated the baby could handle it. Begin week one of hospital stay.
What tests you ask? How about an amniocentesis? If you don't know, this procedure involves a very, very long needle (my distorted memory would say it was about 18 inches long). They stick the needle in your belly and suck out amniotic fluid. Then they analyze the fluid to tell if the baby's lungs are ready for the outside world. The dangers of an amnio are that it can induce labor (more of a danger early in pregnancy) and inadvertently poking the baby (more of a danger later in pregnancy when the baby is bigger). I noticed no one is too concerned about poking the mother. The interesting thing I didn't realize is that they do the amnio while they're doing an ultrasound--this is how they attempt to not poke the baby. They just look around with the ultrasound until they find a pocket large enough to stick the needle. Highly scientific. After that whole involved procedure, the results showed my baby's lungs were borderline, meaning that he might be ready, he might not. Thank you Captain Obvious.
I hunkered down to wait another week to do another amnio. Despite my best efforts at being an incubator, I was beginning to go a little stir crazy. I'd been moved to one of the larger rooms reserved for us long-term residents. I considered myself lucky when they told me the woman across the hall (with the do not disturb sign on the door) had been there about three months. It was about this time that I began to forget what the outdoors smelled like. I was allowed to get up only to go to the bathroom, and to shower occasionally. Once a day I also got an exciting wheelchair ride down to be hooked up to the monitor.
My sweet husband successfully petitioned the doctor to take me on one 10-minute wheelchair ride every afternoon--my daily treat (in addition to the hospital cuisine--thank heavens for friends and take out Taco Del Mar.)One day shy of 38 weeks, I went in for another amnio. The baby had gotten so much bigger and the fluid level had decreased so much that they were unable to find a safe pocket to poke me. They gave me the option of waiting 24 hours and trying again or waiting 24 hours and just starting the induction--assuming that having hit the magic 38 week number, baby's lungs would be fine. I praised the Lord and chose induction.
I will not go into detail. Suffice it to say that it involved two doses (full 24 hours) of cervical ripener, (which just is not fun), lots of walking and stair climbing after being immobile for 2 full weeks, pitocin, the breaking of my water with a big knitting needle, an epidural which worked in every place but the important one, a second epidural to remedy that situation, a midnight encounter between my nether regions and a gentleman OB I had never before met, a near vacuum extraction, an episiotomy, a hefty dose of magnesium sulfate and a catheter.
But, there was also a lovely, healthy, large baby boy. At 8 pounds 11 ounces, I'm very glad we didn't wait another two weeks, because really, I don't need to birth a 10 pound baby to make me feel complete. We named him Ethan Asher, and he was beautiful.
My ugly baby fears were completely unfounded (lie to me if I'm deluded).I was wheeled back to my room amidst applause from the nurse's station--we were all old friends by then--as I waved like Miss America--on dope. You see, by then I was fully into the truck-running-over-me effect of the magnesium sulfate. They give you mag after a pre-eclampsia induction to prevent seizure. You can apparently still seize shortly after birth. It prevents seizure by relaxing EVERY muscle in your body. You cannot stand up (hence the catheter), or really move much at all. You are also not allowed eat. So, given the 24 hours or so pre-delivery fast, the energy-sucking birth experience and the 24 hour post-delivery fast, all I did was drool over MickeeDees commercials in my darkened hospital room. I cannot remember what I ate at the end of those, the longest 48 hours of my life, but it was delicious. I was not allowed visitors (or lights) for those 24 hours, so I recall Matt wheeling the baby out to greet guests in the waiting room. It's all a sort of weird, hazy memory.
Here I am, under the influence
Ethan was a bit beat after the ordeal himself
We spent another 24 hours in the hospital and brought our precious baby home on Easter Sunday. I'll save you the breast-feeding fiasco that ensued and the long days filled with diapers, baby talk and the mamma baby code, but it was quite the ride. Friends wondered if I'd ever have another given the traumatic experience and all the courage I had to muster up in the first place. What they didn't realize is that the whole thing was far, far less traumatic than the scenarios I had imagined.
Through all this, I've realized a few things about myself. One is that God understands me far better than I can begin to understand myself--and He understands what will make me happiest, far better than I. I hope you don't read from these posts that somehow my children were unwanted. Quite the opposite. I had to choose to have these children. I had to overcome my fears and inadequacies, and put my faith in my Heavenly Father--to trust that He could make more of my life than I could ever on my own. And it's been quite the adventure. Parenting is not my forte, but I'm so glad I chose it. And I'm getting better at it. Slowly. By the time they're adults, I just might be very good at it.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Why I Like Snow Days
I have not left the house in three days. I did finally shower though. No, the snow wasn't too bad here--about 10 inches (as far as I can tell from the window). I love a good excuse to stay home (as if I needed one). A friend called today to see if I wanted to go shopping with her in her SUV. Um, no thanks. I despise shopping on a nice day, let's not ruin a good snow day.
Some of the day's accomplishments:
Made pancakes for breakfast.
Light saber battles.
Talked to Matt who's stuck in Maryland under several feet of snow.
Made and hung curtains (including sawing some mounting wood and using the drill to mount it--very exciting.)
Jedi face-offs.
Folded laundry.
Worked a few hours.
Jedi fighter battles
Bundled up for playing in the snow (30 minutes).
Played in the snow (15 minutes--not me, I stayed inside).
Unbundled and made hot chocolate (20 minutes)
Watched maintenance plow the driveway (love my life).
Wondered when Matt will get a flight home.
Thought about getting the mail. Maybe tomorrow.
Made Valentines.
Made yummy pasta.
Read Star Wars books.
Talked to Matt--maybe he'll get home Friday.
I love my life. Unfortunately it seems Ethan's cold has come back and will require a trip to the doctor tomorrow. I'm a bit disappointed because I was thinking I wouldn't need to go anywhere until I pick up Matt from the airport Friday (or Saturday, maybe Sunday). But alas, it looks like I'll have to put on my boots and warm up the car. Oh well, snow days can't last forever.
The pictures in the previous post were not from this storm, but were taken earlier this winter. I could have taken similar ones today, but that would have required leaving the house.
I have not forgotten the birth epic saga, but I thought I'd give you another breather before I dive back in. Besides, I obviously had too much else to do today . . .
Some of the day's accomplishments:
Made pancakes for breakfast.
Light saber battles.
Talked to Matt who's stuck in Maryland under several feet of snow.
Made and hung curtains (including sawing some mounting wood and using the drill to mount it--very exciting.)
Jedi face-offs.
Folded laundry.
Worked a few hours.
Jedi fighter battles
Bundled up for playing in the snow (30 minutes).
Played in the snow (15 minutes--not me, I stayed inside).
Unbundled and made hot chocolate (20 minutes)
Watched maintenance plow the driveway (love my life).
Wondered when Matt will get a flight home.
Thought about getting the mail. Maybe tomorrow.
Made Valentines.
Made yummy pasta.
Read Star Wars books.
Talked to Matt--maybe he'll get home Friday.
I love my life. Unfortunately it seems Ethan's cold has come back and will require a trip to the doctor tomorrow. I'm a bit disappointed because I was thinking I wouldn't need to go anywhere until I pick up Matt from the airport Friday (or Saturday, maybe Sunday). But alas, it looks like I'll have to put on my boots and warm up the car. Oh well, snow days can't last forever.
The pictures in the previous post were not from this storm, but were taken earlier this winter. I could have taken similar ones today, but that would have required leaving the house.
I have not forgotten the birth epic saga, but I thought I'd give you another breather before I dive back in. Besides, I obviously had too much else to do today . . .
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