Please note: These events happened last March, nine months ago. You can read part one here.
Friday pm: “911 emergency, this call is being recorded.”
“Hi, my husband just slammed my two-year-old’s head into the stair ...”
“On purpose?”
“NO! No, by accident ...”
The dispatcher asked questions: Is he conscious? Is he alert? Is he vomiting? Then he gave instructions: Lay him down flat and wait for the EMTs to arrive.
Brian brought John into the family room, near the side entrance. When he laid him on the floor like the dispatcher said, John’s incessant screaming got even louder. Ben started crying too, he was horrified. Brian and I added to the chaos by freaking out ourselves, Brian yelling, me hyperventilating to the dispatcher. I stepped outside with the cordless so I could hear his reply to my heavy breathing.
“The EMTs should be there soon, any particular entrance?”
“Yes the side door I’m standing out here now is there anything else I should do while I wait?”
“Just make sure he’s breathing ...”
Oh my God, I thought. IS HE BREATHING? I threw open the door to the family room and began hyperventilating to Brian. “Is he breathing Brian make sure he’s breathing IS HE BREATHING??!!...”
“What?” Brian asked, unable to hear me over John’s crying.
“Ma’am,” the dispatcher called to me. “If he’s crying, he’s breathing.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” I said. “I had a miscarriage today,” I offered, hoping to justify my lack of a level head.
Silence.
The EMTs arrived, causing Ben and John to cry even more. After a quick check, they told me I could pick John up, and as soon as I did he stopped crying. They instructed me to carry him to the ambulance, which I did. I stood at the back of the ambulance holding my 30lb two-year-old for about a minute before I realized no one planned to help me get in. “Could I get a hand here?" Silence. "Um, I had a miscarriage today...”
A pair of arms appeared and took John into the ambulance.
John sat frozen on my shoulder as we drove down the highway. After a while I said, “Are we riding in an ambulance, John?”
“Yes!”
“Is it fun?”
“Yes!”
At that moment, I knew he’d be OK. As soon as we got into the ER waiting room, he started toddling around, playing with toys. The doctor checked him out and found no ear bleeding, his eyes looked good. All we had to do was wake him through the night.
After we got home, Brian and I sat on the couch in a kind of stupor. Then I crawled up to my bed, set the alarm for 6 a.m. so I could get to the hospital in time for my D&C, and fell into a restless sleep, dreaming of ambulances and bleeding and my teeth falling out.
Saturday am: “If you would rather have a spinal block, since anesthesia makes you nauseous, it’s totally up to you,” the anesthesiologist offered.
“No thanks, just knock me out,” I said, not wanting to experience any more of this than I had to.
Dr. Curran appeared at the end of my bed. “I’m just going to do an ultrasound to make absolute sure there’s no heartbeat.”
“OK,” I said, feeling a flicker of hope that the ultrasound tech had screwed everything up yesterday. No such luck.
Dr. Curran looks about 30 years old, and she has short wavy brown hair. She was dressed like she was on her way to go sailing – pastel striped crew, white capris, tennis sneakers, pink hoodie -- but decided at the last minute to pop in and perform a dilatation and curettage. Taking into consideration her bedside manner, I guessed that she’d never had a bad thing happen to her. Ever. She’s youthful, she’s sporty, and she’s cold as a cadaver.
“Just so you know, the risks involved in the surgery include perforation of the uterus, hemorrhaging, emergency hysterectomy, infection, ripping, tearing, bleeding, death, perforation, laceration, rupture...”
“Um, I was told that this was the less-risky alternative for me, with my history of hemorrhaging. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Fine, then do it.”
In the recovery room, I asked for all the anti-nausea medicine I could get and sucked down some ginger ale. Diagonally across from me, a woman about my age lay with her hand in a cast. From the hallway, this loud alarm kept going off. Beep. Beep. Beep. The beeps started about 30 seconds apart and got closer and closer together -- beep beep beep beep beep -- until I thought I would run screaming into the hallway and start ripping cords out of the wall. Then it would stop.
I tried to sleep. The husband of the broken-handed woman came in with their daughter, who looked about five years old.
“Do they know I broke it?” she asked him.
“Yes, they know!” her husband answered, laughing.
“Oh my God.”
More laughter. “I called your boss and told him you wouldn’t be in this week.” He spoke so loud that I figured he wanted us to hear every word. Us and the people next door.
“You what? Oh my God.”
Brian and I guessed she broke her wrist in a drunken binge at the company party, but we never found out for sure. Their daughter sat on the floor at the foot of my bed, playing with something (on the floor, at the hospital!). She went over to her parents and spoke to them in a soft, whiny voice.
“She’s OK, she’s just upset,” the husband said. The little girl went back to the floor. Then I heard her crying. Her dad walked over.
“Did your stomach hurt this morning?" he asked her.
"Yes."
"Is that why you didn’t want to eat breakfast?”
"Yes."
I sat up to catch a glimpse of the girl on the floor, not playing, but leaning over a trash can, spit oozing out of her mouth. I threw myself back on my pillow and looked at Brian. “If I get the stomach flu I’m going to fucking kill someone.”
The nurse came in. “That girl has the stomach flu!” I snitched.
“Oh, I can’t comment on the patients ...”
“Not a patient, that girl,” I said, tilting my head in her direction.
“Oh, what are they thinking?” the nurse hissed. “They shouldn’t even bring her in here.”
“She was on the floor, holding a trash can," I added. "Please, can I just get some more nausea meds so I can get out of here?”
I laid my head back and started to doze off. Just as sleep started to come: beep ... beep ... beep ...
“Ok, that’s it. I’m leaving. NOW.”
“You can’t leave if you’re nauseas,” the nurse said.
“I can’t leave if I’m nauseas? Are you kidding me? I’ll be here until tomorrow. I’m leaving, NOW.”
Saturday pm: At some point, we had a snow storm, so I sent Brian into the back yard with the boys to make a snowman, the last of the season. I leaned over the kitchen sink with my Canon point-and-shoot and snapped a few pictures. I looked at the flowers on the counter and fought the urge to throw them in the trash. I stuffed the papers from the hospital into a drawer, and tossed my Kathy Smith Pregnancy Workout video down the laundry shoot. Reminders, not good.
All evening I lay on the couch. Off and on, the boys snuggled with me. That was the only thing that brought me an ounce of comfort. At bedtime, Ben couldn’t fall asleep so he came downstairs and again curled up with me on the couch. He fell asleep on me, for the first time in forever. It felt like a gift.
Later, I sat on the couch and Brian sat on the floor. We watched some stupid show. I started weeping, and listing all the reasons I was so sad. No newborn for the holidays. No baby this year. This whole year would suck. Every month I would think of where I was in my pregnancy and feel the loss. The holidays would suck. Not having my baby with my two friends who were due the same week as me would suck. For the first time, I had friends pregnant at the same time as me, and now this.
I kept going until I made Brian cry, then I felt guilty. We went to bed. Despite the sadness, we felt lucky to have our health and that we could try again. We both had a renewed sense of gratitude for our two boys. I went to sleep and dreamt of holding them tight, forever and ever.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Friday, December 24, 2004
Merry Christmas!
So, yeah, I'm sorry I wrote a “to be continued” post in the week leading up to Christmas. I should have known better, since this holiday always has me scrambling at the end. I thought maybe today I'd write it, but who wants to write about miscarriages and ambulance rides on Christmas eve? By Sunday or Monday, I will post the last installment, promise. Also, please know that I ended part 1 at the suckiest point. Part 2 could be called “The Aftermath.”
We also have a birthday to celebrate this weekend. John will turn 3 on Sunday. My baby is growing up! He pitched a fit in Legal Seafood the other day as I tried to stick him in a high chair. “No!” he bellowed. “High chairs are for BABIES!!” Yeah, I know that, but who told him? So he sat in a chair and shocked me staying in it through most of lunch.
He’s also dropping his nap, and oh how that hurts. The other day, he slept so late in the morning that I decided to skip his nap altogether. At his usual naptime, we headed upstairs for something else, and he said, “Is it night-night time?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It isn’t? Are we gonna hang out?”
So, that's what I'll be doing a lot of this weekend, hanging out. Once I bake John's birthday cake and a hot fudge pudding cake for tomorrow, lots of laziness will ensue. I hope you all have a wonderful holiday, with lots of peace and joy!
We also have a birthday to celebrate this weekend. John will turn 3 on Sunday. My baby is growing up! He pitched a fit in Legal Seafood the other day as I tried to stick him in a high chair. “No!” he bellowed. “High chairs are for BABIES!!” Yeah, I know that, but who told him? So he sat in a chair and shocked me staying in it through most of lunch.
He’s also dropping his nap, and oh how that hurts. The other day, he slept so late in the morning that I decided to skip his nap altogether. At his usual naptime, we headed upstairs for something else, and he said, “Is it night-night time?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It isn’t? Are we gonna hang out?”
So, that's what I'll be doing a lot of this weekend, hanging out. Once I bake John's birthday cake and a hot fudge pudding cake for tomorrow, lots of laziness will ensue. I hope you all have a wonderful holiday, with lots of peace and joy!
Sunday, December 19, 2004
The Week That Sucked
It was one week last March, the 14th to the 20th, the week that went from sucky, to suckier to suckiest. I pleaded to God, "Let’s stop with all the sucking!" I needed to know things would return to normal, where every day didn’t involve a missing heartbeat, a found lump or an ambulance ride to the hospital.
Sunday: This was my second day of watching my boys, ages 2 and 3 ½, on my own while Brian and my nephew Dan painted our family room. I was eight weeks pregnant, and I felt like crap. Thursday, I had said to Brian, “This is the worst possible weekend for this.” But after six long years living with that ugly dark paneling, I decided to suck it up.
I had to keep the kids out of the house, which made it harder. The first day, I drove up to New Hampshire, chased the kids around a McDonald’s off I-95, visited my mom at work and stopped in at my brother’s house in Nottingham. That night, the smell of paint was still strong, so I went right to bed. This morning, I took the kids to the bakery downtown, but before I could sit down with them I almost passed out. I broke out in a cold sweat and started shaking. I felt like I hadn’t eaten breakfast, but I had. After I drank some milk and ate a few cookies, it passed. But my stomach still felt gross. Somehow, I made it through the day.
Monday: I awoke refreshed. The nausea was gone, and I couldn’t wait for my first midwife appointment. She spent about 40 minutes with me. Then I hopped on the table and said, “I’d like twin girls, please.”
She laughed. “I have twin girls, it’s great!” As she talked about the fun she had with her now-grown daughters, she hunted for the heartbeat. And hunted. She left the room and came back with another machine. “That other one doesn’t work very well.” She hunted some more.
“Well, your uterus is tipped,” she explained as she put the equipment away. “That can make it harder to hear an early heartbeat. And it’s only week eight. So don’t you worry!”
“OK!” I promised. As she did the breast exam, I told her about an odd lump I’d noticed a few months before. In my apparent Pollyanna mode, I expected her to feel it and say, “Oh that’s just a fibroid.” But she didn’t.
“Here’s the name of the breast specialist over at the Breast Center,” she explained. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Don’t you worry!
Tuesday: I told my all-time favorite babysitter about my sucky prenatal appointment. She sympathized, then mentioned she would be off for a week in April. Since we were on the topic, I mentioned September, when her daughter would enter first grade.
“Well. I’ll probably want to get a job with more hours,” she conceded, staring at the calendar.
Wednesday: I started the day off in my therapist’s office, mentioning the missing heartbeat, worrying about my lump, but mostly fretting about losing my all-time favorite sitter just a month before my due date. The nausea was gone and I felt great, but thoughts of my possible cancer and my babysitter-less future riddled me with anxiety.
When I came home, I had a message from the midwife’s assistant, with the dates for my breast ultrasound and consultation. I had to wait four weeks.
I called the breast-appointment-making representative and explained that I didn’t want to wait that long if I didn’t have to. Couldn’t I get an earlier appointment?
“I don’t know if we have anything available at all, at all, at all.” Her sing-song speech pissed me off. “No, there’s just no way we can get you in any sooner.”
I felt my anxiety begin to mount into panic, but then she said “I mean, you don’t think you can wait until tomorrow?”
“My appointment’s April 22,” I said.
“I have you down here for Thursday, March 18 at 9:30 a.m. for a breast ultrasound, then 11:15 for the breast consultation.”
Confused but relieved, I almost cried. I chalked it up to a divine miracle or a shithead midwife’s assistant.
Thursday: The specialist was cute in an aging fratboy kind of way. He felt my breasts and, using a felt tipped marker, made about eight Xs on each one. “I only felt one lump,” I told him, unnerved.
“Well, we might as well check them all out.”
After the ultrasound, the specialist explained that it all “looked like” breast tissue. “After you have the baby, come back in and we’ll do a mammogram.”
“But, are you sure it’s not cancer?”
“The only way to be sure is to do a biopsy,” he explained. “Pregnancy raises estrogen levels, and estrogen feeds tumors, making them grow faster. If you notice any changes, give me a call. I can also do a biopsy using local anesthetic, if you’re nervous about it. I don’t think we need to do that, though.”
That night, Brian worked late. I got the kids into bed then curled up on the couch to find something on Tivo. Against all good sense, I selected an episode of Chronicle, our local news magazine, about the head of the breast cancer department at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, who was now battling breast cancer herself. She had noticed a very slight dimpling in her breast in the mirror one day. So she had a mammogram, which turned up nothing. Then she had an ultrasound. Also nothing. Then she asked a colleague to do a biopsy anyway. It was cancer, and even though she found it so early, the show documented her going through months of chemo and radiation.
I ended the day on the couch whimpering, hearing “estrogen feeds tumors” over and over in my head, and eating chocolate ice cream.
Friday: While my all-time favorite sitter watched the kids, I cleaned the house like a madwoman, scrubbing toilets, mopping and lugging the vacuum cleaner from floor to floor. By the time she left, my low-back ached, and I couldn’t wait to take a well-earned load off.
But first I headed to the bathroom. John was napping, but Ben followed me in. So when I saw the blood, I tried to maintain my composure.
Even though it was just a small amount, little more than a speck, the stringiness and bright red color sounded an alarm in my brain. I remembered that I hadn’t felt nauseas all week. My heart raced and my breath quickened. My hands shook as I struggled to push the right buttons on the remote to start a video, then to dial the midwife’s number.
“Do you have any cramping?”
“Well, my low back hurts, but ...”
“Come on down and we’ll take a look.”
I called Brian. “I’m bleeding a little,” I told him. “It’s probably not good.”
The midwife examined me. She didn’t bother listening for the heartbeat, but said there was very little blood and the cervix looked fine. “I’ve schedule an ultrasound for you at 5:30 in Danvers,” she said. “Are you OK?”
“No,” I said, “I’m not.”
Brian came with me for the ultrasound. I watched the technician’s expressionless face as she moved the probe around. After forever she said, “There’s no heartbeat here. I’m sorry.”
“Why did I tell Ben?” I sobbed to Brian. “How could I be so stupid to tell Ben so early?”
Even though I was just eight weeks pregnant, I had mentally invested myself in that pregnancy. I thought about names, dreamt that it might be a girl, thought about the season and what I’d wear through each trimester. Brian and I talked about how fun it would be to have an October baby, a newborn to bring to Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations. I never thought about miscarriage.
I felt like a fool. For my first two pregnancies, I told close family members during the first trimester, then told the rest of the world. But this time, in my overconfidence, I had told everyone: neighbors, friends, the checkout girl at Stop ‘n Shop, my lawyer, moms at Ben’s preschool. Even my kids. For the next few weeks, I would pay for that, as I had to retell the bad news again and again and again.
My midwife called when I got home. “You can either let the miscarriage happen naturally, or you can schedule a D&C.”
“Well, since I have a history of hemorrhaging, would I be safer with a D&C?”
“Oh,” she said, as if she hadn’t thought of that. “That’s a good question. Let me call the doctor and I’ll call you back.”
It turned out that I did need a D&C, since the risk of hemorrhaging at home outweighed the risks of a D&C. “Why didn’t she know that, what if I hadn’t asked?” I asked Brian. “Why am I the one thinking at a time like this?”
My mom and I lingered over dinner while Brian took the boys upstairs for a bath. She had come over so Brian and I could leave for the hospital at 6:30 a.m. “I should go help Brian,” I said, trying to force myself to stand.
Then we heard it, the loudest thud followed by John’s steady scream.
“Kris, come here, please, right now, Kris!” I found Brian and John sitting on the stairs. “I fell and slammed John’s head against the stair! I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do ...”
John’s two-year-old forehead grew to the size of a softball before my eyes.
I thought for a second, then said, “If we don’t know what to do, then I’m calling 911.”
(to be continued)
Sunday: This was my second day of watching my boys, ages 2 and 3 ½, on my own while Brian and my nephew Dan painted our family room. I was eight weeks pregnant, and I felt like crap. Thursday, I had said to Brian, “This is the worst possible weekend for this.” But after six long years living with that ugly dark paneling, I decided to suck it up.
I had to keep the kids out of the house, which made it harder. The first day, I drove up to New Hampshire, chased the kids around a McDonald’s off I-95, visited my mom at work and stopped in at my brother’s house in Nottingham. That night, the smell of paint was still strong, so I went right to bed. This morning, I took the kids to the bakery downtown, but before I could sit down with them I almost passed out. I broke out in a cold sweat and started shaking. I felt like I hadn’t eaten breakfast, but I had. After I drank some milk and ate a few cookies, it passed. But my stomach still felt gross. Somehow, I made it through the day.
Monday: I awoke refreshed. The nausea was gone, and I couldn’t wait for my first midwife appointment. She spent about 40 minutes with me. Then I hopped on the table and said, “I’d like twin girls, please.”
She laughed. “I have twin girls, it’s great!” As she talked about the fun she had with her now-grown daughters, she hunted for the heartbeat. And hunted. She left the room and came back with another machine. “That other one doesn’t work very well.” She hunted some more.
“Well, your uterus is tipped,” she explained as she put the equipment away. “That can make it harder to hear an early heartbeat. And it’s only week eight. So don’t you worry!”
“OK!” I promised. As she did the breast exam, I told her about an odd lump I’d noticed a few months before. In my apparent Pollyanna mode, I expected her to feel it and say, “Oh that’s just a fibroid.” But she didn’t.
“Here’s the name of the breast specialist over at the Breast Center,” she explained. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Don’t you worry!
Tuesday: I told my all-time favorite babysitter about my sucky prenatal appointment. She sympathized, then mentioned she would be off for a week in April. Since we were on the topic, I mentioned September, when her daughter would enter first grade.
“Well. I’ll probably want to get a job with more hours,” she conceded, staring at the calendar.
Wednesday: I started the day off in my therapist’s office, mentioning the missing heartbeat, worrying about my lump, but mostly fretting about losing my all-time favorite sitter just a month before my due date. The nausea was gone and I felt great, but thoughts of my possible cancer and my babysitter-less future riddled me with anxiety.
When I came home, I had a message from the midwife’s assistant, with the dates for my breast ultrasound and consultation. I had to wait four weeks.
I called the breast-appointment-making representative and explained that I didn’t want to wait that long if I didn’t have to. Couldn’t I get an earlier appointment?
“I don’t know if we have anything available at all, at all, at all.” Her sing-song speech pissed me off. “No, there’s just no way we can get you in any sooner.”
I felt my anxiety begin to mount into panic, but then she said “I mean, you don’t think you can wait until tomorrow?”
“My appointment’s April 22,” I said.
“I have you down here for Thursday, March 18 at 9:30 a.m. for a breast ultrasound, then 11:15 for the breast consultation.”
Confused but relieved, I almost cried. I chalked it up to a divine miracle or a shithead midwife’s assistant.
Thursday: The specialist was cute in an aging fratboy kind of way. He felt my breasts and, using a felt tipped marker, made about eight Xs on each one. “I only felt one lump,” I told him, unnerved.
“Well, we might as well check them all out.”
After the ultrasound, the specialist explained that it all “looked like” breast tissue. “After you have the baby, come back in and we’ll do a mammogram.”
“But, are you sure it’s not cancer?”
“The only way to be sure is to do a biopsy,” he explained. “Pregnancy raises estrogen levels, and estrogen feeds tumors, making them grow faster. If you notice any changes, give me a call. I can also do a biopsy using local anesthetic, if you’re nervous about it. I don’t think we need to do that, though.”
That night, Brian worked late. I got the kids into bed then curled up on the couch to find something on Tivo. Against all good sense, I selected an episode of Chronicle, our local news magazine, about the head of the breast cancer department at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, who was now battling breast cancer herself. She had noticed a very slight dimpling in her breast in the mirror one day. So she had a mammogram, which turned up nothing. Then she had an ultrasound. Also nothing. Then she asked a colleague to do a biopsy anyway. It was cancer, and even though she found it so early, the show documented her going through months of chemo and radiation.
I ended the day on the couch whimpering, hearing “estrogen feeds tumors” over and over in my head, and eating chocolate ice cream.
Friday: While my all-time favorite sitter watched the kids, I cleaned the house like a madwoman, scrubbing toilets, mopping and lugging the vacuum cleaner from floor to floor. By the time she left, my low-back ached, and I couldn’t wait to take a well-earned load off.
But first I headed to the bathroom. John was napping, but Ben followed me in. So when I saw the blood, I tried to maintain my composure.
Even though it was just a small amount, little more than a speck, the stringiness and bright red color sounded an alarm in my brain. I remembered that I hadn’t felt nauseas all week. My heart raced and my breath quickened. My hands shook as I struggled to push the right buttons on the remote to start a video, then to dial the midwife’s number.
“Do you have any cramping?”
“Well, my low back hurts, but ...”
“Come on down and we’ll take a look.”
I called Brian. “I’m bleeding a little,” I told him. “It’s probably not good.”
The midwife examined me. She didn’t bother listening for the heartbeat, but said there was very little blood and the cervix looked fine. “I’ve schedule an ultrasound for you at 5:30 in Danvers,” she said. “Are you OK?”
“No,” I said, “I’m not.”
Brian came with me for the ultrasound. I watched the technician’s expressionless face as she moved the probe around. After forever she said, “There’s no heartbeat here. I’m sorry.”
“Why did I tell Ben?” I sobbed to Brian. “How could I be so stupid to tell Ben so early?”
Even though I was just eight weeks pregnant, I had mentally invested myself in that pregnancy. I thought about names, dreamt that it might be a girl, thought about the season and what I’d wear through each trimester. Brian and I talked about how fun it would be to have an October baby, a newborn to bring to Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations. I never thought about miscarriage.
I felt like a fool. For my first two pregnancies, I told close family members during the first trimester, then told the rest of the world. But this time, in my overconfidence, I had told everyone: neighbors, friends, the checkout girl at Stop ‘n Shop, my lawyer, moms at Ben’s preschool. Even my kids. For the next few weeks, I would pay for that, as I had to retell the bad news again and again and again.
My midwife called when I got home. “You can either let the miscarriage happen naturally, or you can schedule a D&C.”
“Well, since I have a history of hemorrhaging, would I be safer with a D&C?”
“Oh,” she said, as if she hadn’t thought of that. “That’s a good question. Let me call the doctor and I’ll call you back.”
It turned out that I did need a D&C, since the risk of hemorrhaging at home outweighed the risks of a D&C. “Why didn’t she know that, what if I hadn’t asked?” I asked Brian. “Why am I the one thinking at a time like this?”
My mom and I lingered over dinner while Brian took the boys upstairs for a bath. She had come over so Brian and I could leave for the hospital at 6:30 a.m. “I should go help Brian,” I said, trying to force myself to stand.
Then we heard it, the loudest thud followed by John’s steady scream.
“Kris, come here, please, right now, Kris!” I found Brian and John sitting on the stairs. “I fell and slammed John’s head against the stair! I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do ...”
John’s two-year-old forehead grew to the size of a softball before my eyes.
I thought for a second, then said, “If we don’t know what to do, then I’m calling 911.”
(to be continued)
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Meme by Threat of Death
Michele has ordered me to do this meme now, or I shall die a painful death. Don’t tell her this (Michele cover your eyes), but she didn’t have to threaten my life. I’m thrilled that she asked, I mean demanded, that I do this. Since we’re going in threes here, this means that I:
1) have no life,
2) secretly lust after Michele, or
3) can’t think of anything else to blog about
(If you guessed 1 or 3, you're right, although Michele is one of my most favorite people in the blogosphere.)
Three names you go by:
Kris
Krissy
Mommy
Three screennames you have:
Clouth
Clouth2000
Kris
Three things you like about yourself:
Diplomatic
Open to change and the unconventional
Forgiving
Three things you hate/dislike about yourself:
Lack of social skills
Perfectionist
Big nose
Three parts of your heritage:
Working class
Roman Catholic
Living on the North Shore of Boston
Three things that scare you:
Death or life-threatening injury/illness of a loved one or myself
Terrorism
The speed of time
Three of your everyday essentials:
Internet
Three meals
Mascara
Three things you are wearing right now:
Brown boots
Gap jeans
Mascara
Three of your favorite bands/artists (at the moment):
Eminem
Alicia Keys
Beck
Three of your favorite songs at present:
If I ain’t got you, Alicia Keys
She will be loved, by Maroon 5 (if “stuck in my head” counts as present favorite)
Little drummer boy (I watched it the other night and, yes, I cried.)
Three things you want to try in the next 12 months:
Writing a fiction story
Delivering a healthy baby girl
Hanging curtains
Three things you want in a relationship (love is a given):
Respect
Interest
Humor
Two truths and a lie:
I have my scuba diving certification
I look great in a bathing suit
I’m craving a large chocolate soft serve with chocolate dip from Dairy Queen
Three physical things about the opposite (or same) that appeals to you:
Eyes
Down-to-earth nature
Muscles
Three things you just can’t do:
Rap
Dance the polka
Pass trigonometry
Three of your favorite hobbies:
Writing
Reading novels, how-to books and magazines
Cooking/nutrition
Three things you want to do really badly right now:
Drive to Dairy Queen
Instigate takeout for dinner
Sit on the couch and see what’s on Tivo
Three careers you’re considering:
Freelance writer
Domestic goddess
Homeschool teacher
Three places you want to go on vacation:
Italy
New Zealand
Aruba
Three kids names:
Benjamin Robert
John Alexander
Joshua Michael
Three things you want to do before you die:
Write a book
Go to those three vacation places
See my kids into adulthood
Three people who have to take this quiz now or die painful death:
I wouldn’t have done this to you ladies, but I’m slave to the meme, so...
Amanda
Julie
Jen
1) have no life,
2) secretly lust after Michele, or
3) can’t think of anything else to blog about
(If you guessed 1 or 3, you're right, although Michele is one of my most favorite people in the blogosphere.)
Three names you go by:
Kris
Krissy
Mommy
Three screennames you have:
Clouth
Clouth2000
Kris
Three things you like about yourself:
Diplomatic
Open to change and the unconventional
Forgiving
Three things you hate/dislike about yourself:
Lack of social skills
Perfectionist
Big nose
Three parts of your heritage:
Working class
Roman Catholic
Living on the North Shore of Boston
Three things that scare you:
Death or life-threatening injury/illness of a loved one or myself
Terrorism
The speed of time
Three of your everyday essentials:
Internet
Three meals
Mascara
Three things you are wearing right now:
Brown boots
Gap jeans
Mascara
Three of your favorite bands/artists (at the moment):
Eminem
Alicia Keys
Beck
Three of your favorite songs at present:
If I ain’t got you, Alicia Keys
She will be loved, by Maroon 5 (if “stuck in my head” counts as present favorite)
Little drummer boy (I watched it the other night and, yes, I cried.)
Three things you want to try in the next 12 months:
Writing a fiction story
Delivering a healthy baby girl
Hanging curtains
Three things you want in a relationship (love is a given):
Respect
Interest
Humor
Two truths and a lie:
I have my scuba diving certification
I look great in a bathing suit
I’m craving a large chocolate soft serve with chocolate dip from Dairy Queen
Three physical things about the opposite (or same) that appeals to you:
Eyes
Down-to-earth nature
Muscles
Three things you just can’t do:
Rap
Dance the polka
Pass trigonometry
Three of your favorite hobbies:
Writing
Reading novels, how-to books and magazines
Cooking/nutrition
Three things you want to do really badly right now:
Drive to Dairy Queen
Instigate takeout for dinner
Sit on the couch and see what’s on Tivo
Three careers you’re considering:
Freelance writer
Domestic goddess
Homeschool teacher
Three places you want to go on vacation:
Italy
New Zealand
Aruba
Three kids names:
Benjamin Robert
John Alexander
Joshua Michael
Three things you want to do before you die:
Write a book
Go to those three vacation places
See my kids into adulthood
Three people who have to take this quiz now or die painful death:
I wouldn’t have done this to you ladies, but I’m slave to the meme, so...
Amanda
Julie
Jen
Saturday, December 11, 2004
Friday, December 10, 2004
BoB Weblog Awards 2004
There's a new award program in the blogosphere, and nominations begin today. The BoB Weblog Awards are different for a few reasons. First, political, technical and marketing blogs cannot be nominated. Second, they have lots of cool categories, like Best Education/Homeschooling blog, Best Fitness/Weight Loss Blog and, of course, Best Mommy Blog. And third, the contest organizers (Jay at The Zero Boss and Jim, a.k.a. Genuine) are trying to keep the focus of this contest on lesser-known blogs that could use more traffic.
So give kudos to some of the favorites on your blogroll and make some nominations. According to Genuine, anyone who posts a comment there today becomes eligible to win some cool prizes, which will be awarded throughout the day. Click on over and make your favorites known!
Thursday, December 09, 2004
The Family Flu
Well, I have a least a partial explanation for why Ben has been so off-the-wall. He came down with the stomach flu Monday night, and Brian came down with it Tuesday morning. Even though they were sick, I felt glad to have them home Tuesday morning. I guess all the fighting over the weekend left me just wanting to have a better day together.
On Saturday we had driven up to a big Christmas tree farm and cut down our own tree. We chose the biggest tree our family room would hold. There’s a big green stripe on my ceiling, where the tip connected as we raised it, as testament to that.
We put on the lights and added the ornaments. Brian and I spent some time Sunday night adjusting everything, making it just right.
So Tuesday, after stomachs settled a bit, Brian took the boys downstairs and I sat at my computer to place a few last-minute Christmas orders. About 30 seconds of quiet later, I heard a noise and turned to see our gorgeous seven-foot tree crash to the floor. Our tree stand dumped about a gallon of water on the rug, and shards of broken ornaments littered the area.
Thank God Brian was at home when this happened. There’s no way I could have gotten the tree back up and steady in its stand by myself. But the poor guy, he’d fuss with the tree for a few minutes then bolt to the bathroom to be sick. Joy to the world!
We got the tree back up and the lights back in place. We stuck the unbroken ornaments back on the top third of the tree, since the kids can’t resist playing with them. Brian mounted the tree to the wall with wire and an eye hook. We never did get it to stand straight, but somehow imperfect seemed about right.
This morning I woke up with the stomach flu, and since he missed the last few days, Brian had to go to work. There’s something so horrifying about watching your spouse leave you with the kids for the day when your stomach is tied up in knots and you’re running a fever.
But, there’s something so magical about hearing your baby’s heartbeat for the first time, which I did yesterday. I don’t feel less afraid of miscarriage, or more secure that I’ll have a baby in my arms come July 10. But it is a start, and enough of a blessing to keep me from whining too much about today. After all, it’s just a stomach bug, this too shall pass. But please, God, not on to John. Don’t let it pass on to John!
On Saturday we had driven up to a big Christmas tree farm and cut down our own tree. We chose the biggest tree our family room would hold. There’s a big green stripe on my ceiling, where the tip connected as we raised it, as testament to that.
We put on the lights and added the ornaments. Brian and I spent some time Sunday night adjusting everything, making it just right.
So Tuesday, after stomachs settled a bit, Brian took the boys downstairs and I sat at my computer to place a few last-minute Christmas orders. About 30 seconds of quiet later, I heard a noise and turned to see our gorgeous seven-foot tree crash to the floor. Our tree stand dumped about a gallon of water on the rug, and shards of broken ornaments littered the area.
Thank God Brian was at home when this happened. There’s no way I could have gotten the tree back up and steady in its stand by myself. But the poor guy, he’d fuss with the tree for a few minutes then bolt to the bathroom to be sick. Joy to the world!
We got the tree back up and the lights back in place. We stuck the unbroken ornaments back on the top third of the tree, since the kids can’t resist playing with them. Brian mounted the tree to the wall with wire and an eye hook. We never did get it to stand straight, but somehow imperfect seemed about right.
This morning I woke up with the stomach flu, and since he missed the last few days, Brian had to go to work. There’s something so horrifying about watching your spouse leave you with the kids for the day when your stomach is tied up in knots and you’re running a fever.
But, there’s something so magical about hearing your baby’s heartbeat for the first time, which I did yesterday. I don’t feel less afraid of miscarriage, or more secure that I’ll have a baby in my arms come July 10. But it is a start, and enough of a blessing to keep me from whining too much about today. After all, it’s just a stomach bug, this too shall pass. But please, God, not on to John. Don’t let it pass on to John!
Monday, December 06, 2004
Nanny 911
Does the anticipation of Santa Claus bring out the devil in children? Why doesn’t it work when I say, “Santa’s watching, you better behave?” Why do they just cackle and continue ripping ornaments off the tree?
All weekend long, my boys have been behaving like two spoiled brats. One would think that jumping on the furniture was entirely permissible. Every time I turn my back, one or the other starts boing-boinging away. Half the time, I don’t even have to turn my back, they do it right in front of me. How many time-outs does it take for the message to sink in? Apparently more than 63,897.
They also keep clobbering each other. My 3 year old has a mean right hook, and he hits Ben in the rib cage from behind. Ben shoves his younger brother hard enough to send him sailing across the floor, face first into the carpet.
They have each gone to their rooms about 50 times a day for the last three days. Candy has been banned since last week (except the morning Advent calendar chocolate). Now I have taken away (gasp!) all videos. Who’s really being punished with no videos? Yep, you know who.
Today at noon -- after a morning of bickering, hitting and stealing toys -- I reached my breaking point. John walked up to me in the kitchen and, with sneakers on, kicked my shin as hard as he could. No, I hadn’t taken his candy away or told him he couldn’t eat his oatmeal in the family room. He just saw me and decided I needed a swift kick to the shin bone.
As I put John in his high chair for a time out (I was about to serve lunch anyway), Ben saddled up to the dining room table and grabbed my glass of water. Besides the fact that I have a sore throat, he knows I don’t like him drinking from my glass. So I said, “Ben, put my glass down, please.” He looked up at me, smiled, looked down at my glass, and let a huge chunk of spit fly right into my water.
I, ever the picture of calm and serenity, started screaming like an insane person, until he went up the stairs to his room. Of course, as soon as I turned to the sink, John was laughing from his high chair because Ben had come back down stairs and was hiding out behind the couch or under the dining room table. And, I suppose, they had achieved their goal of turning me into a raving lunatic. So funny!
Just then, my mom called. I heard her voice and started sobbing. Sobbing. The kids rarely, if ever, get to me like that, but they got me good today. I guess me crying was better than me stringing them both up by their feet until their dad got home, which is what I really wanted to do.
Ever the soothing presence, my mom talked to both of the boys and told them to say sorry to me, which they did. Then she offered to take Ben for the weekend, Friday to Sunday.
I have a better plan. I think she should take me for the weekend.
All weekend long, my boys have been behaving like two spoiled brats. One would think that jumping on the furniture was entirely permissible. Every time I turn my back, one or the other starts boing-boinging away. Half the time, I don’t even have to turn my back, they do it right in front of me. How many time-outs does it take for the message to sink in? Apparently more than 63,897.
They also keep clobbering each other. My 3 year old has a mean right hook, and he hits Ben in the rib cage from behind. Ben shoves his younger brother hard enough to send him sailing across the floor, face first into the carpet.
They have each gone to their rooms about 50 times a day for the last three days. Candy has been banned since last week (except the morning Advent calendar chocolate). Now I have taken away (gasp!) all videos. Who’s really being punished with no videos? Yep, you know who.
Today at noon -- after a morning of bickering, hitting and stealing toys -- I reached my breaking point. John walked up to me in the kitchen and, with sneakers on, kicked my shin as hard as he could. No, I hadn’t taken his candy away or told him he couldn’t eat his oatmeal in the family room. He just saw me and decided I needed a swift kick to the shin bone.
As I put John in his high chair for a time out (I was about to serve lunch anyway), Ben saddled up to the dining room table and grabbed my glass of water. Besides the fact that I have a sore throat, he knows I don’t like him drinking from my glass. So I said, “Ben, put my glass down, please.” He looked up at me, smiled, looked down at my glass, and let a huge chunk of spit fly right into my water.
I, ever the picture of calm and serenity, started screaming like an insane person, until he went up the stairs to his room. Of course, as soon as I turned to the sink, John was laughing from his high chair because Ben had come back down stairs and was hiding out behind the couch or under the dining room table. And, I suppose, they had achieved their goal of turning me into a raving lunatic. So funny!
Just then, my mom called. I heard her voice and started sobbing. Sobbing. The kids rarely, if ever, get to me like that, but they got me good today. I guess me crying was better than me stringing them both up by their feet until their dad got home, which is what I really wanted to do.
Ever the soothing presence, my mom talked to both of the boys and told them to say sorry to me, which they did. Then she offered to take Ben for the weekend, Friday to Sunday.
I have a better plan. I think she should take me for the weekend.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
My Last Post About Nausea (damn it)
So now I'm addicted to Zofran. Things started out slow, very casual. Just a few to get me through Thanksgiving, give myself a holiday break from the nausea. Two on Wednesday, two on Thursday, that was it. Through the weekend, I thought my nausea had cleared. Looking back, perhaps the constipation distracted me. Not having any "movements" for eight straight days was a bit disconcerting. Especially since the relief from weeks of nausea and the onset of constipation coalesced just in time for Thanksgiving and the ensuing leftovers. I enjoyed a two-day binge on pork pie, pumpkin pie, chocolate cream pie, and of course turkey with stuffing and tons of gravy. None of which contain any fiber whatsoever, as far as I know.
Then I wondered, where is all that food? It feels like it's backing up into my esophagus! Food I ate three days ago, still lingering in my gut! Uh, I feel a little queasy, I ... Oh, I can't be sick now, what will come up? Chyme? Will I puke up chyme?!
With that train of thought barreling through my mind, the nausea moved back in to my life. Perhaps it never really left. Perhaps it's all in my head, and I'm just a big wuss looking for an excuse to sit on the couch and cry while watching Oprah, Extreme Makeover Home Edition and The Nanny. Even The Nanny makes me cry. Damn hormones!
Zofran has a few side effects that prevent me from becoming a full-on junkie. The nurse told me, a week after giving it to me, that it causes constipation. Heh. But I don't care so much about that, because now I'm on a myriad of pharmaceuticals to combat that symptom.
But the other side effect, insomnia, is a deal breaker. If I take Zofran after, say, 3 pm, then, no matter how exhausted I felt all day, I lie in bed for several hours, forcing myself to lie still with my eyes closed, trying not to peek at the clock, until well after 1 a.m. Which pisses me off, because being tired makes the nausea much worse, and forces me to take an afternoon nap, which makes the nausea WAY worse, which causes me to need a late afternoon Zofran, which... well, you get the idea.
Who knew pregnancy sans midwives would be so ... medicated? If the amount of drugs I'm taking so far in this pregnancy are any indication, then by the time I give birth I'll be hooked up to an epidural and sucking a tube of laughing gas in between vodka shooters by the time I give birth.
Speaking of which, next Wednesday the OB nurse will check for a heartbeat. She couldn't get me an appointment with the doctor sooner than December 17, when I'll be nearly 12 weeks along. But she was kind enough to say I could come in next week during her lunch hour so she can take a listen herself. I hope this nurse realizes that if she doesn't find a heartbeat, I will hold her at gunpoint until she gets me into the ultrasound room so I can see what's what. She probably has a holster full of tranquilizing blow-darts for just that scenario.
Then I wondered, where is all that food? It feels like it's backing up into my esophagus! Food I ate three days ago, still lingering in my gut! Uh, I feel a little queasy, I ... Oh, I can't be sick now, what will come up? Chyme? Will I puke up chyme?!
With that train of thought barreling through my mind, the nausea moved back in to my life. Perhaps it never really left. Perhaps it's all in my head, and I'm just a big wuss looking for an excuse to sit on the couch and cry while watching Oprah, Extreme Makeover Home Edition and The Nanny. Even The Nanny makes me cry. Damn hormones!
Zofran has a few side effects that prevent me from becoming a full-on junkie. The nurse told me, a week after giving it to me, that it causes constipation. Heh. But I don't care so much about that, because now I'm on a myriad of pharmaceuticals to combat that symptom.
But the other side effect, insomnia, is a deal breaker. If I take Zofran after, say, 3 pm, then, no matter how exhausted I felt all day, I lie in bed for several hours, forcing myself to lie still with my eyes closed, trying not to peek at the clock, until well after 1 a.m. Which pisses me off, because being tired makes the nausea much worse, and forces me to take an afternoon nap, which makes the nausea WAY worse, which causes me to need a late afternoon Zofran, which... well, you get the idea.
Who knew pregnancy sans midwives would be so ... medicated? If the amount of drugs I'm taking so far in this pregnancy are any indication, then by the time I give birth I'll be hooked up to an epidural and sucking a tube of laughing gas in between vodka shooters by the time I give birth.
Speaking of which, next Wednesday the OB nurse will check for a heartbeat. She couldn't get me an appointment with the doctor sooner than December 17, when I'll be nearly 12 weeks along. But she was kind enough to say I could come in next week during her lunch hour so she can take a listen herself. I hope this nurse realizes that if she doesn't find a heartbeat, I will hold her at gunpoint until she gets me into the ultrasound room so I can see what's what. She probably has a holster full of tranquilizing blow-darts for just that scenario.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)