Another conversation about balls

Me: Are those the same pair of underwear you wore yesterday?

Hen: No.

Me: You sure? You should go get yourself a clean pair.

Hen: These are good.

Me: Okay, but if they are dirty, they might make your balls itch. [I have no idea if this is true.]

Hen, running into his room: I don't want to scratch my balls.

Sex Mints: Brought to you by some enterprising person

You gotta admire the spirit with which these were made and marketed. "Internal Feminine Flavoring" - I like that they point out it's for women. Lord knows where a man would stick it, right? Also, how very cool is it that Linger is "free of artificial dyes." They could have done something really awesome like those folks over at the glow-in-the-dark condom factory. But, no, they reigned that shit in and instead focused their attention on design so that the item is "shaped for comfort during insertion."

Really, I have nothing more to say.

I'm just going to admit it

I like the new Britney Spears song Womanizer.

And good lord, have you caught the video? Egads!

Pump, pump, pump all day long

Disclaimer: This post discusses boobs. If you are offended by boobs or do not wish to know about my boobs in particular cease reading now.

So, I was pumping the old boobs this morning to get some milks for the kid. Normally I don't take too many precautions. I don't lock the front door - it's a secure building - I don't draw the drapes - neighbors who can see in are never home and even if they were what they could glimpse through the trees between their homes and mine would hardly be entertaining. But sometimes the unexpected happens and you realize that, as you sit on the couch attached to the breast pump which sort of makes you look like one of those dairy cows, there are two men on a type of construction crane slowly passing by the patio outside on their way up to another floor. (Note: Our patio is directly above the opening to the underground parking so we don't normally see too many people in front of our patio. They'd have to be able to walk on air to get there.) Thankfully I was able to move the shirt down a bit to cover what was worth covering. Lesson learned. In the future, I shall check for cranes before settling down on the couch to pump.

Yesterday there were woes. Woes!

(03:02:13 PM) cmg: your son hit me in the eyeball
(03:02:39 PM) cmg: and it hurts to blink
(03:02:44 PM) cmg: and he's screaming for care
(03:02:48 PM) cmg: but I'm partially blinded
(03:02:51 PM) djg: little bastard!
(03:02:51 PM) cmg: and my nose is running
(03:02:55 PM) cmg: and my eye is watering
(03:03:04 PM) cmg: and I'm getting the hugest fucking headache
(03:03:24 PM) cmg: it wasn't an intentional hit
(03:03:29 PM) cmg: it was flailing baby arms
(03:03:38 PM) cmg: and the little fucker is not napping
(03:04:32 PM) cmg: and it is fucking raining
(03:04:36 PM) cmg: so I can't take him for a walk
(03:04:42 PM) cmg: and we've run out of things to do in the house
(03:04:46 PM) cmg: and we've already been to the mall
(03:04:50 PM) cmg: and now he's crying yet again
(03:04:57 PM) cmg: he fucking sucks as a baby today
(03:05:34 PM) cmg: I gotta go.
(03:05:41 PM) djg: sorry sweetie

Inappropriate Blog Entry: The delivery

Disclaimer: This blog entry contains subject matter that may be offensive or gross. Consider yourself forewarned.

I've been meaning to post about our experience in the delivery room for some time but it is awful challenging to do so with only one hand free and a baby attached to your boob, which is usually how things are when I'm next to the computer. Besides, who wants to relive that particular part of the whole "we're pregnant/we're parents" adventure anyway? Henry is cool but how he got here, um, not so much with the coolness factor there.

To start, my doctor of choice was out of the country, probably washing his hair, so I had to visit with another doctor to discuss how to get Henry out. My incessant mantra of "Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out." had done little to persuade the little fellow to drop out of my vajayjay. And the eviction notice Darr and I kept threatening did nothing to convince the kid it was time to join us on planet Earth. Thankfully, my secondary doc was on board with my plans to be induced, stating that if my due date passed and the baby did not make an appearance on his own, we could get the party started with a cocktail of drugs I like to call my friends, Misoprostol and Pitocin.

Even though we heard many times that only five percent of folks end up delivering on their due date, I was miffed when 14 October came and went and there was no baby to show for it. I mean, for nine months I was carrying around what we so eloquently dubbed the Resident Alien. Nine months. I was eating more vegetables than most vegans, staying away from alcohol, and no longer sniffing the crack*. Oh the sacrifices we ladies make, you have no idea.

The following Monday I was on the phone to OHSU ad nauseam trying to connect with my secondary doc to request she schedule the induction. Around 4pm that afternoon, she finally called back. 4pm. I was exhausted from frantically trying to reach her all day while hobbling around the condo in my 9-month pregnant body. Tuesday was not an option but it looked like there would be room for us to go in on Wednesday. I was left with instructions to call Labor and Delivery Wednesday morning to verify they still had an open room for us. So that's what I did. And the rest, as they say, is history...

Here's what occurred on the day we went in to be induced - all times are approximate:

7:30am - Call OHSU Labor and Delivery to learn they have a room available and we can come in. Woohoo!

10:00am - We arrive at OHSU and are promptly whisked away to our delivery room. (I highly recommend filling out and submitting all of the paperwork beforehand.) Our first set of nurses joke about how the labor will cause "mild discomfort." I am hooked up to a fetal monitor and contraction gauge.

10:45am - Nap time. 'Cuz, you know, we're having a baby. It is too exhausting to stay awake.

12:00pm - Seen by another doctor and told it is okay to eat lunch. Unhook from the monitors, put normal human clothes back on, and head downstairs to grab lunch at the cafeteria.

1:20pm - Take part in a hospital study. I am participant #105. The study - trying to see if using the ultrasound wand to take measurements to determine amount of dilation is more accurate than traditional method (i.e., using doc's own gloved hand).

1:45pm - Doc LeClair comes by to visit and predicts an arrival time of 4:22am the following morning. [Brave doc! -d]

2:00pm - Dr. Vederhovensomething with funny hair arrives and administers Misoprostol. What we quickly learn, getting stuff done in a teaching hospital can take time. Whatever resident doc spoke to you has to go to his/her attending and get approval before doing anything.

2:15pm - Finish monitoring. Ho hum...

4:45pm - Told we have one last chance to get something to eat. Without explaining our plans to the nursing staff, I change back into my civilian clothes and Darr and I escape from the hospital. Traffic is worse than expected but we still manage to drive home, fry up some ham and microwave a few potatoes, scarf down dinner, drive back to the hospital, and get me back into my hospital gear in the allotted time. [breakin' the law! breaking the law! -d]

6:00pm - Start Pitocin drip.

8:00pm - Feeling contractions. On the pain scale, I'd put 'em at a 5. If this is as bad as it gets, I can handle this.

11:00pm - These fucking hurt. Nothing helps with the pain. Not standing. Not sitting. Not kneeling. Not bathing in hot water. Not dying. Nothing.

11:25pm - Water broke.

11:45pm - Epidural administered and pain subsiding to a bearable level, back to happy land numero 5 of the pain scale.

12:00am - Side effect of the epidural hits. I am itchy all over. I waive the extra medication offered to reduce the itchy sensation because it is more weird than irritating. I learn the nerves that handle pain, handle itchiness as well. For approximately 9% of folks who receive epidurals, the pain is managed but the nerve continues to send out a signal, the signal being "hey, you've got an itch right here. And here. And over here. And down here. And here. And there. And, yeah, you itch here, too." The poor little nerves send out this message because it is the only thing the little nerves can do after the drugs hit.

1:05am - Practice push.

OH DEAR GOD.

1:15am - Real push.

SWEET JESUS.

1:15am-1:49am - This part is all kind of a blur for me. I pushed A LOT. And the kid moved further towards freedom. There were 11 doctors and nurses in the room with us - seven for me, four for the baby. Our docs ranged from the attending, who instructed the residents, to various levels of residents, who did what they were told to do, and the med student, who Darr says didn't do anything until it came time to clean up. During this phase, my contractions grew weaker so I couldn't use them to effectively evacuate the kid. And then the baby's heart rate began to drop. The options - vacuum-assisted delivery or c-section. But the baby was already almost crowning so a c-section would have required the doc push the baby back in to be delivered. Um, HELL NO. I signed the form for vacuum-assisted delivery.

Now, here's what they don't tell you. The cup that attaches to the baby's head can slip off. This would have been good to know beforehand. Our resident securely attached the cup to the baby's head and was pulling and straining and it was very clear there was a lot of force exerted and then

POP! The doc was flung backward, the vacuum cup went flying.

Me: "FUCK."

Given the horrified expression on Darr's face, we both had the same thought, that our baby's head had been ripped off with the cup and was hurtling through the air. Once we learned this was not the case, we were okay trying again. Same thing happened. And one final time. Damn, slippage. Frankly, my nerves couldn't handle any more vacuum help. I don't know where the extra pushing power came from but it showed up and with a few more pushes, our kid was out. Out, I say!

Apparently, even though I had requested Darr not look, he saw everything, including - from what he tells me - the attending immediately jumping in to take over once the baby was out. He did this because our dear sweet little boy had held his hand next to his face while being delivered, thereby ripping me on the inside. RIPPING. Ouch. The tear must have been significant because it took the attending nearly two hours to stitch me up. Approximately two hours and 20 stitches later, the nurses came in and helped us get ready to move to the Mother Baby unit.

The pregnancy was quite a ride, the birth even more so. I can't imagine what parenting has in store for us, but I'm sure it will drastically increase the number of gray hairs we have on our heads.

Inappropriate Blog Entry: Massaging the what?

Disclaimer: This blog entry contains subject matter that may be offensive. Consider yourself forewarned.

Because I'm still awake, let's talk about perineal massage. I'm almost into my 35th week of pregnancy and apparently this is something I'm supposed to be doing to help prevent lacerations or the need for an episiotomy. (Yikes. Cutting or tearing anywhere near that particular region scares the bejesus out of me.) Oh great. <insert sarcasm here> Darr can help. At least he can according to the folks at the American Pregnancy Association, although (Zeus bless them) they are quick to point out "...this is not a sexual thing, but an exercise that can help make her labor easier."

What's happening with the R.A.? The lil' guy is closing in on 5 lbs and is beginning to fill out with the formation of fat under his skin. This will help regulate his temperature when he lands outside planet Womb onto Earth. His central nervous system and lungs are coming along nicely and he's got an excellent shot of surviving should he decide to come a little early.