Trouble sleeping

Silas woke me for his four o-clock feeding this morning by giggling.

That's right, GIGGLING.

Not one giggle such as he'd exhibited for the first time that afternoon, but multiple giggles. It was as if he woke from a dream that pleased him.

I couldn't go back to sleep.

I just stared at him as he slept smiling.

I'm sure it's a sign.

... All is well.

I hope, anyway.

What I did on my summer vacation ...

Let's be forthright, shall we?

Moms - stay-at-home or otherwise - don't really get summer vacations, now, do they? There's always a nose needing to be wiped, a knee needing to be sprayed with disinfectant (and then kissed) and a soccer/baseball/football player or track star that needs a lift to camp ... and back.

When I think of all the vacation time I wasted before children; time just frittered away walking on a beach, drinking in pubs or visiting places with breakables, I become wistful.



Because of Silas' arrival and the Family Medieval Leave Act, this year has been the closest to a summer vacation I've come since sophmore year, high school. (After that it was pretty much full-time summer jobs from then on.)

Oh sure I had surgical recovery and the addition of a new person to the family -- one that requires maintenance every two hours -- to contend with, but I also had 10 hours a day that was normally taken uo with work and commute. All I had to do was fill it up.

Easier said than done.

For the record:

Free play isn't free. For 90 seconds firstborn children will assemble all that is needed for a morning of spectacular, imagintive play. The debris will be scattered over four states. Yet as soon as you tell them that they will have to play by themselves, the scamps will lose all interest, abandoning the minefield of toys and begin a chant that will haunt you for the rest of the day: IDON'TKNOWHOWTO ....

Any craft projects that YOU conceive occupies a preschooler for approximately 13 minutes (and that's a successful one). It will also take 30 minutes to clean up, but you can't count those as part of your day since you can't push the vacuum for another four weeks thanks to the incision. And, once you've been cleared for takeoff, the baby will be sleeping during prime suction opportunities anyway.

Taking a walk to the nearest park will burn up a good hour and 17 minutes. You will be smacking yourself in the face with every pebble the kid picks up along the way (475) not to mention trying to figure out a way to slide down the curly slide with a baby in arms or bribe the only other child in the whole playground -- a bored looking pre-teen probably waiting for her ex-convict boyfriend -- to do it for you. Be prepared for a workout on the way home as you WILL be returning with a kicking, screaming banshee, slippery from reapplied sunscreen, because the only way she will ever be ready to leave a playground is if you promise the circus is offloading elephants in the driveway as she lollygags on the swings.

Lunch will be a solid 10 minutes of fun (and another 20 minutes of agony). You will spend four minutes asking your firstborn what they desire and be told all manner of non-procurable vittles: "I would like chocolate covered bees, pleeeeze." Of course when you finally negotiate for peanut butter sandwiches (with the crusts cut off) and you start making them, she'll tell you she really wanted peanut butter celery canoes.

During all this you will have to change the baby four times, change your shirt twice and your pants once. You still haven't showered, and the firstborn is only wearing underwear. You bribe the child into wearing clothes by telling her she can help you make cookies if she puts on a shirt and shorts. Chocolate chip? Is there any other kind?

But lo' there's no brown sugar. So off to the store you go. Packing the car with a half-naked kid, a screaming infant and about a week's worth of clothes should your car break down and hekp doesn't arrive for an hour. Granted, grocery stores take about two hours whether you are getting one item or 100. (I would explain in more detail, but I might cry just thinking about it).

There are some things that I think are FUN to do with kids, and baking happens to be on the top of the list. Cakes from a mix, Toll House from scratch ... doesn't matter. If they lose interst between the creaming of butter and sugar and the spooning heaps onto the baking sheet, just thrust a loaded mixer blade in thier direction and watch them disappear.

But that only fills three-quarters of a day ... if I bake one more thing I will be faced with a horrid choice: lose my husband to heart disease or open the most inconsistent bakery in the world, calling it "Some Like It Hot (But Most Like It Cooked).

You know what's filling the rest of the day, right? THE BOOB TUBE Oh, yeah ... I've still got laundry to wash and fold. But then I swear, I don't care if it is midnight before the house is finally silent, I'm sitting down to read that trashy beach novel. It's still summer right?

It was a tad squishy

Hello. Elliott?

Yeah. Well actually it's Annabel.

Yes.

Well ...

I had oatmeal this morning for breakfast. But you wouldn't have liked it. ... It had marshmellows in it.

Well, that's all.

Actually ... I have to go now.

Bye.

Little things

likes her caffeine, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I am no longer persona non grata here at Casa de Abba.

I think she was about two and still mispronouncing her own name when she thrust her hands into my camera lens and with the screech of three nightmarish words -- NO MORE PISHERS -- single-handedly assured herself a little brother.

Oh how times change.

Now that my camera is seeking out a smaller, less loquacious subject she is all smiles. Not to mention all "Here take my picture doing this ... how about if I hold it on my head. Wait! Here, look at this. ... I'm holding it between my legs. Isn't that funny? Quick take a picture."

I don't mean to give you the impression she's jealous of the attention Silas is getting; she doesn't seem peeved. She doesn't pull me away from him to look at her. I think she's just decided from watching that it's fun to pose.

It kind of took me by surprise this new interest in being photographed. I didn't really know what to do with it since I'm not typically interested in "look at me" type photographs. I'd much prefer she ignore me like she usually does the other 92 percent of the time I've got my camera in hand.

But I'm not going to complain about it; there's still plenty of candid moments even when she's saying cheese. It's just nice not to have to be a contortionist (or a magician) to catch them.

I know this phase won't last, though. One day she'll say Abba-cadabra or some other explosive command and it will be gone.

Team player

skins and shirts, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Under his breath I hear him say it: "Mama's boy."

There's an unmistakable laugh in his voice but I don't care. The expression makes me bristle with rage.

"That's not fair."

He's been crying since I made the handoff.

I'm trying to finish the tortilla pizzas. I'm not the one who usually does the cooking in this house. I need my wits about me as I'm searing chicken sausage.

At first it was slow, unsure chirps that could go either way. Soon it was clear the boyo was headed for the goal -- me.

I still had my sling around my shoulder, waiting for the exchange. Nothing.

"Are you OK," I call through the steam of the now translucent onions.

"Fine," he says in the adament yet disturbed voice of a dad struggling with the Fourth Trimester Blues. The first three months on the outside when only mama has the touch.

It's painful, really. As I sprinkle chopped peppers, onions and cheese over a thin layer of sauce, I find myself trying to soften the blow:

"He's just hungry."

"He has been fussy all day. It's not you."

But when dad hands him back he instantly settles.

"You realize once he's a little older YOU will be the hero, right?"

I've slid the tiny pizzas into the oven, and in minutes they are ready.

"Here. ... I'll trade ya."

Shhhhhhhh

We've been away at a family reunion of sorts in the beautiful state of Vermont. We stayed with my cousin near Burlington for a few days and then at a bed and breakfast in Waitsfield where the actual birthday party (for my father's sister) took place.

We've returned with a carload of funky laundry to a house full of dog hair, rancid food in the fridge and other real-world duties. Forgive me while I take my time getting back into the swing of things here in the virtual world.

Until then, I'd like you to meet "Bad Word Girl," Annabel's Easter Bunny-disguised bear. During this trip Ittybit decided the bear -- which came in her Easter Basket -- should finally have a name.

I'm not sure where she came up with "Bad Word Girl" since we've tried to instill the idea that there are no "bad" words, there are simply inappropriate times and places for certain word usages.

But, as cousin Bridget pointed out, "Inappropriate Word Usage Girl" is a little clunky.

Oh baby, talk to me

Dear Silas,

It's been two months already, but strangely enough it seems as if you've been in our lives all along.

If you were our firstborn I'd be able to tell you exactly how many times you sneezed in these last two months. I could tell you the exact day and minute of the first smile you'd shown that didn't appear to be pent up gas. But you are the second child, and while you were doing all those things I was looking away or tripping over toys I'd asked your sister to put away.

Instead of being able to pinpoint the exact second of your first smile, I can recall that the first time I noticed a non-sleeping smile was while we were in Maine visiting your Ama and cousin. It was about four weeks (a week sooner than your sister, I might add). Also I can tell you that while I have no idea how many sneezes or hiccups you've expelled, I know that after most sneezes you make a heartbreaking little sighin sound that will make me regret I didn't record it for posterity. (Yes, I know there's still time but I'm not too skilled in the moving pictures department. And since it takes effort, I know I'll just be sitting here on my brains hoping someone else will capture the moment.)

I also don't know when it was that you started trying to be a part of the family on your own, but I know that right now you are verbalizing up a storm. The colloquial term would be "cooing," I believe.

I don't remember Annabel doing this. But perhaps I was too busy looking at her to talk to her the way I talk to you. I never really expected you to talk back though. In the doctors' office, while we were waiting for your vaccinations, I was telling you all about the things on the counter I could identify. Cotton sqabs, tongue depressors, a measuring tape, soap ... that thing that you use to look in someone's ear ... And you started repeating what I said. Sort of.

Mostly it had the same pitch and length, but the words were in a language I haven't spoken for more than 30 years -- baby.

Now, just so you know, I don't go in for all that "wooby, wooby widdle baby" stuff. I speak to little people pretty much the same way I speak to the guy at the post office or in coffee shop: four stamps; black, no sugar. (Don't laugh, I get blank stares from them too.)

And yet, when I tell you about the grossness of the dog's drooling ways or wonder if you are more interested in listening to Dave Matthews or Parlament, I am delighted by your enthusiasm. Your "Eeeeyaaas" and "ooooos" sound remarkably positive as I'm reading to you from the grocery list.

"Oh your right! I did forget the Hearts and Os cereal. Annabel's favorite. You're such a good brother."

I'm glad you speak my language. When I ask you to look in the box where the cold food is one day, trying to remember the name for the refrigerator, I'm sure you'll know exactly what I mean.

Love,

Mama

Maternal salvation

I was taking a walk in my village last week with Silas in the sling when a car stopped me on a side street. As I was turning onto the street it was pulling out, so the couple inside had turned around and come back, catching up to me a few houses away from the corner.

They were an older couple, grandparents, and wanted to know how I liked my town. They were planning on moving up from Brooklyn.

My usual response when someone asks what I think of the place I live includes annecdotes about how years before I even considered moving here -- when i was the editor of a local weekly newspaper -- someone had spread a rumor about me being a lesbian and in a relationship with my assistant editor. I was pretty put off by the idea of people who don't know me from Paula Poundstone would have the time and inclination to spread rumors -- true or false. It seemed so ... Oh, I don't know ... antisocial? Not to mention that there's a certain Seinfeldian aspect to the situation: Who'd want to be friends ... or even spend a half hour ... with people like that?

But the couple in the car seemed nice, and I had nowhere to be. I was just out walking, enjoying the summer night and various sounds of window airconditioning units humming from every house I passed. So I smiled and told them a soften version of the truth: that it's a beautiful, quiet town and that there were scads of community-focused activities if one was inclined to take part.

They told me about themselves and kept peppering me with questions. How old was my baby? How long had I lived here? Was I originally from the area?

They wondered if I knew many mothers in town.

I told them that I didn't.

They wanted to know why.

I work. Being away from home more than 10 hours a day didn't leave room for much socializing, and most play groups were either private or suspended their schedules for the summer. I figured once my daughter was old enough to go to the local public school I'd make some more acquaintances. Until then my "social" life would remain on my couch at 10 p.m. while I'm surfing the Web.

That's when the curious woman in the passenger seat told me that she was a clinical psychologist and had made mothering her speciality. She studied women in mothers' groups. She even went as far as to tell me about groups in my area I might like to "check out."

"How interesting," I said, noting that while I don't belong to groups in the local community I did belong to an online forum of mothers that was much the same. We shared tips, recipes, angst and stories. We commiserate about lousy bosses, difficult mates, children we'd like to sell on e-bay. We exchange cards and ornaments at holidays. We bestow gifts at the birth of a child or condolences at the death of a parent or loved one. We chip in and send larger gifts to people who are really struggling with something, just to lift their spirits a little. We even made a point to see one another once a year and do it all over again in person.

I was thinking about all of this as the woman in the car dismissed my virtual support group with the wave of a hand. "You should really find people you can meet in person every week," she said, explaining that face-to-face contact was the "only" way to effectively survive motherhood.

I smiled and nodded and pretended to commit to memory the names she offered. But really I was just wondering when people like her would shift their studies from the handfuls of women who meet in the height of the afternoon -- many of them stay-at-home moms making use of the time between 9 and 5 when the husbands are away -- to the thousands who hash out the same things in the wee hours of the evening or during coffee breaks at work or when their kids are napping or their husbands away.

We laugh, we cry, we wrap our heads around other people's stories; their worries and their celebrations. We adjust our thinking. We gain a different perspective. We are irreverent, and kind, and silly. We lift each other up. The only difference in our virtual playgroup is that our kids only play in posted photographs.

Rather than benefiting the social needs of our children it's our minds and spirits that benefit. And the mind doesn't need to sip coffee from the same urn or eat cookies from the same plate to realize maternal salvation.

The heavyweight champeein of da world

champ, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I'm in love with the doctors in our pediatric practice. LOVE.

I would write bad poetry in their honor.

I would bake them little heart-shaped cakes.

I would wash their cars with a Q-Tip, that's how much I LOVE them.

Not only are they reassuring, but they always seem to smile. Our usual doctor was on vacation this week, a fact I was told beforehand, and it turns out her pitch-hitter was my favorite kind of substitute -- a joker.

DOC: "So ... How is he?"

MOM: "I'd say he's perfect."

DOC: "I'll be the judge of that. I'll be honest, haven't seen a perfect baby yet. ... looks like he gained 27 ounces in a month. ... good. Eyes, ears, throat, tummy, legs ... yup. He's perfect. Although I'll have to take off a half a point for that redness in the neck folds. ...

... HEY! He's the first kid to pee on me today.

MOM: See, I told you he was perfect. He's VERY protective of his mama.

Of course the guy earned my complete devotion, and potential for car detailing services, when I admitted the kid wasn't really perfect considering his wonky kidney and all ....

DOC: "Oh, that. I'd say those kind of kidney things are about as normal as cradle cap. The only reason it's moderate is because he's a baby. I'd be more concerned with some of the notations these places put on the reports ... Says here: "Patient didn't complain about pain in lower abdomen, back or groin. ... I can't wait to meet the newborn who complains. Oh look, also says here he's a non-smoker. Good. I wasn't looking forward to giving THAT lecture."

*Silas weighed in at 10 pounds, 11 ounces. It earns him a slot in the 25th percentile for weight. He measured 22 1/2 inches long (also 25th percentile) and his head is 38 cm in circumference (10th percentile).

Garden variety

Mommy, look!!!

This tomato has a scar just like yours.

New and improved

on top of the world in her new kicks, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I remember what it was like to get a new pair of sneakers.

I felt as if I could run faster, jump higher and do just about anything.

It was like getting a shot of instant invincibility.

Happily, that hasn't changed a bit. Annabel proudly announced that her new sneakers are going to help her practice her running. Not just that but that they help her get more "entergy." Enough to go to the moon, even.

I believe it. I never had sneaks THIS snazzy.

She's got the sass down

not pregnant, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

"Mommy? You were big when you were preglent. But now that you're not preglent you are not big anymore.

"Now daddy's preglent, but he's NOT having a baby right?

"RIGHT?!?"

Will wonders never cease?

how do pigs fly?, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Annabel,

Were you wondering where I've been?

Nearly two months ago I disappeared. For three days I was gone. For three days your access to me was measured in minutes. You were amazing. You seemed to mature overnight.

You started speaking to strangers in sentences. You were in love with your little brother and you had barely met him.

None of that has changed. What has changed is that you share me now, and for a major portion of the day you are entertaining yourself, singing songs, reading books to your miniature animals, and finding new amusements while I hold the baby, change the baby, rock the baby or try and keep the baby happy.

You've not yet asked me to put the baby down or send the baby back. You've not shown even a smidgen of jealousy.

When your father comes home at night, I take walks around the village. With Silas. Not with you. I want to walk, and with you I have to stop for every leaf that's fallen from a tree and some that haven't.

But I gave in recently and took you along. Off we went, you in the stroller and your brother in the sling. I figured we'd be gone five minutes before you'd insist we turn back. You didn't, but we didn't get far either. We reached the village square and you heard music.

You made me stop so you could listen as the brass band played marches and show tunes. You begged me to stay there in the village center and let you out of the stroller.

I wasn't going to get my walk and I knew it.

I unbuckled you and you slid out from under the tray. You held out your hand to me, compelling me to come with as you danced in the cordoned off street.

I stood in the middle of the road trying not to look in the direction of our elderly neighbors, sitting in the lawnchairs they brought to sit on in the median lawns. Your moves were a combination of running around the flower patch and gyrations that would make Olive from Little Miss Sunshine proud. I laughed as they told you how well you dance, knowing full and well that Olive was indeed your mentor.

It was getting dark. I told you we'd stay for one more number and you weasled three more after that.

It was fun. I didn't much mind forgoing the walk.

The next day when you woke up, you asked me to play a game on the porch. You wanted me to bring your brother, even though he was crying.

"Maybe he just wants to hang out with me more."

I hugged you and told you how right you were and how happy you made me.

"You're happy mama? Then I'm happy, too."

It was a sobering moment, because it wasn't your words so much as the flash of sheer bewilderment and relief in your eyes that told me what I really needed to know. That I haven't really been there for you and you were waiting for me to come back. Waiting patiently at that.

I love you, kiddo ... all day and night.

Mama

Because we couldn't cram all the fun into just one Sunday ...

paint the town, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

oh ... and if you've got nothing to do tomorrow ...

jed's turning 37, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Pop on by.

Side by side

i've missed you film, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

How I've missed film. When I lugged two children and about 10 rolls of film into the lobby of my preferred pro lab it all came flooding back.

The magic that is photography.

A feeling.

A wordless wisdom that almost blindly catches a moment and holds it in ways you may not have intended or perhaps even noticed.

It's something digital doesn't do in the same way.

Digital has made me understand what instant gratification really means. Film makes you wait. It forces you to be judicious. It makes you pay otherwise. It also makes you remember things you might never have seen.

The thing is, I only shot a few rolls of film during the last week. The rest I found by going through boxes and drawers and glove compartments in several cars. What I found were six or so overheated, overdue, overlooked rolls to bring along for the ride.

I didn't have much hope for finding long lost gems. The rolls from last year or from 10 years ago didn't get developed for a reason. Mostly the images were sure to be afterthoughts. I didn't finish the roll and it stayed in the camera. It was last ditch efforts, usually not worthy of a second look. They were just because.

When the contact sheets came back there were amazing litle memories I'd completely forgotten. There were photographs from magazine jobs and weddings, there were pictures from my old apartment.

But somehow, years later, these trigger-happy castoffs seemed valuable even in their imperfection; perhaps because of their faults.


One roll from seven years ago contained a photograph of Jed holding a metal snow saucer, standing in front of Ledig House with Maggie by his side. We'd gone sledding with the dogs down the big hill despite only a smattering of snow that year. It was an old-time looking frame with a weird light-leak and funky coloring.

He wants me to make a larger print of it to hang in the house. He said he felt as if he were looking at his own father standing in front of the Captain's Walk . Timeless even while time passes.

It's made me want to keep my old Nikon as more than a paperweight. Keep it loaded and ready for a shot or two as an afterthought. Perhaps once every few years send off the rolls to see what, if any, treasures await.

Word.

?, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

... and I'm picking up $130 worth of processed film today.

... and I'm still considering the purchase of a new camera.

I have a problem. Perhaps a 12-step program is in order. It's either that or I'll need a second job.

Muddy waters

strong man, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

The summer is just flying by in a heat-soaked humid kind of way. We swelter at home or hole up in the only room with air conditioning, watching movies.

It's the kind of summer that makes me drool as I drive through the local communities counting backyard swimming pools. It's so bad it's even threatened to end my boycot of Walmart just so I can procure this blue monster for our backyard.

Thank goodness I can't commit to such an impulse buy.

Yesterday, while the kids and I were out running errands (bringing about 10 rolls of film to be processed) and getting lunch at Ralph's Pretty Good Cafe (which should really strive to become Ralph's FRIGGIN' AWESOME Cafe if they insist on continuting to hawk $7 grilled cheese sandwiches and $6.50 milkshakes) Annabel saw Crellin Pond and started the "I-want-to-swim-in-that-big-pool-with-all-those-kids" chant.

"Not THAT pond," I think to myself as I recall the countless times I'd driven past that body of water to see it covered completely in migrating Canada geese. How may times had I stepped in goose grease while taking the dogs for walks? No, I couldn't let her swim there.

So I diverted her attention until it was bedtime. "MAAAAYBE we can go swimming later after your nap (you know, the nap you no longer take?). Look, honey, you don't even have a bathing suit with you. ... Oh look, kiddo, a plane."

But I couldn't get around it forever. It's much to hot not to swim.

And today was perfect. It rained in the morning, Jed's job got postponed and it wasn't too terribly sunny. So we piled in the car and went to Grafton Lakes State Park, a swimming place of my childhood.

Sure, it's a trek but it's worth it. We can spend the day there. We could have a picnic. We could swim for as long as we like and not even have to think about how many septic tanks empty out into the water ... because the land is largely undeveloped.

Yeah. ... that's the kind of delightful stuff I think about now as a parent. Shite AND Shineola.

Smiling in your sleep

sweet sleep, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Silas,

I had been holding off writing this first letter to you, dear boy, as I waited for you to put your stamp on me. With all the events preceeding and following your arrival -- some that don't even really pertain to you -- I wanted to get a better feel for who you are.

I waited for your first pediatric visit to see how big you were; to see how you measured up with another first visit I'd encountered. I waited to see how your eyebrows and lashes grew in. Would they be thick? Thin?

I waited long past your first smile ... four weeks was it? Perhaps gas? No matter, by six weeks you were smiling more broadly and often. And as always, even in utero, you still smile in your sleep.

It's probably going to annoy you, being second. Being the little brother. There will always be someone else leading the way.

It's tempting to compare, to look for differences: You don't cry too often (no matter what your sister says); You enjoy being worn in the sling; You do not like being put down; You accept "tummy time" with much more enthusiasm than you know who.

It is my theory that you will be a cuddly child. I could be wrong about that, of course, but what I'm probably not wrong about is that you will be a heartbreaker. Potentially mine.

It's been oppressively hot this summer. I can't bring myself to swaddle you in blankets, and yet I bundle you up in the pouch sling and wear you close to my heart. You are warm, your body a furnace just like mine, or so your father says anyway.

"It's like a fourth trimester," I tell folks when they comment on how content you seem all folded up like you are still inside. "Only without the heartburn and swollen ankles," I laugh.

Tonight, however, before the sun set completely and I turned the fans back from their outward stream, I saw the real you as we rocked in the chair. The you that has nothing to do with your birth order, or your sister or the million things that keep me from looking into your eyes every second of every hour of every day.

It's true what someone told me once. Despite all the struggle of having more work and less time; more hugs to give but less space in your arms, there is always room. Room that you didn't even know you had. Room that clears itself.

You came into that room without making a sound; you just slipped right in as if you were there all along.

I can't wait to get to know you, boyo. I have a feeling you are something special, too.

Love,

Mommy

Everyone needs a big brother, right?

broken, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

It's been like a year right? Or has it really only been a few days?

I've taken at least three rolls of film (unearthed from the haunted house that is my office) since my digital camera shit the proverbial bed. I flew through 108 exposures faster than poop through a goose. Three. Rolls. I'd say I'd spent all of 13 minutes composing and shooting those three rolls. In U.S. currency that's about $15 in materials and $30 in processing costs. $3.46 per minute.


Of course I haven't sent the rolls for processing.

Yet.

What I have done is sent my D70 on an all-expense-paid USPS tour of Manhattan, where it will enjoy three weeks (at least) of rest and relaxation at a premiere spa for unemployed photographic equipment.

I thought I could be faithful and await its return, however I find myself surfing the Web late at night looking for a replacement ... one with more power, especially in low light. It pains me that these cameras seem so disposable. A few years in service and a broken pin or a damaged sensor can wind up costing as much to repair as the camera costs to replace. I was hoping to stick it out, go back to film (which I love) and wait until the fix-it people tell me the good news: That just some spit and polish -- and $19.95 (payable in song) -- will send my baby home in tip-top shape.

But it all seems so unlikely. Silas keeps smiling and doing cute things, and Annabel has started to allow more access to her pretty face and funny antics. I'm starting to rationalize my consumerist ways. After all, at the rate I'm going, I'll have paid for a new camera by the time I get the old one back and it becomes second fiddle.

Note to self: Next time forget futzing with the memory card and hook the camera up to the computer directly. Leave the card alone. It's more trouble than it's worth.

From the archives ...

just like mommy, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

What do you get when you hand an expensive digital camera to a preschooler?

Do you know?

In my case, you get this ... or this ... or perhaps even this.

But what do you get when you put a memory card back into the camera in the dark? If you're someone like me you get this.

Shite. ... and, of course, the Champ picks today to start smiling ... and holding his head up ... and grabbing my hair with both hands. And Annabel even asked to have her picture taken, too.

You don't believe me, do you? I can't even prove it until I buy some film. ... I wonder if I remember how to use it?

Naked Tuesday

she is my sunshine, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

It's HOT here.

H.

O.

T.

HOT.

But as the temperature climbs in this barn we call home, it's nothing compared to the place I'm headed.

There is a special corner of Hell reserved for parents like me. A place where for all eternity your three-year-old know-it-all answers the door stark naked and shakes the hand of the Queen of England, managing in the process to besmear her in sticky jam.

It's a place where every day is Sunday dinner with your great grandmother, and your vociferous little preschooler perfectly articulates every four-letter world known to man while shooting peas from her nose.

It's reserved for parents who for some stupid reason let their toddlers watch "Little Miss Sunshine."

It is reserved for parents who hold their breath as the next morning said child, over breakfast cereal, announces that the grandfather doesn't like the "boring" chicken. (whew).

And it's reserved for parents who consider buying Rick James' Street Songs (delux edition) with three versions of "Superfreak" because she loves dancing (and growling) "like Little Miss Sunshine."

"Mommy. Can I put my dress back on so I can take it off like Little Miss Sunshine?"

"Are you sure you want to do that honey? It's REALLY hot in here."

Bag lady

Everywhere I go these days I see those plastic shopping bags. You know the ones with the handles. The ones we have stuffed into every crevice and crack under our kitchen sinks. They're the same ones that crafty types stuff into dolls or other cutesy creatures so as to be neatly and easily dispensed.

But I'm not talking about seeing the bags hanging neatly from a rack at the foot of the checkout counter. I'm talking about the plastic tumble weeds dancing down the street, rolling into the hills, stuck in trees or sailing on the wind.
once they're done hauling our boxes of Rice-a-Roni and Cheez-its home from the grocery store, they seem to have a life of their own.

Every time I go shopping I bring home at least six. Six thin plastic bags that I swear I'll recycle but which end up either tossing directly into the trash or using to line smaller garbage cans instead. Their numbers just keep growing.

I've had enough. This past month when I went to a grocery store I bought a reusable tote to lug my purchases home. I now have canvas (and canvas-esque) bags from Hannaford, Shop and Save and Trader Joe's (my personal favorite).

Since making this decision to eliminate the environmentally challeged bags from my life I have learned two very important things:

1. These reusable bags hold an amazing amount of food items ... way more than anyone ever packs in those silly little disposable bags.

2. I will NEVER remember to bring them along when I go shopping. I wonder if anyone makes a doll dispenser for reusuable shopping totes?

Drama queens ... and their stagehand

Ittybit: LADIES and GENTLEBOTS. Welcome to our latest, newest show.

E: It's called "All About Me."

Ittybit: (stage whispering) But it's about us, too, right?

No introductions necessary

silas sleeps smiling, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

We took Annabel with us to Silas' one-month well baby visit. She was quite the charmer, wanting to show off her baby brother the moment a family of 'big kids' piled in the waiting room.

As they clustered around the fish tank (with it's ever changing inhabitants) this time two goldfish and three frogs ... different from last time when there were no fish but four salamanders. ... but I digress ...

"MAAAAM," she whispered. "Will you please show them Baby Silas? ... GO ON," she begged. Just go over and show them.

She took me by the hand and led me over to the aquarium where the kids were. She squeezed her way through and touched the glass. "See. Look here, mom. ... There's a whole bunch of little fish. They're right there," she said not bothering to look into the tank. The conversation was a smokescreen. All she really wanted was for the kids to get a gander at her brother.

When the nurse called his name, and we all piled into the examining room to see how the little bunchkin's been bulking up, she was all ready with a host of questions she hurled at us in rapid fire:

"Who is is doctor?" "Is this MY appointment or Baby Silas'?" "Can I kiss him?" "What is that do?" "When can I sit in that?" "Why is he on the table?" "Hey why is Mickey Mouse on the wall?"

In between each question, of course, were the quick observations of a preschooler:

"Silas' is scared." "I think he want's his big sister." "Is he going to get poked with a sharp thing?" "I remember this place. Do I get a sticker?"

But the real news, of course, is the weights and measures:


Silas, July 27, 2007

Head: 37 cms
Length: 20 1/2 inches
Weight: 9 pounds 1/2 ounce

Home, James, and don't spare the horse manure

going out with a bang, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Wednesday morning we walked on Gooch's beach for the last time this season. The sun was hot but the wind cooling; a perfect Maine day. By noon we'd packed up the car and were rolling out of town.

I'd like to say it was relaxing, however on the last night we returned from dinner at one of my favorite restaurants to find my incontinent, anxiety-riden pooch had tried to get out of my mother-in-law's house by clawing her way through the front door.

Annabel alerted us to the mayhem.

"WHAT HAPPENED HERE?" she hollered.

Maddy happened.

Shards of wood from where she'd gouged at the door and molding were littered about the fieldstone floor. Later we discovered her desire to be safely habiting the car instead of the house (should her humans leave without her) extended to the sliding screen door upstairs.

Now let me tell you about my mother-in-law.

She's not the most laid back person on the planet. In fact I'd say she's somewhat anxiety-prone herself. But when it comes to matters like these she's downright compassionate and understanding for both stressed-out furry friends and their owners. She'd simply add to the list of things she'd give the handyman when he came by for a look-see.

Of course I would insist on paying for the damage, but it doesn't really ease the guilt of causing mayhem wherever I go. It's always been so; I've always felt a little like the dirt cloud following Pigpen. I often find myself wishing I could be invisible. Like if I had Super Powers, invisibility would be my prime talent.

Ittybit, thankfully, doesn't share my hang-ups, yet. She boldly goes where no preschooler's gone before, and she elbows her way right into the fray. She doesn't worry what she looks like doing it, either.

On the beach the day before, we were copping squats under the shade of the umbrella and talking about big things, such as songs from the Sound of Music and the meaning of the word "menace," when lo and behold a horde of holiday travelers from Quebec went and plopped their things down in front of us. They fanned out it a horseshoe shape and dug in. Great piles of bags filled with all manner of sun screens, beach toys and snacks. Rafts of magazines, books and summer beverages. Ittybit was rapt: "Are they moving in?"

She continued to sit with me for a while, watching the new beach settlers closely. Of course when they began to speak to one another she brightened. "Mom!" she said with a combination of shock and pride, "They're speaking SPANISH!"

Uhm ... no, honey they're speaking French."

"No. I know Spanish," she said, recalling the child's book of Spanish words that she'll only allow me to read in English. "They're speaking Spanish alright."

And in a flash she was standing over the little girl in their group, smiling. She didn't say anything, just smiled and tilted her head a little. The girl's grandmother handed the child a rice cake and Ittybit licked her lips. As quick as she had bounced over there Ittybit bounced right back, reporting eagerly that they had a baby and snacks and toys, too. And again, she was gone.

"I have a baby brother, too," I heard her say to the Canadians. "He's over there with my mother. He's little and can't play in the sand like me. Do you have any toys? I have some Easter eggs we bought at the store today. They are fun to put sand and shells in. You wanna have an Easter egg hunt?"

And with that, the two little girls were playing together. Easter eggs and shovels and pails digging side by side.

"See mom? Isn't it good to know Spanish?"

And it turns out the language of friendship isn't the only language she's practicing. She's also developing an ear for the language of carpentry."

When the workman arrived early in the morning to survey the damage, Ittybit wasted no time showing him around the devastation. "See here?" she pointed. "My dog did that ... She's a menace."

Stutter steps

sometimes she thinks he doesn't like her, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Thanks to the kindness of familiy, here in Maine I've been "sleeping in."

With instructions to wake her Ama Linda instead of her Mama, Annabel has tiptoed past my door each morning at first light and tramped upstairs to her grandmother's room.

The extra shuteye, however, hasn't made me any more tolerant as the parent of a preschooler.

I'm still vigilantly watching and waiting to pounce on Ittybit for the slightest bit of rough handling of her brother. I lose my cool at every toddler turn.

Her testing ways have set me on edge.

Gone are the nice words.

The pleases and thank-yous that once came so naturally to her have been replaced by demands in nasty tones.

And similarly, my nice words have gone, too.

Everything out of my mouth lately has been preceeded by one or any combination of the following phrases:

DON'T DO THAT!

I'M NOT HAPPY!

YOU MUST BE GENTLE!

NO! NO! NO!

STOP THAT NOW!

DON'T MAKE ME COUNT!

I try to remember just how much has changed in the past few weeks. I try to remind myself how many adjustments she, especially, has made in the last month alone.

When I asked her what people told her about her baby brother, thinking that she'd say they are always saying congratulations," I was sad to hear her more recent response. "They say 'be careful!'"

While he squirms and fidgets and cries under the weight of her kisses, I think about other times I've witnessed him stop squirming and fidgeting and crying in her mighty embrace.

On the occasions he screams in her lap, I hear the pain in her voice when she tells me he doesn't like her.

I tell her that he loves her, trying to reassure her. A white lie, perhaps, but one that has a fundamental truth: Love doesn't always feel good. It doesn't always say sweet things in your ear. Sometimes it's loud and shrill and ill-tempered. But even if its voice is hoarse, love is always there trying to set itself upright. Wanting to lift itself higher.

Love stumbles sometimes, too.

Round trip

morning chores, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Blink. Blink. Blink. ...

Did you miss that? In a stunning turn of events we have gone home, taken care of some chores and three of the four in our party (plus the dog) have returned to Maine.

You might have guessed that the one with the camera, the abdominal scars and the short fuse trucked the four-hour trip in just over six hours. ... Bah. The other one is working.

So here I am hopped up on coffee, frequent stops and a solid three hours of crying, whining and asking if we're there yet, wondering if it was worth the headache just for a few more days by the seaside.

I suppose so, although I will be hardpressed to return home until the Champ is speaking and Ittybit is learning higher math than counting how many blue trucks speed past us.

To recap: Tuesday we returned home because the boy had a doctor's appointment with the pediatric urologist. It was supposed to have been a consultation with the physician's assistant to answer our questions and get us up to speed on his hydronephrosis, however we ended up doing a full day of testing at the hospital in order to avoid preventative antibiotics for six weeks while we waited for a regular appointment. The champ had a renal ultrasound and was catheterized to check for reflux. He still has an enlarged left kidney, however the radiologist reported no reflux. So that means no long-term antibiotics and watchful waiting. They are hopeful (and I would say confident) that he will outgrow this on his own).

May I just note that he was so good about the catheterization (much better than I was as I had to hide tears from the radiologist). It was painful to witness. He was strapped to a board with his arms over his head, a strap across his belly and feet. They even had to redo the catheter because the first one they inserted was defective and leaked. Although he was miserable, Silas somehow managed to fall asleep after I put my finger in his mouth (he won't take a binky). But the torture continued when the poor guy had to be woken up to finish the test. They wanted him to pee and he was taking a snooze. The docs poured cold water on his penis and feet to get him to void everything they pumped into him, watching the x-ray monitor as the bladder gradually got smaller with each little fountain.

All I can say is I'm so glad it's over and he won't have to have that test again.

So today, after a playdate for Ittybit with Lori, we got int he car, fired up the DVD player and headed back to Maine. By myself, with the kids and the dog. ... the incontinent dog who's currently shedding.

Ummmm ... What was I thinking you ask? I haven't a clue, because after two stops, multiple crying jags and inch-worm traffic for miles (and hours) all I wanted to do was blink myself home in an I-Dream-Of-Genie instant.

Choices, choices

While visiting some friends last night, Annabel was asked if she wanted to pick out a movie to watch.

This was her response:

"Well, there are two: one is the movie I would like to see and the other is the movie I will choose."

In the end she picked "Cars."

My guess is she thought the boys would like it.

The state of rest ... Maine or sleep?

I think the clocks must run slower in Maine. Or perhaps the air is infused with some odorless, tasteless substance that acts as a sedative. All we seem to do once we arrive -- after we've combed the beach for treasures that is -- is sleep.

Jed, especially, finds it difficult to continue to drive the final half hour once we cross over the New Hampshire border. Once we reach our destination he naps every hour on the hour and my eyelids are always at half mast.



And although Annabel isn't napping these days, the Maine drug is having its effect on her, too, with early bedtimes and later morning awakenings.

Silas seems to have inherited the family illness, except that as an infant his job -- outside of eating and pooping -- is to sleep.



So far, he's slept through a marathon trip to the grocery store, a visit with some old friends and even his first walk on the beach. He even finds a way to sleep through his sister's attentions, which are often loud and full of kisses.

We're going to Maine ...

Ama's front yard, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Please leave a message after the tone. We'll get back to you in few days. ... Short trip this time.

Pleased to meet you

holding his hand, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Today I was separated from the infant for the first time in nine months and three weeks.

The grandparents sat with him while Annabel and I went to the grocery store. It was a quick trip. All I really needed was hydrogen peroxide (for my still-open wound) and some ice cream for a good little girl.

Since the checkout lines were few and long I steared us toward the self-serve checkout with our two items. While I was trying pitifully to scan the barcode of the brown bottle an elderly man in a motorized shopping cart wheeled up behind me.

"May I talk to your daughter," he asked quietly. "I have girls, too," he said, "but they're 14 and 16 now."

He was obviously a grandfather. His name was Tom. It was also obvious that he finds the little ones to be oodles of fun.

Annabel and he spoke for a long time. He asked her age, and what she liked to do.

She told him "people always say 'congratulations' when you have a new baby at home like I do."

He couldn't believe his ears. "Did she just say that? Wow! She's quite a fine speaker."

Of course then she asked him if we were "making his acquaintence?"

I thought he was going to swallow his teeth.

"Well, sweetie, I have to go now but I do hope to see you next time."

"Me, too. Bye."

Out and about

There's only so many chocolate mice you can eat before you go insane. Or is it that there's only so many times you can look at the same four walls before you start arguing with yourself? Once the chocolate mice are gone, so is the magic.

Today was officially my three-week postpartum milestone. I am allowed to drive a car.

I assume that means I can also climb stairs and lug around more than 8 to 10 pounds of sweet, pudgy baby flesh.

Of course this momentous occasion would have to take place on a scum-coated, heat slathered day.

But to be out in the world, on my own, for the first time with two kids. I couldn't put it off.

We started out slow. I popped Silas into the sling and we all set out for the park on foot. I was so obsessed with getting out of the house with my KIDS that I forgot to bring the camera. (I'm not even going to stop to wonder how I'm going to take a camera - let alone photographs - with every available hand is now completely engaged.)

It was so hot, though, even Annabel wanted to get into the car and fire up the air conditioning. So we walked back and got the keys. (It only took me seven minutes to figure out how to put the infant car seat into its base. Luckily I had the presence of mind to turn the car on and crank up the AC before trying to tether the kids into their chairs.

Then on the road again. It's weird to get back behind the wheel after a three-week hiatus. I felt smaller in the driver's seat. The clutch felt firmer than I remembered. The car felt enormous.

It seemed silly to drive a mile to the grocery store, only having to reenter the heat once the car had finally cooled down. So I tried to get Annabel to agree to go to a store that was further away from home. All I wanted to do was sit in a cool place and drive. Silas was asleep, perhaps Annabel would take a bit of a nap, too.

But no. She had her heart set on carrots, popsicles and band-aids I said we'd procure at "the big store."

So a mile away we'd go. After I got them out of the car with only minimal peril (a car pulled in right next to us as I was outside the "suicide doors" trying to get Silas back in his sling and trying to keep Annabel from getting out of the car until I was ready. Suffice it to say suicide doors are aptly named.

Inside the store, Annabel was a perfect shopper. She only asked to buy a tiny vegetable platter with dip for some astronomical amount and was perfectly accepting of my firm "NO." We got what we'd gone for and nothing else. Silas, of course, slept through it all.

Silas is Golden

loren bears gift for a newborn, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I can't take credit for that headline, damnit.

My friend Barbara tells me her husband, Robert, had been waiting for WEEKS to let that one rip. He finally got a chance on Saturday, when they threw us a little barbecue soiree, complete with grilled mahi-mahi tacos and homemade citrus-lime salsa, in honor of the new addition to our family.

It's really a shame Jed hates fish. They threw a chicken on the barbie for him, and really, in my humble gastronmic opinion, he was missing out. Luckily for me, though, they sent me home with leftovers. I have lunches taken care of for at least three days.

And then Sunday, Jed's friends and former soccer players threw another party in Silas' honor. This one was complete with kabobs and champagne and some stunning gifts. The most exotic of which came from Loren and his lovely and talented wife, Lisa.

I'm pretty sure Silas is the only infant in North America to receive a pet chipmunk at the ripe old age of 18 days old. ... Ok. ... it's not really a pet and it was freed to live it's little life in peace shortly after Annabel named him "Jumpy" and tried to shove crabapples into the mesh. But it was fun while it lasted even if Silas slept through it all.

Have I mentioned we have some amazing friends in real life, too?

Me, Myself and I

It's all about mememememe.

Whilrwind has tagged me for a meme. And so, having been sitting in the house, melting from the heat and unable to drive myself anywhere or do anything more strenuous than going to get the mail (pretending I'm NOT doing the laundry) and baking cookies with Annabel, I welcome it with open arms. ...

And now, without further ado, here it is: Eight Things You Might Not Have Known About Me (even though I ramble on and on about pretty much everything).

1. Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Clippers -- I haven't gotten my hair cut since Annabel was 5 months old and I donated it to Locks of Love. I'm planning on doing it again in a few weeks before my hair starts shedding it's pregnancy weight. Have I mentioned how much I hate short hair? Not because of the way I look (because, let's face it, short hair really is more flattering for a person my age) but because if you keep it short you have to maintain it. You have to get haircuts every six to eight weeks. That's not in me; not in the least.

2. Barefoot and ... I loved being pregnant. Both times. Sure I complained non-stop about heartburn and other unmentionable ailments but I always feel healthy and emotionally content in pregnancy. There's always a little bit of a let down once the baby is born and no longer jabbing me with their knees and elbows. I feel alone.

3. Hypochondria or Hypothyroidism? -- I have hypothyroidism. I take 112 mgs of Levoxyl every day to replace the hormone my gland doesn't make anymore. My sister and I go to the same endocrinologist. My doctor told her that my thyroid gland is virtually gone. She hasn't mentioned it to me yet, though.

4. Reading is Fundamental -- I have read three books since Annabel was born. This pains me. I used to read a book every two days.

5. Sit and Spin -- I miss going to the laundrymat. It's one of those things that once you have a washing machine in the house you never do again. You just can't muster up the gumption to drag a hundred pounds of dirty clothes, towels and linens to the local "Suds and Duds" no matter how much you like the smell of dryer sheets or the din of humanity. You can't trump convenience for even one afternoon of nostalgia.

6. Career Counseling -- I never got a job with Rolling Stone or The New York Times (or the Weekly World News) and I've been rejected from The New Yorker more times than I've probably even subjected my drivel to its editors, yet what makes me feel like a failure is the fact that I can't seem to clean my house or weed the garden.

7. Surprise party? I'll kill ya! -- I hate surprises. Mostly because there's always something that backfires. Something I can't control that somehow gets blamed on me when it goes wrong. For example. My bridal shower was a "surprise party," in which names were spelled wrong on the invitations, people didn't get invited ... You know where this is going right? Yeah, people complained to me.

8. Snap Out Of It -- My favorite movie is "Moonstruck." Oh sure, there was a time when I'd have told you my favorite film was "Citzen Kane" or "Harold and Maude," and I wouldn't have been lying. Now, however, I must confess that in the last month I've seen Cher kick a can as she's returning from the Met/Night with Ronnie Camarari 30 times. My favorite line has to be when Rose chastises her father-in-law; "Old man, you give those dogs another piece of my food and I'm gonna kick you 'til you're dead."

As is my custom, I'm not going to tag anyone. But feel free to let me know if you take the baton and run with it.

Practice doesn't always make perfect

I promised I'd get here sooner or later - my little blog of unabashed complaint.

I am fed up with the medical profession. Not only fed up, but disillusioned and feeling as if it is impossible to be an effective advocate for myself, and more frighteningly, for my children.

Gee, I like the sound of that: CHILDREN. Plural.

I digress.

What I was getting at was Silas' birthstory including all the highs, the lows and the final unsettling understanding.

Whilst in the hospital this last time, I had the misfortune of witnessing first-hand the problems associated with miscommunication starting from the moment we showed up for preadmission testing.

Not only was I sent to the wrong place, but no one seemed to realize I was even pregnant. Laughable, maybe ... but a sign of things to come?

When we checked in at the hospital for the appointed B-day, the doctor was running an hour late. Not a big deal, as doctors have emergencies, their appointments routinely get backed up. Of course it doesn't seem right that my surgery was scheduled for 5 p.m. on the hottest day of the summer and I'm not allowed to take anything by mouth (not even ice chips) for 10 hours prior. I said it jokingly to the admitting nurse: scheduling this after regular office hours is just "mean." She probably knew I wasn't really joking.

Of course when the doctor arrives, all possible transgressions are forgiven. She is smiling and reassuring. She tells me what I can expect. The baby is going to be a tad early, so there's the possibility -- in addition to the Down scare and the hydronephrosis -- that he may have to spend some time in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. If that happens, she counsels, it's for the best, really. He'll get the best care there.

She knows my biggest concern is about the Down potential, and tells me that she's called in a NICU specialist to examine the baby right after delivery, but that it's possible that we won't be able to tell conclusively until chromosomal tests are examined. It doesn't matter, I am relaxed now. I am resigned to accepting anything.

I walk to the operating room.

Things are different this time than they were with Annabel. The anesthesiologist will perform a spinal (not an epidural). I shiver from the cold even though a nurse has layered me in warmed blankets. After the spinal is in place, I'm helped down on the table, arms out but no warming pillows this time. A blind is drawn up so we can't see the surgeons. The anesthesiologist gives me drugs for nausea and puts an oxygen mask on my face. He pinches me on the upper torso and asks me if I feel it. I tell him I do. He pinches me just below my shoulder and asks if the two pinches feel identical. They do not.

We proceed.

There is talking, but I can't hear. This time I'm not interested. I've decided to trust they will tell me anything I need to know.

Jed is holding my right hand, the anesthesiologist is working around my left.

I feel pressure and wonder if they've started cutting. I imagine the process. It takes longer than I remembered and yet it is over in minutes. I feel chest pressure and look away from Jed and toward the doctor. He asks me if I'm alright.

I say yes. The pressure seems to knock a recollection free. More pressure. More rocking.

I remember how hard it seems to wriggle the babies free from their comfortable lodgings.

And then the doctor asks Jed if he wants to stand up. He does, and the first thing he reports is all the hair. The kid has a good head of hair.

Then the best sound ever ... crying. Screaming really. Angry put-me-back wails from a little, purple boy.

I crane my neck around to see the nurses working on him.

The high-risk pediatrician breezed past me and asked my age. When I told him, he said the concern is Down syndrome? Jed answered in the affirmative.

"Well he's peeing alright," Jed laughs as our son urinated on the doctor and his pricey stethoscope the moment he stepped up to the bassinette. And a few moments later the doctor, Q-tip in hand and trying to dry out his listening device, tells me he's absolutely positive the kid does not have Down syndrome.

The good news. He's healthy.

The bad news .... hmmmmm. You seem to be bleeding a lot more than 'normal.'

And with that my recovery began. For the next two hours a very attractive PACU nurse named Jennifer checked my vital signs, blood oxygen levels and pressed on my abdomen looking for signs of ... well I don't know really. Excessive bleeding? Temperature that wouldn't elevate? Vomiting?

She told me that while the surgeon and later ordered the placenta to be sent for testing "just because she could," the team had already discarded it when she said earlier it looked fine.

I suppose I should have thought about the Mercury in Retograde thing again, but I didn't. I let it go. I'd convinced myself not to worry.

I had it all. Jennifer, worried, even called the assisting doctor back to check the incision, which she thought was bleeding too much. He applied a compression bandage and called it a night. She sat with me, raised my head and lowered it, helped me latch the baby on to nurse for the first time and told me that she herself had had a miscarriage this year. Jed and I liked her immensely.

I was worried about a transfusion, which she said was a rare occurance before I even mentioned the possibility.

By the time I got to my assigned room in maternity, I was feeling tired but better.

Silas surprised me by being a three-hour sort of boy. Every three hours the nursery staff wheeled his little cart to my room and told me I had a "hongry" boy. Inside the plexigas bassinette was a wide-eyed baby silently opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

The next morning the IV and the cather came out, but I was surprisingly tired. I hoped it was the drugs, and as the day wore on I started to feel better. I had thought that a planned section -- without labor -- would have been a cake walk.

The first face I saw was the mid-wife who told me of the hydronephrosis. I felt guilty for writing about her, namelessly of course, in the newspaper. She was still smiling, though. She checked my incision, saw the compression bandage and asked me when the surgery took place. She asked if it was 7 a.m. or p.m.

P.M. I told her.

She decided she was going to leave the bandage in place for a while longer.

Then, I swear, not 10 minutes later a resident came in a took it off. No questions. Didn't care to inquire about surgical times or the reason it was placed on there to begin with. He then examined the staples and observed some of them "weren't really holding anything together."

So he removed two and replaced them with steri strips.

I asked if he was going to replace the bandage. He hemmed and hawed.

Finally he agreed to put a bandage on the wound.

After he left the midwife came flying back into the room, having heard him in the hallway telling a nurse to get another dressing for me. She was as perplexed as I was, and It was evident that mister doctor man didn't much care for anything a midwife had to offer.

All I could think was How are you supposed to advocate for yourself when you have neither a medical education nor any understanding of procedure. Since "everyone has their own way of doing things: " ... some doctors use michele clips, some use staples. ... Some take the staples out on the day you are released some leave them in until you go for an incision check at your doctors' office a week or two later," a nurse mid-wife later told me.

Nurse after nurse, mid-wife after mid-wife -- but sadly NONE OF MY DOCTORS -- told me one after another that the incision was "not the best they'd ever seen."

And still no answers for me. How do I take care of this? I can't even stand to look at it. Will it get infected? Do I need antibiotics? When will it heal?

I ended up going to see my doctor two days after my release from the hospital to find out before I went mad with fear.

She prescribed antibiotics as a precaution, showed me how to clean and dress it and assured me it would heal nicely and faster than I would imagine.

I left feeling a little better, but ultimately still wondering how is it possible to get to this place before I get to the dark place?
How do you get straight answers from the myriad of people you meet in a hospital.

They're all asking you the same questions, while they tell you different things.

One of the best experiences I've had with a medical professional was the time one asked me to tell him what I understood. When I told him, he could tell me where I misunderstood, too.

I know that I should be happy. That all birthstories include moments of terror and pain and confusion. Because no one is perfect and doctors are not deities. I left the hospital with a wonderful, healthy infant and for that I am eternally grateful.

But I also think my experience, and ultimately every patient's experience, could be better. And I think it should be better.

What bothers me, too, is that I may have to make decisions that go against the recommendations of doctors. That's not a popular tack to take when dealing with people who think they know best. Who think going against their know-how is reckless or akin to child endangerment.

Already I've made my first decision for Silas based on my cumulative hospital experiences. No circumscision.

Jed wasn't so convinced that we should risk the potential for "something to go wrong later on," and was leaning toward the proceedure. I had waffled and told him it was to be his decision to make. But then I took it back.

After being there for three days, and wanting to get answers or even a doctor to look at me, and feeling completely at the mercy of people whom I suspect would rather be golfing, I was convinced of one thing: No more unnecessary surgeries. Not now, not ever.

Just monkeying around

MAMA: Do you know what kind of monkey this is?

ANNABEL: No? What?

MAMA: It's a marmoset.

ANNABEL: Well, do YOU know what the big, fat monkeys are called?

MAMA: What?

ANNABEL: Orang-orang tangs.