New Moms, Indeed

Been away a while! I just wanted to say this:

http://www.theonion.com/articles/smug-new-mom-going-to-start-a-blog,27415/?utm_source=Twitter&utm_medium=SocialMarketing&utm_campaign=standard-post:headline:default

This is chuckle worthy. A "smug new mom" starting a blog to keep the whole wondering world updated on her parenting and her baby's development? Sounds about right.

Musing On Motherhood

          I mention casually my "next baby/babies" and suddenly am struck with the surrealism of the idea. I currently have a child, less than eight months old. He is still very much a baby, still physically and mentally attached to me, still literally drawing his life from me. This baby and I are one person. The idea of my body growing, nurturing, delivering, feeding, holding, and mothering another, separate child, seems almost unreal at this stage of motherhood. That I could ever feel for other children the way I feel about this one, tiny person. That there could possibly be enough of me, ever again, for even one more.
          The idea is just such a fantastic one.

Glossolalia

          I came across this blog post some way that I don't remember,

http://whatshouldcatholicismcallme.tumblr.com/post/29285463966/when-im-at-adoration-at-a-steubenville-youth

          which describes, with the use of amusing gifs, what a young Catholic person experiences during a youth conference that includes Mass and Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament.
          Based on my own experience at the exact same type of youth conference described, I can say it's spot on. Mass and Adoration were held in the gym--a huge room filled with emotionally charged teenagers and resounding with praise and worship music, and the combination resulted in behavior I considered melodramatic, at best. People were crying, embracing one another, falling to their knees. As Adoration progressed and Christ in the Monstrance was processed through the aisles, these more innocent displays of excitement turned into hysterical laughing, hysterical crying, people fainting and collapsing, people speaking in tongues (which greatly surprised me), and other emotional upheavals.
          I looked around me in amazement at the huge number (it was more than half of the congregation) of fifteen- to seventeen-year-olds who apparently had been so struck by the Spirit that they behaved as if possessed. I thought, "Is the Holy Spirit truly flowing through every one of these kids, and if so, is something wrong with me that I feel nothing?"
          I continued to think about this for a while. It didn't bother me that I was seemingly unmoved in a room full of young people slain in the Spirit--on the contrary, I decided I preferred being among the few sane and stable people there. No, what occupied me was the statistical unlikelihood of such a thing happening to a room full of young people. I couldn't shake the theory that most of them had simply faked it, and to this day I still believe that to an extent. Am I cruel to think that? I had a nagging impression that these people were so driven by their own emotional instabilities and desire to feel something for their own satisfaction, combined with the swelling music and the influence of their peers, that they--for lack of a better word--aped these dramatic spiritual reactions. Or at least exaggerated them.
          Another theory I heard later is that these teens may have been so willing to remove barriers in order for the Holy Spirit to enter that they had opened themselves too much, had become too vulnerable, and thus were possessed quite easily by the lurking evil spirits. They were easy prey because of their emotional immaturity and willingness to relinquish control of their faculties in order to achieve a spiritual experience. However, this seems a bit excessive. While it's hard to believe that, for the first time since the Apostles, that many people in one room were truly given the gift of speaking in tongues, it's also unlikely that all of them were possessed by demons together at the same time.
          I finally (years later, after pretty much having forgotten about it) came across something that helped me make more sense of it. I was on an online forum with a pronounced atheist who mentioned practicing glossolalia, or speaking in tongues, outside of religious or spiritual gatherings. I read into this a little bit and found some words about it in the online Catholic Encyclopedia.

Corinthian Abuses (I Corinthians 14 passim).—Medieval and modern writers wrongly take it for granted that the charism existed permanently atCorinth — as it did nowhere else—and that St. Paul, in commending the gift to the Corinthians, therewith gave his guaranty that the characteristics of Corinthian glossolaly were those of the gift itself. Traditional writers in overlooking this point place St. Luke at variance with St. Paul, and attribute to the charism properties so contrary as to make it inexplicable and prohibitively mysterious. There is enough in St. Paul to show us that the Corinthian peculiarities were ignoble accretions and abuses. They made of "tongues" a source of schism in the Church and ofscandal without (14:23). The charism had deteriorated into a mixture of meaningless inarticulate gabble (9, 10) with an element of uncertain sounds (7, 8), which sometimes might be construed as little short of blasphemous (12:3). The Divine praises were recognized now and then, but the general effect was one of confusion and disedification for the very unbelievers for whom the normal gift was intended (14:22, 23, 26). TheCorinthians, misled not by insincerity but by simplicity and ignorance (20), were actuated by an undisciplined religious spirit (pneuma), or rather by frenzied emotions and not by the understanding (nous) of the Spirit of God (15). What today purports to be the "gift of tongues" at certainProtestant revivals is a fair reproduction of Corinthian glossolaly, and shows the need there was in the primitive Church of the Apostle's counsel to do all things "decently, and according to order" (40).

          This corresponds with my assumption that this behavior was not the norm. Perhaps the reactions these young people experienced weren't completely artificial, but they were almost definitely the results of their own inner emotional workings and not legitimate seizure by the Holy Ghost.
          It is important for all Christians to remember, especially the young and impressionable ones, that everything we think, feel, and do, should be for God's glory, not our own.

Oh, Children.

          Today I was going through very old text messages in my cell phone because several months ago I stopped succumbing to my obsessive compulsive nature to delete everything after about a month, and have just been letting them accumulate. They go back quite a ways, especially the messages between me and Tom, naturally. I reminisced a little, reading through them.
          Anyway, this isn't about the number of old text messages on my cell phone. This is about a story I texted to Tom back in February that I thought was funny, so I thought I'd tell you all about it, too.
          In February of this year I was working at Nine West still. One day a nice little family came in--dad, mom, and five-year-old girl. The mom began shopping while the dad entertained the daughter so she didn't wreak havoc or find the basket with the little nylons and try to put them over her head and face, which many five-year-olds did. Well, the little girl decided she wanted to shop for shoes as well, so dad humored her and followed her around while she looked for something she fancied. Before long she became a little frustrated that nothing was her size and grumbled about the terrible selection. Her dad, his attention mostly elsewhere, kept saying "Mm-hmm," but paid little attention to her complaints. She was able after several minutes to get his attention.
          "Help me find a pair of beautiful kid's shoes!" she ordered sternly.
          "I don't think they have kids' shoes here, sweetie," he said, somewhat meekly. The girl rolled her eyes in exasperation and shouted at him,
          "Look everywhere you ding-dong!"

          It surprised and amused me. That's all.

I'm Glad My Mother Is Pro-life.

          http://community.babycenter.com/post/a36271033/argument_with_mum_about_person_hood_amendments

          The above link leads to a message board thread where mothers (yes, mothers) discussed personhood amendments, mostly with disgust. Apparently it's ridiculous to even imagine that a human embryo is a real person. The responses surprised me because I've actually never encountered people who can declare that so easily, but I suppose I was just naive. 
          I love how one woman described the large number of supporters of the amendments as "scary." Yes, we are the big, scary, oppressive pro-lifers who hate you and care only about your fetus, and naturally we want your life to be a living hell. You nailed it.
          Some of my favorite comments from readers:
          "...granting personhood to a fetus is loony."
          "This legislature is full blown BSC and I honestly would SERIOUSLY consider moving out of this country if it is ever enacted."
          "...personhood amendments are ridiculous."
          "I think they are ridiculous even if it was just abortion, but given the rest of the factors I don't see how anyone could stand for personhood amendments."           
          What you can't see and hear doesn't exist, right? 
          If the baby weren't hidden away inside the woman for nine months, but with the woman's own eyes she could watch it grow and develop, and then with her own eyes watch it be executed during an abortion, she would never say such things. 
          Pray for these women, and for all people who consider a child in the womb anything less than a living, dignified human being.


          

Apollo Michael's Birth Story

I thought I'd share Apollo's birth story. And, in keeping with my tardy nature, it being now six months since it happened, this seems like the time to do it.

I was 35 weeks pregnant when Apollo decided he wanted out, quite unexpectedly. I remember partially waking up around 4:15AM on March 13 to a light discharge of fluid, but I assumed it was mucous, shrugged it off and went back to sleep. Around 6:30AM I woke up fully and got up. I was still feeling slight trickles of fluid, only now I was beginning to have mild contractions. That got my attention. I told Tom (who was home from work that day, thank goodness) and sent a message to my boss giving her the heads up that something was going on and I might need to call off work. At this point I seriously doubted it was real labor and figured I might be put on bedrest, at most. But then I went to use the bathroom where there was a sudden gush of clear fluid and a little bit of blood. I thought "Okay, maybe this is really happening..."  

I had a prenatal appointment scheduled for that morning, so we decided to just go in and see what my doctor said, as opposed to rushing to the hospital. I was glad for the excuse not to go right away, because if this was true labor I wanted to spend as much of it as possible at home. The contractions were very mild but steadily progressing, and I began timing them on the way to the appointment (they were between 4-6 minutes apart). We arrived and I explained the events of the morning. Dr. B. took a swab of the fluid I described and sent it to the lab and as we'd suspected, it was amniotic fluid. He also checked my cervix and I was mostly effaced, but only dilated 1 cm. I wanted to stall and labor somewhere other than the hospital, but since my water had broken he sent us right away. I was extremely nervous the whole way. 

We arrived at the hospital and sauntered inside and up to Labor & Delivery. Now, this being my first pregnancy, I was not particularly big, and I was wearing a loose-fitting shirt that hid the bulk of my belly The woman at reception was a bit confused when I told her I was checking in. "Oh. Are you visiting someone?" I replied "Nope. I'm in labor." And she jumped up in a panic and ran around trying to find her little ID card that would open the doors for us. I assured her she could take her time, the baby wouldn't be out for a while.

We got all checked and settled in to our big, open room around 1:00, and the monitors were strapped into place. I was put on Pitocin (ugh) and a cautionary antibiotic, since I never got a chance to do the Group B Strep test at the clinic. I didn't have much freedom once everything was hooked up, which is not how I had hoped my labor would go, but since I also hadn't expected preterm labor I didn't argue. I could still move around on the bed, and stand up and walk a few feet if I wanted to. I had prepared myself for a totally unmedicated, natural birth, and despite the few setbacks, I was still determined to have this baby as close to naturally as possible. So I declined an epidural.

For the first hour or two everything progressed slowly. Tom and I decided we wouldn't tell anyone yet that the baby was coming, so as not to cause undue hysteria. We just sat and chatted, laughed at how unprepared we were, he went to the store for some snacks and drinks, etc. Then around 2:00 that Pitocin really started kicking in and the contractions became much stronger, though I could still easily talk through them. The nurse on duty, Renee, came in at one point to turn the drip up to 2, but that caused a four-minute contraction that seemed to upset the baby so she turned it back down to 1 and left it alone for a while. They began turning it up a few hours later, but I didn't seem to need too much of it. The contractions had been progressing steadily from the beginning. Dr. A. checked my cervix a little while later, and I was dilated 6 cm.

After that, time just blurred and seemed to fly by (at least to me. Tom had nothing to do but sit there and watch me in labor, so the time probably dragged for him). By about 4:00 the contractions were intense enough that it took a lot of focus to relax through them. Tom held my hand and encouraged me. At first I think I was managing the pain pretty well. Tom and I hadn't been to our childbirth class yet (it was scheduled for that weekend!) so all I had under my belt were the relaxation techniques I had practiced from the Bradley book my mother-in-law gave me. But after a few hours of success I guess I started giving way to the pain a little bit. I still controlled my breathing but it was getting harder and harder to relax my body. I would tense up and writhe around with each strong contraction. Finally Tom and the nurse (by this time it was a new nurse, Morgan) pointed this out to me and I started trying again to let myself relinquish control and relax so the contractions could do their job. Shortly after that the doctor checked me again and I was at 7 cm. I was very discouraged--only 1 cm more than the 6 that felt like days ago.  

After that the pain kept increasing and all I could focus on anymore was getting through each contraction. People were coming in and out of the room but I barely noticed. I remember one of the nurses named Michelle showed me a LaMaze breathing technique, which was very helpful in maintaining control. She also brought me some mouth moisturizer since the breathing made my lips so dry. I also remember the doctor asking if I wanted to be checked again, and I said no because I was terrified of learning again that I had barely progressed. But eventually I could hardly speak even to Tom, though it was hugely comforting just being able to grasp his hand. I knew because the pain was so intense that this had to be the worst of it, and it would be over soon, but that didn't stop me from fantasizing about pain medication a few times. Thankfully I knew, even in the thick of it, that I would regret an epidural more than the pain, so it didn't go further than a fantasy.

I was sweaty and very exhausted. I kept dozing off between contractions, though the breaks were becoming shorter and shorter. I was still able to relax through them, but it took great focus to breathe, and even then my breathing would turn into moaning. My face was starting to feel very hot with every contraction and I had Tom soak a washcloth in cold water so I could hold it against my cheek. I was convinced that pushing was still far away and these agonizing contractions would last several more hours. It must have been around 10:00PM that Morgan and Dr. A. told me to let them know if I started feeling the urge to push. I almost didn't take them seriously. But then, not long after that, finally, finally, I felt downward pressure after a contraction. It wasn't enough to push, but it was the beginning of the end. (I have a very vague memory of telling Morgan about the pressure, and Dr. A. checking me again and saying I was at 9 cm, but that period is so fuzzy that maybe I am imagining it.) The pressure lasted through a few more contractions, and they were the most painful yet, but I was excited at the thought of pushing. Suddenly, just as one of those contractions was ending, I felt an intense urge to bear down and push. I told Tom, Tom called Morgan, and she came in to check my cervix. I was contracting as she slipped her fingers in and boy, did that hurt. I stifled a groan. She felt the opening, looked up at me and said, calmly but eagerly, "Okay, Jean, I need you to take two deep breaths. Good. Now take a third breath, hold it, and while you're holding it, push!"

I was all too happy to push. I pushed hard. I let myself cry out as I pushed. It was wonderful to release that tension. I felt a strange bursting sensation inside me and I knew the baby's head had pushed through the cervix. Morgan stood up and walked out briskly, saying into her phone as she exited, "We're ready to deliver in room 6." It was almost 11:00PM.

Now the room was swarming with people and I was suddenly alert and excited. At that moment I felt no pain. I wasn't comfortable--there was a baby sitting inside me somewhere between my uterus and the exit--but the truly painful part was over. Everything was excitement; nurses were prepping the table and equipment nearby for the baby, Morgan was breaking down the bed and getting my feet in the stirrups, and Dr. A. was gowning up to catch the baby. I felt high and giddy, and the next ten minutes was one long adrenaline rush. The pushing took barely any time at all. Morgan and Tom helped me hold my legs up and lean forward as I pushed. During one push my leg slipped and I kicked the doctor in the face. I didn't even realize it happened, but apparently my toenail stabbed her chin so she had to get up and sanitize the wound. I felt bad and apologized as best I could in my state and everyone just laughed. 

The baby seemed to be making considerable progress with each push. I'd been pushing for maybe five minutes when Dr. A. said "I see the head." And about a minute later I felt a moment of searing pain and she told me I was crowing. I pushed once as hard as I could, desperate to get him out, and felt his head emerge. The rest was easy. One more push and his body slid out. He cried immediately and they placed him, all wriggly and covered in vernix, on my chest. It was 11:09PM. He was 5 pounds, 8 ounces.

I was very glad during the moments right after that I hadn't gotten an epidural. I could feel my legs, I could sit up on my own, I could walk to the bathroom. About fifteen minutes after Apollo came out, once he'd been taken to be weighed and measured and whatnot, and Morgan was finished cleaning me up and pressing on my belly and all that fun stuff, I began calling my family to tell them the news. It had been a very unexpected sort of day, and I was glad it was over, glad that huge, looming task of labor was out of the way, glad our baby boy had arrived and was healthy and perfect.

I Blog Instead of Cleaning.

          One (1) of my problems is that I never ask for help. It's always been a problem. At work, at home, everywhere. It's not something I do on purpose. I have no problem accepting help. I just never think of asking because I always genuinely believe that I can do it all myself.
          I was lamenting, after reading my sister's blog about how busy she always is, that I never get anything done. That's silly because I don't do activities. I don't really exercise. I don't follow a daily schedule (except Apollo's somewhat predictable feed/nap routine). And despite never doing anything, I never seem to have time to do anything.
          There are loads and loads of laundry accumulating, the dishes get done every few days, and the bathroom only gets cleaned when it's reached that embarrassingly horrifying level of unclean. I wake up many days thinking, "Today's the day! I'll tackle all of it today!" Then the day progresses more quickly than I anticipated and I look at the clock at some point and think with minor disappointment, "Okay, well, I'll get to most of it." Which becomes later, with some dismay, "At least the really important stuff." Which turns into, "Sigh. I'll at least do the kitchen during Apollo's next nap." But then, when Apollo's next nap comes, I have become so tired myself (despite doing nothing--how does that work?) that I end up napping right along with him. So we wake up together refreshed but with the apartment still an absolute mess, and by then it's between six and seven o'clock in the evening and time to think about dinner, not cleaning. By bedtime I'm thinking, with a mix of resentment and great optimism, "Tomorrow's the day! I'll tackle all of it tomorrow!"
          I have no excuse for not asking for help, because Tom works from home most days. It would be as easy as, "Hey, could you do some laundry when you get the chance?" Or, "Would you mind holding the baby for ten minutes so I can do some dishes?" But I honestly just don't think to ask him. It doesn't occur to me to make this his problem, even a little, despite the fact that he's always more than willing to help (he says the reason he doesn't think to do it otherwise is because he doesn't "see" the mess around him, and I think even if he did see it, it wouldn't bother him much). This has been my problem at places other than home as well. Mostly at former jobs. I would compile a massive list of tasks, try to get it all done myself, and wonder at the end of the day why only half the list was complete.
          I suppose there are worse problems I could (and do) have. This will be added to them in its appropriate place.
         
          On the plus side, my standards have lowered considerably since having a baby, so that I will now accept the mess to a certain point. A "base mess," if you will. On the days that I do get to clean extensively, I find that I clean only to that point, and no further. That much mess simply belongs now.

         
       

Now Hiring

          I said to my sister the other day that it's probably for the best that I didn't have a life before having a baby, because there was no painful transition to go through once I found myself cooped up at home every day. Since I'm no longer working I see no one on a regular basis anymore except Tom and Apollo and yes, they're my favorite people, but the inactivity makes me kind of crazy sometimes. I can't imagine how much worse it would be if I had been a party-goer or very active in the past.
          I suddenly realize how much I valued the level of social interaction I got from working full time. Now I find myself looking forward to going anywhere. Anywhere. Out for a walk. Out to the grocery store. Out to church. It doesn't matter where, as long as I get to be outside and/or see people. And if I get to talk to them too, well, that takes everything to a whole new level.
          The problem with me is I don't like looking for friends. I love having friends, but naturally my best friends live nowhere near me anymore and I always feel a little dumb putting myself out there to find new ones. "Becoming friends" can be such an awkward process when you're starting from scratch. Okay, I like you...you know, like a friend...yeah, we get along okay. We feel the same about some junk. I don't think you loathe me...so, now I have to suggest seeing each other again. But I don't want to come on too strong...I know how it is when people I don't care about try to befriend me. Now I have to see if you want to see me again, but to do it without sounding like I need a friend as badly as I do. Needing a friend sometimes scares friends away. As I know from experience.
          "YOU WANNA HANG OUT AGAIN TOMORROW? WANNA COME TO MY BIRTHDAY THIS WEEKEND?? ASK YOUR MOM IF WE CAN HAVE A SLEEPOVER AT YOUR HOUSE TONIGHT." 






          Soooo instead of reaching out and finding other people, I sit around inside merely considering finding other people. (Another problem of mine is that I'm lazy and I procrastinate. Well, that's two problems I guess. And a third one, I'm terribly picky. About everything. Well, not food. Everything except food. But that includes friends, unfortunately. But maybe that's a good thing.) People want to find like-minded friends, so my friends will inevitably have to be married couples or moms or people at the same spiritual, mental, or emotional place/s as me in life.
          Oh well, for the time being it's just looking forward pathetically to mundane outings. It's hard to force these things. I like to let them happen naturally.
          And at least my sister and the in-laws are nearby and I visit with them sometimes. They're pretty great.

Ew.

          Being a baby must suck sometimes. They vomit constantly. Vomiting is the worst.

          (My thoughts after Apollo spit up forcefully for no apparent reason, right in my lap.)

He's Looking Rough These Days

          A little kid drew a picture during Mass one week.

          Then looked at his older brother, pointed to it, and said, "Jesus."

       


          (Mine is only a rough copy of the original work. His was far better.)

I Could Do That Job

       

Gross Stuff IV

          Another good food rule: If your meal is only palatable while piping hot and it is no good when reheated, then it probably isn't the food for you. Or anyone. I don't mean it can't be slightly distasteful if not piping hot, because most hot foods are slightly distasteful once they cool down; soup, eggs, steaks, etc. I mean if it becomes so inedible when cold that a normal person would make an effort to find or cook something else to eat, then the ingredients are probably hazardous to your health.
       

Gross Stuff III

          As a general rule, if your entire meal is in one box and is made to be prepared in the microwave, it probably has not maintained much nutritional integrity. Even if the box says "Whole Grain."
          Admittedly, I've eaten a few microwaveable meals in my day (never Lean Pockets though) because there are occasions during the work week when money, time, and portability are factors. But I always felt like I should drink at least a liter of water immediately after to dilute whatever chemicals or other strangenesses I had ingested.

Ill Logic

          This picture reminded me of a girl I used to work with who went to Starbucks for me one day, but wasn't charged for our drinks because she was a Starbucks employee. She brought me my coffee and then tried insisting that, because she got my drink for free, I owed her money for her next Starbucks beverage.
          I suppose she was looking at it like this: "Because of me, you got a drink for free. So now because of you, I should get a drink for free. Then we'll be even."
          The idea of paying someone back for food you've taken is, in general, a less sideways idea of logic, but the extremism of this instance made me think of my old associate. Anyway, she would have done the exact same thing if someone had eaten one of her Lean Pockets.


          On Lean Pockets: see "Gross Stuff," coming soon.  

Gross Stuff II

I came across a recipe for shrimp-stuffed chicken.



I was like...

Why?

S**t.

          This blog should be called "Ooo, Me Too!" since I basically never have anything to write about until someone else says something interesting that I can copy.
          My friend Danielle (another recent mom) posted about her daughter's bath time and bowel movements coinciding (an unfortunate and counterproductive event). I thought, "Wait, me too! I know about that too!"
          Fortunately for her, her little girl is about 9 months old, so her waste evacuation process is probably a little more developed and more easily recognizable than my 3-month old's. He's still at the stage where it's just a grunt or two, a funny face, and THERE it is. We have to time his baths strategically around his usual diaper-soiling times.
          I drew him a bath one morning without timing it and it was quite time-consuming. I was looking forward to giving him a warm, gentle, relaxing bath (I think I enjoy his bath time more than he does...), and had visions of a perfectly smooth and uninterrupted event. I should have known it wouldn't be smooth because a) I thought it would be, and b) Tom wasn't home so I was doing it by myself. 
          Everything began well...until he defecated in his first bath. Then in his second bath. And then again ON ME when he was finally out of the tub for good (after a final, successful bath) so that I now needed to bathe myself. Of course during it all, he was screaming his head off because I had to keep removing him from the tub to clean it and he was cold and wet and uncomfortable and since I'm his servant I am supposed to keep him perfectly comfortable at all times. So I was kneeling over the big tub rinsing out his baby tub and laughing/cursing while he was swaddled in a big towel on the floor and howling, and although I was talking soothingly to him trying to calm him down I was really just adding to the din. 
          I still think he planned the whole thing.    

Gross Stuff

Anyone else find the idea of bacon-wrapped shrimp kinda gross?

Intro

          As is the case with most things I start, this blog will probably be covered in dust and stored away in a closet somewhere by next year. We'll see what happens. Maybe my new role as a stay-at-home-mom will force me to eke out some productivity, or at least acceptable hobbies, enough that blogging will become a regular thing.
          Haha! It's easy to say that while my 3-month-old sleeps peacefully behind me in his playpen. Any minute now he'll wake up cranky and inconsolable, and once again I'll feel convinced that the rest of my life will be spent soothing a crying baby. Still, I suppose there are worse careers. And don't get me wrong, mothering a fussy infant does have its upsides. Namely, when he isn't fussing.
          Oh, look. He's awake. I guess I'm done writing for now.