dearest daughters & son

Dear Poopers, Part I: Pooping in Your Genes

Dearest Daughters,

Don't let anyone tell you different. There are two types of people in this world.

(Pooper #1 in a corner of the hospital room on the day Pooper #2 was born.)

Those for whom pooping is easy. And those for whom it is not.

The former, the type that poops all the time, that can't sit through the dessert course without having to excuse him or herself, the type that makes pooping seem so, well, natural, you'd think they would have a healthy appreciation of poop jokes and would want for nothing else than to discuss poop all day.

You would be SO wrong.

They give little thought to their poop, the bastards.

By now, you can guess which type of person I am.

I am that latter. The type of person that has always had trouble pooping. And, therefore, always hated pooping.

And yet, I am obsessed with poop. I talk about it all the time. Because pooping is this elusive skill that I was born without.

I mean, I am physically able to poop. I'm not some sort of mutant human anomaly. Aside from the fact that I like to talk about poop.

Let's just put it this way. When I was having post-partum pooping difficulties akin to giving birth yet AGAIN, Lola told me, sorry, honey, you're just a "little asshole."

I've had doctors and aesthetician and next door neighbors tell me that I need to poop more. To drink more water, to eat more fiber. That I should be pooping three times a day. Not only does that sound like an obscene amount of time to spend in the bathroom, but it also sounds unpleasant and, frankly, impossible. Trust me, I've tried it all.

Some of us are just born this way. Ahem, Babybel. (So sorry about that, BTW. Nothing like seeing your child in pain and knowing it's ALL MY FAULT.)

And some of us are born, like Daddy and Danjo, pooping four times a day. And I envy them, their poopy alone time in the bathroom or behind a piece of furniture, respectively.

Do you know how much reading I could get done if only I pooped more frequently? That New Yorker subscription would finally pay off. And I would be SO well read.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. Each of us is born with certain genetic traits. And we are stuck with whatever bowel movements or sleeping habits or general temperament our parents have given us.

Pooping is in your genes.

It's a general life lesson really. You are who you are. Don't be ashamed of who you are. Each of us is born different, with different set of skills, abilities and struggles.

Some of us are really good at science and painting, but struggle with music and pooping. For example.

And those who are great at pooping, maybe have a hard time with math and fine motor skills. For example.

I'm just saying.

(Also, one word: coffee.)

Love,

To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Thirteen Months Old

Dearest Danjo,

You are now thirteen months old.

Kind of a let down after turning twelve months and its corresponding festivities?

I forgot to say when you turned one year old, so I'll say it now: a BIG thank you to all of the people (and animals, that's you too, mister loyal, cuddly, psuedo-guard dog, Lapu) who helped you survive a whole year.

No, really.

I mean, SURVIVE.

Thank you, thank you, yada, yada for the support and all. You know, the general care and concern, outpouring of love and time from all directions.

But, I mean, like SURVIVE survive. You really might have not made it if there weren't so many eyes watching you.

You are a quicky quickster and tricky trickster to begin with; add an ever-emotionally-imploding older sister in the mix and well, let's just say it's not abnormal to find me running around the house, after attending to someone else's need or another, yelling, "DANIELLEY! WHERE ARE YOU!? WHERE ARE YOU?! MARIBEL, DO YOU KNOW WHERE DANIELLE IS? DANIELLE! FOR REALS! WHERE ARE YOU?!? COME HERE RIGHT NOW!"

And our house is only 1018 square feet.

And you'll crawl innocently out of hiding, from the bathroom or a closet, from under the bed or behind the couch, carrying a toy in your mouth (as your hands are occupied with crawling), like: "Hey, what's up mom? I was just building a bomb back there. Relax."

And I'm all: "DANIELLEY YOU COULD HAVE DIED IN THERE!"

And I clutch you to my chest and promise I'll never take my eyes off of you ever EVER ever again. And you'll snuggle me and smile and generally melt my heart.

Then, I'll blink.

And when I open my eyes a millisecond later you're standing on top of a rocking horse, playing the piano, having already mixed yourself a drink from the liquor cabinet, turned off the television, turned on the radio and fan, read no less than fifteen books which you've strewn across the floor and unfolded every piece of laundry in the house, including those inside of three separate dressers.

And I'm not exaggerating 95% of that.

So, basically, given the amount of ground you cover each day, I just need to teach you to dust. And we'll be good to go.

You've taken a couple of steps here and there. You're in no hurry to walk. You are just fine, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, as you say to passersby who comment on your "inability" to walk while you also flip them the bird, which they mistake for cute baby waving.

You are not unable to walk. You get it, I'm sure. You are simply unwilling.

Did you catch it earlier when I said that you carry things in your MOUTH? Like a DOG? As parents have told me, many children start walking at the point at which they think: hey, I'd like to carry this thing over there, but, by golly, I can't crawl AND use my opposable thumbs at the same time. Let's try this thing!

Not you. No.

You have a toy in your hand. You look up at us walking creatures, down at the object in your hand, back up at us, then put the item in your mouth and crawl to the other room. LIKE A DOG?!

Unwilling, I tell you.

Sounds familiar. When I gave birth to your sister, I asked if I HAD to push during the next contraction. The nurse said, no, you don't have to, but this baby's gonna come out sooner or later, you gotta face the music sometime. Oh, and another time, when your dad and I were dating, he paid for me to take snowboarding lessons (while he went off on his own). We rented all the gear, bought some too. After a couple falls, I REFUSED to go down that bunny hill with the rest of the class who left me in the (snow) dust.

"Listen," the instructor said, "you have to decide that this is what you want to do."

"That's the thing, I don't want to," I replied.

And that was that. She told me she had to leave me to attend to the other students. I could choose to meet her at the bottom of the hill in five minutes or I could go to the ticket office, tell them I'm sick and get my money for the lesson back, like a LOSER.

I think she thought she was being inspirational.

I found it to be informational.

You can guess where I was five minutes later.

I doubt this will happen to you, Danjo, since you seem to be very athletic, but I empathize with your On My Own Terms mentality.

Also, I fear the Day You Start Walking. I'm pretty sure it will also be the Day You Start Running. And the Day I Remove All Sharp Objects From the House.

Please send bubble wrap. Or a large mammal kennel.

Love,

Have I Told You Tuesday (on Wednesday): Birthday Edition

Dearest Daughters,

If you ever experience childbirth, you’re going to want to talk about it. It’s just a fact. Because one, it’s special and amazing and two, it’s effing painful and you’ll want to remind EVERYONE (including yourself) about the PAIN. Plus, I mean, who wouldn’t want to hear about your uterus?

If uteri are not your thing, stop reading now.

Childbirth experiences are all different. Some people have cesarean sections. Some people have difficult and scary experiences. Some people experience the trials and joys of a child being “birthed” into their lives through adoption of one form or another (i.e. international, domestic, kin). And some babies, like you two, could have been born (as some babies in the world are) on the side of the road.

I tend to be self-deprecating and joke about your births because they were fairly easy. And most people want to talk about how horrible “IT” was. And rightly so. Women can win any argument against a man based on labor and delivery alone.

“Stop nagging me about taking out the garbage. I’ll do it when I’m good and ready.”

“Sure. Just like I delivered your two children, followed by placental afterbirth, all on MY own schedule.”

“I can’t [insert ANY familial responsibility here], I’m too [insert ANY adjective here]!”

“Really? What do you think my vagina would have to say about that?”

See? I win.

I wrote about Babybel’s birth here.

But, I can’t seem to find where I wrote about Danjo’s birth. Internet, if you can find it, let me know. Until then, I give you:

The Day Danjo Was Born

Three Things That Made Me Cry This Week, Edition Number Uno

Dearest Daughters,

Let's face it. I'm not the "Things That Made Me Smile" type of person. I'm not a very positive person. Hopeful, encouraging, but not peppy positive. And when I laugh, it's usually at another's expense. Not to their face, of course.

Your dad is always on my case about why I can't just be more positive? And be excited about the Giants win last night? Um, because I don't have a whole lot invested in a bunch of men who are paid inordinate amounts of money (while the big-wigs are paid even more) to do the only thing that men are good at. It's like someone said: hey, men have bigger muscles than women! Let's make up games they can play, pay them for it, encourage people to watch them, so we can steal their money with concessions and apparel and exclusivity on cable TV, then throw advertising in their faces to make even more money, all while said men engage in less than moral behaviors!

And I actually like watching baseball. For Brian Wilson's butt.

See? Not very positive.

Anyway, when I was thinking about lists as a way of posting on this here blog, I thought it'd be more authentic of me to post about things that make me frowny face. Or even cry. Sometimes out of joy. Because I do that a lot too. Even my way of expressing happiness looks sad.

Here's my first list:

Three Things That Made Me Cry This Week

1) Part II of III of Oprah's Farewell Surprise Spectacular (or whatever it was called). I'm not a die hard fan, nor am I a hater. I just happened to turn it on. During the bit about how many people she has helped educate. And then Kristin Chenoweth sang "For Good" from Wicked (which was also sung on Glee and at Uncle Bruce's MBCC farwell party this week.) And I lost it.

2) When Babybel told me that I couldn't help her have a better day. But, that she "just need[ed] a Band-Aid from a real doctor." Because it was funny at first. Then sad when there was nothing I could do. And then worse when I realized that I'll never be a real doctor. Not that I ever wanted to be, but STILL.

3) And childbirth ouch. But, this. Man, a human balloon! Remind me to never be a truck driver. And to stay far away from compressed hoses.

Love,

You didn't ask. But, I'm telling you.

My OB told me not to tell the story of my labor and delivery. That women would be jealous. But, he also said (as he did during my pregnancy) that women can't help themselves: we like to talk about ourselves. The best response to women who like to "share" their birth horror stories, their opinions about belly size, their pregnancy dramas, is to "smile, nod and say 'thank you'," as my doc said.

And now I find myself on the other side. And I can't help myself. Plus, inquiring minds want to know...

It was an "abnormally fast and easy birth" or so I've been told by my doctors and nurses. It went a little something like this:

Thursday, January 22nd...
Me: Hi, mom, what's a mucus plug look like. Okay. Then, yippeee! This might happen soon!

Friday, January 23rd...
4:45pm-
My doctor: You're not having this baby until at least 41 weeks.
5:00pm-
Me: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! I want this baby out. I want fried chicken. I hate my doctor.

Saturday, January 24th...
1:00am-
Me: Ouch. Hmmm. Kinda hurts, but I can fall asleep between the cramping. Maybe I should groggily check the clock and time these babies. 15 minutes.

3:30am-
Me: Okay, now I can't fall asleep in the 10 minutes between these silly pains. I'll go try to sleep on the couch. Um, never mind. I can't really get comfortable. It hurts, but I'm thinking this is going to stop. After all, my doctor just told me I wouldn't pop for another week. I'll just do something to distract myself. Facebook!

5:30am-
Me: Now they're 7-8 minutes apart. Dang. No one's updating their facebook statuses. I'll try to watch a movie. Nope that's not gonna work. I can't concentrate. I can't really sit still either; I'll sit on this exercise ball during these ouchy things.

6:30am-
Me: Now they're 3-4 minutes apart. I think that's when you're supposed to call the doctor, but only after they've been that way for an hour. What's that, beadle? Oh. No. I'm fine. You keep sleeping. I'm sure these'll stop any second now. I mean, my doctor said 41 weeks!

7:00am-
Me: Okay, beadle. I guess you should wake up now. I think I'll call the doctor in a half hour. Nope, there's nothing you can do to help. It doesn't hurt THAT badly.

7:30am-
Me: Hi, Mr. On Call Doctor Guy, I think I'm in labor. Question mark. My contractions are about 3-4 minutes apart and they've been that way for an hour.
Mr. On Call Doctor Guy: Sounds like it's time for you to join us at the hospital!
Me: Beadle? Mr. On Call Doctor Guy says we should go to the hospital.
Beadle: I'll pack the car.
Me: Don't forget the carseat. Ouuuuuch. That one made me cry. Maybe because it hurt more, but maybe because now I can't ignore the fact that I might maybe actually sorta kinda be in LABOR!!! I want my mommy.

8:00am-
Triage Nurse: Are you checking in? Sign here, here, here, here, here and here.
Me: Wow, my signature was really sloppy.
Triage Nurse: Let's examine you. Wow. 5 centimeters.
Me: Really?
Mr. On Call Doctor Guy (from behind the curtain after hearing about my progress): I'm sure glad she joined us here!
Me: Mr. On Call Doctor Guy sure sounds nicer than my OB. Hey, lady you just jacked up my IV. And oh, yup, look, there you go again. That's gonna leave a bruise.
L&D Nurse: I'll be taking over. You do have tricky veins, but there you go. A nice clean IV. Do you intend to have an epidural?
Me: No, but I might. I want to see how I feel once I get to the L&D room. I'll probably take narcotics though.

9:30am-
L&D Nurse: Let's walk to your room. Take your time. If a contraction is too strong we can stop.
Me: Stop... Okay, go.
L&D Nurse: Here's your room. This is how the bed works, yadda, yadda, yadda.
Me: Medication? For the pain? I want it now, thank you.
L&D Nurse: We'll give you blah blah blah blah blah blah.
Me: Sounds great.
Beadle, Mommy, Daddy, Auntie Jonelle: You're doing great.
Me: Hee, hee, hee, hooooo.
Beadle, Mommy, Daddy, Auntie Jonelle: You're doing great.
Me: Hee, hee, hee, hooooo.

10:00am-
Me: You should NOT get pregnant unless you really, really, really want a baby. Oh. Those drugs feel nice. I can still feel the conractions, but I don't really care.

11:00ish am-
Me: I feel like I need to push. Does that feel like needing to poop? Because that's how I feel.
Mommy: Yes. Excuse me, nurse, she feels like she needs to push.
L&D Nurse: Well let's examine you. Oh, my! Nine centimeters. I guess you can do some practice pushing. Here's what you do.
Me: Push, push, push. Can I rest? Do I have to push on every contraction.
L&D Nurse: No, you don't have to, but you're gonna have to face the music. If you don't push now, you'll just have to push later.
Me: Hey, wait. I thought this was just "practice"... oh, another contraction. I HAVE to push. No resting for me even if I want to.

11:30ish am-
L&D Nurse: I better get the doctor. He's in the other room with a woman giving birth to her second baby. He thought she'd go first for sure.
Me: Push, push, push. More drugs?
Beadle's Parents: We arrived just in time!
Me: Come on in!

11:40ish am-
Beadle, Mommy, Daddy, Auntie Jonelle: We see the head!
Me: Is there hair?
Beadle, Mommy, Daddy, Auntie Jonelle: Yes...?
Me: I just want to be done.
Beadle, Mommy, Daddy, Auntie Jonelle: We know, honey.
Mr. On Call Doctor Guy: I'm here!

11:48am-
Mommy, Auntie Jonelle: Gasp! Sob! She's here!
Me: Thank God. Let's deliver this placenta then I'm dunzo.

So, that's that. Eleven hours of labor, five hours of "active labor", about 45 minutes of pushing. And a sweet baby girl. Jealous?