I’m writing you this letter at Christmas because Santa came to Mama’s house and brought her a new laptop. Santa rocks hard. One day you will figure out that Santa’s name is “Nana” and I’ll be the one holding you while you cry about that. Although, I will admit there are some upsides to that. Nana dresses better and is less hairy. Santa doesn’t frequent Chico’s as much as Nana.
I think somewhere along the line I neglected to mention that Mama got crazy one day when she was pregnant with you and dropped her laptop, cord side down, on the floor. Seems the good old fashioned Dell (Or, as your Dad called it “the battle field response unit” due to all the food that was encrusted on its screen and the red wine inbetween the keys) that housed everything that Mama has ever written was made before they figured out you shouldn’t route the motherboard of the computer straight into the cord outlet. What’s that you say? Yes, I agree. I can’t believe the retards that ever made computers did that either. Because when you drop the thing cord side down and the cord, understandably, jams into the computer, it will fuck up the entire thing. In fact, it will fuck it up so good it will lose everything you’ve ever written (Yes, this does include eight chapters of Mama’s first book and every column she ever got published). This ultimately resulted in Mama getting on lots of medication and going a little crazy. Mama shortly figured out that writing made her at least half sane. And, well, not really having an accessible outlet to do that resulted in a little crazy going down at the Garrott house from time to time. But, thankfully-after almost a year of catching a computer and internet access when I could-“Santa” fixed all that and Mom’s sitting on a hot little piece of Toshiba Midnight Breeze with a Fusion Finish and a 16 inch screen. One day you will understand that and-if I’ve raised you correctly-you will be just as excited as Mama is.
You turned six months old two weeks ago and now you’re old enough to start housing your own brand of crazy. I can’t begin to tell you how exciting it is to watch this unfold before me. You already have your picadillos and your ideas about how life should work out. Most of these focus on your needs being met immediately and any human within ten feet of you worshipping you like the goddess you believe yourself to be. I will go ahead and readily admit you get this from me. You are your mother-already. Or maybe Mama was just a six-month-old until she was 32. Who knows?
You dislike loud noises and discord and will cry if anyone raises their voice around you. You hate being in a room by yourself and love to stare out of windows and watch trees wave in the wind. The cats can stop you in your tracks and give you a case of the giggles. You smile at everyone. If fact, you smile so much people mention it openly when they’ve been around you-“Does she just smile all the time?” I hasten to tell them that you do lose your shit from time to time…but not a lot…and not without reason-like poop, or needing more sleep, or wishing the New Kids On The Block never got back together. Mostly very important things.
You are, of course,unmentionably beautiful to me. When you smile my skin tingles. I sleep next to you and your smell is heady and comforting. My body recognizes it as “like” and its something I can’t explain with words. I want to kiss you all the time and keep you under my arm. If will could cause your chest to rise and fall you would never stop breathing. Watching you become a “person” is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever experienced.
Its in the way you spread your toes wide and sigh when I take off your socks at the end of a day. Its when I ask you, “Do you want Ba-Ba?” and you actually giggle and say something that sounds like “Yeeeeeh.” Its when you wake up in the morning and the first thing you do is prop yourself up on your hands and grin at me like you’ve just won five straight hands of poker and the hooker is on her way to the hotel room. Its in the way you fight naps like a tiger but when you finally give up will put your arms around my neck and lay your head down on my shoulder with a resigned sigh. Its you, kiddo. You’re cooler than shit.
It doesn’t hurt that you cut your first two teeth the day after Thanksgiving (the two bottom center) and when you grin you look a little like a drunken homeless man that’s just found a box of wine and a brand new cardboard box. I’d give you anything for that grin.
You get angry. You get excited. You get happy. You get sad. You get scared. You get sleepy. Most of all, you are just you. And I can’t wait for every day that I get to discover what the rest of “you” is like.
Love you and Merry Christmas,
Mama
P.S. Hopefully letters will get much more frequent now that “The Sheeba” is here.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
La Vie En Rose
Dear Parks,
I name this entry after an old French song for a couple of reasons-one because I feel it fitting to describe the past month of your life. You turned four-months-old last Friday and while your father, at times, exclaims frustrated, “She cries 80% of the time,” I am your mother. I do understand that being your mother probably gives me a slightly rose-tinted view of you and how you act. But, to me, you are full of goddamn awesome-ness. I know your dad feels this way as well because he only screams about your screaming when your screaming has almost made me scream and with the amount of Xanax I take on a daily basis-that’s a lot of screaming. The other reason I name this entry this has to do with how this song makes me feel. It reminds me of skipping in sunshine and sidewalks I’ve never walked drenched in smells I have yet to smell. You do the same. Despite the screaming
What I find amusing about this situation is the fact that I’m awfully glad that the Powers That Be didn’t give us a “normal” baby. I say “normal” because everybody that meets you says you are the most laid-back “chill-laxed” child they have ever seen. And I must admit that most days you sit back and enjoy the ride that is your current life. You handle things much better than your mother and father. Sometimes, while we are both freaking out around you, you just lay back and smile really big and if you didn’t look exactly like my grandmother, I would wonder where you came from. Large amounts of anxiety should be hitting you genetically from every single side of your DNA. How are you escaping this? And if your takin’ something on the side, you should really let Mama in on it.
Last night your father walked in and told me he had some “really bad news”-and other than your head suddenly exploding from the amount of formula you are currently scarfing-there really wasn’t one single thing I could think of about you that could be “bad news”. It was at this point he decided to inform me that you were not my baby. For half a second, I totally believed him. After all, you enjoy watching football and will sit in your own poop and smile for whole minutes at a time. These are all traits of your father.
This month you learned to roll your tongue and hum. You talk to us in a little bird-y voice trilling your “rrrr’s” in this extremely pleasant tone with a big smile on your face. When I roll my “rrrrr’s” and answer you in the same way your eyes get huge and its like you just realized I’m not mentally retarded and can actually speak-instead of just stare at you and grin insipidly. Then, when you realize that the gin and tonic I’m pretty sure you asked for isn’t on the way like you wanted, you start screaming and realize that English is a shit language that the rest of the world doesn’t speak anyway. I’m expecting you to start asking for a bottle in Spanish because-after all-it’s a much more useful language and your early mastery of the rolling of “rrrrr’s” gives you a leg up.
About three weeks ago you discovered the remote control and JESUS CHRIST I can’t explain your love for it. Sometimes your dad will hand you over when you are screaming and will quickly leave the room to give his ears a break from the deafening wails and when the room immediately becomes quiet upon his vacating it, he will walk back in to see what magical “mommy trick” I have pulled from my repertoire to quiet the desperate wailing. It is then that he will see me sitting on the couch waving the remote control in front of your face while you purse your lips, bounce up and down, and scream, “Ooooh, ooooh, ooooh” like it’s the best thing you’ve ever seen in your life. Your father will then call me a cheap whore for using electrical appliances to keep you entertained. Whatever it takes, kid, whatever it takes. That’s our main parental philosophy at this point.
We are what is called a “baby-led” household. You eat when you want, you sleep when you want and you poop when you want. We do what you want (except sticking forks in electrical appliances. We only allow that after six months of age-or until you at least grow enough hair to make it entertaining). We also “co-sleep” “Co-sleeping” basically means you sleep in-between us with all of your appendages flung out to the far corners of the bed. This relegates your father and me to tiny portions on opposite sides of the mattress teetering on the edges. We don’t care. You sleep ten hours straight at night and for that, my dear child, you could sleep on top of me and periodically spit up IN MY MOUTH. I don’t care. This arrangement also conveniently prevents unwanted siblings which I'm sure makes us both happy at this point.
Getting nine hours of sleep a night has allowed your mother to not only have a baby and return to work. But, it has allowed me to decide to change jobs and take on one that is much more challenging and full of responsibility. You know, because getting married and having a baby in one year wasn’t enough. I blame this all on a rush of post-delivery hormones that forced me to believe I was a super competent adult who could actually “have it all”. This is still up in the air. But, things are looking promising. And, every day that you are actually ALIVE proves that we must be doing something right.
Your GG takes pictures of you during the day and sends them down the street to the Kroger to get processed and then gives them to your father when he picks you up after work. I’m appreciative of that as I wasn’t sure that real hard copies of pictures actually still existed until your GG started doing this. Every time she gives us a new picture I marvel and marvel at how much you are starting to resemble my grandmother. I mean, minus the mustache. Thankfully, there seems to be less of the hairy Italian genes in you as you are half-bald and sorely lacking any other body hair (let’s go ahead and thank the Baby Jesus that the hair on your butt you were born with finally fell out. I was really concerned about your marriageability for a while there and thought we might just have to build a house out in back for you to live in and hire someone to come monthly and wax your back-like my Uncle Jimmy)
Other than looking just like your great-grandmother, you smile just like my brother; you have my hands, your Nana’s hair, and your father’s eyes and toes. You are a delightful mix of everything that’s ever happened before you ever got here. Life is, right now, la vie en rose.
One day you will make fun of me for all this horrible old time-y music I listen to and I look forward to every minute of it. After all, things aren’t nearly as much fun as they will be when I teach you to cuss and we are finally on even ground.
Love,
Mama
I name this entry after an old French song for a couple of reasons-one because I feel it fitting to describe the past month of your life. You turned four-months-old last Friday and while your father, at times, exclaims frustrated, “She cries 80% of the time,” I am your mother. I do understand that being your mother probably gives me a slightly rose-tinted view of you and how you act. But, to me, you are full of goddamn awesome-ness. I know your dad feels this way as well because he only screams about your screaming when your screaming has almost made me scream and with the amount of Xanax I take on a daily basis-that’s a lot of screaming. The other reason I name this entry this has to do with how this song makes me feel. It reminds me of skipping in sunshine and sidewalks I’ve never walked drenched in smells I have yet to smell. You do the same. Despite the screaming
What I find amusing about this situation is the fact that I’m awfully glad that the Powers That Be didn’t give us a “normal” baby. I say “normal” because everybody that meets you says you are the most laid-back “chill-laxed” child they have ever seen. And I must admit that most days you sit back and enjoy the ride that is your current life. You handle things much better than your mother and father. Sometimes, while we are both freaking out around you, you just lay back and smile really big and if you didn’t look exactly like my grandmother, I would wonder where you came from. Large amounts of anxiety should be hitting you genetically from every single side of your DNA. How are you escaping this? And if your takin’ something on the side, you should really let Mama in on it.
Last night your father walked in and told me he had some “really bad news”-and other than your head suddenly exploding from the amount of formula you are currently scarfing-there really wasn’t one single thing I could think of about you that could be “bad news”. It was at this point he decided to inform me that you were not my baby. For half a second, I totally believed him. After all, you enjoy watching football and will sit in your own poop and smile for whole minutes at a time. These are all traits of your father.
This month you learned to roll your tongue and hum. You talk to us in a little bird-y voice trilling your “rrrr’s” in this extremely pleasant tone with a big smile on your face. When I roll my “rrrrr’s” and answer you in the same way your eyes get huge and its like you just realized I’m not mentally retarded and can actually speak-instead of just stare at you and grin insipidly. Then, when you realize that the gin and tonic I’m pretty sure you asked for isn’t on the way like you wanted, you start screaming and realize that English is a shit language that the rest of the world doesn’t speak anyway. I’m expecting you to start asking for a bottle in Spanish because-after all-it’s a much more useful language and your early mastery of the rolling of “rrrrr’s” gives you a leg up.
About three weeks ago you discovered the remote control and JESUS CHRIST I can’t explain your love for it. Sometimes your dad will hand you over when you are screaming and will quickly leave the room to give his ears a break from the deafening wails and when the room immediately becomes quiet upon his vacating it, he will walk back in to see what magical “mommy trick” I have pulled from my repertoire to quiet the desperate wailing. It is then that he will see me sitting on the couch waving the remote control in front of your face while you purse your lips, bounce up and down, and scream, “Ooooh, ooooh, ooooh” like it’s the best thing you’ve ever seen in your life. Your father will then call me a cheap whore for using electrical appliances to keep you entertained. Whatever it takes, kid, whatever it takes. That’s our main parental philosophy at this point.
We are what is called a “baby-led” household. You eat when you want, you sleep when you want and you poop when you want. We do what you want (except sticking forks in electrical appliances. We only allow that after six months of age-or until you at least grow enough hair to make it entertaining). We also “co-sleep” “Co-sleeping” basically means you sleep in-between us with all of your appendages flung out to the far corners of the bed. This relegates your father and me to tiny portions on opposite sides of the mattress teetering on the edges. We don’t care. You sleep ten hours straight at night and for that, my dear child, you could sleep on top of me and periodically spit up IN MY MOUTH. I don’t care. This arrangement also conveniently prevents unwanted siblings which I'm sure makes us both happy at this point.
Getting nine hours of sleep a night has allowed your mother to not only have a baby and return to work. But, it has allowed me to decide to change jobs and take on one that is much more challenging and full of responsibility. You know, because getting married and having a baby in one year wasn’t enough. I blame this all on a rush of post-delivery hormones that forced me to believe I was a super competent adult who could actually “have it all”. This is still up in the air. But, things are looking promising. And, every day that you are actually ALIVE proves that we must be doing something right.
Your GG takes pictures of you during the day and sends them down the street to the Kroger to get processed and then gives them to your father when he picks you up after work. I’m appreciative of that as I wasn’t sure that real hard copies of pictures actually still existed until your GG started doing this. Every time she gives us a new picture I marvel and marvel at how much you are starting to resemble my grandmother. I mean, minus the mustache. Thankfully, there seems to be less of the hairy Italian genes in you as you are half-bald and sorely lacking any other body hair (let’s go ahead and thank the Baby Jesus that the hair on your butt you were born with finally fell out. I was really concerned about your marriageability for a while there and thought we might just have to build a house out in back for you to live in and hire someone to come monthly and wax your back-like my Uncle Jimmy)
Other than looking just like your great-grandmother, you smile just like my brother; you have my hands, your Nana’s hair, and your father’s eyes and toes. You are a delightful mix of everything that’s ever happened before you ever got here. Life is, right now, la vie en rose.
One day you will make fun of me for all this horrible old time-y music I listen to and I look forward to every minute of it. After all, things aren’t nearly as much fun as they will be when I teach you to cuss and we are finally on even ground.
Love,
Mama
Friday, September 11, 2009
Dear Parks,
You will turn three-months=old next week and in some ways I just can't believe I've only known you for that short amount of time. It has seemed like a lifetime and possibly a few thousand years before that. I love you so much. In the past month you've become this horribly interesting creature that coos and grins and interacts and demands. You are so cool. I want to tell people this all day long and then part of the next day but I stop myself. I stop myself a lot because I don't want to be "that person". I don't want to be that mom so unabashedly in love with their child that they can do nothing but talk about her. But, on here, I can.
Have we talked about how cool you are? You are. I want to wear a t-shirt with your name on it and go to a bar and watch you. That's how cool you are. This month you learned how to squeal. How cool is THAT, right? One day you couldn't squeal, the next day you could. It was crazy. Crazy cool.
You've starting sleeping ten hours a night pretty regularly and I can't say that hasn't effected the level of my affection towards you. I'm just being honest here. Its pretty easy to fall in love with your child when you have post-delivery oxytocin flowing through your veins, nine full hours of sleep evey night, and millions of years of biological urges on your side. In short, you totally make me swoon.
One of my friends asked me last night, "Does it feel weird thinking about the fact that your her mother?" and I told her that I really didn't think about it. I don't. If I sat in a room full of mothers and someone walked through the door and asked for the mom of "Parks Garrott", it might take me a full five minutes before I realized they were talking about me. Because, when I truly think about my relationship to you, I more think of you as this extremely unbelievable person that I was lucky enough to be picked to take care of. Mother doesn't seem to fit that. And right now, I can't seem to think of a word that does.
"Bitchin'", maybe?
Love,
Mama
Have we talked about how cool you are? You are. I want to wear a t-shirt with your name on it and go to a bar and watch you. That's how cool you are. This month you learned how to squeal. How cool is THAT, right? One day you couldn't squeal, the next day you could. It was crazy. Crazy cool.
You've starting sleeping ten hours a night pretty regularly and I can't say that hasn't effected the level of my affection towards you. I'm just being honest here. Its pretty easy to fall in love with your child when you have post-delivery oxytocin flowing through your veins, nine full hours of sleep evey night, and millions of years of biological urges on your side. In short, you totally make me swoon.
One of my friends asked me last night, "Does it feel weird thinking about the fact that your her mother?" and I told her that I really didn't think about it. I don't. If I sat in a room full of mothers and someone walked through the door and asked for the mom of "Parks Garrott", it might take me a full five minutes before I realized they were talking about me. Because, when I truly think about my relationship to you, I more think of you as this extremely unbelievable person that I was lucky enough to be picked to take care of. Mother doesn't seem to fit that. And right now, I can't seem to think of a word that does.
"Bitchin'", maybe?
Love,
Mama
Monday, August 17, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Dear Parks,
You are currently asleep beside me on the couch. It's Friday night and your father went to the liquor store. That's how we roll around here. We currently need lots of alcohol in this house and I'm going to tell you why. See, Parks, you are A Screamer. You scream-A LOT. It certainly doesn't mean I love you any less as I'm your mom and, well, I'm obviously going to love you no matter what. Afterall, just last week I shoved a supository up your butt and lovingly caught the poop that shot out afterwards. If that doesn't say "I love you dearly" what does? NOTHING.
Back to the screaming...
See, you scream. Did I mention that you scream? You do-A LOT. Around four weeks ago we went to the doctor to find out why you screamed and she told us you had reflux. We started adding rice cereal to your bottles and that seemed to help. It seemed to help you scream only half the day instead of the whole. Awesome. Your father and I immediately returned to the pediatrician to get half of our money back. She then told us that having the reflux under control finally allowed us to see you also had colic. I was pretty surprised by this news as I hadn't been informed there was an eight level of hell. Turns out there is...and it starts in my house around 5pm.
But, Dr. V had the magical fix for what ailed you..."Colic Drops". Your father and I have been kissing the bottle of "Colic Drops" every day, fifty times a day, for the past two weeks. I had no idea what was in the teeny tiny little bottle but we begin calling it "The Elixir of Magic Fairy Dust". It seemed to be a cousin of the Magic Fairy Dust your Nana keeps at her house that lets you sleep, not scream, and come home with your hair perfectly combed every time you stay over there. Thirty minutes after having some "Colic Drops" you would stop screaming, start smiling, giggle, coo, blow bubbles and just in general be the most pleasant acting baby I've ever seen. I finally read the bottle tonight and realized the magic "Colic Drops" were five percent alcohol. Seems all those dreamy smiles you've been giving me after being "dosed" the past few weeks were because you were totally stoned. Your father and I keep waiting for you to wake up from this colic drops-induced nap and ask for a big glass of sweet tea, some ibuprofen, and a Whataburger. Lord knows your father and I have needed that trifecta a time or too.
This week I went back to work and enjoyed it a really lot more than I thought I would. Admittedly, I was completely torn. But the fact that your GiGi is keeping you during the day means that after your father drops you off in the morning I don't have to worry about you one lick at all while I'm working. I can never repay her for this favor and I'm not sure she understands what load she removes off my mind every morning when she takes you in her arms and proceeds to keep a "log" of your activities all day long. Yes, even your poops. She even writes down what color they are and whether or not you had to "strain" to take them. Don't know what that means? Well, honey, when you have to "strain" you make your "poo face". Don't know what your "poo face" is? This is your "poo face":
You have a poo face, a "wakey-up" face, a smiley face, a screaming face. Hell, its like you became a real live baby in the past few weeks. That's a good thing as that's what the doctor told us was going to happen just eleven short months ago when we started this party.
Sometimes I look at you-even when you are mad as hell-and I am totally amazed that I made you, you magnificent, angry, wailing beast.
Love,
Mama
Back to the screaming...
See, you scream. Did I mention that you scream? You do-A LOT. Around four weeks ago we went to the doctor to find out why you screamed and she told us you had reflux. We started adding rice cereal to your bottles and that seemed to help. It seemed to help you scream only half the day instead of the whole. Awesome. Your father and I immediately returned to the pediatrician to get half of our money back. She then told us that having the reflux under control finally allowed us to see you also had colic. I was pretty surprised by this news as I hadn't been informed there was an eight level of hell. Turns out there is...and it starts in my house around 5pm.
But, Dr. V had the magical fix for what ailed you..."Colic Drops". Your father and I have been kissing the bottle of "Colic Drops" every day, fifty times a day, for the past two weeks. I had no idea what was in the teeny tiny little bottle but we begin calling it "The Elixir of Magic Fairy Dust". It seemed to be a cousin of the Magic Fairy Dust your Nana keeps at her house that lets you sleep, not scream, and come home with your hair perfectly combed every time you stay over there. Thirty minutes after having some "Colic Drops" you would stop screaming, start smiling, giggle, coo, blow bubbles and just in general be the most pleasant acting baby I've ever seen. I finally read the bottle tonight and realized the magic "Colic Drops" were five percent alcohol. Seems all those dreamy smiles you've been giving me after being "dosed" the past few weeks were because you were totally stoned. Your father and I keep waiting for you to wake up from this colic drops-induced nap and ask for a big glass of sweet tea, some ibuprofen, and a Whataburger. Lord knows your father and I have needed that trifecta a time or too.
This week I went back to work and enjoyed it a really lot more than I thought I would. Admittedly, I was completely torn. But the fact that your GiGi is keeping you during the day means that after your father drops you off in the morning I don't have to worry about you one lick at all while I'm working. I can never repay her for this favor and I'm not sure she understands what load she removes off my mind every morning when she takes you in her arms and proceeds to keep a "log" of your activities all day long. Yes, even your poops. She even writes down what color they are and whether or not you had to "strain" to take them. Don't know what that means? Well, honey, when you have to "strain" you make your "poo face". Don't know what your "poo face" is? This is your "poo face":
You have a poo face, a "wakey-up" face, a smiley face, a screaming face. Hell, its like you became a real live baby in the past few weeks. That's a good thing as that's what the doctor told us was going to happen just eleven short months ago when we started this party.
Sometimes I look at you-even when you are mad as hell-and I am totally amazed that I made you, you magnificent, angry, wailing beast.
Love,
Mama
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Parks Elizabeth Garrott: 6/16/09
Just because Mama is lazy it took her six whole weeks to get pictures of you on here. This is in no way a reflection of how absolutely beautiful you are. We aren't trying to hide you because you look funny...you know, like Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes did with their adopted Asian baby Suri. One day I'll tell you all about them-and this weird white guy named Michael Jackson. He died when you were four days old. One day mom will play "Thriller" for you and do the dance that goes along with it. Preferably when you are twenty-five, going on your FIRST DATE, and there is a guy at the house that wants to see you naked. Hopefully this will have the desired effect of making him rethink his choices. Your father is also purchasing a shotgun for this occasion which he will be cleaning on the couch NAKED-save a do-rag and a belt holding a bowie knife.
This is you when you were two days old.
This is you when you found out we couldn't put you back in.
These are your feet. You can blame your father for these gargantuan things. Don't worry, mama will help you find shoes later that make them look somewhat smaller and less flipper like. Mama is good at this. I'm still amazed by how the toes on your right foot curl exactly like your fathers. The added bonus of these being that you will never have to actually bend down to pick up anything...your toes can handle the job.
This is mama in labor with you. Its after they gave me drugs. I know this because I'm not screaming, crying, throwing things at your father, or on my knees begging the nurse for heroin-all of these things actually happened. That's your Nana at the end of the bed looking amazingly NON-FLUSTERED.
This is you with Nana. She teaching you to pick your nose. And, no, there was nothing wrong with the filter on the camera...you're yellow. You were a little jaundice and for three whole days we called you "Our Little Asian Baby".
This is you right now in bed with me. In the words of your Nana, "JESUS CHRIST, YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL!" (And see, your color returned quite nicely)
This is you when you were two days old.
This is you when you found out we couldn't put you back in.
These are your feet. You can blame your father for these gargantuan things. Don't worry, mama will help you find shoes later that make them look somewhat smaller and less flipper like. Mama is good at this. I'm still amazed by how the toes on your right foot curl exactly like your fathers. The added bonus of these being that you will never have to actually bend down to pick up anything...your toes can handle the job.
This is mama in labor with you. Its after they gave me drugs. I know this because I'm not screaming, crying, throwing things at your father, or on my knees begging the nurse for heroin-all of these things actually happened. That's your Nana at the end of the bed looking amazingly NON-FLUSTERED.
This is you with Nana. She teaching you to pick your nose. And, no, there was nothing wrong with the filter on the camera...you're yellow. You were a little jaundice and for three whole days we called you "Our Little Asian Baby".
This is you right now in bed with me. In the words of your Nana, "JESUS CHRIST, YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL!" (And see, your color returned quite nicely)
Dear Parks,
You are currently asleep beside me on the bed-on your STOMACH (gasp!). Your Nana placed you that way this morning when you were fussy and fidgety. Once she rolled you over, you immediately let out a huge BURP and fell fast asleep. Sometimes Nanas know more than the Academy of Pediatrics-I promise. Especially your Nana.
You will quickly learn-once you have a rudimentary understanding of english-that your Nana pretty much knows everything. You will also be told over and over again about the one time in my entire life I have ever seen your Nana flustered. I haven't managed to do it in my thirty two years of living but-somehow-at only six-weeks-old you've mastered the art. I knew there was a reason I loved you so much.
It was yesterday and you were very loudly screaming-as you are wont to do. She was running back and forth frantically asking me what you needed, what I needed, what anyone needed in order to stop that loud screeching. She kept asking me, "What does that cry mean?" (as everyone knows that all baby cries actually have a meaning). I very calmly informed your Nana that scream meant, "I'm pissed as hell, bitch" and went about my business. Nana was not pleased.
I'm pretty sure your Nana wanted an organizational chart created and some sort of focus group formed outlining exactly how to deal with that scream.(If there was an application on her IPhone that might help-all the better). And, if all that failed, she would probably get you to sign a behavior contract assuring her that you would never scream that scream again if you were-perchance-actually forced to scream again at some point before your 21st birthday at which point all aforementioned screams would become your own business and handled under your own volition. This course of action is only valid unless said screams are-at some point-caused by someone of the male persuasion at which point they fall under the jurisdiction of your father and his previously mentioned shotgun.
There are definitely times when I am happy that Nana doesn't live with me and your Dad. Nana might lose her shit. Because, see, sometimes when you scream like that...your dad and I laugh. There's probably not a way I can explain it to you that will make you think that we are in any way suited to raise you except that sometimes-when something you love more than life itself is in pain-a pain that you don't know how to stop...Well, we have to laugh or we'd just start screaming with you.
You turned six-weeks-old yesterday and I'm still amazed at how it seems I've known you forever but at the same time hardly know anything about you. Like, do you like corn dogs...or coconut-flavored candy? I HATE banana-flavored things. Grape is my favorite. Your Daddy likes pretty much anything formed with flavored and processed sugar. We both have an unnatural affinity for bacon. When you were inside me you loved it when I ate peanut butter and chocolate-not separately-but together. I wonder if you will love it that much now that you are here. All I know is that I can't wait to get to watch you figure all these things out.
I can't imagine what I would be doing today if it wasn't watching you sleep and wiping your ass. Your father is currently in Denver for three days. I've counted and that's a full 24 hours of sleep he is getting-ALL IN A ROW. He better have bought me jewelry...or a nanny...while he was gone. I can't wait to tell him that you almost rolled over this morning. Or, that yesterday you actually laughed and smiled at the same time. This morning alone you've done about twelve hundred cool ass things that I know it breaks his heart to miss. But, I want you to know that he calls at least six times a day just to hear about every poot, cry, sigh, and pee-pee diaper because he misses you so much.
Overall, kid, minus that time I hugged Morgan Freeman, you're about the coolest thing I've ever done.
Love,
Mama
You will quickly learn-once you have a rudimentary understanding of english-that your Nana pretty much knows everything. You will also be told over and over again about the one time in my entire life I have ever seen your Nana flustered. I haven't managed to do it in my thirty two years of living but-somehow-at only six-weeks-old you've mastered the art. I knew there was a reason I loved you so much.
It was yesterday and you were very loudly screaming-as you are wont to do. She was running back and forth frantically asking me what you needed, what I needed, what anyone needed in order to stop that loud screeching. She kept asking me, "What does that cry mean?" (as everyone knows that all baby cries actually have a meaning). I very calmly informed your Nana that scream meant, "I'm pissed as hell, bitch" and went about my business. Nana was not pleased.
I'm pretty sure your Nana wanted an organizational chart created and some sort of focus group formed outlining exactly how to deal with that scream.(If there was an application on her IPhone that might help-all the better). And, if all that failed, she would probably get you to sign a behavior contract assuring her that you would never scream that scream again if you were-perchance-actually forced to scream again at some point before your 21st birthday at which point all aforementioned screams would become your own business and handled under your own volition. This course of action is only valid unless said screams are-at some point-caused by someone of the male persuasion at which point they fall under the jurisdiction of your father and his previously mentioned shotgun.
There are definitely times when I am happy that Nana doesn't live with me and your Dad. Nana might lose her shit. Because, see, sometimes when you scream like that...your dad and I laugh. There's probably not a way I can explain it to you that will make you think that we are in any way suited to raise you except that sometimes-when something you love more than life itself is in pain-a pain that you don't know how to stop...Well, we have to laugh or we'd just start screaming with you.
You turned six-weeks-old yesterday and I'm still amazed at how it seems I've known you forever but at the same time hardly know anything about you. Like, do you like corn dogs...or coconut-flavored candy? I HATE banana-flavored things. Grape is my favorite. Your Daddy likes pretty much anything formed with flavored and processed sugar. We both have an unnatural affinity for bacon. When you were inside me you loved it when I ate peanut butter and chocolate-not separately-but together. I wonder if you will love it that much now that you are here. All I know is that I can't wait to get to watch you figure all these things out.
I can't imagine what I would be doing today if it wasn't watching you sleep and wiping your ass. Your father is currently in Denver for three days. I've counted and that's a full 24 hours of sleep he is getting-ALL IN A ROW. He better have bought me jewelry...or a nanny...while he was gone. I can't wait to tell him that you almost rolled over this morning. Or, that yesterday you actually laughed and smiled at the same time. This morning alone you've done about twelve hundred cool ass things that I know it breaks his heart to miss. But, I want you to know that he calls at least six times a day just to hear about every poot, cry, sigh, and pee-pee diaper because he misses you so much.
Overall, kid, minus that time I hugged Morgan Freeman, you're about the coolest thing I've ever done.
Love,
Mama
Monday, June 29, 2009
Changes
There is currently vomit on my pillow. Vomit that wasn't placed there by me after a night of shooting tequila with my hairdresser-like the LAST time there was vomit on my pillow.
Surprisingly, I totally don't mind and plan on sleeping on it without washing it.
Surprisingly, I totally don't mind and plan on sleeping on it without washing it.
Dear Parks,
You're currently napping in your bassinet while your father watches and your mother takes a pain killer and has a glass of wine. If it was Saturday night I'd totally breast feed you just so we could have some good times together. But-since its Monday-I'm going to let you get your beauty sleep as your dad and I expect you to be employed by the end of the week to help out with the $24,000.00 hospital bill we got yesterday.
Tomorrow you will be two weeks old and we are slowly getting to know you. So far we've definitely established that you absolutely hate being naked and this lets me know that you are definitely not 100% my child. I'm pretty sure you get this from your grandmother. Your dad and I can't even wipe your ass without lots of screaming and then a little more screaming followed by some screaming. You scream so much your tongue resembles a tiny baby bird where it just rotates around your mouth without really touching the sides. That's a cool trick that I'm pretty sure you get from me.
One day when I think I can do it without crying, I will write your birth story. The only good part of that experience was when they finally let me see you thirty six hours after labor began and a full sixteen after they cut you out of me. For now, I will tell you that when they finally handed you to me-after a night in the NICU because you weren't breathing properly-my first instinct was to strip you completely naked and look at all your tiny little parts. I promptly did this and ascertained you came with everything required and it was all perfect. That and you had a full head of black hair. Your father and I marveled at this as we pretty much assumed we were having a blonde-headed blue-eyed Aryan baby that actually somewhat resembled one of us. This was not the case. You have curly black hair that seems to be some throw back gene from my Italian side. When your great-grandmother held you today for the first time with her still black hair at the age of almost eighty-it seemed to make sense.
After two short weeks I can't say that I've mastered all your moods or faces yet. But, I can say that your dad and I are learning a lot. And, I will never be able to explain to you how much more I've fallen in love with him over the past two weeks just watching how he cares for you. Maybe even as much as I've fallen in love with you after all the hours I've spent simply staring at your sweet face.
Love,
Mama
Tomorrow you will be two weeks old and we are slowly getting to know you. So far we've definitely established that you absolutely hate being naked and this lets me know that you are definitely not 100% my child. I'm pretty sure you get this from your grandmother. Your dad and I can't even wipe your ass without lots of screaming and then a little more screaming followed by some screaming. You scream so much your tongue resembles a tiny baby bird where it just rotates around your mouth without really touching the sides. That's a cool trick that I'm pretty sure you get from me.
One day when I think I can do it without crying, I will write your birth story. The only good part of that experience was when they finally let me see you thirty six hours after labor began and a full sixteen after they cut you out of me. For now, I will tell you that when they finally handed you to me-after a night in the NICU because you weren't breathing properly-my first instinct was to strip you completely naked and look at all your tiny little parts. I promptly did this and ascertained you came with everything required and it was all perfect. That and you had a full head of black hair. Your father and I marveled at this as we pretty much assumed we were having a blonde-headed blue-eyed Aryan baby that actually somewhat resembled one of us. This was not the case. You have curly black hair that seems to be some throw back gene from my Italian side. When your great-grandmother held you today for the first time with her still black hair at the age of almost eighty-it seemed to make sense.
After two short weeks I can't say that I've mastered all your moods or faces yet. But, I can say that your dad and I are learning a lot. And, I will never be able to explain to you how much more I've fallen in love with him over the past two weeks just watching how he cares for you. Maybe even as much as I've fallen in love with you after all the hours I've spent simply staring at your sweet face.
Love,
Mama
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Child Birth Is Gross
There's really nothing like waking up at 5:30am to an enema, is there? That indignity ended up being a little LESS disgusting then I assumed. Easy in, easy out. I then got to bathe (somewhat), had pitocin put into my IV and the doctor walked in and broke my water. Now, with every contraction, a slow steady warm trickle of water comes out of me making me think that I'm peeing myself and can do nothing to stop it.
Hold on...contraction. SON OF A BITCH. Those do hurt. Thank God they aren't too close together yet.
I cannot WAIT until they will let me have drugs. I'm pretty sure they would give me drugs now...but I want to make sure that I have enough drugs to make it through this experience. The nurse was careful to tell me that the IV pain meds only really worked well the FIRST TIME. After that, all bets were off until you were 4cm and could get an epidural.
After the last contraction....I WANT AN EPIDURAL.
I must sign off to moan. This sucks.
Hold on...contraction. SON OF A BITCH. Those do hurt. Thank God they aren't too close together yet.
I cannot WAIT until they will let me have drugs. I'm pretty sure they would give me drugs now...but I want to make sure that I have enough drugs to make it through this experience. The nurse was careful to tell me that the IV pain meds only really worked well the FIRST TIME. After that, all bets were off until you were 4cm and could get an epidural.
After the last contraction....I WANT AN EPIDURAL.
I must sign off to moan. This sucks.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Ambien Gods Why Has Though Forsaken Me?
I can't sleep. It's hot. As a bonus-or rather after much gnashing of teeth and whimpering -the nurse managed to drag in an old school box fan they use for "women in labor" since apparently we are unable to cool off. Hmmmm, maybe its all the prostaglandins shoved in my vagina. Who knows? All I do know is that I'm probably getting about forty-five minutes of sleep tonight before the day starts at five-thirty. They will then remove the Cervadil, give me a shower, and start the Pitocin.
Despite Ben and I's best efforts BOTH sets of parents have nonchalantly decided they would come to the hospital in the morning. They said they didn't have to be in the room. They just needed to be close to us. Hell, Ben's mom offered to sit in her car in the PARKING LOT as long as she was allowed to get that close. I'm about to give up on my previously well-defined boundaries, tell the nurse to bring me my IV pain medication, and sail through the morning with both sets of parents in the room watching my Extremely High Falutin Cervix run away from the masked and gloved hands of perfectly well meaning nurses. One of whom couldn't actually find the correct, um, HOLE earlier...That should make everyone really comfy, shouldn't it?
Despite Ben and I's best efforts BOTH sets of parents have nonchalantly decided they would come to the hospital in the morning. They said they didn't have to be in the room. They just needed to be close to us. Hell, Ben's mom offered to sit in her car in the PARKING LOT as long as she was allowed to get that close. I'm about to give up on my previously well-defined boundaries, tell the nurse to bring me my IV pain medication, and sail through the morning with both sets of parents in the room watching my Extremely High Falutin Cervix run away from the masked and gloved hands of perfectly well meaning nurses. One of whom couldn't actually find the correct, um, HOLE earlier...That should make everyone really comfy, shouldn't it?
May All Your Drugs Be As Good As Mine
Its currently 10:30pm and the Cervadil has been in for about two and a half hours. These were definitely two and a half of the most uncomfortable hours of my life. I'm sure only more are to follow.
The hospital called while we were driving in to see where we were. They had us scheduled for a 5:30pm "check-in" (doesn't that just sound like we are on a fabulous holiday vacation?) and our paperwork said 7pm. I must say I'm super happy we weren't here at 5:30pm as that would have meant another hour and a half of nurses searching for my Amazingly High Cervix. Seriously. It seems my Cervix (for some damn reason) is located in the vicinity of my left lung. And let me tell you, I feel every inch of that groping. I swear, I think the nurse almost got angry at me for having the gall to have a cervix so high and mighty.
So far the schedule meant the Cervadil was put in and I had to lay flat on my back for two hours. Ben and I watched "My Bloody Valentine 3D". I found it appropriate for the time being. There is one girl that runs around completely butt nekkid for at least twenty minutes in the movie. This made me feel better about just my butt hanging out when Ben had to help me, my IV pole, and my fetal monitor all pee. After peeing, where I "blotted-not wiped" for fear of losing my Cervadil string, I sat back in bed and was allowed to take two Ambien and actually raise the bed to a level that no longer makes me feel like this baby is slowly strangling me.
The one cool part of the evening? The fetal monitor allows us to fall asleep to the sound of Park's heart beat.
Oh, and I got to sign her name as her "Mother" for the first time tonight. Writing it out was surreal.
Ben saw some five pound twins in the nursery. They looked HUGE. She's going to be the size of both of them together. This might make my cervix completely slam shut in protest.
I'm assuming I'll be seeing the sweet, sweet white lights of the Ambien Gods calling soon. The day starts early at 5:30am when they take out the Cervadil and allow me a shower before starting the Pitocin.
I'm going to try to sleep at least a little before all this begins.
The hospital called while we were driving in to see where we were. They had us scheduled for a 5:30pm "check-in" (doesn't that just sound like we are on a fabulous holiday vacation?) and our paperwork said 7pm. I must say I'm super happy we weren't here at 5:30pm as that would have meant another hour and a half of nurses searching for my Amazingly High Cervix. Seriously. It seems my Cervix (for some damn reason) is located in the vicinity of my left lung. And let me tell you, I feel every inch of that groping. I swear, I think the nurse almost got angry at me for having the gall to have a cervix so high and mighty.
So far the schedule meant the Cervadil was put in and I had to lay flat on my back for two hours. Ben and I watched "My Bloody Valentine 3D". I found it appropriate for the time being. There is one girl that runs around completely butt nekkid for at least twenty minutes in the movie. This made me feel better about just my butt hanging out when Ben had to help me, my IV pole, and my fetal monitor all pee. After peeing, where I "blotted-not wiped" for fear of losing my Cervadil string, I sat back in bed and was allowed to take two Ambien and actually raise the bed to a level that no longer makes me feel like this baby is slowly strangling me.
The one cool part of the evening? The fetal monitor allows us to fall asleep to the sound of Park's heart beat.
Oh, and I got to sign her name as her "Mother" for the first time tonight. Writing it out was surreal.
Ben saw some five pound twins in the nursery. They looked HUGE. She's going to be the size of both of them together. This might make my cervix completely slam shut in protest.
I'm assuming I'll be seeing the sweet, sweet white lights of the Ambien Gods calling soon. The day starts early at 5:30am when they take out the Cervadil and allow me a shower before starting the Pitocin.
I'm going to try to sleep at least a little before all this begins.
What is in a name...
Ben wanted to name this "Parks and Recreation". I think that's actually funny except the next 24 hours will probably be anything but "recreation" for me considering the shear number of people who will be putting fingers and other extraneous instruments up my Woo-Ha. So, until then, it's officiall "Parked"-like my butt on a puppy pad-laden hospital bed.
We check into the hospital at 7pm where the first part of the induction process begins. For those wanting technical terms, it means they place the first dose of Cervadil on my cervix to get it to "thin out" or efface. For others wanting more intimate details of my nether regions, I am currently 1.5cm dilated and 80% effaced as of last check up. Hopefully the Cervadil gets us to 100%.
Then, at 7am in the morning they start me on a drug called "Pitocin". This is the man-made version of "Oxcytocin"-the hormone that starts labor naturally in women that, well, START LABOR NATURALLY (Hint Parks, get out of Mama's uterus-I don't know if ten pounds is your personal "goal weight" before meeting mom and dad...but, please, save some "goals" to reach once your here. Your mom's vagina will thank you for it.)
For those NOT wanting technical terms, "Cervadil" is a fancy smancy word for MODIFIED PIG SEMEN. I haven't told Ben this yet because I don't want to hear all the jokes that are to follow. Just know that for some reason, Pig Semen carries the same prostaglandins as human male semen (both of which soften the cervix). Ben got me to 80% and some poor pig had to die to get me to 100%. Pigs really are nice animals.
We are off to the movies and to eat despite me placed on "bed rest" for my horrible swelling. This is mainly because if I watch one more Discovery Health show about child birth and collapse into tears Ben might divorce me and I might run away and not show up at the hospital until they've discovered ways to remove babies from bodies that don't involve my vagina or an elective C-section.
Come on people...get on that!
We check into the hospital at 7pm where the first part of the induction process begins. For those wanting technical terms, it means they place the first dose of Cervadil on my cervix to get it to "thin out" or efface. For others wanting more intimate details of my nether regions, I am currently 1.5cm dilated and 80% effaced as of last check up. Hopefully the Cervadil gets us to 100%.
Then, at 7am in the morning they start me on a drug called "Pitocin". This is the man-made version of "Oxcytocin"-the hormone that starts labor naturally in women that, well, START LABOR NATURALLY (Hint Parks, get out of Mama's uterus-I don't know if ten pounds is your personal "goal weight" before meeting mom and dad...but, please, save some "goals" to reach once your here. Your mom's vagina will thank you for it.)
For those NOT wanting technical terms, "Cervadil" is a fancy smancy word for MODIFIED PIG SEMEN. I haven't told Ben this yet because I don't want to hear all the jokes that are to follow. Just know that for some reason, Pig Semen carries the same prostaglandins as human male semen (both of which soften the cervix). Ben got me to 80% and some poor pig had to die to get me to 100%. Pigs really are nice animals.
We are off to the movies and to eat despite me placed on "bed rest" for my horrible swelling. This is mainly because if I watch one more Discovery Health show about child birth and collapse into tears Ben might divorce me and I might run away and not show up at the hospital until they've discovered ways to remove babies from bodies that don't involve my vagina or an elective C-section.
Come on people...get on that!
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