Gabriel's Kazoo

Easing into it

2007-06-18T19:54:00.000-07:00

Much has happened in the last few weeks. It boggles my wee brain. I graduated, we packed up the whole Oakland-thing in a U-haul, we drove, drove, drove, we arrived in Denver and unpacked, unpacked, unpacked. And today, I went to my first day of orientation at the hospital. We got bad coffee, good bagels, a multitude of binders, books, (long!) white coats, stamps with our names and pager #s on them (!). These last two accoutrements I have coveted since I begand on wards. We don't get the pagers themselves for a couple more days, anyway, which is just fine. I'm on call this weekend, which should be hilarious. Tomorrow, we have to go back at 6:30 am (again, !) for more fol-de-rol.
I'm really just stunned, and obviously not able to come up with much profundity on the topic. Sleep has been dogged by anxiety-hospital-school dreams. I am grinding my teeth for the first time I can recall in my life.
We also have yet to secure anything like quality daycare for Gabriel. I really thought this one awesome, bilingual, montessori would come through, but just found out today that they likely won't have anything till January.
I love our new apartment, however. For the first time in my pseudo-adult life, I moved into a clean apartment. What a difference that makes! Plus lots of windows, light and gorgeous hardwood floors. We can walk to the grocery store and Wild Oats, plus coffee, dry cleaners, restaurants. Oh, and I got a new pair of glasses that I LOVE. I've taken to wearing them daily, which I haven't done since I begged my parents for contacts before I started seventh grade. M says they make me look smart and sexy. Frankly, I've never had it so good!
Which is good to remember, when everything else seems beyond my grasp.

oopsie!

2007-05-25T14:40:00.000-07:00

Little worker bee busily, busily packing boxes found a bill that needed paying and so sat right down, kerplunk, at the computer and dashed off an electronic funds transfer. Only, she added a few too many zeros and emptied her family's bank account into Cingular's cavernous coffers. Only realized it when sane, sensible husband sat down at computer two days later and freaked out when he saw we had NO MONEY LEFT!!! He took it really well, actually, and even managed to laugh, which, I think, demonstrates that 1) he loves me and 2) I'm not sure what.

Now, if we hadn't called the cell phone company and ever so politely asked for $3000 back, would we ever have seen that money again?

And do you not shudder to think what will happen when I'm on call in the wee hours and writing orders for, oh I don't know, MORPHINE?

Just thinking about this whole episode makes me want to drink heavily, light up a smoke and give up entirely, because ther is obviously NO HOPE FOR ME!

a strange fetish

2007-05-07T10:17:00.000-07:00

It's hot. I'm sitting here at computer, dressed in very cute pink skirt and tank top (I know!)sweating at 10 in the morning. Fili snoozes away on her bed, grateful that the roofers seem to have departed for a coffee break and are no longer scraping and banging overhead. Our landlord has, apparently, decided to fix things up as we're leaving. The gutter over one of our windows, we remarked just the other day, is held up solely by a cable that has been curiously wrapped around it. When we called this to their attention, they got right on it. I can't complain. They've been very decent landlords. Still, the noise and commotion does make it hard to nap properly.

Gabriel has entered a new phase, I think. He asserts himself with a new vigor. Now, when he wants to tote a cereal box around the house, sprinkling cheerios hither and thither like a crazed flower boy, he cries piteously and reaches for the cabinet saying "mo! mo!" And when I say, "no," which I admit I am beginning to relish, he crumples to the ground, oversized melon first and thrashes about for minutes at a stretch. It is bizarre. I don't really know how to deal with it, frankly. I mean, any idiot-parent knows that you can't GIVE IN, for the love of god. That would only MAKE MATTERS WORSE. But, it doesn't seem very constructive, either, for me to go read the paper, which is what I did this morning. Hmm. Eventually, though, he did give up on his cereal box fixation for the moment. We had a hug and a giggle and then he launched right into another obsession: ELMO. Oh. My. God. Though I admit to being a full-on Muppet fanatic back in the day, I did not see the ramifications of indulging his delight at discovering a pair of pants that I got from a friend were subtly embroidered with the visage of said Muppet. I am sorry. I did not know. One day, nothing and then the next, he points and says, "el-MOE." How sweet! How cute! But it quickly became...an obsession. He wants to sit and look at this website with me all day long. All. Day Long. Here's how he asks,"el-MOE? el-MOE! el-Moe! Wah! Wah! Wah!" Over and over until your ears bleed and you are pretty sure you've transformed into one of those "meep-meep" characters, for all the sense you're managing to talk to him.
So, we've done the games, the songs, the make-a-monster (fun, actually), Limbo Elmo, Chicken Dance Elmo. Elmo goes to the Doctor, Elmo goes Potty, Elmo goes to Hell in a Handbasket. No, not that last one. Hee hee, but check this out. It's an interview with Elmo's puppeteer, who is not the small, squeeky voiced individual that I envisioned.
I have a feeling, though, that we've crested this particular baby fetish. And, as obsessions go, it could be worse. And I'm sure the next one will be!

okay, I'm getting to work any minute now

2007-05-01T09:50:00.000-07:00

A fine shot of my tonsils as I roar in triumph, having spent an entire day cajoling young master Gabriel to wear his bunny ears for a record shot.

More things I will miss:

1) Liberals. I have become comfortably accustomed to being surrounded by people who think about the world in a remarkably similar way to myself. In moving to a blazing red state, I can no longer take that for granted. And even though I'm sure to grow as a person by confronting my own biases and blah, blah, blah, there's nothing quite so comforting as KNOWING the rest of the world is quite insane, and far, far away.

2) My dog. I write this with great sadness. Fili, our mutt with more than a dash of pit bull, is canis non grata in Denver. Can you believe it? And I am choosing convenience over my dog. The guilt! It's true that we could select a far-flung suburb in which to reside, but I really, really don't want to commute during residency. And so, Fili will be moving in with Grandma and Grandpa to frolic and play on 20 acres of varmint-infested wilderness for at least 3 years. She will love it! I even think G'ma and G'pa will love it. But we will miss her terribly. In exchange, we've agreed to take in the ill-tempered and frail cat, Tabitha, that my parents inherited from my mom's best friend when she had to move into an Alzheimer's facility. It's musical pets! I sure hope Sammy and Tabitha hit it off okay. Hmm... We may all need to be sedated.

silly hats

2007-04-25T08:46:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty sure he's covering up his baby dreds' in his grandpa's hat.

Here are a few more California things I'm pre-mourning:

1) cool foggy mornings walking the dog, looking at the riotous roses, and poppies that spring up in our neighbors yards.

2) In n' Out Burger

tuesday

2007-04-24T09:42:00.000-07:00

Just got back from a loverly week in CO, looking at daycares, neighborhoods, eating too much ice cream and drinking a wee bit too much red wine with my family. I'm getting excited about moving! The agonies of packing up and the bedlam of unpacking are still far enough away that I can enjoy the idea of change without all the messy reality. Gabriel, as always, had a blast with his grandparents. I think he actually remembered them from the last visit at Christmas. He followed my dad around the yard, helped with "projects" like feeding the birds and putting gravel in a bucket. I came home from lunch with my grandma to find him alternating banging a piece of wood with a ball peen hammer and licking the same hammer. It does make me wonder what goes on in that head.
On the daycare front, I must say it's a leetle less nerve-wracking than last time. At least, I know that the idea of daycare is not wholly untoward. It's the specific ones that you have to watch out for: like the one just down the street from the hospital where I'll be working, where, in the 15 minutes we were there, we witnessed a teacher opening a gate into a little girls face, scolding another for wetting her pants, and the same girl getting bashed in the head with a truck by a little boy who wanted her seat. Umm, no...
We did find a nice montessori daycare, where the kids seemed content, busy and noticeably unviolent. There is a designated Spanish speaker in each classroom, and a diverse kiddo population which, frankly, is rare in CO. It's too expensive, of course, but I think we'll just have to do it.
So, that's my small life. I sent G off to daycare so I can get things done. Hmm, shall I go to the coffee shop first, or take a nap. Life is so full of a number of things....

Starting a list

2007-04-13T19:37:00.000-07:00

...of everything that I will miss about California:

1) the ocean, even on days windy enough to pumice the skin right off your face

2) fruit, figs, plums and oranges in the backyard.

to be continued, perhaps

Howdee do?

2007-04-09T13:09:00.000-07:00

So, I'm trying again. It's been a wild winter, in some ways. In others, I have seriously gone to seed. I've given up exercise and sunscreen. I do know how to live on the edge, clearly.
I've finished my last rotation of medical school. I graduate in two months and will be a doctor. Frightening and terrible to behold. Of course, the big joke is that I still know diddly caca about life, medicine or anything else of import, but now I shall trade in my short white coat for a long white coat and pretend like I know my ass from my elbow. Filled with confidence in our medical education system? I don't blame you a bit.
I'm moving back home! Well, to Colorado, anyhoo. I matched with a family practice residency in Denver and am looking forward to living so much closer to my family. And not JUST for the free babysitting. I'm sure we'll all drive each other crazy in short order, but it's really time to be, you know, more connected. It's hardly a revelation, but we're getting older all the time, and it just feels right to be with the people you really love in life.
Enough senti-mental babble. The babe is doing great. Walking, running, jumping, climbing, talking (after a fashion) and generally engaged in every possible mess-making scenario the house has to offer. A picture to follow, though he presents a photo challenge these days. I delete half the pics because he's either left the frame by the time the digi-shutter snaps or I have captured nothing but hugely enlarged baby nostrils. Not unlike photographing a dog, frankly.
M is good, too. Excited about the move one moment. Dreading searching for a new job the next. It's a lot to ask of someone you love. Wish us all lots of luck!

O it's been so very long

2006-12-06T13:24:00.000-08:00

I almost made it to a year.

I've become bored with myself and tired of the drivel.

There are too many episodes of CSI to watch.

I hope to be back someday, but I think it's time to take a little break.

Like, I haven't already been doing that.

Steel yourself

2006-11-08T10:37:00.001-08:00

I have an earth-shattering revelation.

Are you ready?

Gabriel slept through the night.

I know. I warned you.

And I know that by speaking of it, I risk fate's icy fingers slipping in to tickle him awake 6 times tonight.

But I just can't help myself.

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds...

2006-11-02T13:51:00.000-08:00

November has cooperated, serving up a drear rainy day to set the tone for the new month. I'm full of left-over halloween candy and feeling both sickly and glum. But calm too, watching the cars skim by on the road below, drinking my tea (decaf chai. yummy!), listening to the dog snore the afternoon away. Gabriel is still at daycare, napping now. I'll pick him up when I'm done with this. Am blog blocked, again. Perhaps a little nap will help.

punkin' center

2006-10-23T15:10:00.000-07:00

We totally fell for the roadside pumpkin patch!

I mean, how could you not?

mad as a hatter

2006-10-23T14:47:00.000-07:00

I LOVE radiology. I have time to do all these things. The self-care, the shopping, the crossing off on little lists of things that have piled up in dusty corners of my mind (lots of those). Of course, the downside is that I now have time to do these things. Just got back from the dentist and sitting here with a thick and tingly lip, I'm thinking maybe I was happier on wards, crazed and mentally benumbed. I had to get a filling and, gasp, a crown. The dentists have been advising me to get a crown for NINE years now, since that hideous root canal I endured before leaving for Peace Corps. Apparently, the tooth will break off eventually. Seems a little, I don't know, catastrophic, but do I look like a dentist? Umm, no. But now the tooth has some decay and the gum is all irritated, and so this morning after emerging from a three hour X-ray viewing session, I willingly sat it in a chair as my very sweet, but no-nonsense, dentist ground the remainder of the tooth down to a wee nub. Oh. My. God. The drills! I kept reminding myself to relax and breathe, but I kept realizing that I had every possible muscle clenched in my entire body. I had a death grip on the "Good Housekeeping" magazine I failed to dispose of properly. All riight, deep breath, relax... CLENCH!
I opted for the amalgam filling, full of mercury as it is. It's in the back, for one, and no one will ever see it. Plus, it'll fit in with all my other fillings and not feel like the odd, you know, tooth out. Mostly though I love the sound of the stuff being packed into my head. Good ol' Dr. K, my childhood dentist, described it as the sound of walking in deep snow with moon boots, before I had my first filling 25 years ago. And it is. I am transported back to blindingly bright winter days, tromping out into the fresh snow. Trying to follow my dads footprints, scrunch, scrunch scrunch. Ah...

museum day

2006-10-16T13:26:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, very keen to escape the house on a dreary grey day, we drove over the bridge to the very cool exploratorium -- half playhouse, half science fair project-land. Though Gabriel is somewhat younger than the target audience, we thought he might enjoy looking at people and bright shiny objects. This, however, was not the case, and a brief interlude of ecstasy brought about by the bubble chamber aside, he pretty much hated the whole exercise. Sigh. And then there was traffic all the way home. We took turns yelling: ba ba ba! and: ga ga ga! and: la la la! until I thought I would go mad.
They clip his fingernails at daycare. The first couple times he grew talons they mentioned that they needed to be clipped, a sort of gentle reminder to mother to get with the grooming, I guess. Now they just do it because they know I'm a hopeless case. I usually manage to get one or two nails clipped at a sitting, then I lose my grip. They must hold him down with something very heavy.
I've just been troubled, though, by this nagging feeling that Gabriel might be better cared for if I just left him at daycare all the time. He seems so happy and content there. Once I bring him home, he's typically bored and screaming within the hour. Isn't he supposed to LOVE being at home with mom! Ha!
I just started a two-week radiology rotation, today. It's self-directed. And so after lunch I directed myself home!

a new day dawning

2006-10-14T14:29:00.000-07:00

Gabriel slept till the almost civilized hour of 7 this morning. I heard him start squawking and padded barefoot across the hall to his room. He stood at the crib rail in his fleece bag, jumping up and down, grinning madly. I picked him up and gave him a big hug, then set him on the floor to change him. As soon as I had his diapers and jammies off the flipped over on his belly, like a cat or a navy seal, and scooted over to the short table by the rocker. He pulled himself up and played with his binkies. I pulled out some clothes for him to wear and looked back over at him to find him on the floor, poking tentatively at a pile of something. I didn't have my glasses on and so crawled over myself and got real close. Poop. A little turd in a lake of diarrhea. Gabriel looked perplexed and somewhat charmed as he examined his handiwork. My clever little guy! I picked him up, getting poo all over me in the process, and handed him off to M, who ran an impromptu morning bath. I commenced the scooping and the scrubbing. I worked at it a while, but t still smells like poo in there.
I'm so over this motherhood thing...

Grr...

2006-10-09T17:40:00.000-07:00

Have been in something of a blogging slump, obviously. Have been in something of a life slump too. No no, have not suddenly taken to drinking 40s on the stoop and watching daytime tv when I really should have been at the hospital making superfluous notes in charts. Although, now that I've written it, that does have a certain appeal. I've just been a bit, well, down, and not really feeling like doing much except crabbing at my husband, kicking the dog and watching CSI reruns on Spike. I know. That bad. I have tried to create a little bubble of sanity around the peekin. It's funny how one can ACT happy and all when the audience goes to bed at 7. I haven't been so great at holding my shit together after 7, however. Furthermore, I have accepted that I cannot reasonably keep this up and am now committed to fixing myself. Oh, fucking, boy. I'm totally gritting my teeth and seeing a therapist. Because that's the best attitude to affect in pursuing help. I HATE sitting across from somebody and talking about my problems. Which is ironic, of course, given the activity I'm involved in right this second, i.e. exposing my problems to all and sundry via the magnificent internet. It all feels like a colossal waste of time and money. And I had to look up how to spell "colossal," because it's a weird word, with the vowels making different sounds. Anyway. I should really go make something for dinner. Ugh...

life imitating blog? or something even more disturbing?

2006-10-01T14:35:00.000-07:00

So this morning, we were puttering around the house to the tune of a cranky and possibly inebriated infant (staggering, crashing around), when the doorbell rang. Fili lunged out the miniscule crack of daylight, as usual, as I tried to spy who it was without releasing the hellhound. It was the Wondertwins from the apartment in back. They're lovely nine year-olds who dress identically everyday. "There's a dead bird on the sidewalk outside," they chorused. "We can't get our car out. Can you come move it?" Um, sure. I walked down the stairs with P & A giggling and twittering behind me. Out on the sidewalk, in front of their garage door, there was indeed a bird. Very clearly dead. It was a pheasant. And, it seems to me, not shot down over the city, as it's feet were stretched out neatly behind as if once bound together with twine. It also had an odd plastic cone afixed somehow over its beak. I picked it up by the feet with a plastic bag and stuffed it into another before tossing it into the dumpster. Done. The girls were shrieking with horror and delight. I turned around to see their mother, J, standing on the steps with her hand over her eyes. "I owe you one," she says, "I couldn't face that before coffee." "No worries," I said, "I love creepy shit like that." All right, I kept that last part to myself.

So there's my "pheasant" revision. Perhaps I should revisit "suede" as well. I saw the cutest jacket in a catalog the other day....

free association

2006-09-26T21:42:00.000-07:00

So, I'm all giddy. Thanks to the lovely Bihari of Iowadrift, I've been tagged with (for? by?) a meme. I don't even know what that means, but I suddenly feel like the popular kids asked me to sit at their lunch table. Hee hee.

And without further ado:

London: My first trip with my husband, then only a shadow of a glimpse of a possiblity. After finishing up our Peace Corps service, we went on separate trips: he, backpacking alone through Europe, I, to Morocco with friends and then to Ireland with (already) ex-boyfriend. In seedy internet cafes in Marakesh and Fez, then Dublin and Galway, M and I kept emailing each other, finally making plans to meet. But where? We actually decided on Paris, where (after abandoning surly ex in Cork) we met and, you know, drank a lot of wine. Then we decided to go to London. Really, just because we could. Europe is so cool like that! It was December. It was cold and dreary and the sun set around 3:30 in the afternoon. We didn't know where to go (because of the dearth of things to do in London...) and we really had no money, having spent it all on the grimy hostel run by the rather authoritarian Romanian couple. So after balking at spending $20 to see a crappy American movie, we found a pub, drank a pint or four and talked and talked and talked. We were, I realize now, hammering out the future. Drunken, smelling of smoke, I knew I'd found the bloke fer me.

Martini: This is another tale of romance (minus the belligerant gypsies). When M asked me to marry him, he devised this elaborate and very sophisicated night out. First, dinner at the Watergate. Then a short stroll to the Kennedy center where M happened to have tickets to the symphony waiting (he believes, and I allow it, that I am much more cultured than I really am). Afterwards, we went to a fancy schmancy bar. I was underdressed, despite my attempts to the contrary. Anyway, I felt that under these circumstances I should forgo my typical beer or shiraz so I went out on a limb and asked for a martini. I believe the skinny, black-attired, heavily- made-up cocktail waitress asked me what I'd like it made with. Umm...vodka? She saw immediately that I was a complete rube and ran out to fill up a glass with rubbing alcohol before dropping an olive in it. She brought it and I sipped it, feeling ever so chic, but growing ever more sick to my stomach. Well, eventually, the glow settled in and I realized that I WAS one of the beautiful people after all. We slipped out of the bar and to a small hotel. The rest is, as I've heard it said, history.

Pheasant: Not a hunter myself, I'm always fascinated by those stuffed beasts in museums. Grisly, yet oddly endearing, their glass eyes gleam and I want to reach out and stroke their fur. And, yet, not. The pheasants I recall, however, live in black and white, in the photographs I remember hanging in my Grandma June's hall. Pictures of my dad and his dad and his brother and sister, grinning with guns and dead birds. Very uncharacteristic of the dad that I've always known, though he keeps a certain familiarity with firearms. Colorado is a flaming red state, you know.

Suede: I think I remember ruining a pair of shoes. Sodden, almost slimy, after a trudge through the slush. Other than that, I've got nothing.

And, as, I gather, the thing to do is pass these things on, I tag my dear Ukemochi...

passing

2006-09-20T22:03:00.000-07:00

Have been away so long, I'm looking for reasons not to blog. So easily un-rutted. Anyway, finished up ICU. Long hard slog. Emotionally draining, even on the periphery as I was. On my very last day, "Frank" died. He'd been in ICU for a couple months, a fixture in the corner room my whole rotation. I took care of him one day when the resident was off. It turned out to be his last really good day. We "talked" a little bit about the sudoku puzzles he was doing to pass the time. He was connected to the ventilator via a trach and so couldn't actually verbalize but he was very good at mouthing words. We dropped by for a visit every morning on rounds, but as it became clear medical science had nothing more to offer Frank, the visits became more and more perfunctory until the attending just stopped going into the room at all. He was on "comfort care." A morphine drip. His brother's came in every day and talked to him for hours. He had his 25th birthday party with a few balloons and streamers. The nurses came and sang "Happy Birthday. There was a small cake he couldn't eat.
On that last day, I was sitting at the nurses station just staring off into space and happened to look at the telemetry monitors. I noticed that Frank's heart was beating really fast. And I thought to myself. This is it. He's dying. For reasons I'm still not sure of, I walked right into his room and pulled on gloves, ready to help. But there was thankfully nothing to do. He was a "no code" and so as his heart began to beat erratically and then fail, there was nothing to administer or attend to. Just to be with him. Touch his leg, his arm as he struggled to resist the body's betrayal. One his brothers was there, but didn't know what to do. "Talk to him," said the nurse. "Let him know that you're here." She rubbed his brow and said, "You're a beautiful man. Go to that beautiful place." The other nurse placed her palm over his eyes, but the lids wouldn't shut. He kept staring, and breathing, and breathing, and then nothing. The attending, Dr. S., materialized behind me and said, "Listen for a heart beat." Sucking tears into my throat, I unlooped my stethescope and listened hard. There is a lot of white noise between a body and the ears, but nothing resembling the living heart. Everyone crying, the nurses backed away and left his brother at the body's side. Dr. S offered to call his mother. He declined. I walked out to the nurses station, to the chaos, where six people were industriously scribbling notes and making phone calls and unaware that a life had ended 20 feet away. One of the interns arrived at just that moment from the coffee shop downstairs. "Thanks," I said, when she handed me my coffee. "I really could use this."
Rest in peace, Frank.

avocados are falling from my neighbor's tree

2006-09-06T12:41:00.000-07:00

So I'm at home today with the little virus shedder. He's doing much better, though still a bit cranky. He's asleep now, undrugged, thank you very much -- though the temptation to misuse that bottle of tylenol with codeine has whispered in my ear a few times, I'll admit. I'm eating a hummus and avocado sandwich and trying not to obsess about residency applications. I've discovered a dangerous website where you can log in and check if a particular program has downloaded your file, in all its mundane detail. I checked idly last night and discovered that two of them HAD! Now I want to know when the others will! And will they want to interview me? And when? And what should I wear? Gah!! I can't stand the suspense!
Because I am a completely paranoid nerd, I'm also concerned that they'll be counting the number of times I log onto said site and then inform the residency programs that I really am an obsessive compulsive git with no life. That could work in my favor, come to think of it. Maybe I'll just check once more...

coxsackie, heh heh

2006-09-04T16:55:00.000-07:00

When the blisters erupted on his tongue, I thought to myself, I know what this is. And now I understand why he's been refusing to eat, suck on a binkie or sleep without a real-live nipple in his mouth. Poor baby has a coxsackie virus infection -- and hand, foot, mouth disease. It's not dangerous, just painful and awful if it happens to you or your small one! Oh, and it's contagious, so despite the fact that I'm 98% sure he contracted it at daycare, I'm going to do the responsible thing and keep him home until the blisters disappear. Also because the doctor at the urgent care said to.... She also gave us a prescription for tylenol with codeine which we trotted right out to fill and then gave to poor enfant terrible at the earliest possible opportunity. It seemed to have the unfortunate effect of actually increasing his energy level, but perhaps it was merely relieving his pain, allowing him to cavort around the room on his butt and bent leg, like the crazed 12 month-old mendicant he most resembles.
Anyway, M's taking tomorrow off and I'm taking the next day or two off. I'm looking forward to it, honestly. The ICU, while fine and full of learning opportunities, freaks me out. Sick, sick patients on machines! Families utterly devastated and blaming doctors and people being defensive. Much talk of "denial." Patients dying left, right and center. But not before being "coded," i.e. shot up with all kinds of heart-stimulating drugs and shocked, and CPR'd and augh! I do not have it in me to be an "intensivist," of this I am sure. I am also thinking I have made the correct decision to pursue family practice. Oh, the happy clinic, with the endless office visits of the worried well. Bring it on! I love psycho-social issues! I love knee pain that's been bothering you for 6 months or so. Whew. I am so not hard-core.

the best of times, the worst of...oh hell, you know how it is.

2006-09-02T21:14:00.000-07:00

Gabriel's sick, crying and nursing like a fiendish fiend. I am tired, ready to cry and my boobies hurt. And that's the story today. But on the plus side: I have the weekend off, again! and I finished my residency application. Tomorrow we are going on a hike (really, tomorrow we'll argue about where to go and how to get there, then the baby will cry all the way in the backseat, we'll forget sunscreen/food for the baby/a map, I'll feel horribly guilty and take it out on my spouse). I'm stumping for a pre-hike breakfast at my favorite diner in the whole world. I will be successful, I can just feel it.

when I was one

2006-08-28T21:02:00.000-07:00

We had a little party. There was cake and ice cream and balloons and an over-tired baby and lots of cameras. Oh, and lots of wine. But it was a nice little time to celebrate a little someone who's had a big impact on my life for the last year, or so. Hee hee.
My parents and my grandmother came out from Colorado. They have forgiven us, apparently, for the horrors visited upon them when they agreed to help us move in, a mere 4 months ago. They brought presents (too many) and tomatoes from their garden. I can't believe they're gone again already, but it was a really nice visit. And the dog loved it. Fili and my dad have a special relationship.

August 27th, 9:20 am

2006-08-26T20:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking about writing down my birth story, that is, the story of Gabriel’s birth, for quite a while now. Tomorrow, he’ll be a year old. Some details may have faded (mercifully) into the hazy outlines of hormonal memory. That’s okay. I keep telling myself the story, reciting it in awe and amazement, and it turns out the same every time.

I woke up around 4:30 am on August 27th. My dream leftovers handed me an image of a particularly heavy piece of canvas lawn furniture being snapped open, which didn’t make a lot of sense until I went to the bathroom to pee and discovered after I was done that I was still leaking. I stood up, looked at myself in the mirror and thought, “I’m going to have a baby today.” I did a little waddle dance of joy as yet more amniotic fluid trickled into my slippers. I woke up M and told him,
“My water broke!”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“What should we do now?”
“Go back to bed, I guess.”
I lay back down on a waterproof pad scavenged from the baby’s room. We cuddled up, too excited to sleep, but conscious that this could take a long, long time. I was expecting it to – everyone knows that first babies take forever to travel five inches south.
Five minutes later, the first contraction arrived and I realized I would not be lying down for it. I sat on the edge of the bed, kind of rocking back and forth, feeling nauseated. By golly, it DID feel like a menstrual cramp, but of such magnified intensity that it was the only thing I could think about. It passed. I laid back down. 5 minutes later, right on the nose, another contraction. The dog pranced in, stumping for breakfast in that subtle way of hers. M realized there would be no more sleeping and got up to wrangle the animals. He came back in, took a picture of me peeking out from the quilt I had over my head. Contractions did not mess around after that. Within a couple hours they were arriving one after another, like waves rolling up on the beach. M had the brilliant idea of timing them, and we realized they were indeed about 2 minutes apart, lasting a good minute and a half. M called the midwife. The plan was to labor as long as possible at home, then set out for the birth center, a mere 40 miles down the freeway. Luckily, though, the midwife on call, Sallie, just happened to live in our town, not a mile from our house, so before setting out she came over to check on me.
I had developed a system for dealing with the contractions. I was obsessed with staying upright leaning slightly forward in a seated position. Rocking helped, covering my eyes helped, breathing audibly like they teach in yoga class helped. I have no idea why. Sallie arrived and the first thing I remembered her saying is, “I have a class this morning. I told them not to put me on-call.” The normal part of me wanted to apologize for the horrible inconvenience I’d put her to, but another voice spoke up and said, “That’s stupid. Don’t apologize. What I’m doing is more important than any class.” And I smiled at her and said, “Hi Sallie.” I felt really hazy and warm. It was going to be just fine.
In characterizing labor, I would hesitate to say it’s painful. I mean, it’s easily the most viscerally uncomfortable I’ve been in my entire life, but it wasn’t agony. The only time that contractions seemed unmanageable was when Sallie had me lay on my back so she could listen to the baby’s heart rate as my uterus squooshed the bejezus out of us. It was pretty unpleasant when she performed the internal exam, as well, but I forgave her when she announced I was dilated about 5 cm. Hooray!
“You can stay home a little while longer, or you can leave for the Birth Home, now. Your choice.”
“I guess we can hang out a little longer.”
She looked at me funny and asked, “Did your mom have fast labors?” I replied that I thought she did (and actually, my brother was nearly born before my eyes on the backseat of a ’68 Plymouth Fury hurtling down the dirt road with a cyclone of dust behind, as we raced to the hospital). “Maybe you should head out pretty soon,” she suggested.
We took our time, though, as we gathered our wits, still sure that this labor-thing would be long, drawn out marathon. M made sandwiches, and let the dog out. Then he nearly got into a fight with someone who parked in front of our driveway for our neighbor’s Saturday morning garage sale. This I was aware of only peripherally. “Oh, M’s yelling at someone. How strange,” but I figured it would all work out. He came back in and put on a CD that I’d bugged him to make for just such an occasion, entitled “CMM’s Labor CD.” I yelled at him to turn it off. Too freaking distracting. I brushed my teeth between contractions because that seemed important and then slipped on a sundress and waddled out to see what happened next.
I’d imagined that sitting in the car during labor would be just excruciating, but it wasn’t that bad. I continued with my obsessive keeping upright, leaning forward, covering my face, breathing. M drove pretty smoothly and the 45-minute trip passed incredibly quickly. As we were angling off the freeway, I had a couple pushing contractions in the car that made me grunt and groan. M asked, “Are you okay?” kind of panicky. Oh, sure, doin’ swell! We arrived at the Birth Home in the middle of a contraction. M ran around to open my door, which I snatched back closed. I needed the enclosed space. He carried our bag inside and after the contraction subsided I made my way gingerly through the gate and across the yard and up the stairs into the house.
The back bedroom was open and the lights were soft. I sat on a chux pad on the bed and breathed through another contraction. Sallie was there. She took my blood pressure. She and M were just watching me as if waiting for the baby to come shooting out of my eye. I said, “Tub?” “It’s all ready,” said Sallie. And it was! I pulled my dress up over my head and walked up the step every so carefully and submerged myself in the deep warm water. It was heavenly. And it seemed to loosen everything up. I felt the baby move down through my bones and the next contraction was another pusher. I had a couple more like that and then felt down between my legs, expecting a baby’s head to be there. I could feel a wrinkled piece of scalp inside and realized that I would tear. I wanted to stay in the water, but Sallie was fussing about the temperature and I could tell she wanted me to get out. I should have stayed, but I stepped out, awfully gracefully, I thought, and got wrapped in a towel. I got up on the bed but wasn’t sure how I could best stay upright to push out the baby. No way was I lying down, and I there was nothing to brace against or pull on. I opted for hands and knees. I was just following the contractions, not pushing consciously, just letting my body tell me what to do. I yelled. I bellowed. Sallie suggested I push. I did and, wow, that hurt. The skin stretching and threatening to tear was an entirely different sensation from labor pain. No way to move that to the side. I think I just decided to hell with it, let’s get this over with. I pushed and pushed. I said, “I don’t think I can do this.” M said, “You’re doing this!” Another push and “The head, they head,” they said. Another push and out plopped the body, tumbling right onto the bed. A boy! I knew it. The whole time I was pregnant, I was sure it was a boy. I moved so I could see him as he breathed and cried. I just remember saying, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” I have never been so happy, so ecstatic, so amazed by life. He was in my arms immediately, still wet and waxy and warm. We just looked and touched and were amazed. Gabriel. We were so amazed.

hi mom

2006-08-19T11:34:00.000-07:00

Gabriel loves his new shoes. I tried them on this morning and he fussed for a minute but then totally forgot about it. He's having a nap with the geckos on right now.
Thanks!

wherein I feel the wee-est bit sorry for myself, but also learn some valuable lessons

2006-08-19T11:08:00.000-07:00

I'm back. But without any deep thoughts. Probably for the best.
I've been mulling over the struggles I've had during the last 8 weeks. Now with just a little space to breathe, I think I've got a little (miniscule) bit of perspective. I have to accept that one of my most cherished self-images, that of competence and cleverness, needs to be relaxed just a little. Despite the fact that I am in my thirties, now married and with a child, feeling old and tired, I am still a student, still green and inexperienced in the medical world. In everything I do, I betray myself as the total ignoramous that I am. I get in people's way and am reliant upon their good will not to push me right over. And I do so like to please people. I need to get over that. I will not please people until I can singlehandedly cure cancer. I just need a little more time to get comfy with the struggle.
Sigh.
I'm not as fascinated by medicine as I was in the classroom. I enjoy talking to patients and doing procedures and exams, but it seems like most of medicine in a hospital is administrative. I'd see a patient for 15 minutes in the morning and then spend three hours (because I am slow) filling out paperwork so they can be admitted or scanned or discharged or whatever. Hard to get excited about that. Hard not to end up with writer's cramp. Hard not to end up bored and just wanting to get people home where they can actually get better.
Maybe part of it was the preceptor I was assigned this time around. She was not so much with the teaching. I felt like she tolerated my presence as long as I didn't slow her down. Which I did, daily. I believe that her approach was meant to be that you should come up with the answers on your own. Very Socratic method and all that. Other doc's I've known have done that, too, but usually after torturing you with questions for a few (interminable) minutes, they actually give you some information you can use. Dr. L never relented. She would press until you were squashed flat as a grape and then inspect the bottom of her shoe before turning around and walking away. Really disconcerting. And depressing. On the other hand, I probably did improve my presentation and history taking skills, just to avoid that stare. And also to avoid any more leg-humping by her overly-groomed canine.
And so on Monday I'm off to a new hospital. A private hospital about 5 minutes down the road. I'll be doing ICU. Yay for fresh starts.

hoo-ray!

2006-08-18T20:54:00.000-07:00

I finished my sub-i today. Totally anti-climactic. I signed out my one remaining patient to the back-up intern, turned in my pager and high tailed it home, where I was greeted by a teething baby and a fussy spouse who needs to study for a test tomorrow. Oh well. I had two glasses of wine and a big dish of chocolate ice cream to celebrate. I have a whole weekend off. I shall think of something more exciting to write about, I promise.

shoeless joe

2006-08-13T20:27:00.000-07:00

There have been a few subtle hints from the daycare contingent. We have the only unshod toddler at Fantastic Babes. I find shoes for infants hilarious, though, and have steadfastly refused. It's summer. It's California. And it's better for his feet, they say, to be the barefoot wonder. But now that Gabriel is pulling himself on everything he can reasonably grip, I'm willing to acquiesce. Hookworm and splinters. It's time to buy shoes.
We bought some extremely cheap shoes at Old Navy over the weekend. Gabriel can kick them off with a flip of his foot. Grandma is sending us these.
Thank God for Grandma!

hee hee

2006-08-09T11:28:00.000-07:00

So I have a day off today. And do you know what I did?
I sent the baby off to daycare and stayed home! I know! It's shameful, but oh so nice to have a few hours to myself. Actually, I wanted to get my residency application done and, by god, I did. Schmaltzy personal statement and all. That I found myself looking forward to this for days, speaks volumes, no doubt.
I'm going to pick G up. I swear. Any minute now...

surreal life, part deux

2006-08-05T20:12:00.000-07:00

So this morning we were post-call, which is when we all sit around and talk about the patients we admitted yesterday. We met at the attending's office at 9 after pre-rounding on them all. The formidable Dr. L was there right on time, and she'd brought her dog, Max. A little yappy terrier with a silkie hairdo. Seriously, the dog has nicer hair than I do. He was pretty cute, actually, running around and chasing his tail and barking merrily as we all staggered in with our oversized styrofoam cups of coffee after too little sleep, found seats and started nervously shuffling our papers. H & P (history and physical) forms, the green copy, not the yellow, because Dr. L wants that copy for your presentation. Afterwards you need to switch them out in the chart. Oh, and stickers. Must bring at least two stickers with patient name, DOB and medical record number to hand to Dr. L so that she may affix them to her note. And EKGs for perusal. I was sitting there sweating because my last patient presentation hadn't gone so hot. My patient had a thoracentesis and I was all over the composition of the pleural fluid, bursting at the seams with differential diagnosis of transudates vs exudates (whatever). And I total failed to recognize that this nice old lady was hypothyroid. Oops. Dr. L did not, however, and totally raked me over the coals. Fun! Anyway, I was waiting to discover what blatently obvious thing I'd forgotten THIS time, when little Max the dog comes over for a pat. I obliged and tousled his well-grommed locks. He then proceeded to get very friendly indeed with my leg. I tried to ignore it at first, but I didn't want things to get out of hand (a doggy tease? quel horreur!), so I tried pushing him down with my hand on his floppy-haired head, then I tried pushing him away with my leg. No avail! I wanted to punt the little shit across the room, but figured that would earn me no brownie points and, let's face it, I could really use some. Finally, after far too many agonized minutes, Dr. L said, "Max, what are you doing?" "I don't want to say," I squeaked. Max was scolded but not shamed. He was back for more within 5 minutes.

All I can say is: two more weeks until I'm out of this freak factory (and smack dab into another).

like a breath of fetid, well, breath

2006-08-02T21:11:00.000-07:00

Have not written in a while. Hard to fit it in between rounds and crying jags. Am seriously questioning my career choice. Also, M is out of town and 4 days as single mom has just left me wasted. Or perhaps that's the gin. Missed Gabriel's doctor's appointment (ear recheck) today. There was chaos involved and much shuffling of papers, but I can't think now of exactly how that happened. Only that it did and I must cope with the fact that I am a callous heartless bitch who puts her career before her child. And by career I mean abuse that I pay for. Also, I lost my pager. Tomorrow should be fun.

a clothed moment

2006-07-24T22:00:00.000-07:00

when in Rome

2006-07-24T17:21:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to beat the heat, we headed out to the beach yesterday. Oddly, we were not the only people to have this idea. The highway along the coast was bumper to bumper as we approached our destination. After sitting almost still for 20 minutes, so close you could see the water and smell the salt, but still miles from our dream-beach, we pulled off onto the side of the road to sulk and try to quiet the squalling baby (what, you don't like to be strapped in 5-point restraints for 2 hours, kid? What's wrong with you?). We were almost as grumpy as in our own 3rd floor sauna of an apartment. But then peering over the cliff towards the water, we glimpsed a sliver of sand below and a path that was only mildly inappropriate for carrying a child down. We decided to go for it and felt ever so superior to all the goons idling their engines on the road to paradise as we hoisted cooler (with picnic inside), baby, blankets and all other manner of accoutrement for the trek to water. It was beautiful. And it was full of naked people. Yes, we had discovered the nude beach.
And what do you do at the nude beach? Aside from an extra-special good job of applying sunscreen? Of course! The water was freezing, but delicious. Gabriel had a few wee dips, but was mostly excited to crawl around on the sand with the rest of his crab-like fellows. We ate chicken and brownies and had the most marvelous time. I'm going back, I swear, if I can just find it again. Brigadoon of Northern California.

everyone's a critic

2006-07-19T21:28:00.000-07:00

Mommy, you're such a good cook. Give me more of that delicious food! Yum....

living, learning, being a dumbass

2006-07-17T20:13:00.000-07:00

Well, here's the truth. I'm getting my ass kicked. Right out of the gate. It's not that I thought I'd be all over it, or anything. I just didn't expect to have them waxing the floor with me. Me and the Burmese guy with the not-so-hot grasp of colloquial English. So this morning, I had seen my first patient, a lovely young woman from Africa with TB. I've been waking her up every morning at 7am for nearly two weeks now to ask her about cough, fever, pain, etc, and she's ever so kind about it. Half-way through investigating my second patient (and to me, it all seems like a mystery to unearth each and every morning -- there is no easy way for me, lowly student, to get a succinct report from, say, the primary team intern or resident. Talking to me is a waste of everyone's time. So I have to skulk around, eavesdrop, try other people's passwords to the roughly 31 computer programs that conceal various pieces of patient data. Not that I'm bitter) the resident looks at me (is that a smirk, Dr. Dear?) and says, "Well, we have 5 consults today, so you do this one." My heart sinks just a little, because my last new patient presentation was an unmitigated disaster ("What medications did the patient receive in the ED?" "Umm...." I mean, how does a normal doctor-ish person fail to note that somewhat interesting fact? Well, I was running between floors looking for a computer to look at the lab results and print out the EKG, but still...), but I want to REDEEM myself and here is the opportunity. So in the panicked one hour and twenty minutes remaining till rounds, I finish up quickly with patient #2 (heart failure, hypertension, diabetes, TB, gout, and I think I'm forgetting something) and vow to get all the dirt on patient #3 (HIV/AIDS, chest pain and shortness of breath, probably PCP). And I do! I do! Except for the CT, but that hasn't even been read yet, so you can't really blame me (or can you?). Feeling almost proud of myself, especially when I realize that I have three patients and the real interns on the pulmonary service only have one or two. See, see, I think, I can do this. I'm not going to be a total failure. But pride, as you may have heard, goes before the fall. A meeting later, discussing all the TB patients. One of the public health nurses turns to the doctor and says, "Oh, we can't discharge patient #2 until he gets his pacemaker." Dr. S does a funny (well, comical) double take and said, "Pacemaker?," and then looks right at me. See, I told him this morning that nothing exceptional had happened over the weekend with patient #2, and things were going pretty well (for somebody with a bad heart, bad lungs and gout), because there was nothing in the chart. Really. I had no clue they were going to put in a pacemaker. It wasn't in the orders. It wasn't in the cardiology note. But someone, somewhere knows the plan, and that someone is not me.
You know, writing it out now, it doesn't seem like quite the big deal it seemed at the moment (one of the other attendings said, "Oh, look at her face," as I did a double take of my own). I almost cried. There's a lot of pressure to know everything. Even things you can't possibly know. It's not like I'm the person who's supposed to put in the pacemaker, for god's sake. But, the thing is, of course, that to take care of a patient is to take care of that person -- not just his lungs and the TB meds that will keep them from getting all grody. I'm not sure I'm up for it, frankly. It's discouraging to have to make each and every mistake just in order to learn from it, but it looks like I'm on my way.

on the move

2006-07-15T07:44:00.000-07:00

Gabriel is officially mobile. He has eschewed the classic crawl in favor of scooting around on his butt with his left leg tucked under him and his right leg propelling him crab-like across the floor. He's been working on it for weeks now, but had been moving so slow you needed time-lapse photography to catch him in action. My time-lapse brain, however, allowed me to become engrossed in something and look up minutes later to see him at the dog bowl, emptying it out in baby-sized hand splashes all over the floor. Now, however, you can see him moving in real time and it is frightening to behold. His favorite places in the house now are 1) the VCR/CD shelf where he presses buttons (he has figured out how to eject a tape AND put it back in -- the technology gene turns on rather early, I gather) and pounds mercilessly. 2) the aformentioned dog water. 3) any electric cord.
Our house is not exactly baby proofed. I've tried to pick the more caustic chemicals up off the floor, but aside from that, I guess I've opted to be on-my-toes, mostly because I am too lazy to embark on any large safety project. We don't have steps (inside at least) for him to go tumbling down, so if I can keep him from electrocuting himself we should be okay. Maybe.

the surreal life

2006-07-08T10:13:00.000-07:00

Found myself sitting in the attending's office waiting for "the team" to assemble to present patients, get beaten down and lectured, etc, on third day of rotation. Dr. S has yet to acknowledge my presence beyond saying when I turned up the first day, "Oh, I have a medical student. Great." It didn't sound THAT bad, though. The minutes tick by and he turns his jaundiced eye to me and asks, "Where did you go to undergrad?" Oh, oh, I know this one! "C---- College*, " I say, then feel compelled to qualify, "It's in Minnesota," because no one here has ever heard of it. "Ah," he says, "Minnesota. It's cold up there, isn't it." "It is indeed," I reply. "My daughter lived in Montana for a while." "Oh, it's cold there, too," I say, desperate for something to add to the conversation at this point, "I have a friend from Montana." "How does she like it?" "I think she likes it a lot." Oh, my God. Stop talking! Mercifully, the interns and resident descend at that moment, whisking attention away from my social imbecility.
That afternoon after grilling every one of the interns mercilessly, especially the guy from Burma with a shaky grasp of English, he turns to me and asks, "Now, what are the major products of Minnesota?" "Umm...farming products?" I stammer, because he can't be serious! "Yes, you should know the major products of the state where you're from." What the fuck!! "Okay, I'll look into that," seething because I am NOT from Minnesota, but don't want to point that out because I have no clue what the major products are from Colorado, either.
So, the next day, random list from Google of major farming products of Minnesota in my pocket, I expect the whole episode to have blown over, but nonetheless am repeating under my breath, "Corn, wheat, rye and sugar beets." After reporting on patients, he turns to me and says, "Now for the important issue. What are the major farming products of Minnesota?" I rattle off my list with aplomb. "You sound like quite the expert," he says. "Thank you," I reply.
I don't think I'll be getting honors on this rotation. But since the attending is clearly mad, I'm going to try not to let that bother me.

*"The Harvard of the Midwest," as M intones everytime they call and ask us to send them money, which is quite frequently.

evidence

2006-07-02T19:59:00.000-07:00

So I have something to confess. Prepare yourself. It's pretty heinous.
I walked all the way down to the farmer's market with Gabriel on Saturday and I forgot to put sunscreen on him. No, let's be perfectly honest, shall we? Having hoisted him onto my back and having fastened the buckles on the fabulous Ergo, the thought, "shoot, I forgot to put sunscreen on him," shot through my head. "He has his hat on," I said to myself. "We won't be gone long," I rationalized. And then I left the house.
I know. Terrible, Britney Spears-type mothering. And here is the sad proof. My baby with a farmer's sunburn. Your mother's nothing but an over-educated redneck, kid, and she's fixin' to make you just like her. Poor baby.

ah, the weekend

2006-07-01T09:15:00.000-07:00

For those of you watching at home, when we last left our heroine, she was tethered to the toilet at both ends and skipping out on her second day back at school. Would she give up hope and crawl back into bed for the rest of the year like she felt would probably be a good idea? Tempting, but no, she did rally on Wednesday and hauled her wizened-up self in to the hospital. And now she will stop referring to herself in the third person, because that's weird.
So I made it through the first week in the usual progression of things: Monday, pure terror and confusion. Tuesday, sick as dog. Wednesday, dehydrated and headachy. Thursday, pure terror: have to see a patient and write note. Friday: boredom with it all.
This is my first time in a teaching hospital, actually. I'm enjoying it. It takes a lot of the pressure off when you're the medical student in a team consisting of five actual physicians. The attending, Dr. S, is usually badgering them and I can listen and take notes or count the holes in the ceiling tile. In my third year, my hospital rotations were under the guidance of the gruff and burly Dr. A, who grilled the students incessently on everything in his misleadingly gentle Persian accent. I did learn a ton, but I left everyday burdened by the knowledge that I was completely incompetent and would never, ever measure up to the great Dr. A. Standing there (for hours and hours and hours) with several interns and a resident, I realize that I will most likely be ready to move up the next baby step a year from now. There is not so much distance between us. Also, it's intern week, when all the new interns are starting, all over the country (and, consequently, probably the worst week to become sick and require hospitalization), so they are at least as crazed and confused as I am. Misery loves company. And misery loves people in more misery. I get to go home every night this rotation after rounds. No call for me...yet!
I'm glad I'm back though.

why do I feel like a loser?

2006-06-27T11:23:00.000-07:00

Not for the reasons you might expect (i.e. I AM a loser, or just normal person beset by low confidence). It turns out that that icky feeling in the pit of my stomach was probably food poisoning. Last night, I experienced that long forgotten joy of being awakened from a fitful sleep by feelings of nausea, making it to the toilet just in time to yak up the pizza that M had so kindly ordered to celebrate my first day. Linguisa and artichoke hearts, we will not meet again for YEARS, I can promise you. The bug quickly travelled south and I have been re-living all my Peace Corps good times spent pissing right out of my ass. M, however, in unaffected, which throws some question of the whole food poisoning scenario, but man, what else could it be?
Then Gabriel threw up around 4am, but that is because, I think, I failed to elevate the head of his bed and he was swallowing all of his secretions. Still, the smell, the unhappiness, the need to change a deeply unhappy infant did not help matters at all. He seemed to bounce back though, when he woke up at 7, though, so I am crossing fingers that he is not really sick. I felt so punk this a.m., M postponed driving to Sacramento, fed baby and bundled him away to daycare so I could sleep. There is something a little suspicious about calling in sick on the second day of school, n'est-ce pas. So I feel guilty about that, but mostly I just feel like my stomach is being wrung out for mysterious reasons best left to the microbes.
Yay, so tomorrow, I'm back at it. 7 am, baby. I may have to don a pair of G's diapers, but I'll be there!

brutal

2006-06-26T20:35:00.000-07:00

First day down. Spent half of it getting lost in the warren of hallways, searching for my "team," and waiting for people I'd paged to not call me back. The other half I spent scheming to dart away from team to go pump and figuring out how I was going to break it to the resident that as much as I'd love to, I can't come in at 7am tomorrow because M has to drive to Sacramento for a meeting and I can't drop G at daycare until 8am. I retained nothing related to Pulmonology, with the exception of the acronym R.I.P.E. While potentially referring to my body odor after my 17th trip up the stairs to the only elevator that will take me down to the basement, I believe it may actually have something to do with TB meds.

Gabriel had a fantastic day at daycare. Then he came back home and fell spectacularly apart. But only after I konked his head against the doorframe (very gently, I swear). Until then, things were sunny.

So why do I feel like such a loser?

*rifampin, INH, pyridoxine and ethambutol. I looked it up.

wish us luck

2006-06-25T08:55:00.000-07:00

Well, tomorrow's the big day: my first day back after nearly a year home with Gabriel. He had a full day at daycare on Friday and by all reports had a great day. He played on the floor amidst the chaos, he slept with the big kids, he ate his sweet potatoes and yogurt, he had a swing outside in the yard. Sure, he looks stricken with betrayal when I drop him off, and seems to take a few moments to recognize me when I pick him up, but that's normal, right? Right?
So he's ready. I am not feeling quite so ready. Still, I have located my white coat and I think I know where my stethescope is (bedroom closet? maybe?).
I'll be at the county hospital, a mere mile from our apartment, starting with Pulmonology. I don't remember exactly why I thought that was a good idea, but whatever. Best to just jump in. Ready to feel like a complete idiot all of the time -- the student's role. Reminiscent of the parent's role, now that I think of it, but without the chortling laughs and newly toothy grins of baby to ease the pain.
I'll keep you posted...

thrift town, or is that thriftown?

2006-06-23T12:07:00.000-07:00

One of the nicest things about moving to our new apartment is a new friend, in the form of an old friend. Allow me to explain: turns out one of my college roommates, SW was living here all along! She married the guy who lurked around our house occasionally (in a very sweet, not scary way at all) and they have an adorably precocious 19 month-old daughter who narrates her day with nouns and gerunds. She lives on the other side of the lake and it's ever so nice to go on adventures. To the bakery! To Trader Joes! To the park!
Today, in a crazy coincidence, neither of us had children (Gabriel at daycare for the full-day trial run -- ohmigod; SPetite playing with a friend who throws things -- ghastly) and what did we do with our crazy freedom? We high tailed it to the suburbs and the 2nd hand mecca, Thrift Town, to get our hands on as much dusty, used clothing as possible in the two hours of precious liberty. It's all so reasonably priced, why not fill up a cart with things I didn't need before glimpsing them amongst the hideous polyester castoffs and too small sequined bustiers (darn). I spent nearly forty dollars. I got books! clothes for school! a onesie that's too small for Gabriel but has the Ramones printed on it! Yay!
Posting this prematurely, as my saved entries have a tendency to languish. Dashing off to lunch with M. Such a social gadfly today. Trying to keep very busy to keep images of Gabriel at baby farm at bay. Luckily, I'm easily distracted. Mmm...sushi.

public service announcement

2006-06-20T14:42:00.000-07:00

So, if you receive a wedding invitation printed in three languages and two of those languages are Spanish and Farsi be prepared to dance your ass off. Just so you know. I attended such an event just this last weekend. Dear F from medical school married her long time love. The ceremony was a beautiful, heart-rending affair. The party afterward was a serious PARTY. I wore the dress again and was a somewhat underdressed. I should have guessed, of course, but F's family is composed entirely of gorgeous, petite women, dressed for the occasion in marvelous floor length formal gowns, and dapper men, decked out in tuxedos. Aside from feeling like a slightly frumpy (through no fault of my own) Amazon, I had a marvelous time. After dancing, after dinner, but before more dancing, there was... the chocolate fountain. I had heard marvelous stories of these inventions but had never beheld one in the flesh, if you will. A thing of beauty.
What was also remarkable about this event is that it was in Southern California. I flew down a few hours before the wedding...sans bebe! I know. After all the hand wringing and wailing of last week over leaving little G for 3 hours, I up and leave for nearly 24. Actually, I almost didn't go about 200 times, but M was so steadfastly confident. "You should go. We'll be fine," he repeated at least 500 times. And you know what? I went and they were. Fine, I mean. I expected to hear a horror story of sleepless night and endless crying when I called on Sunday morning before my flight home. But no. G had a great night. Woke up twice and fell back to sleep. They had a great time. I was thrilled and just a little hurt. I mean, I leave and it's like nobody noticed. Ha. I am sick. But what a wonderful thing, eh? Daddy did so great. Baby did so great. Momma pumped her boobs in the Ramada and felt somewhat bovine (esp. beside svelte relations and following excess wading in glorious fountain of chocolate), but she did great, too.
And this morning, I dropped G at daycare for a half day. No crying on drop off. A telephone call from DF, no crying before his nap, oh and by the way he's still asleep. No crying at pick up. Q was just picking him up out of the highchair. Yay! Not that everything is going to be perfect and unruffled from here on out, but it's very encouraging to have a good day!

who's the bigger baby?

2006-06-16T09:34:00.000-07:00

Took Gabriel to D.F.'s* yesterday for a little playtime. I dressed him up in adorable wheat-colored velveteen overalls, because years ago I read that people are nicer to cuter babies than ugly ones. I packed him a snack (Yobaby yogurts, because I am a sucker for cute packaging and he actually likes them -- sweet!) and wrote his name on his bag of diapers. We walked into the house through the backyard and Y, one of the amazing teachers, whisked him away to play. I talked to DF about how I would be just down the street at the coffee shop and she assured me she would call if there were any problems and even if their weren't. Gabriel started crying somewhere within the house. DF gave me a hug and sent me out the door and I walked away. I sat in the car on the street. I could hear Gabriel crying. I cried. And then, all of a sudden, I couldn't hear him anymore. So either they had, you know, silenced him for good, or he'd decided he could go along with it. I drove away. DF called me before I got to the main road, "He's fine. Y has him playing with a telephone that lights up. He's totally entranced." I parked the car and walked to a cafe feeling very weird. Like I had forgotten something critical. Oh, that would be my child! I ordered a latte and a chocolate croissant, which I very snobbily called "pain au chocolate" to the server who looked at me like I was totally insane. Gah! Chocolate croissant, chocolate croissant! I sat on the covered porch and read, which I haven't managed in a while. I'm reading The Amber Spyglass (why can I not underline? oh well, you know what I mean) the third book in childrens fantasy trilogy by Phillip Pullman. It is GOOD! It starts out in a parallel universe (I know, bear with me) where people have daemons, outward representations of their souls in the form of animals. Children's daemons can shift from animal to animal, but adult daemons settle into one creature particularly suited to their personalities. Aside from desperately wanting a daemon of my own (what would it be? what would it be? NOT a cat!), I have been very troubled by the fact that people in these books are constantly under threat of having their daemons separated from them -- painful, agonizing process leaving them hollow husks of the people they once were. I felt, as I walked down the street towards coffee and solitude, that some part of myself had been wrenched away. Gabriel, my poor amputated daemon baby. Perhaps I am a bit overwraught. I feel weird without having him at arms length, though. We're meant to be together. He's the one who's supposed to initiate the separation process. Not me. Not like this.
After an hour and a half, I returned to DF's and picked up a little guy who, they swore, had started to cry just a few seconds before I got there. He fussed and cried in the car seat all the way home and then nursed like a fiend, as if starved for a week, despite the snack I packed. Oh, this is going to be hard...

*Dawna Fantastik, the daycare lady

trip to laundromat

2006-06-15T14:29:00.000-07:00

A new project for the afternoon has announced itself in the form of cat puke on the bedspread. Though Sammy staggered home from his wild morning of partying with the neighboorhood felines only an hour ago, it was plenty of time to eat kibble, hurl, then curl up innocently on the paper stacked (all right, strewn) on the kitchen table. By the time I discovered the, um, offering, it had soaked through quilt, sheets and mattress pad. The moldy mattress below is just damp with recalled kitty digestive juices. I am disgusted.
Why do we keep feeding this cat? Letting him in? Why? Why?

the trip

2006-06-13T10:00:00.000-07:00

We're back from our travels and now the countdown starts with a real audible ticking in the background. T-minus 13 days until I return to school and Gabriel begins full-time daycare. So frightening is this fact that after writing the above sentence, I wandered away to complete as many inconsequential tasks as possible to avoid thinking much about it. We're going over to D. Fantastic's tomorrow to play and get acquainted with the idea of easing into full-time over a week or so.
We tried daycare at the wedding (a lovely affair) over the weekend, actually. The bride's family has lots of little kids and they thoughtfully provided a babysitter for the reception. I left Gabriel playing happily on the floor in a back room at the fancy estate they had rented for the party, but when I peeked in 20 minutes later, he was red-faced and weeping. Screaming, actually, and looking around in a very panicked way. Poor little guy! And here I am cramming cheese and canapes down my gullet. A little cuddle calmed him down and we sat down to play. I left after he got real involved in his play-telephone. 15 minutes later, one of the girls came down to the reception to find me. Gabriel's screaming had started all the other baby's crying apparently. They'd had to call in reinforcements from the catering staff. Oh dear. So Gabriel spent a couple hours with us at the reception, flirting with our friends and growling appreciatively at the speeches, until finally, ready to collapse (him, not us. Well, us too, but we were determined to have a dance), we put him to bed in the den o' babies where he slept like a log. I'm trying not to let this experience freak me out, though. Many particulars are different. First of all, the baby sitters weren't exactly the most professional; they seemed to expect the babies to amuse themselves with the help of Pinocchio on the big screen TV. Luckily, I had a bag full of toys that they could play with. The sitters, 2 young teens and their aunt, who confided in me that she hadn't watched kids since she was a teenager, weren't so much in the distract and cuddle techniques that might work on a baby who just realized his mom's gone. Plus, we'd been travelling for constantly for three days at that point and there's nothing like a brand-spanking new situation to make a small little guy go, "hmmm, I wish my mom was here." So, I refuse to panic and will continue with Project: Babycare as planned. I will push all images of Gabriel weeping inconsolably on the floor of the baby farm far, far from my mind.
Actually, the trip on the whole was good. We had fun seeing friends. We ate a lot of bacon. Flying cross-country was as painless as possible, I think, with Gabriel sleeping a good chunk of it there and back. The only mini-disaster was a diaper-blowout on the flight back, of the oh-my-god-what's-that-smell-and-what-is-that-on-my-arm variety. And of course, I'd forgotten to pack a change of clothes for Gabriel. I was all prepared on the way out, but the as the trip progressed the diaper bag became a catch-all sort of thing. I probably took out the baby-clothes to make room for more toys and a sandwich (for me!). So Gabriel spent the rest of the flight wearing his velour track jacket and his diaper. At least I remembered the diaper. He looked pretty cool, actually.

social lubricants: apply generously

2006-06-07T09:19:00.000-07:00

We're off tomorrow for a wedding back east. Just as Gabriel seemed to be settling into a civilized and humane sleep schedule, wouldn't you know. Looking forward to the five-hour flight, of course. I spent an obscene amount of money at Target this morning on things-we-might-need: new toys as diversion, baby food in jars and plastic, adorable baby juices in wee bottles, disposable bowls and spoons, baby wipes in handy travel-size pack, diapers (useful). I am determined to fit all of his stuff in one small bag, though. I will NOT morph into huge, immobile Mommy as lumbering pack animal. I will, instead, style myself after a svelte and compact pack animal. A llama, perhaps, or a very small pony.
I've also been spending, spending, spending to get myself prettied up. Just so you know how very superficial I am. It started with the dress (ignore scary looking model). Once I had the dress I needed shoes. Once I had shoes I needed another outfit to wear to the post-wedding brunch. Then I needed a few cute tops because, oh my god, all I have left in my dresser are rags that didn't make the cut when I packed away the maternity clothes back in September. Yesterday I spend $60 on a haircut, which is crazy, but felt justified in some small, crazed, vain corner of my brain.
I'll be seeing a bunch of people I haven't seen in several years and I'm nervous, all right. I'm not one-hundred percent body confident post-baby. Shock, seeing as I was not exactly loving it pre-baby either, but still, it DOES look different. I am different. I tell myself I look okay and should feel proud of myself. But feel lumpish. Now, with new clothes I will be distracted enough to get through weekend of merry socializing with only a social application of alcohol.

yet another new baby trick

2006-06-05T14:26:00.000-07:00

When Gabriel doesn't care for whatever it is I'm pushing in the solid food department he leans over his highchair and, pbbbrrtt, watches as it dribbles out of his mouth onto the floor. Today, breakfast (prunes and barley) and lunch (tofu, yogurt and bananas) met the same fate. Fili loves it and she stands at attention off the starboard side waiting for more baby chum to fall her way. After lunch, she had creamy drips on her head and ears. She's a dedicated soul. At the spitting point, I am forced to conclude that lunchtime is over, even if he's only had two bites. I very much want to sit him up straight, order him to open his mouth: now, that's a good boy, you'll eat this and you'll LIKE it. But, oddly enough, it doesn't seem to work that way.
My friend JM referred to Gabriel as my co-worker. I like that. As if we are involved in some fabulous and intricate project requiring much consultation and late nights. He's a bit of a whiner, though, I've noticed. And refuses, point blank, to do any of the admin work. But he is definately an out-of-the-box thinker -- more like an out-of-the-box-and-all-over-the-floor thinker.

while I was sleeping

2006-06-03T09:30:00.000-07:00

In the past week Gabriel has become a different baby, again. Yesterday, he was sitting on the floor of the kitchen merrily strewing the tupperware lids, spoons and other sundry blunt utensils that comprise the Big Box of Fun. I wandered away, as I am wont to do when G is so enthralled, to check my email or some such silliness. I was engrossed until I heard an eeirie silence. I peered around the corner to witness the little guy industriously tearing pages from the Joy of Cooking with such a look of concentration that I laughed. And then removed the book from his hands. He had humped over on his bottom to the low shelf where I've been stacking cookbooks -- but no more. Later in the day, he discovered that the knobs on the cabinet under the sink reveal a box filled with even more fun: the poorly rinsed cat food cans and wine bottles that make up our recycling. So on with the baby latch. Up with the cookbooks. We have graduated!

2006-06-02T15:38:00.000-07:00

Sitting here, watching the buses go by, waiting for the baby to wake up. Who says life is not fulfilling.
And then a sudden squall. Ah. He has arisen...

in which I attempt to explain myself

2006-06-01T08:54:00.000-07:00

In my little blog log (redundant?) I've got three abandoned posts. I've left them to languish because they suck. They can't possibly suck more than the many others I've posted, but somehow I cannot bring myself to finish them. So despite the paucity of new things to read here, I HAVE been thinking about you. Oh yes.
I've decided to go for Family Medicine. You may recall (and then again, you may not) that I'd debated in a half-assed manner the relative merits of Internal Medicine vs. Family vs. Emergency Medicine. It had come down to the point that I really needed to choose because I needed to sign up for the right clerkships and then get ready to do my applications for residency. I had a small revelation when one of the freebie med journals arrived in the mail. I usually toss them directly into recycling, but this issue was dedicated to all things pregnancy, childbirth and newborn related. I read the damn thing cover to cover. And then I wondered why and if it had anything to do with my own recent experiences (one's own conditions are the most fascinating, of course). But, I realized that this was a phenomenon that had occured over the first three years of med school, too. I really get a kick reading anything to do with women's health, pregnancy, childbirth and young children. And I remember the details and like to talk about it. I can certainly get through articles about high blood pressure and diabetes, but it always feels like work, you know. I read about ladies and babies for fun. And that's when I knew that Family Medicine was for me because, as a resident, you learn all of these. And as a doctor, I feel like I could actually create a practice where I can focus on them, if not exclusively, then enough to keep me going.
While I certainly could do OB-GYN and hit three out of four, I've decided no based on my observation that OB's are completely mad. With good reason. They work way too many hours and strange hours at that. They get sued whenever anything bad happens. And thus they are forced to practice the most defensive medicine out there. Internal Medicine has a certain gravitas, but you don't do so much with the maternal/child angle. Emergency Medicine was an interesting idea, and I found the shift work lifestyle intriguing, but when I thought really hard about it, I realized that I didn't want it badly enough to do the ambulance ride-alongs, the research and the extra courses in Toxicology, etc, that would make me a competitive candidate. So Family Medicine was left, and instead of seeming like a beat down fourth choice, I find that I am so thrilled to have come back around to it. The idea that I could help women and children brought me to medicine in the first place. I think I will be able to follow my heart, if you will, and find a way to actually use my enthusiasm to bolster my resolve to get through the coming years of residency hell.

happy summer

2006-05-29T09:19:00.000-07:00

It's summer! It is! It is! Time for a BBQ! Time for the beach! Time to retire the black shoes! Ha!
Our downstairs neighbors, they of the thump-thump bass through the floorboards at baby bedtime (I have never been so pissed to hear Ani DiFranco in my life -- Goddamn women's empowerment shite) invited us over for a BBQ last night. They have a new puppy, and with such an inducement I felt I could leave VH1's 100 top celebrity break-ups and my sleeping child to mingle a bit. We brought the baby monitor down, not that you need it really in our building. We can hear pretty much everything. The third tenant was there too, a lovely single mother with twin 9-year old girls. The only oddity I can report there is a proclivity for gardening under our window while smoking Marlboros (the mother, not the girls). It could be worse. Anyway, we went, we ate salmon, we cooed over the dog (a sweet border collie mix), we chatted in that stilted way of mismatched strangers wishing they had a LOT more alcohol. Still, it was kind of fun, which probably says more about our ridiculously circumscribed social lives post-Gabriel than anything else.
Today, I am going shopping for a dress to wear to the two weddings we have to go to in the next month. I haven't bought a dress or anything vaguely form fitting in, oh, a year and a half. Wish me luck!

Houdini in a smooth black pelt

2006-05-27T12:40:00.000-07:00

Our cat, Sammy, has left the building. In the five years that he has graced us with his presence he has led a fairly sheltered life. He's actually been a total inside cat who very occasionally slips out to frolic in the grass. And then eat enough to produce a mighty hairball. Once, though, we didn't notice he was gone until we heard this hissing, spitting roar that started out low and grew louder and louder until it dropped suddenly like a train whistle gone by. I looked out the front window to see Sammy locked in mortal combat with one of the neighborhood denizens, rolling across our lawn like a tumbleweed. After recovering our cat, uninjured, we vowed that we would be better about keeping an eye on him, as he clearly was a sissy boy, unsuited to the harsh realities of life out of doors. He seemed relatively content in his small sphere, kicking litter out of the box with panache, eating his Friskies and then hurling upon the bed.
Our move to a new house seems to have rattled his poor little brain. Suddenly, he's dead set on getting out. Perhaps he sees himself as a kitty Magellen, destined to discover great things behind the juniper shrubs. In anycase, a quick block with the foot is no longer sufficient to impede his progress. He waits and darts like black lightening, the little shit, usually when I'm holding the baby, or carrying a sack of garbage. He waits until I am distracted and slow and then he takes advantage. I actually followed him and scooped him up the first 10 times he tried this. I brought him back up the steps and then endured his demented yowling to go back out. But yesterday he ran out and I just let him stay. I cannot beat the cat. Well, I can, but he's remarkable impervious to anything that doesn't actually flatten him.
A gang of kitties lurks outside our door, crouching in the junipers, each ready with a rusty purr when we walk up the steps. There's Feisty Red Cat, Snowball, and the Doppelganger, a black cat the very spitting image of our dear boy. Our arrival engendered a certain curiosity on the part of the feral feline posse, as evidenced by the small puddles of cat urine they left on our steps. I was filled with trepidation (and hope) that Sammy's first encounter with them would send him scurrying back inside. It was not to be; I watched Sammy hiss and yowl at the big ginger tom until he actually backed away. I realized that all the while I thought we were protecting our kitty from the big scary world, we were actually protecting the world our neutered, diminutive but nevertheless very alpha male. Our nine-pound wisp of smoke is the baddest cat in the whole damn town. I'm a little proud of my bully.

Be afraid.

2006-05-24T20:07:00.000-07:00

Newly minted ACLS provider here. Only had to remediate once. Ha. Seriously. I have no patience for these asinine multiple choice exams. So I came, I stuffed tubes into a dummy, I took the test, the nice man pointed out a question or six I missed and off I went, while the serious students sweated it out for another 40 minutes. Card in hand. Makes you feel good, no? Safe. Actually, to explain my rush, I have a question for you. Have YOU ever done CPR while breastmilk runs into your bra? No? Then I will not feel guilty, even if my goody-two-shoes nature is writhing from the shame of it all. Though we are at T-minus 5 weeks and counting until the great Return, we have still not figured out exactly how to keep the baby nourished and hydrated during the day. He has no interest in bottles, cups or bongs of formula or breastmilk. He will "drink" small amounts of diluted juice out of a sippy cup, but really what he does is take it in, taste it, grin, and then let it all gush out onto his bib. Gabriel's a nursing boy, and that's really it for the moment. Maybe Dawna Fantastic and the daycare ladies will have an idea about it. These last two days, I tried pumping with my ridiculous little hand pump. In my car. At lunch. But I only got a couple ounces before deciding to give up before the security guards rode over in their little club cars to ask me what I was doing. A friend is sending me her Medela (I keep wanting to write Mendela) pump, so I will get serious about this pumping thing toute de sweet. Gabriel seems to be embracing, once again, the idea that food is for eating so with any luck by the time he's actually at daycare, he won't starve to death. I do wish, now, that I had actually made an effort to get G to take a bottle, way back when he was a baby. Too late now he's so old and crotchity and set in his ways.

sunday jetsam

2006-05-21T11:35:00.000-07:00

I am still feeling crazed and unsettled in our new life. I have hope that it will get better. Someday. Soon.
This morning, we went down the street to a very good diner and bakery. Because we are suburban holdouts, we drove. But so did lots of other people. The parking lot was crowded with cadillacs and SUVs. I'm kind of the environmental antichrist. I've totally rationalized all my bad behavior. Today, I thought, the baby's not feeling so hot and will probably fuss after not very long. So let's take the car and maximize baby happy time for when I'm clinging to my coffee cup and stuffing pancakes down my gullet.
Gabriel is getting over a cold and starting to sleep again. I hope. He also has a godawful ugly boil on his leg, and has come to associate his changing table (actually a dresser with a purple bathmat on top) with hideous things like my squirting vile keflex into his mouth and changing the dressing over his oozing, crusting owie. I tip him on to his back and he cries, poor little guy. I don't know how he got the skin infection. It started out as a tiny little bug bite and blossomed into something pretty horrid. A commentary on my housekeeping? It IS the house of filth, you know.
Actually, Gabriel's become extremely opinionated in general the last few weeks. He has decided that he does not like to eat solid food. We had been having such fun at mealtimes, scooping up cereal, sweet potatoes, applesauce, peas. But no more. He went through a period when all he would accept on a spoon were prunes, but then there were a few unfortunate diaper incidents (and one unfortunate carpet incident) and then we ran out. Probably for the best. So he's not eating anything, now. Except breastmilk, of course. He nurses like a fiend.
I'm just blabbing, really. M's on the floor playing with the kiddo and when I get off the computer, I'll have to figure out something constructive to do. Sigh.
I have a class all day tomorrow at school. Advanced Cardiac Life Support, or ACLS because without an acromym, you're nobody. M will be at home alone with Gabriel all day long. For the first time. Send them good thoughts. They'll do great. I will be struggling to intubate a dummy, but they'll do great.

an interlude of pure terror

2006-05-17T10:15:00.000-07:00

Have not blogged in days. MIL sitting right behind me, but just can't stand it anymore. Can I tell you about a funny thing that happened yesterday? Well, MIL agreed to watch G while I went out to lunch with a friend. Yay! So nice! And when we had finished lunch, I checked my messages (did not hear phone ring!) and found a message marked URGENT. From home. Listened to MIL say something very like G fell and hit his head and I think you should come home right now. Oh my GOD! I called home. No answer. I called M at work. No answer. I called home again. No answer. So S and I raced home at an average speed of approximately 85 miles per hour on clogged freeways, over hills and one congested tunnel to find...Gabriel sitting up on the floor playing with toys smiling up at me and MIL sitting there looking somewhat frazzled but, do I imagine it, ever so slightly triumphant. The real story: G was sitting on the floor playing with a box, lost his balance and toppled over, clunking his oversized melon on the floor. He cried about 5 minutes and then went back to playing. While I'm sure MIL felt bad for baby and was even a little freaked out something might be wrong, I'm really just puzzled by this particular judgment call. Maybe I'm somewhat lackadaisical in safety department, but I'm pretty sure that if I were watching someone's kid and they had an accident involving heads and floors and tears and a swift return to normal, I'd tell the parent about it, but afterwards. And why didn't she answer the phone? "Well, I thought I heard it ring, but when I picked up, no one was there. Maybe I should have tried to call you again." YES! Because in my panic I hung up after 6 rings and envisioned an apartment abandoned for an ambulance ride to the children's hospital.
I'm so so so glad that Gabriel was okay. And I'm glad she's concerned with his cerebral function. I'm just thinking that, "wow, you scared the shit out of me for no good reason, and I can't help but think you may have enjoyed your role at the center of this quasi medical crisis." M took her out for the evening and before she left she said to me, "Do you think you should set the alarm so that if he sleeps longer than a certain time you could wake him up?" Umm, no, no I don't.
Deep breath. The Visit is almost over. And everyone is just fine. Happy happy. Joy joy.

A big day for M

2006-05-13T09:09:00.000-07:00

Today, M graduates from business school. It has snuck up on us, darting around obstacles such as moving and daycare that have distracted us of late, to pounce on us now, a sunny Saturday morning. M's mom flew in late last night after much ado (she was supposed to come the day before but got sick! But not really sick! Just vomitting her head off because she took her medications on an empty stomach? Good Lord!). M and MIL have driven off to the campus. I will follow when Gabriel wakes up from his nap. After 3 days of sleeping like a human being, last night he "slept" like the infant-of-old. Could he possibly be feeding on my stress? Gee, what a thought?
Anyway, I'm drinking coffee and washing my dress because it smells like mold. That was one of the most heinous things we discovered upon moving. Our old house was incredibly moldy. Not just here and there around the tub, but in the walls and carpets. And in the shoes and clothes. And probably our mattress, but we left it to air in the sun, so are tolerating it for now as we have no money to buy another. SOOOO glad we are out of there. If we can keep the asthma monster away, I will feel like we've won the parenting lottery. Not through our own efforts, but by sheer dumb luck.
So I have a goal for MIL's visit. It is to not freak out and say something I'll regret. Gabriel woke up this morning at the usual time, around 6, and started his babbling and cooing with random shouts and shrieks. I think of it as him warming up for the day. He's usually content to burble for 10 minutes or so, and when I felt like it was approaching the critical moment of no-longer-being-fun-and-where-the-hell-is-this-mom-person-anyway I got up and went into his room. To find Grandma leaning over the crib filled of toys talking to her grandson. Why did this annoy me? Probably because I'm a control freak when it comes to my son. But we have our lovely morning routine, see. I go in and he SMILES and we talk and change a diaper and blow a raspberry or two. When I walked in, he looked to me like, "who is this lady?" He hadn't seen his Grandma for 4 months, and while gamely assuming all was well, he had a distinctly puzzled look. I know, I'm making far too much out of this. It's sweet that she went into him. I probably got to lie in bed an extra five minutes because of it. So I just smiled, changed his diaper and handed him back to grandma. I can do this. I am a nice person. Usually.

could it be? is it she?

2006-05-11T13:22:00.000-07:00

By george, I do believe we may have found the daycare for us! M and I went on yet another daycare interview this morning. We knew it was a home daycare in a nice part of town, but as we drove up into the hills, the houses got larger and larger and I was tempted to turn around, thinking, "all right, we'll never be able to afford anyplace up here so we should just not torture ourselves by maybe liking it." But we persevered! And it was so lovely! The daycare owner, Dawna Fantastic,* met us on the porch and actually remembered our names from the intro phonecall last week. We walked inside to meet 6 or so little guys in various stages of crawling and walking. One of Dawna's assistants came up and whisked Gabriel away. I waited for him to cry, but he didn't. He played with toys and watched the other kids and hardly looked for me at all. The house is, as stated, large and lovely, but in a homey, child-friendly way. We just sat and talked about the kids and Gabriel and their particular set-up, all the while Gabriel was enthralled with the teachers and babies. I had already decided this is where I wanted Gabriel to be and was so scared to ask how much it was. But I did, and oh, my god, she's NOT charging an arm and a leg. It's still expensive, of course, but it's less than our rent, which was really our big cut-off. There was another day care I really liked that I visited with my parents right before the move. This was a lady just starting out in the daycare biz, but she had teenage kids of her own and I got a really good feeling about her. She was charging, though, $10 per hour. Let's see, 9 hours a day, five days a week, four weeks a month works out to, holy crap! Anyway, Dawna had one spot available and we said we'll take it and the minute Gabriel wakes up from his nap, I'm driving down there to leave a deposit. I feel positively giddy! She gave me a hug as we were getting ready to leave and I nearly cried. I am actually hopeful for the first time that this returning to school thing will NOT be a total disaster.

*Almost her real name!

doo de doo

2006-05-10T09:28:00.000-07:00

In a blatant procrastination gambit (mother-in-law arriving tomorrow! house still ashambles!) here are a couple of photos.
The first is the peekin, of course, looking better in mustard yellow than I ever will. Tant pis.
The second is a fascinating shot of the lint I removed from our new house dryer upon moving in. (And by way of explanation, no, I don't usually photograph the nasty bits I find in the corners, but this was so very gross, and there was no one else here with whom to share the astonishment I felt upon confronting an alpaca or two worth of fuzz left to linger in the dryer). My mother, bless her heart, did a load or two of wash, wondering why it took two hours for two towels and a dishrag to dry. Following removal of lint-beast, dryer works great. Yee ha!

city mouse

2006-05-09T15:18:00.000-07:00

In the last couple weeks wherein I have been disconected from my beloved computer, I have composed in my head many little blurbs for this blog of mine. I can't think of them now, only the sillier themes: the fascination I have with other people's filth as I scrub out a cabinet and dispose of used insulin syringes, the bizarrely delicate baroque (or is is rococo) chandalier over the table in the wood paneled dining nook.
There have been a few agonizing moments over the last couple weeks. Moments in which I covered my head with my hands and realized that everything was totally fucked up. Like the first night in our new apartment, when I brought Gabriel into his new bedroom and realized that I could not only hear, but feel the music coming from our downstairs neighbor's apartment. My mom, dad and M kept telling me, it's going to work out, it will. And I met their assurances with a stony, "I just don't see how." But in a way, you see, it did. Gabriel wasn't sleeping anyway. And having bass pounding into his skull while trying to fall asleep didn't seem to make much difference. He fell asleep while the music was playing and woke up 6 times after they turned it off. So there you go.
But let's talk about how great it is to be back in the city. It is great. It is fun to go out and walk around and actually see people. There's the lake. There's a whole bunch of neat stuff we haven't even discovered.
The little city mouse is awake now. We must be off for our afternoon constitutional. See you later!

a tense moment

2006-04-27T18:51:00.000-07:00

Moving tomorrow! House in disarray. Dog and cat extremely dejected as they are aware that something VERY wrong is happening. Gabriel taking it all in stride but deciding that sleep gets in the way of fun playtime with Grandma and Grandpa.
My period has chosen this very moment to return from its year and a half hiatus, of course. Added to the anxiety-driven insomnia and explosive diarrhea, I'm just more fun than a barrel of monkeys. Whose freaking asinine idea was this anyway?

gabriel-in-the-box

2006-04-24T14:00:00.000-07:00

Well, the typically lengthy and witty post I wrote this morning (har) was eaten by the blog gods. I just can't bring myself to do it all again and so I give to you a moving picture. Gabriel loved the box so much. He played inside for 15 minutes and then I took him out and he batted at the flaps for 10 more.
Good fun

grouchasana

2006-04-24T09:35:00.000-07:00

So I had my last yoga class on Friday. I told the teachers I was moving. We all hugged and then attempted to disjoint our hips with an extended "sleeping swan" pose. I will miss the studio and A & D, the teachers (not the ointment). They were great throughout my pregnancy, helping me out with modifications so I could continue to practice, even as I grew more and more ungainly. On the other hand, I'm kind of glad to have an excuse to quit. I had a socially awkward moment and there's nothing I prefer to practice more than avoidance. "A" became pregnant when I was about half-way through my pregnancy. We talked and shared some of the tribulations of having our bodies taken over by an alien. After Gabriel was born, I brought him by and he was much fussed over by students and teachers alike. When A's daughter was born, I gave her a sling (all right, I re-gifted a perfectly good sling that I had received and never used) and sent her a card. On the card I wrote something to the effect of, "give me a call if you ever feel like you're going crazy with a new baby," because I felt like we'd bonded to a point that we could acknowledge that babies are not all sweetness and fluff. Well, she never called, which I didn't think twice about, seeing as how with a new baby everything is crazy and you don't have time to brush your teeth some days, let alone talk to people on the phone. They had a little party to show off the baby and I went and brought Gabriel, my ambassador in social situations these days. That's actually the reason I HAD a baby. Anyway, I congratulated her and she said, "oh, I've been meaning to call you." And I said, "if you have time; you know if you ever need an outing we could take a walk with the babies or something." I felt like I was doing a nice thing -- it's what I wish someone had said to me when I was crazed and lonely and stuck in the house with a shrieking baby. The intervening months, however, during which she has NOT called me and has seemed to make an effort to avoid me during and after class has made me realize that I must have overstepped some heretofore unrevealed boundary in our student-teacher/ mother-mother relationship. I just feel kind of dumb, which is precisely why I avoid unnecessary social interaction in the first place. Also, let's be honest, I resent her speedy, though well-earned, return of abdominal muscle strength. But now I get to find a new studio, close to our new apartment and forget all about this.
It's not pretty, being petty.

reality settles over us like soap scum

2006-04-20T15:58:00.000-07:00

One of the things that I've noticed in the many, many moves I've made since leaving home for college is that packing up your life into boxes and sacks and bags never takes as long as you think it will. And unpacking them into your new space will take at least 5 times as long as you wish it would, and will leave you swearing never to move again. It took me about a year after our last move to stop the inner shudder whenever I glimpsed a U-haul on the freeway. "Oog," I'd think, or say if there were anyone in earshot (because I tend to beat horses long after they're dead), "at least we're not moving today." Hey, but in one week we will be! And in honor of that, I have ceremoniously packed the first box. Actually, the first 8 boxes. All filled with books. We're gonna need a lot more boxes.

another big day

2006-04-19T13:54:00.000-07:00

It is unreasonable for me to get angry at the neighbors who insist on using powertools in the middle of the day while my son is napping, and yet I do. I seethe. I call them foul names in the privacy of my own home. I reserve the worst names, though, and the most vitriol, for the morons who roar up and down the street on their motorcycles at all hours of the day and night. This afternoon, the assholes next door are using a circular saw over and over for some unfathomable reason. And the idiots across the way are edging their lawn with a weed wacker for, like, hours. It is mostly for selfish reasons that I am so incensed of course. I want free time, as much of it as I can wrench from the day. There are all kinds of things I should be doing, but mostly I contemplate them, and do not accomplish. I just called two daycare providers, though, left a message with one and found out the other had no openings. Whew. I am exhausted. Two down, 25 to go. I think I need a snack to recover while I read the new Vanity Fair. I sent M to work this morning with another long list of daycare folks to call. He'll wear his goofy little headset and call them all. I am SO glad I married him. I clearly needed someone to do my dirty work.
I would like to report, however, real progress on my schedule for my 4th year of school. I got the email for the office of medical education at a big community hospital and set up my sub-internship* and a couple other rotations. I'm going to give myself a transitional rotation first off, though everyone says you're supposed to jump right into your sub-I, with pulmonology. I really need to brush up on, well, just about everything, so I may as well start there. So far, my quest has only involved one phone call, to a delightful woman at Kaiser. Seriously, she couldn't have been nicer, so I have another block of rotations hopefully scheduled there. Whew.

*The "sub-internship" or "sub-I" as I understand it is the rotation where you pretend you're an intern. You get the responsibility and abuse heaped on you while not receiving a salary. This is termed a "great learning experience."

a new day dawning

2006-04-18T20:10:00.000-07:00

Gabriel said "Mama."
M and I both heard it. Of course, I wasn't in the room at the time, but I'm just SURE he's got the idea.
What a smart kid.

April is Africa Awareness Month Chez Kazoo

2006-04-17T20:53:00.000-07:00

I am not a crusader and I do my damnedest to stay out of other people's crusades. I read something in the paper yesterday, though, that called to me to say something. It's Sudan, of course. The Darfur region in flames. Here's the article. A very impassioned and articulate call to action by Paul Rusesabagina, known to the world as the stalwart hotel manager portrayed in "Hotel Rwanda". Read it. Please. Then go to Save Darfur and send a short message to the Prez. Please. With a cherry on top.
I have a second-hand version of events happening there. M spent a month in Sudan a year ago. See, before I dragged his ass out to CA so I could go to school he had a very cool job that involved sporadic travel all over Africa. He worked as a contracter for a government agency that concerns itself with happenings overseas. He gets calls from them periodically to go back over, but with a steady job here it's hard to pull off. Last year, though, Sudan called and he just went. He got a crash course in the politics of the Darfur region and I learned a bunch of new terms (Janjaweed) and acronyms (rebel groups, of which there are more than a few). Others expain it better than I, but the take-away message: it's lawless and wild and, naturally, people are dying in droves. The Sudanese government has been arming and abetting the Janjaweed raiders. Ending the slaughter will require an outside force. The African Union has a mere 7000 peacekeepers to pacify a region the size of France. A large UN force is needed to lock-down the country and force a truce. Only then can anything like a peace be worked out. The countries of the world must act. Let this be the answer for Rwanda.

and by "crap" I mean this here what you're reading

2006-04-17T14:45:00.000-07:00

I just wrapped a bridal shower gift. Gabriel helped. And by "helped" I mean crumpled up the business section of the paper with gusto and then stuck small bits of it in his mouth. The bride in question is a the fiancee of a good Peace Corps friend. They met at fancy-pants business school back east. When I first met her she scared the crap out of me in her I'm-from-the-east-coast-and-eat-people-like-you-for-breakfast sort of way. She has this veneer of confidence that I initially mistook for arrogance. Now I am fond of her. We're not exactly friends, but I perceive she has at least as many insecurities as I, even if she would not in a million years admit it, and thus can have a conversation with her without being struck completely dumb. I can be so condescending in a sheepish sort of way. I have trouble relating to people who don't do the self-deprecating thing, all right. I mean, we all know it's just a sham and we all think we're just the shit (don't we?), but we go through the motions because it's funny to laugh at ourselves. She does not laugh at herself. So we spend a lot of time laughing at me, which is a fine, if somewhat exhausting way to spend an evening.
I was at a complete loss as to what to purchase as a bridal shower gift. I never had a shower. Bridal shower, that is, plenty of the other kind, thanks. Not that my wedding was any sort of fly-by-night, hurried-up affair, but no one ever thought of that. Does one give household goods, sex toys, gardening tools, lingerie? The "theme" of the party is no help, having something to do with famous couples, a seemingly poor choice for association with an impending marriage. From what I read in People, famous couples may not be the best model on which to base life-long happiness. I went with the safe and boring bath products, with a lavender scented eye pillow for good measure. I will ignore the theme. I may be bounced at the door, but I feel it is a statement I must make, no matter how innane and party-pooperish! Really, I'm just grumpy cause I couldn't think of anything better to get.
The groom in all of this, as mentioned, is a good friend. He was M's best man at our tawdry (I mean simple) affair. He's one of the funniest and kindest men I know and I wish them both lots and lots of happiness. Ala k'aw kan ben!

I'm a feminist, really I am

2006-04-17T11:32:00.000-07:00

I briefly considered setting fire to my life yesterday. The quest for daycare overwhelms me. I got a stack of referrals from the handy-dandy referral service and immediately proceeded to stare dumbly at them. A slide to depressed inaction was not far behind. Looking at them, I knew that I would not be able to find someone to leave Gabriel with whom I would trust to care for him like I do.
I thought to myself, what if I did stay home with Gabriel? Could I? What would be the result? I think it would be good for G, in that his care would be loving and (somewhat) reliable. I would feel that I was doing my very best for my son. I can’t say that that would make me happy, but I might feel comfort in the way that fulfilling an obligation makes you feel all grown-up inside. I’m pretty sure my husband would leave me. Oh, and I would be $180,000 in debt with no way to pay it off.
The cons seem to weigh pretty heavily. I just can’t escape the feeling, though, that by handing my son over to another to raise, in effect, eight or nine hours out of the day, I am shirking my responsibility as a mother. I know, I know, stone me now. We have come such a long way from that antiquated line of thinking, and yet, right here, right now, I feel it welling up inside me, unbidden. That responsibility weighs heavily upon me. I felt it settle almost as soon as he was born. I staggered under its weight for weeks, months. I knew I had, in fact, destroyed that lighthearted and carefree (ha) life I had before. In its place is this, life with child at its center. It does not matter how I feel, if I am tired, or sad, or in pain, Gabriel still needs me. I brought him here and I must see him through to his independence.
If life were different or times were different, I’d be different. I’d be doing laundry by hand, married to an illiterate subsistence farmer, with six children playing around me on the dirt and think my life was pretty good. Or maybe not.
I’m not much of a thinker. I am more of a feeler who struggles vainly, gamely, to attach words to the sensations that move me. I’ve got a head for facts and all, but the important things I always trust my gut, even when I struggle to explain myself to myself. And struggle even harder to explain myself to beloved M who thinks first, and bends his emotions in the crushing grip of logic.
I’m still holding the match. It’s a powerful feeling, actually. I am obstinate where I feel that I am right. But am I?

news flash, part deux

2006-04-14T10:59:00.000-07:00

We did it. We signed a lease. The apartment is nice-enough, sunny-enough and up three flights of stairs. Moving in should be a HOOT! So goodbye dreary suburb. Goodbye lawn and lemon tree. We're movin' to the great big city! In two weeks. Typically, I need a crisis to respond in any meaningful way, and so this should suit me just fine. My parents, lovely people, have agreed to come help with heavy lifting (of the furniture and baby-care varieties), with very little brow-beating on my part. I am so grateful I could cry.

news flash

2006-04-11T14:36:00.000-07:00

Angst of previous evening sorted out. Gabriel is NOT ready to give up nighttime feedings. When we proceed as before with no-questions-asked whipping out the boob, all is happy and sleepy. So we will continue to do this.
Further bulletins as events warrent...

all right, so it's agony with a little "a"

2006-04-09T17:37:00.000-07:00

There is nothing like a little bitching and moaning whilst feeling sorry for oneself (please see previous post). Then there are real problems, which are found the world over. This piece on Somalia blew me away. We are lucky people, and I am blessed. I do know that.

agony

2006-04-08T09:47:00.000-07:00

I thought up the title for this while sitting on the floor in front of Gabriel's room last night with my head in my hands while M rocked a screaming baby. So you know this is going to be a fun read!
Gabriel has never really been a "good" sleeper. He's slept through the night exactly twice. The first time for no discernable reason on November 13th. The second time after flying to my parents house on January 15th. Each time I thought he'd died.
So he wakes up several times a night and cries and I go in, and recently M goes in, gives him his binky and a little pat and he settles right back down. It's a little draining, but pretty sustainable really, now that I've developed the skill of falling back into REM sleep in 30 seconds or less. We'd even scaled back to a single feeding a night, around 11pm. We were making progress, I tell you, progress! Until two nights ago, when instead of settling back down to sleep around 2 am, G became more agitated when I tried to give him his binky. No settling down. No sweetly gripping Mr. Blabla's ear and rolling over to sleep. He was awake and he was MAD! So I gathered him up and sat down to rock him. He fell asleep almost immediately. I put him back in bed. He arched his back and SCREAMED. LOUDER. I picked him back up and rocked him more. We did this at least a dozen times. I fed him. He woke up immediately upon hitting the crib. Finally, I put him down and let him cry. For ten minutes straight and I watched the clock. That is a LONG time to listen to your child be eviserated by wild boars, which is surely what is happening because otherwise it wouldn't sound so goddamn miserable. After 10 minutes, M went in. I was so wild with fatigue and impotent, confused rage I think he felt it would be unwise to let me try to calm him down (yeah, I'll calm you down, with a BRICK! See, that attitude just not helpful). So they rocked a long, long time. I sat in the hall and tried not to hate myself, second guess myself, wonder too much where I went so wrong. Finally, he laid the squidgy bundle back down, and he stayed asleep. We tiptoed back to bed. It was 4:30. We fell asleep. Till 5:30. I fed him. Asleep. Till 6:30. And we're up for the start of another exciting day Chez Kazoo! The exact same pattern played out last night. If this is the start of a trend, I should probably just kill myself now.
I guess that's the good thing, you really never know. You hope things will get better, so you stagger on. And pretty soon, you've cleared that obstacle and are on to the next. The lesson for today is that no matter how bad you think it is, it can always get worse.
I will probably regret saying that, or even thinking that.

shopping cart shenanigans

2006-04-05T11:59:00.000-07:00

To spite the rain, we left the house yesterday. We had Big Plans, consisting of getting on the freeway and driving somewhere East of here. We ended up at Trader Joe's to indulge in one of my favorite activities, recreational food shopping. Actually, I had to buy a jar of mustard for my mom. Their dijon mustard is really good, and she can't get it in CO, so I was performing a service, really, not just spending money because I was bored. I really am not a big clothes shopper. My entire wardrobe consists of Old Navy discounts mixed liberally with Target finds. A vision in drab, I am. But food, now, that is something I can really get excited about. Not in any snobbie, foodie way, but in a mass consumption sort of way. I had spent a lackluster 45 minutes at Barnes and Noble browsing at unacceptably high speeds necessitated by Gabriel's insatiable desire to be dazzled anew with every turn of his head. I had him strapped into the Ergo which is fantastic for walking, hiking, and going to Costco, but pick up a book (on baby sleep tips, for example), pause for a little read and he immediately loses interest in the scenery and starts pulling on my hair. Oddly enough, they don't talk about that on the Ergo website. Nor do they mention that you need to nearly disjoint your shoulders to put baby on back while holding him semi-securely. I'm a bendy sort, so no problem really, but I don't think that everyone would really like the Cirque du Soleil routine required.
Anyway, we cruised the bookstore and then headed for good old TJ's. I pulled into the parking lot and spied a space. I pulled in and, curses, someone had left their stupid shopping cart at the end of it. I thought, well, my car is small, and these parking spaces are designed for the suburban behemouths everyone else drives, so there's PLENTY of room. And there probably was, except I pulled forward just a mite too far and tapped, just tapped, the cart. It rolled. There must have been one of those imperceptible hills, because it picked up speed and sailed into a light green Camry. With someone sitting in it. DAMN! I was out of the car, chasing down the cart by the time I realized that. As I turned back to my car, the solid gentleman in the Camry was out inspecting for any imperceptible scratches. Instead of just apologizing, I said, "Oh, I hope that didn't do any damage." Tee hee. He looked at me very darkly and said, "You should be more careful." I said, "Yeah, I know," and walked up with the errant cart to jam it in the cart corral thingy. For a little while, I seethed, I mean, clearly, it was an accident and if someone had put their stupid cart away, this would never have happened, no need to be cranky about it because it didn't scratch your car at all, mister. Then, I felt guilty. I should have just said sorry. I plopped Gabriel into the erstwhile cart (new baby trick!) and rolled him into the store with my cheeks burning. I was pretty sure everyone was watching me, thinking, "What a bitch. That kid's going to be a delinquent, just like his mother." However, by the time we reached the frozen desserts, the feeling had dissipated, my over-active guilt complex easily assuaged by chocolate. Sweet justice!

slumping into action

2006-04-04T11:12:00.000-07:00

So Gabriel and I were peeking over the windowsill this morning, looking out at the rain, watching the cars drive by. It's been raining for days and days and days! I read in the paper today that there were 22 days of rain in March, and 4 already in April. I am DONE with rain! Rain means no walks and that means being stuck inside with grouchy babe staggering under his own weight at the window while trying to gnaw lead paint (I'm sure) off the sill with new bottom teeth. He's in bed now. I simply could not take him one moment more. And he'd had it with me, too, believe me.
So what else is there? There's school stuff I need to get on. This, unfortunately, involves many, many telephone calls. I go to a smallish, private medical school without a hospital to call its own. For the academic years, this mattered not at all -- perhaps was even an advantage as we got some excellent just-plain-teachers, fewer powerhouse researchers with no interest in teaching. For the last two clinical years, however, it is a major pain in the ass to organize a schedule. I hate the telephone. I avoid calling good friends if I can reasonably get away with it. I REALLY hate cold calling doctors to see if they would possibly take a student on for a month or so. Of course, I usually get no further than the office manager, and you can just hear her thinking, "You're a student? Sure, you are hon' and I'm the Duchess of York!" So, for some reason, I'm putting off the whole exercise.
I have to apply for a residency in September and I still don't know what I want to do when I grow up. It's a little trying. The options I keep coming back to: Family Med, Internal Med, and Emergency Med. That last is something of a dark horse as every last student and her cousin wants to do EM, and despite my good grades (cough), I have little else going for me. Few activities, no research, just my smiling face and winning personality. I blame "ER" for this dagblasted popularity. I'm basing these choices of the fact I enjoyed my Family Med and ER rotations the most last year. I was jazzed by the atmosphere in the ER of impending catastrophe, and when I stopped having anxiety attacks about walking in to talk to a patient I started to feel competent and wow, what a rare feeling for a med student. IM was okay too, except the patients tend to be sicker and in the hospital. IM does have an aura of being more serious medicine that FP. I don't know if I care about that or not. Not that I'll write this in my personal statement or anything. I can be impassioned at need, trust me. And full of crap. I just wish I was excited by something. And I wish I didn't dread with every ounce of my being my internship year. I think it's ludicrous that I'll spend anywhere close to 80 hours a week anywhere but home with M & G. I really want to find the program that will give me the most time off. They don't seem to rank them like that, though, oddly enough.

cuteness, in lieu of substance

2006-04-03T15:56:00.000-07:00

Shameless, but I couldn't resist!

craigslist take me away!

2006-04-03T15:24:00.000-07:00

I have been a rather lackadaisical blogger of late. I had this lovely long depressing entry in a mildly amusing style all typed up last week only to have it eaten by the blog formatting gods. I lacked the heart to dredge it all up again and this week cannot recall the angst properly, anyhow. Such fun with brain chemistry.
I guess I have been busy. Is that anything like a proper excuse? I mean, there are plenty of people out there with entertaining and prolific blogs who also have full time jobs, kids, the works. I've got the kiddo, true. I guess blogging seeemed to be cutting into my stare-out-the-window time, which I value very heavily. I have been doing a fair amount of driving around looking at apartments. We are now commited to moving as we have submitted our 30-day notice-to-vacate to our charming landlords. I guess we should now find somewhere to go. I have walked through a few really awful houses, the worst of which recalled in atmosphere and odor the basement of the house I lived in during my junior and senior year at college. Oh yeah, that bad, complete with a flickering florescent light overhead. I think we'll put the baby in that room and see if we can trigger a seizure to go with his mold-induced asthma after living one week in this dump (a bargain at $1500 a month!). Others are perfect but too small, or pleasant except for the groups of young men in hooded sweatshirts loitering across the street at 2pm on a Tuesday. We still have time to find the perfect one, of course, if my nerves can stand it.
What else? Gabriel had no sooner established himself as a sitter, than he decided he hates sitting and wants to stand. I blame my mother (of course!). When she came for a visit, they played and played and she held him up so he could see out the front window on his tippy toes. He was in ecstasy. Now, he wants to stand up all the time and wants me to hold him there while he wobbles back and forth. Try to set him on his can, and wails quickly begin, the little stinker. I'm trying not to obsess too much about having raised a spoiled little bean already. This is a temporary situation -- within months he'll be standing on his own and then walking, and then... my god, all this baby stuff will be done.

briefly...

2006-03-23T12:52:00.000-08:00

Gabriel's breath smells like cilantro.
Seriously

mommy needs a friend

2006-03-23T12:29:00.000-08:00

So what's with this girl? Has she no friends?
Well, I do, they just don't have kids. Or at least the ones who live around here don't.
I tried to make friends with a mommy. I did. It just didn't go so well. I feel a little bad about it.
On the outside, it seemed a promising idea. The midwife gave me the number of another woman who'd just had a baby at the Birth Home (sadly now-defunct) who lived in our town. I felt very proud of my socially decrepit self by calling her up. We made a date to hang out. The minute I saw her, I was suspicious, though. Her hair was perfect. Like a blow-dried vision, all swingy and bouncy. I squelched that, though, and made nice. She lent me all of her maternity clothes and we talked about all manner of baby related stuff. We hung out again. Then I invited her and her husband over for a BBQ. Cracks were apparent at dinner, when she started to discuss the fate of her placenta. It was currently residing in her freezer. She thought she might dry it, grind it up and put it into capsules. Ew. I am not easily grossed out, but, ish. It so didn't fit with the swingy hair, which didn't really fit with the whole natural childbirth thing anyway. But I am intrigued by inconsistency and so recovered. We got together once more before G was born. Then I found out she doesn't vaccinate her son. Something of a deal breaker for me, actually. And not really fitting with the driving an SUV while using cloth diapers. I was so confused, my prejudices falling in around me. What happened to my orderly little world?
On the day Gabriel was born, she brought over a massive turkey dinner. And flowers. So sweet. It fed us for the better part of the week and I couldn't be more grateful.
We got together a couple more times. She asked me if I had any ideas about getting a baby to sleep more (ha ha). I think I must have given her an anguished look. With a 4 week baby, I was getting NO sleep. I may have indicated that there was something wrong with her precious babe who was not sleeping through at 8 months. Oops. I just couldn't fathom life on any less sleep than I was getting. I was clinging to the hope that it actually got better. So she found that off putting, probably. Then there was the fact that I was all about natural childbirth but was too lazy to do cloth diapers. What a hypocrite, really.
This is all to say, I am NOT going to call her again. I tried. I did, but you just can't fake chemistry. Also, you just can't forget about placenta pills. Not really.

manamana

2006-03-20T10:34:00.000-08:00

M got me a DVD of the Muppet Show for Christmas. It is great! It has allowed us to get in touch with our inner loose-limbed puppet, and how can that but be a good thing? As stated in the previous entry, Gabriel has taken a shine to at least one little muppet ditty. It's one of my last tricks in my wee shallow bag, so I find myself pulling it out quite often. I'm so pleased with this link, I'll do it again!
My mom came to visit for a week. It was fun! She and Gabriel bonded like mad and I had time to sit and stare out the window, read trashy novels, bake cookies and then eat too many of them; it's a simple, satisfying sloth I cultivate. It's also lovely to see my child through the eyes of someone else. I'm delighted with him of course, but as I see him all hours of the day and night, I tend to get a little blase about the smiles, the squeals, the delicious chub around his wrists. Not so his grandma. Seeing her in such ecstasies at his merest coy glance, playing with him for hours, and running over me for the chance to change a diaper or feed him made me think, well, he IS pretty wonderful, isn't he? It's refreshing to push out all the clotted feelings of doubt and self-loathing I gather in relation to raising my son. I know, that sounds delightful, no? But I do second guess myself constantly, and ponder every little hiccup and poop as a sign that I may have fucked it all up, utterly. Just being able to take the tiniest step back and watch him doing his perfectly baby stuff is a relief!
All right, the little bugger's awake. Enough of this sappy reverie.

oh bloggie

2006-03-18T15:14:00.000-08:00

How I've missed you! And how, you may ask, have I been spending my time? Well, just click here.
It's Gabriel's favorite song. We sing it many, many times a day. It tends to take a chunk out of your day. And your brain.
Hope you (all two) are well!

stellar day

2006-03-09T15:52:00.000-08:00

-- lost keys in sketchy neighborhood while looking at apartments and then
-- forgot to buckle baby in carseat and drove ALL THE WAY HOME (with husband's keys). My mantra is shot to hell now.

Well, it's good that I don't let things rattle me. Social services should be knocking on my door any minute now.

the beast rears its ugly head

2006-03-06T09:38:00.000-08:00

Had my first full-fledged freak out over putting Gabriel in daycare. It began as a discussion I frequently re-visit upon my poor husband entitled, "what am I doing with my life?" Gosh, doesn't that sound fun? I am batting options about in my head: apply for residencies in emergency med? family med? internal med? Focus on geography? specialty? family? M's work needs? big city? rural? It just goes around and around, especially now, as I'm somewhat removed from it all, the advantages of one specialty vs. another are mostly fantasy.
M made the mistake, though, in the midst of the swirling daydreams of asking, "what does your gut say?" And I knew instantly. My gut says, "stay with the kid." Oh shit! I am not a particularly good stay at home mom. I find it boring and trying most days. But I also find Gabriel the most amazing being and I love being with him. It's so contradictory. And then there's the fact that three years of medical school gets you $150,000 in debt with absolutely nothing to show for it. It's just not a viable possibility for me to stay at home. I do wish I could be two people. I feel I've got enough crap to fill up two heads, anyway. I could BE that wonderful, warm, caring mom who's always there. I could BE that dedicated physician who's smart and always there. It makes me feel sick to my stomach to be so torn.
I have so many good friends who have put their kids in day care and they are doing JUST FINE, thank you. In fact, they're thriving. In my head, I know Gabriel will, too, after an adjustment period which will consist mainly of my weeping and moping and hating myself. He'll just toodle right over to the toy pile, I'm sure. Still. I miss holding him when he takes a long nap, for god's sake! And he looks for me whenever anyone else holds him. We need each other, see?
Because feelings like these require some sort of action, unless we're to develop ulcers and panic disorder (trigger: day care and discussions about day care!), I have rechannelled my anxieties: we need to move. See, right now M drives about an hour and a half to get to his job, morning and evening, fighting traffic all the way. When I start back to school, I will join him most days. Plus there's the fact that we live in a crummy neighborhood in a dreary town. So how can we minimize Gabriel's time in day care, and maximizing good old quality time? By moving closer to the heart of it all -- a crummy neighborhood in an exciting town! It will in all liklihood break our little bank, but I think it may save my sanity. More to come

how big a nerd am I?

2006-03-04T10:13:00.000-08:00

M is at a conference in Long Beach. Gets back tonight. In his absence I have been renting episodes of CSI from the video store. The whole 5th season, actually. I find it fascinating, I confess. The cheezy montages, the gore, the quasi-science, the puns, I just can't get enough. This leads me to my other TV obsession, yes, Lost. This one is M's fault though. In my post-partum haziness, Matt proceeded to rent the entire 1st season, which we watched while taking turns bouncing the baby on the exercise ball. We paused it when G started screaming so we wouldn't miss a minute. It took about a week and a half for us to get through it all. I had a dream in the midst of our Lost-o-rama that the radio in our bedroom, which we had turned to static for in an attempt to lull Gabriel to sleep, started playing "the numbers," in a creepy, Spanish accented voice. I am fairly certain that this really happend, but when I told M about it, he burst out laughing, which helped me to realize that I was, in fact, becoming obsessed. A weak mind beset by too many hormones and too many shots of Naveen Andrews in a wet T-shirt. Bestill my nerdy heart.

wanna date?

2006-03-01T11:03:00.000-08:00

Heh heh.
Sadly the mini-eggs are all gone. Sigh. As I have no will power I will NOT buy any more. I cannot be trusted with them in the house. They are SO GOOD. They call to me, talk to me, tickle my ear at night...oh wait, that's the cat. Anyhoo, in an attempt to be a better, healthier sugar fiend, I have attacked dates this morning. Not just any dates. Medjool dates. Serious manna. They are delicious and sticky, but it's hard to eat them with the same abandon I do mini-eggs. There are pits, you see, and every 10th date seems to have some weird bitter mealy fungus growing in it. But they are so good, you push on to the 11th and forget all about it. I got these at Trader Joe's (I am hitting the links pretty hard, but you see, it's a new found skill and ever so much fun), and they are lovely.
Dates remind me of Peace Corps. In Mali, you could buy bags of dates so dry they crunched when you bit them. They revealed their well disguised sweetness only when chewed on for a minute or more. Many of them were actually infested with worms. But of course I loved them. I am a courageous and not very smart eater. I tend to try it and ask about it later. I once ate a big bag of them in the dark while sitting on a train that was not moving.* (This was actually a major theme of my Peace Corps service: trains not going anywhere). I'd arrived at the train station before the sun came up to get a seat on the local train to take me from Kayes back to my village. I bought a bag of dates and munched them contentedly while the waiting for something, anything really, to happen. As it became light, I realized that the bag of dates I was eating was NOT GOOD. Full of worms. Oh, let's call them what they are: maggots. I'd sat in the dark eating maggots and hadn't realized it. At the time, it gave me a moment's pause. I stopped eating and tucked them back in my bag (what, for later?). I didn't get sick or anything. My body was probably thrilled with the extra protein.

*This happened after I'd been in country at least a year. Early on, it might have freaked me out. But after a certain point, it's all good. Really.

indiscretions

2006-02-28T12:00:00.000-08:00

So I bought a bag of Cadbury Mini-Eggs at the drugstore last week. The Easter candy was out and they called my name. They're almost all gone. All right, it was Friday afternoon, satisfied? I've kept them hidden in my underwear drawer and I find many, many excuses to dig around in there until I find them in their sweet-chalky delight covering that satisfying little knob of chocolate. Baby's crying, well, for God's sake I need a handful. Finished with lunch? Well, just a few for dessert, of course. Have to make a phone call? What better way to calm my nerves? I'm not entirely sure why I'm hiding them either. It's not like M's a food Nazi. If anything, I'm hiding them FROM him. Oh.
Since I've been nursing I've refined my sweet tooth -- and by refined I mean given into it utterly. While pregnant, anything salty was delightful but now I eat cookies and candies hand over fist. Now there's a lovely image. Happy little nursing mother gorging herself on sweets all day long. Taking her head out of the sugar rimmed trough just long enough to breastfeed her baby. If I keep this up, though, I'm afraid I'll have to go to the dentist. I should go anyway, I know, but I've recently developed an aversion. My last dental visit was while I was about 7 month pregnant and the idiot dentist kept me tipped backwards in the chair until I thought I was going to pass out. I know I should have said something, but I have this unhelpful endurance reflex that kicks in in these situations. I tell myself, I can handle this, and this, and this, and now I'm blacking out. I didn't pass out, but I felt so crappy afterward that I am in no rush to go back. So really it's my fault, even though even a dentist know that pregnant ladies hate being upside down when you torture them with the ultrasonic tartar remover. Here's another reason I don't want to go back. My dentist dedicates a corner of his waiting room to Christian propaganda. I only noticed this last time, as I staggered out with my big belly. Or perhaps I hallucinated it, but then I thought back and he had asked me if I go to church. I hate that. I have no problem with religion. I think it's great, but PLEASE do not try to get me to join your club. I will resist to my dying breath (ha ha). It takes me right back to the 4-H functions at the Grange hall when I was eight or nine years old (small town on the Eastern Plains in CO). I was there, dressed in my skirt and sneakers with knee socks, hair braided, running around screaming like a banshee with the rest of the kids until I got cornered by an old lady who asked me whether I was saved, if I had accepted Jesus, if I went to church. I think this happened more than once, because I know once I was confused about being saved... like, from drowning, and once I lied and said that we go to that other church.... hee hee, the church of Satan. I would have more fun with it now, I think. At the time I was perplexed and embarassed and a little ashamed, which was stupid, but there's nothing like a little old lady serving pancakes to instill in you the sense that you're doing something wrong, bad and stupid. Who needs it? I think I need a little chocolate now...

Big Trash Day

2006-02-27T08:24:00.000-08:00

It is big trash day today. We are getting rid of the futon mattress that the cat peed on. I am kind of sad, though. Matt had this futon when we first started going out. It has history, man, but alas, no longer. To the dump. To the dump it goes.
Today is Gabriel's 6 month birthday! I have been revelling in this for a week or so now. There have been many times in the last half year, I did not think we would make it this far. Silly, right? I mean, what were the alternatives? But, I remember back soon after he was born (I find myself referring to those ancient times as, "Back when he was a baby...," as opposed to now, when he's all grown up, of course), thinking that we had made a terrible, terrible mistake. I couldn't admit it at the time, naturally. But after the elation of birth passed and the fatigue and madness of the primordial hormonal soup set in, I was pretty certain I had ruined my life. And I was terrified of this child and having to spend time alone with him. I have wondered if I were tapped by the post-partum depression fairy; the days were bleak and I dreaded the nights. I felt alien to myself, having this baby who screamed the moment he was put down. I carried him constantly to avoid that sound that was like an ice pick in my soul. Things that I had always done to comfort myself, the rituals of living: a cup of tea in the morning, reading the paper, reading anything, walking, swimming, eating anything that required more than 1 hand to fix or consume, were suddenly vanished. And in their place was a responsibility the weight of which I had never imagined. I understand, I think, how babies come to be shaken, because he would not stop crying, he would not sleep, he did not love me. I know I swaddled him too vigorously at least once, thinking, "just keep those evil little hands down and SLEEP." And that is the scariest, worst place I have ever been. Teetering on a cliff, wanting to make the child do something and it won't, can't and feeling so desperate you don't care how, you just want it to stop crying because you are SO TIRED. A very wise friend said something to me in the midst of my muddle, though, to the effect: you cannot control him, you can only control your reaction to him. I found so much comfort in that. I truly felt that my child was screaming incessently because I was the worst mother ever*, even though I knew that I had done everything possible to comfort him. Somehow her saying this, even though she was miles away and for all she knew I WAS the worst mother in the world, gave me enough space to acknowledge that Gabriel is his own little person and while I am vital to his life, I do not control his being. If he must scream, then he must. And I must be able to endure it.
If it was post-partum depression and not just the "baby blues," (whatever that means) I was experiencing, I think it was fairly mild, because I was able to slog through, the baby made it unharmed, and the feelings of doom have lifted for the most part with time.
This is all to say that I am THRILLED that Gabriel turns 6 months today. He has blossomed into so much more than a little screamer. He's smiley and sunny everyday for stretches that go on and on. He does exciting things with sweet potatoes on the tray of his high chair. He still struggles to roll over, but he spins in his crib like the second hand dial of a clock. He smells like fresh laundry hung out in the sun. He blows spit bubbles and sticks out his tongue and it makes both of us LAUGH. I am so glad he's here. I did not ruin my life. I changed in inalterably, but it is better, different, stinkier, richer, tireder, cuddlier, and my own.

*A different friend, also very wise, pointed out: no matter how bad it gets, you are always a better mother than Britney Spears. And you know what, she's right. My baby ALWAYS gets strapped into his carseat. Where he screams his head off. But I always do it. I am a better mother than Britney Spears. It's become my new mantra.

dilettante

2006-02-22T11:22:00.000-08:00

I am somewhat bummed that I cannot watch the Olympics this year. I'll admit to being dorky enough to watch ice skating (men & women) and dancing, downhill skiing in it's infinate incarnations, bobsled, luge and any other sport where the commentators get all snarky when they see people falter or wobble or wipe out. I have no patience with curling or hockey; not a big team sports fan, I. I suppose I watched it as a child and imbued it, as the announcers and sentimental back-story pieces suggested, with some sort of national pride and good vs. evil subtext. When really it's just a bunch of people in spandex doing idiotic things like plummeting to their deaths on sleds, skis and skates. Still, I yearn a little to watch whatsername do that weird standing split on her skates, and whoever to wreck-up but good on the luge run. I get all misty eyed when the national anthem plays. I am a big pile of pudding. Sigh. But no, we are not re-installing the cable until M graduates. It was his idea. And since he is by far the biggest sports and TV watcher in the house (if not the western world) I think it was rather a big step for him to take. And I will not be the one to bring us down. If he didn't get his MBA because I reconnected the cable and he got too distracted by snooker on ESPN, well, I would never forgive myself.
By the way, M wants me to acknowledge, and I do with glee, that it was he, yes, he, who got my link list up and running. I'm so pleased. I feel like a real blogger now, oh boy. In reality though, in that big blogging world olympics, I'm the person you never see on TV, eliminated in the first round now sadly packing her bags to slink back to podunkville. There are a lot of people with amazing sites, excellent writing. All of it. Go read those. Still, I'm having fun. And if no one's reading, all the better. I can be just as dumb as I want. And I am.

long weekend

2006-02-21T11:00:00.000-08:00

Well it sure was an exciting long weekend here at chez kazoo. We did our taxes. And because we are poor, we get loads (to us, anyway) money back, which we will squander in our typical manner: food, beer and baby gear. A rare snowfall dusted the "peaks" surrounding the Bay (sorry, I am from Colorado and referring to anything under 12,000 ft as a mountain makes me snicker, just a little. I am a homesick little snob). Still, everyone was in ecstasies to go up and see the snow. We drove up to the east peak of Mt. Tam to find approximately 2 mm of slush remaining under the trees. No matter, this was gleefully scooped up into muddy slushaballs and flung about by every single person with a Y chromosone hiking along the trail up to the top. Fathers, sons, boyfriends. M tactfully demurred as Gabriel is a little too young to play along and would cry, pitifully, if snow melted down his neck. It was a beautiful day, clear with a view across the water into the city. Back at the parking area, someone fashioned tabletop snowmen wreathed in cedar and manzanita. Quite festive really. Last night, M whacked Gabriel's head into the door frame while wearing him in the bjorn. I report this because 1) the child is perfectly fine, though there were tears and a goose egg and 2) when G was 3 weeks old I did the same thing while carrying him in my arms and have felt revoltingly guilty ever since. So now we're even. I'm a petty sort.
And finally, I think Gabriel is teething, really this time. Why? The last two mornings he has vomited on me directly after feeding. Shockingly, copiously, Exorcist baby style, leaving me blinking, soaked to the skin in puke. Only when he's done, instead of the head spinning around, he sticks out his tongue and blows a raspberry. So he's not sick, I'm thinking, just swallowing a bunch of drool, which increases, I'm told, before the teeth poke through. A surfeit of commas, there, I apologize, sort of. Syntax be damned, patch words together with commas, make speech.
Anyway, that's our weekend, in a nutshell. We also tried out highchairs and decided that applesauce is yummy, but there is no drama in that. Thank god.

insufferable

2006-02-17T14:08:00.000-08:00

Last night after I put lil' G to bed, I went to my yoga class. It is my one escape of the week. Naturally, I both long for and dread it. Long for it because it's fun to sit in a class of grownups with no weeping children, dread it because I am extremely lazy at heart and really just want to curl up on the couch with a book and a glass of wine. Hmm...
In any case, I put on my new periwinkle blue cashmere sweater that I got for Christmas and went. I am not really the cashmere "type" if there be such a thing. But the sweater is lovely and I haven't worn it once since I got it for fear that someone would spit/vomit on it and there would then be dry cleaning/woolite involved. So, to my grown-up class I wear my grown-up clothes. I park my car and saunter down the darkened street. Past the Adult Superstore* with its display window featuring lingerie-clad models, dirty board games and, most interestingly, a pump for increasing width and length. I gather. Though I feel compelled to look every time I walk by, I do it by a sideways glance. I don't want to be accused of, you know, prurient curiousity. Sharing an entryway with the sex shop is a lawyer's office. I do not know what kind of law they practice in there, but I would think twice, myself, personally, before paying anyone in THAT office by the hour. And right next door is the yoga studio, a haven of hardwood floors, gauzy curtains and just a whiff of incense. You know, if I lived in an honest to god city, the proximity of these somewhat disparate enterprises would hardly give me a moment's pause, but it merely serves to underline the oddness of life in this particular suburb. There used to be a big military base here, and has, accordingly, enough tatoo parlors and check cashing outlets to satisfy the most desperate sailor. Now that the base is closed the town is both shabby and tacky. It suits me really, though I have no tatoos.

*why is "adult" the euphamism for sex, I wonder. Adults have sex, I suppose. Adult movies, adult themes. Then you get to "adult education" offered at the community college. It does pique my interest, though I've looked at the catalog and can detect no hanky-panky. Unfortunately.

The easy way out

2006-02-15T15:20:00.000-08:00

Gratuitous baby cuteness. I've started 3 posts and pooped out on them all. This here blogging is WORK, I tell you. So in lieu of words, I share with you... Gabriel, in all is chubby, yummy-smelling adorability.
He is wearing a onesie that a dear friend sent from Paris. I thought to include a clever caption, such as, "someone went to Paris and all I got was this lousy T-shirt," but the photographer flinched, cutting the proof, and the punchline, right out of the picture. And now I have said too much. A demain.

shopping yoga

2006-02-13T15:18:00.000-08:00

Feeling a bit frumpy today. It's a warm day, begging me to break out the tank tops and sandals, but for some reason I'm bopping around in my post-partum baggies. I mean it's nice that slowly, slowly these rags are losing their tenacity about my frame, but right now, ick. And shopping is kind of a nightmare these days. It's all about the stroller. This is what I get for railing against them in my pre-baby life. I hated strollers. Felt hunted down by them at the mall as their drivers pushed ridiculously big kids around and over my toes if I wasn't fast enough. Ah, well that'll teach me, right?
I bought one pair of jeans about a month ago and have been wearing them non-stop. Suffice it to say that trying on clothes with a baby in a bjorn is difficult. And if I hadn't been such a dedicated yoga student (ha) I don't think I could have done it without both of us toppling over. I did the tree pose of my life, for BOTH of our lives really.

the back pack wars

2006-02-11T11:32:00.000-08:00

The bad-writing fairy has visited, I see. That last post was a bit of a jumble, for which I apologize. Dogs, babies, friends, school, the chaos that churns in my head sprawled out for all to see. I guess that's fair.
In other news, I'm searching for a baby backpack. It's time. I took a walk to the drugstore a couple miles down the road with Gabriel in the Bjorn the other day and seriously considered removing him and camping out for the remainder of the day on the streetcorner while my back recovered. In 5 short months we've witnessed an evolution in baby transport gizmos. First with the Mobywrap. Amazing invention. Gabriel wrapped up next to me as snug as a little bug. He slept! And slept some more! But then after 3 months or so, he wants to look around and does not, thank you very much, like to be turned forward in the sling. So out comes the B-jorn, which was M's fave all along. Little more structure and the kid loves hanging out and looking at the world. So now I'm looking at the Ergo, a soft backpack type thing and the Kelty/Deuter/Macpac frame contraptions. I know the one that I want: ergo, I will buy. But I think M. likes the idea of a sturdy frame, good for long hikes, etc. Maybe we'll get both, eventually. I definately carry the baby more and so I say my choice counts for more. This is how fascist regimes get started though.

baskerville hall

2006-02-10T15:16:00.000-08:00

We are currently hosting Niles, the world's largest doof of a dog. A pitbull. I never, ever in one million years would have ever consented to inviting a dog of this breed into my house to roam about and knock things off table tops with whips of his tail while my baby plays on the floor, until I met Niles. He belongs to S (from Merced, and not to be confused with S from New Zealand), my second medical school friend (first being S-NZ, of course). In our first year at school we bonded over the fact that 1) we didn't know what the fuck we were doing and 2) in the midst of shiny happy extroverts, we hated parties, socializing and talking to people in general. I sensed this about her immediately and decided that we must be friends after one lab spent sharing self-deprecating anecdotes when we were, I think, supposed to be figuring out which end of the stethescope to stick in our ears. Afterwards, I stalked her and asked her to lunch. Almost like a date. Because even a hermit needs ONE like minded friend. S-NZ is the absolute opposite. She exudes sunny warmth, can chat up anyone and make them feel like they are the most interesting person in the world. A hermit is lucky to have one friend like her. Anyway, studying with S and S made it all bearable, that and packs and packs of sugarless gum and countless diet cokes. We chewed and sipped until our borborygmi could empty a room during an exam. During our first year of Anatomy studies when we studied at S's house Niles would sneak up on the bone box and steal away the plastic bone replicas. We turned in a box with a few gnawed edges, true. Niles is friendly and eager-to-please though. A little pushy when it comes to affection; if you're not giving him any, he'll rest his 20lb head on your lap until you pet him. And if you're sitting on the floor, he'll plop down as close to you as possible and stick his nose in your ear. He is a neutered male, which puts my mind at ease. The awful dog attacks you read about invariably feature the, ahem, intact male pitbull. I took S-Merced with me to the pound when we were looking for a pooch of our own. It's a sad fact that the majority of unwanted animals are pitbulls or mixes thereof. As we walked around the awful stinky, loud room where the dogs were housed, I kept coming back to this quiet little pit-lab mix with the brindle coat. She looked so mournful, yet wanting to lick my fingers through the chainlink. S convinced me that this was just the dog we were looking for. And, you know, she was right. Fili is the sweetest dog, so submissive you want to kick her, so enthusiastic for a walk or a pat that she nearly pees herself. Just neurotic enough to give the cat a run for the money.
So should anyone be concerned, Gabriel is not left to frolic with the hellhounds unsupervised. We are always very close at hand, especially when Niles is about. But both dogs seem respectful of the baby and sense that they are not allowed to play. Fili is determined to get in a lick or two from time to time, but you can hardly blame her for that.

duh

2006-02-09T12:21:00.000-08:00

My husband, the mysterious M, read my blog last night. I'd invited him to read it on several occasions back when I started it, but he never seemed that interested. Last night, though, after a lengthy discussion regarding communication and connectedness (it sounds so much more grown-up when couched in these terms) he decided to read.
And afterward, he turned to me with a kind of hurt look on his face and said that anyone reading it would think he's not a very nice guy. And you know what, he has a point. Not that he's not a nice guy, because he is, he is. But that I have written down incidents that do not cast him in the bestest of lights. Why have I done this?
I think I have been seduced by the relative anonymity (funny, as blog is read by mom and a very select group of longtime friends) of the medium and used the forum as a diary. And what do you do in a diary? You complain. You bitch and moan and write from the crankiest part of your soul. The part that doesn't get enough air, thank god. And so M who is not here all day long becomes a whipping boy for all of my frustration and despair when my head is melting and the baby's crying. It's not fair, but I blame him for this, this, situation in which I find myself: bored out of my skull, domestically challenged, maternally inadequate.
And yet so not the full picture. I have chosen to be at home for this precious little slice of time that even now is slipping away so quickly it makes my heart stop. That baby is my very life. And that husband is the only one I'll share it with.
I love you. You know that. Duh!

the odyssey

2006-02-08T11:15:00.000-08:00

Gabriel and I had a risky 3-part errand to run yesterday and I am pleased to report that we made it, with only minimal fuss.
Part 1: Drive to ATM. Too lazy to unhook baby from carseat so carry now extremely heavy infant carrier with our own baby Huey to walk-up ATM. Get cash.
Part 2: Drive to police station. Decide babe-in-arms might charm desk officer into retrieving my background check (yes, background check), and so schlepp baby in. G obligingly slumps against me in the very charming manner of his. Pay $20 cash and obtain report. I have no outstanding warrants in V-town. Yippee!
Part 3: Drive to school. First to Financial Aid. No one there. Next to clinical ed to turn in application for rotation for next year, complete with background check. Suffering delusions that I am competitive, I entertain thoughts of applying for Emergency Medicine residency programs next year. The only way I can even laughingly consider this is to apply for a tryout rotation at various fancy teaching hospitals. So keep your fingers crossed. Back to financial aid, someone there, can't help me. To the bursar I go, nicest woman on campus, but there has been no mistake, I will be getting no student tax benefits for this year. Oh well.
All of this we did and without tears, from either of us. I feel I should get Gabriel a fine token of my esteem. Instead I fed him peas. And, he liked them...

music

2006-02-07T12:42:00.000-08:00

Gabriel has a musical mobile over his crib. It plays jingles by Mozart, Beethoven, Bach while these googly eyed neon animals twirl overhead. This device has saved my sanity as Gabriel has been entranced by it daily since he was two months old. Its secondary purpose has been revealed over time. I've remarked for a couple months that I usually have to change him after he's been looking at the mobile. Almost without fail, I lay him down and turn it on, and then the real music starts. I had hoped that these little tinkly tunes would somehow imprint a love of classical music for life. Instead, I fear he will associate Mozart with having to crap. Oh well. I suppose that's useful too.

Stroller woe

2006-02-06T16:44:00.000-08:00

I tried another outing with the &^(*#$ stroller and the @#*& baby. There were tears and much distress by mile two. I strapped on the baby bjorn, plunked Gabriel in and pushed the damn thing back to the car. Even harder on back. Oh well. Soon he will sit. Soon we will backpack it.
That is the sum total of our excitement for the day. Everyday there comes a moment when I feel like my brain's oozing out my ears. Sadly, I chose to sit down at the computer during one of these "episodes." I'll try better tomorrow!

Not much

2006-02-01T14:29:00.000-08:00

A rather dreary day. Rain. We did manage a walk during a brief break in the clouds. The sun came out and nearly blinded us reflecting off the oily asphalt. Then more rain.
I have been on a half-hearted search for a new car seat to replace the "infant seat" which my (admittedly) large baby boy has outgrown at 5 mos. The rain makes me do crazy things, like go to Walmart. But I've looked at every other conceivable place in town and not found the panoply that I feel necessary to chose the perfect, safe, comfy seat. Walmart proved a disappointment in car seat selection, but a real winner in freakish people watching. A workman sprawled rather lewdly on the floor in front of a refrigerator unit near the checkout while his partner chatted animatedly on his cell phone. I got a dirty look from a woman as I paused briefly at the exit to throw a blanket over Gabriel's head to protect him from the light sprinkle. I'm not sure why, but I imagine she was appalled I brought a baby out in this weather. Aside from informing her she needs a life of her own, I wanted to say, sheesh, lady it's 50 degrees out. He's not made of spun sugar, for crissakes! Anyway, after the Walmart, um, experience, I went to Target and just bought a car seat willy nilly off the shelf. I'll try to stuff it in the back of our rather cramped Saturn and hope it works.
Winter in California is strange for someone who grew up with four discernable seasons swirling about her annually. For one thing, everything comes to life in winter. The rains start in November or so and everything turns green. The hills transform from golden brown to luminescent emerald green in a matter of days. Trees are laden with citrus fruit that falls to the ground and rots because everyone's got too many, anyway. Bulb flowers that elsewhere herald the arrival of spring start pushing up, rather indecently, really, around New Year. Early daffodils and crocus are abundant. The apple and cherry trees are in flower. It's like Spring, but without the harrowing passage of Winter, it seems an unearned bounty.
I don't know why I adopt a moralizing tone relating to the climate. It's not like it can work harder to better itself. It's simply easy beautiful hereabouts.