Nablopomo: Day One

So because I did such a great job of it last year, I have signed up to do Nablopomo again. I dunno, I guess I like to set myself up for failure. This is especially apparent because I have not posted anything in nearly two months and now I think I can start posting every day. Uh huh.

So today is day one. I will start with an apology for my extended absence. There are many reasons, but it all boils down to: I have just not felt like blogging. Plus, I have this huge post that I have been working on to commemorate Matilda's first birthday (back in September), and it's still not finished. One of my greatest character flaws is my inability to move on when I have been unable to perfectly complete some other huge task I have set for myself. Because I had not perfected the first birthday post, I was incapable of writing anything else. This has always been a problem. I remember in the sixth grade we were all assigned to draw pictures of dragons. (For the life of me, I cannot remember why we were assigned this particular task.) Everyone else in the class finished their drawings in a couple of days and all of the results were tacked up around the room. I, on the other hand, had to create this intricate portrait of a warrior princess fighting a serpentine water dragon--a fantastic and complex undertaking that would have been the greatest dragon in the class if I had ever finished it. As it was, I was never able to get it JUST RIGHT and so it sat in the bottom of my desk for the rest of the school year, never to be admired on the classroom wall.

I get a lot of compliments on those things in life that I do manage to complete to my strict standards--compliments about how everything I bother doing is done so well. This is nice to hear, but people don't understand that for everything they see that looks so good are a dozen other projects frustrating the hell out of me because I cannot get them JUST RIGHT. These failures haunt me to the point of incapacitation. I go two months without posting a blog entry because I cannot get that last one to be perfect. This is the mixed blessing of being OCD...the things that you manage to finish are exquisite, but the things that are less than exquisite sit in the bottom of your desk mocking you and undermining your joy about those other accomplishments. There is a very fine line between meticulous and neurotic.

A Year Ago Today

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

6:30am
In the pre-dawn hours I eat breakfast with Pop and Ian. If I had known that this was the last solid food I would be eating for the next 60 hours, I would have insisted on eating more than an egg sandwich and Ovaltine. Like a trip down the buffet at The Peppermill. Twice. As it is, this egg-sandwich is going to have to work very, very hard.

7:30am
Ian, Pop, and I show up at the hospital for my scheduled induction. I am promptly shown to a birthing room by a harried-looking nurse who seems to assume that I have done this all before. She leaves the three of us alone to ponder the bed, the gown folded neatly on top of it, and each other. Eventually our labor nurse, Nurse Stephanie, shows up and seems puzzled as to why I am not dressed and in bed waiting to be hooked up to the various machines in the room. She doesn’t seem to grasp that I have never done this before and that I really have no idea what to do. She explains to us that I need to change into my gown and hop into bed. This is almost as confusing as the first time I had a massage. You mean totally naked? Yes? Okey dokey.

7:50 am
My OB shows up and asks how I'm feeling while proceeding to try to fit his entire arm inside of me. I mention that I've been better. He announces that I am 2 cm dilated and 80% effaced. This sounds promising to me. He then unwraps what appears to be a chopstick and pokes it right on in there, releasing a flood of amniotic fluid onto the bed—the same bed I'm supposed to lie in for the next several hours. I kind of thought that they would use some sort of bucket or bedpan to catch this deluge, but apparently I am just supposed to lie in this nasty mess. How fun. Meanwhile, Nurse Stephanie continues to poke my hand over and over, trying to get the IV in and working. She doesn’t seem to be very good at this.

8:00am
I am officially in labor. On my right I am hooked up to a monitor that records my contractions (via the sensor wrapped around my belly), the baby's heart rate (via the sensors stuck on her head inside me), and my blood pressure (via an automatic blood pressure cuff that goes off every 15 minutes). On my left is an impressively arrayed IV rack that holds bags of fluids, pitocin, and antibiotics, all of which are wired into my arm. I feel like I'm in one of those creepy cocoons in The Matrix. I am still leaking fluids as though I am in a perpetual state of bed-wetting. Nurse Stephanie tells me that I am having contractions 3 minutes apart, but they're so mild that I barely even feel them.

11:00am
My mom shows up, and Ian departs to buy me some lip goo, one minor necessity I have forgotten to pack. I am comfortable and happy—my leaking stopped a while ago, and Nurse Stephanie has provided several thick cotton pads to separate my skin from the soaked bed. We watch A Baby Story on the TV, and I contemplate the irony of watching a woman give birth on the television while I myself am giving birth. I mock the woman on television for not getting her epidural—I will not make that mistake. The blood pressure cuff is pissing me off. Every time it swells up, the Velcro pops open, setting off a very noisy alarm on the monitor. After about the fifth time that she has to answer the alarm, Nurse Stephanie goes off to find an “extra large” cuff, leaving me with a complex about my upper arm flab.

12:00pm
I get "checked" (read: violated) again and am now 4 cm dilated. My contractions are 2 minutes apart. Not bad. The contractions are still very manageable, although another stomach pain is making itself known—I’m hungry. It is time for lunch! Nurse Stephanie brings me green Jello and some Saltines. Uh, thanks, lady, but I didn’t get this body on Jello and crackers. Nurse Stephanie informs me that I won't be allowed to eat anything solid until the baby comes. WHAT?! What kinds of sadists run this place?! Fuck. Matilda better come soon.

1:30pm
I can feel the contractions now. Unpleasant, but totally bearable. I still decide now is a good time to ask for my epidural. No use waiting until I’m actually in pain. Ian takes the opportunity to go grab some lunch. I warn him that anybody entering my room with food will be stabbed in the face with an IV needle. He decides to eat in the cafeteria.

2:00pm
Dr. Feelgood (aka, the anesthesiologist) shows up. I don’t look at The Very Large Needle he’s about to insert into my spine, but, based on the look on everyone’s faces, it ain’t pretty. Happily, the procedure is nearly painless and not at all disturbing. The pain begins subsiding almost immediately. I thank Dr. Feelgood profusely. He is my new best friend.

2:30pm
Nurse Stephanie checks me again. She pauses, feels around some more, pauses, and feels around some more. There is a look of confusion on her face. I become worried. "How's it going?" I ask. "Well," she begins, and feels around some more (at this point, thankfully, the epidural has erased all the discomfort of having someone stick their hand into my cervix), "I don't think I feel anything. You're 9cm dilated." We are all shocked. I'm almost there! I can't believe it went so fast! I am a master of childbirth! I am ecstatic that everything has gone so quickly and so easily. Soon I will be giving birth, and then I can eat! Hooray! Mom and Pop are proud of me. Ian beams. I feel like a natural woman. I think, maybe I shouldn't have gotten the epidural after all...this is a piece of cake! Oh hubris.

2:45pm
Ian goes to get something to drink. Nurse Stephanie warns him not be gone long; the baby will be coming soon. She prepares for the birth, unfolding the baby station and turning on all the machines. It’s time to have a baby.

3:00pm
We do some practice pushes. Because my epidural is still so fresh, I can't feel a thing below my waist, so I just make a scrunched-up pushing face like the ladies I see on TV and will myself to push, although I'm not at all sure if I'm succeeding. Nurse Stephanie says I'm doing a great job pushing, but we're still at 9cm, so it's not time yet.

4:00pm
Nurse Stephanie checks me again. Still at 9cm. She seems confused by this. I am so hungry I want to eat her.

5:00pm
We do some practice pushes again to see if that gets things moving. This time, Nurse Stephanie seems perplexed. "There's still some cervix." She goes to get another nurse for a second opinion. This nurse checks me and glares at Nurse Stephanie with a look that obviously says, "You messed up so bad, but I'm not going to say anything in front of the patient, lest we freak her out." I ask her, "How many centimeters?" She pauses, "5.5 to 6." Oh. My. God. My heart sinks. The mood in the room darkens considerably. My stomach growls. I cannot believe that Nurse Stephanie was SO wrong. I cannot believe that I am so far behind. I am not a birthing goddess after all. I suck. And I am hungry. Shortly thereafter, the OB arrives and confirms that I am only 6cm dilated. He seems disappointed. Everybody is disappointed. I want a drink.

5:30-9:00pm
Things start to get kind of blurry in the timeline here, as I have lost all my momentum and am delirious with hunger. I get several visitors: my sister and her boyfriend, my friends Mike and Crystal, and Micaela. Ian, Mom, and Pop take turns going out for breaks so that they can trade out the guest passes with other visitors. It’s like an open house in here! I love it. Some women don’t like to have lots of people around when they’re in labor, but I am starving, and anything to distract me from my hunger is welcome. Nurse Stephanie goes off shift and Nurse Somebodyelse takes her place. The epidural wears off and I experience about half an hour of painful contractions before Dr. Feelgood shows up to top off my epidural. I do very well with the contractions—breathing through them, keeping my eyes open, relaxing my face—and everyone is very pleased with me. I imagine that I could probably handle the labor without the epidural, but then I think…Why? Given the choice between severe pain and no pain at all, I'll always go with no pain at all. But did I mention how hungry I am? By now, my hunger pains are nearly as intense as my contractions, and the epidural doesn't do anything to help the hunger.

10:00pm
I have been sleeping for about an hour when the OB arrives to check on me. I am at 7 cm. He says I need to start thinking about a c-section because I am not progressing well. Should we do it now? He has to zip over to the other hospital to deliver another patient, so if we don't do it now then we'll have to wait until about midnight. Although I am not opposed to a c-section, I'm just not ready to throw in the towel yet, so I suggest that he check me again at midnight and we'll decide then. He agrees that this is a good idea. Hindsight being 20/20, I should have demanded the c-section then and saved myself eight hours of misery. Oh well.

11:45pm
The OB is still at the other hospital, so he calls Nurse Somebodyelse and asks her to check me. I am at 8cm. The OB is very pleased with this and says it sounds like I've started to progress—he no longer wants to do the c-section. He'll be back in a few hours, and we’ll deliver the baby then. I start to cry. Why do I cry? From pain? No, I just had my epidural topped off again. I feel fine. From boredom? No, I have plenty of good company in Ian, Mom, and Pop, who are all still sticking it out with me. From frustration? No, I feel I could go for several more hours if only they'd give me some food! I am crying because I am SO FUCKING HUNGRY! I literally start begging the nurse for something to eat. My uncontrollable sobbing, along with some mildly threatening tones from my father, eventually break her down, and she brings me a piece of white bread and a bowl of broth. Oh goody. It takes the edge off, but only barely.


Wednesday, September 13, 2006

12:00am
A new day. I decide to try to sleep so that I don't feel the hunger. Sleep is difficult, though, when a blood pressure cuff starts squeezing the shit out of my arm every 15 minutes. I hate that thing. I hate the nurse. I hate my OB. I hate anyone who ever had an easy labor. Must. Go. To sleep.

12:00am-4:00am
I sleep. I wake up. I eat dozens of Saltines. I send my Mom and Ian out on secret Saltine-stealing expeditions, figuring that if I eat enough Saltines, they'll equal one actual meal. They don't. It’s dark in the room except for the lights on all of the machines—all of those machines that are still open and ready for me to have the baby at any minute. I sleep. Ian reads. Pop sleeps. I wake up. Mom reads. Dr. Feelgood has to top me off again. Mom gives me ice and tries to convince me to go off the drugs. Everything seems so surreal—this is the longest I have been in the same room with both my parents since I was 9. I sleep. Ian dozes. The OB comes by while I'm sleeping, but the baby's not ready yet, so he let's me sleep. The OB goes to the on-call room to sleep. And maybe eat, too. Bastard.

4:00am
The OB checks me again. I'm at 8.5cm. I decide. It’s time for the c-section. I'm so hungry that I'm willing to undergo major abdominal surgery if it means I'll get to eat. They're just about to wheel in another woman for an emergency c-section, though, so I have to wait. Nurse Somebodyelse tells me I should be able to go in at 6am. I don't really care. All I care about is food. I've pretty much stopped thinking about the baby altogether.

5:30am
Nurse Somebodyelse shaves my pubes and prepares me for surgery. Ian is given his stylish scrub blues to change into. We’re ready.

6:00am
I am wheeled in for surgery. The one thing that I knew would scare me about having a c-section was the space of time between when they take the woman into the OR and when they let the husband in. Getting prepped for surgery is scary enough without having to do it alone. I dreaded the 15 minutes or so that I wouldn't have Ian by my side.

They wheel my bed up to the operating table, and two very strong nurses lift me onto its cold, steel surface. Immediately, I am in pain. I have been molded into that hospital bed for nearly 24 hours, and the switch to the hard, flat table causes me extreme discomfort. I am concentrating so hard on trying to be calm and comfortable that I can’t pay attention to what is going on around me. I desperately want Ian here so that I can tell him, make him explain to all of these people that I’m not going to be able to sit still because my back hurts so bad. And then I think, my back shouldn’t be hurting! I shouldn’t be feeling anything. I look up at Dr. Feelgood and tell him that my back hurts. He’s busy juicing me up and tells me, “Just give it a minute.” I wait, trying to ignore my aching back, looking at the door and waiting for Ian to enter. The surgical team is busy getting ready to cut. They hang the blue drape in front of my face. They strap down my arms. Dr. Feelgood gives Nurse Somebodyelse the OK sign, and she starts to rub that orange stuff all over my belly.

And I feel it. Not just the pressure, or the cold, but I feel the scratchiness of the swab she is using. I feel the orange stuff dripping down my belly. I FEEL it. I start to panic, and I start to yell. I yell for Dr. Feelgood and tell him that I can feel what they’re doing. He pats my arm and tells me not to worry, the OB will check me for sensation before he starts to cut. They put a heavy cloth on my belly and I feel it. I feel the hole in the cloth where they intend to cut. And Ian is still not there. I keep saying, “I feel it. I feel it.” But my voice sounds weak and I’m not sure if I’m really saying anything at all. I just want Ian. More than anything I want Ian. I’m imagining Ian walking through the door. I hear my OB from the other side of the drape. “Did you feel that?” “No,” I answer, not sure what I was supposed to feel. The next thing I do feel is a scalpel. I lose all connection with any sane or reasonable part of myself and start freaking the fuck out. Right then, Ian walks in.

I feel them cutting. The pain is slightly numbed, but not gone. It feels like somebody with a very sharp pencil is drawing a line across my abdomen. Hard. I feel this repeated, over and over until they’re all the way in. I am trying, trying to stay calm. The last thing I want is to start flopping around when they have a scalpel in me. I focus on Ian. I tell him that I feel it. I feel them cutting. I beg him to do something. I beg Dr. Feelgood (henceforth to be known as Dr. Shithead). I beg him to give me more drugs. He tells me that I have to wait. I try to calm down, try to be a good patient. Ian is rubbing my hand. I look straight up and realize that I can see the large surgical light, that it reflects, that I can see something resembling roadkill in the glass, that the roadkill is my belly.

And then the pulling stars. They are ripping me open to get to the baby. I avert my eyes, madly trying to look at anything besides the light. I squeeze Ian’s hand as hard as I can, but the pain is so bad that I can’t articulate anything. All I can say is “Pain, pain, pain,” over and over again, hoping that Ian will save me, that he’ll leap over the drape and punch out the OB, and that he’ll grab Dr. Shithead by the collar and shake him until he gives me more drugs. But Ian looks pale, shaken—he is as helpless as I am. I look over at Dr. Shithead and start screaming. I can’t help it; it hurts so much. Dr. Shithead leans over my face and tells me, “You have to calm down—your blood pressure.” I shake my head. I need out, out of this torture chamber. “I’ll give you more anesthetic as soon as the baby is out,” he promises. Ian cuts in, “And when, exactly, will that be?” I can tell by his tone that he is on the verge of screaming, too. “Just two more minutes,” Dr. Shithead answers.

Okay, okay, I can make it two more minutes. I try to calm down. I close my eyes and focus inward. I begin to shake violently. I hear Dr. Shithead telling me to take deep breaths. I breathe. I shake. I wait to hear Matilda cry. As soon as I hear her cry, Dr. Shithead can give me more drugs. I wait to hear her cry. Two minutes passes. Something is wrong. There is no cry. People are rushing in and out of the OR. Something is wrong. Something with the baby. The baby is going to die. I am going to die. How did this happen? Where is the baby? Why isn’t anyone telling me anything? I look at Ian again. If the baby is dead, surely it’ll show on his face. I feel more shoving and pulling and ripping, and finally, finally, Matilda is out. She is crying. Somebody tells me it’s a girl. She’s healthy. Ian looks at me, smiling. “She’s out!”

But I don’t care. I can’t care. The pain is overwhelming. All I can think about is that pain going away. And then it hits me. They are going to start putting me back together. I will feel it. I will feel every suture. How am I going to take this? I can’t, can’t do it! I grab Ian’s hand and once again, “Pain, pain, pain.” Ian tells me that Dr. Shithead has already given me more medicine…don’t I feel it yet? “Pain, pain, pain…”


7:30am
I hear Ian talking. I’m not sure who he’s talking to. I feel good. Comfortable. Warm. Ian’s voice sounds nice…what is he saying? “…perfect…red hair…Tracy’s fine…” I’m fine? That’s good to know. Where am I? I try to open my eyes, but it’s too much effort. I decide to just relax and listen. Ian is talking to on the phone. His mom? He seems to be the only one here. I’m back in a comfortable bed. And I feel good. Where is my baby? Then I hear Pop’s voice. “Is she awake yet?” “I think she’s waking up,” Ian says, and I am. I feel my eyelids blinking, and then I can see. I’m back in the same labor room. It’s empty, and all the birthing equipment is put back away. The nurse comes in. It’s Nurse Stephanie again—I have cycled through another full shift. She tells me everything is fine. I’m fine. The baby is fine. I’ve been given morphine. Well, that explains a lot. Mom and my sister return with pictures of Matilda on the camera. They can’t bring me Matilda; she’s going through her evaluation. I see pictures of her on the tiny camera screen. I don’t recognize her. She looks pink and angry. I give back the camera. I’m just going to have to wait. The orderlies come in to take me to a recovery room. They’re getting pretty sick of me in this department.

9:00am
I am comfortably set up in my new room. Ian unfolds his little cot and immediately collapsed into sleep. Pop has returned to our house to sleep. Mom sits at my side. They have all seen Matilda. Everybody has but me; I still haven’t seen her. Her temperature is low and they want to keep her under the warmer for a while. They tell me they will bring her to see me at around 10:30. I’ll have to wait. Mom and I fill out the birth certificate form while we wait for the nurses to bring me my daughter.

10:45am
The door opens. A nurse walks in, wheeling a plastic bin in front of her. In the bin is Matilda. She is bundled up tight, and the nurse puts her in my arms. I look at her, and she looks back. “Hi there,” I say.



Epilogue
I later learned of all the little things that went wrong that combined to create a horrific birthing experience for me. The first is that the day I checked in was only Nurse Stephanie’s third day working on her own. She had only just completed her training and had not yet developed a good sense of how far dilated a patient is. (I’m not mad at her, though—she was SO sweet and even came to visit Matilda and me after she got off shift.) The second is that Dr. Shithead could have given me more medicine, or put me under sooner, if he chose. It is essentially a judgment call on the anesthesiologist’s part, and apparently Dr. Shithead did not think it urgent enough to put me under sooner. Apparently I just should have sucked it up. (I am mad at him!) The third is that Matilda got stuck in the womb, and my OB needed to use a vacuum to get her out. The vacuum in our OR, though, was broken, and they had to send out a nurse to find one that worked. Thus, the “two minutes” that Dr. Shithead promised me turned out to be more like ten.

You’ll be happy to know that The Fates granted me an easy recovery in exchange for my miserable birth experience. I spent three happy and comfortable days in a private room surrounded by friends and family and eating copious amounts of food.

Summer's Almost Gone

Summer comes slowly to Reno, but leaves quickly. Sometime after Labor Day, it packs its bags and takes off for the Southern Hemisphere. No long, drawn-out goodbyes, no tears--one day it is unbearably hot, and the next day the heat breaks like a fever and it is Fall.

In Reno we say goodbye to Summer by eating copious amounts of pig flesh.


You may remember that this time last year I was 9 months pregnant and packing away two racks of ribs in the all-you-can-eat VIP Rib Village. This year, alas, we couldn't afford to be VIPs and had to stand in line at the rib booths with the rest of the commoners. Above you see me gnawing on an ear of fresh roasted corn because I find fresh roasted corn with butter and seasoned salt to be one of life's greatest pleasures. Ian mocks me for this, saying that corn is "filler" and that I am wasting good rib space. I still ate more ribs than he did--SUCKA!


Matilda doesn't yet have enough teeth to enjoy corn-on-the-cob, but she does love her some ribs, and she got to enjoy the Rib Cook Off being wheeled from booth to booth gumming various bones from the different competitors--ah to be a baby!

***

I went to Starbucks on Saturday morning and scared the barrista with my burst of enthusiasm at seeing that the Pumpkin Spice Latte was back on the menu. You think they'd be used to crazy women shouting "Omigod! PUMPKIN!" But apparently I'm the only one. (You should see me on the day they bring back Gingerbread Latte!) Then I paused, let it sink in, and then started chiding the poor barrista: "Wait a minute...it isn't fall yet! It's only Labor Day!" She looked at me, confused, and kind of shrugged. I declined the Pumpkin Spice Latte, informing her that things just taste better when you wait for the appropriate time. Like how I won't drink eggnog before Thanksgiving no matter how much I love it. I love Pumpkin Spice Lattes, but not until Fall, and Starbucks should wait at least until the Equinox.

Then I opened the door this morning and what should I feel but that cool, brisk gust of air that signals the arrival of Fall. I felt sad and started missing summer immediately. This afternoon I noticed that the tree in our yard was already sporting a few red leaves. Goodbye, Summer! Time for me to go get my Pumpkin Spice Latte.

The last picture of Summer

BEWARE...So Cute Your Eyes May Explode!

Oh fun! Bubbles!

Almost...got...one...

Gah! Not the face!

Bubbles, I am not amused.

And the winning shots are...

Black Day

*Cheating piece of shit.

My Time With Harry

"I think you'd really like this book, Ms. Sangster..."

It was 1998, and I was working at a private elementary school as a teaching assistant. One of my favorite students was a charming little third grader, Allie, whose family had recently relocated to the States from Britain for her father's job. I adored her--of course I did; I'm a raging anglophile--but it wasn't just her citizenship that drew us together; it was also our shared love for reading. One day, she gave a book report on a little novel she had been sent from relatives in England entitled Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. She spoke of it with such enthusiasm that most of the kids in the class were anxious to read it, but Allie informed us that no, we couldn't all borrow her copy; however, we were in luck, the book had just been released in the U.S.

As a grad student, I was always happy for reading that was, shall we say, less challenging than my school reading (or "brain candy," as we scholars say), so I took Allie's recommendation and went to the bookstore to pick it up. I had a heck of a time finding it, though, because there was no such book as Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. One salesperson suggested that perhaps I was referring to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone? They didn't have it in stock, but would I like to order one?

I didn't actually get around to reading the book for a while...but after a couple of months, I heard kids around the school talking about this boy wizard named Harry who had to live under the stairs. I heard teachers at lunch discuss how surprised they were at how much they enjoyed the book. Copies of the book were getting traded around, and the school librarian was working on getting several in. Hmmm...I thought. Maybe I better read this book.

And that is how it began...my time with Harry.

I must admit that the first book didn't rock my world or anything. I thought it was a sweet story but not terribly complex. It was certainly no Hobbit, a comparison I had heard a couple of times. I had no idea that it would just keep getting better and better and better until I was an addicted Potter junkie, hanging outside bookstores at God-awful hours to purchase each book the minute it was released, waiting until my dealers, Barnes and Noble, provided me with my next hit.

The next summer I was hired to teach a summer reading workshop for fifth- and sixth-graders. I was allowed to pick any book I wanted, and when I put Harry Potter down on the book order form, my supervisor eyed it suspiciously. "I've never heard of this book." Neither, it seemed had the educational world. There were no teacher's guides for Harry Potter, so I had to make up my own quizzes, pick out my own vocabulary words from each chapter, and write all of the discussion and essay questions. (Why did I not try to get all this published? Well--hindsight being 20/20 and all...)

The book was a big hit with the kids (duh.), and while we were reading it, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets was released. The next day, all six of my students showed up with the sequel. Apparently, we were going to read the second one as well.

And this is why I loved Harry...he got kids reading. There were no whines of, "This book is too long!" or, "Why do we have to read this?!" Kids just read. And read and read. It also made me kind of sad, though...I mean, there are so many good books out there, but many kids acted as though they were making an exception for Harry Potter. Kind of like: reading still sucks, but we will read Harry Potter. Well, at least Harry was better than some of the other crap that kids-who-don't-like-to-read read. Captain Underpants was dead. Long live Harry Potter!

It wasn't until Prisoner of Azkaban that our relationship went to the next level. It wasn't just about the kids anymore. Me and Harry--we had a thang goin' on. By then, there was talk of a movie. I didn't know how to feel about this--on the one hand I was excited to see these beloved characters come to life on the screen, but on the other, I was afraid that the kids would stop reading. Would I start hearing, "But why do we have to read this book...there's a movie!" What I should have realized was that the books would always come out before the movies, and patience is not a virtue that I, nor most children, have. We all just kept on reading.

I remember the day that Goblet of Fire came out...I had the day off, and I was at the bookstore bright and early, where a tired looking salesperson handed me a copy off of a giant pallet behind the cash register. I couldn't even make it home. I went next door to the coffee shop and tore through the first several chapters over a latte and bagel. I saw someone I knew there, and they tried to strike up a friendly conversation. It was all I could do not to shout at them, "Can't you see I'm READING for the LOVE OF GOD!!" This was the first time I tried to make the book last...tried to stop myself from downing the whole book in one gulp. It was a useless effort. The book called to me from the closet where I had hidden it, and I finished it that night.

The Order of the Phoenix came out the day I was out of town for a bridal shower. I figured I would have to hold off until Monday to buy the book, but Saturday morning my best friend handed me the copy she had ordered to be delivered for me. "I knew you wouldn't be able to focus without it," she said. She is a very good friend. Foolish, perhaps, because they had to tear the book out of my hands to get me to start preparing for the shower. I should probably also mention that this shower was my own.

I attended my first bookstore release party for The Half-Blood Prince. It was pretty cool, what with all the costumes and stuff, but really, I was only there for the book. I had it read by the following morning and then had to keep my damn mouth shut for days until my friends caught up, even though I wanted to scream at them, "Dumbledore is DEAD! NOOOOOoooooooo!" But even more horrible than Dumbledore's death was the fact that Snape killed him. Because I love Snape. He is my favorite Harry Potter character. And I never believed he was truly evil. But how could this be when he had killed Dumbledore? I immediately started analyzing the situation (because, you know, that's why I have an advanced degree in literature...), trying to work out every scenario where Snape was redeemable. Because he had to be HAD TO BE good; otherwise, my love of the Harry Potter universe would crumble and fade.

And how the hell was I expected to wait two years to find out?


******************************************************

SPOILERS BEGIN HERE





I'll leave you some space.





Go ahead, stop now if you are still reading the book...I'll wait.


Here is a funny picture of my baby sleeping....




Dum, dee-dum.....




OKAY, here I go!

********************************************

Friday night we went to the Grand Hallows ball at Borders. I'd like to say I dressed in a cool costume, or that I took part in the Harry Potter spelling bee, but no, once again I was only there because I was desperate to get my hands on the next book, and I didn't trust the post office to deliver it to me at the crack of dawn on Saturday. Because if I had to wait for the postman...well, things might have gotten ugly. At the "ball" there was also a debate about whether Snape was loyal or not...I started to sit in on that, but then I realized that my powers of rhetoric were probably too magnificent for a group of children and tweens, and I didn't want to make anybody cry, so Matilda and I showed our support for Snape through the use of visuals...


I was really nervous about this because if Snape turned out to be evil, well...the book might have ended up in the fireplace just like when I was 13 and Little Women ended up ablaze when Jo turned down Laurie and Laurie ended up marrying that stupid bitch Amy and I just couldn't handle it, couldn't stand to look at the book anymore, and threw it into the fireplace in a fit of rage. Not that I advocate the burning of books--it's just that, well, I get angry sometimes, OKAY?!

And I love Severus Snape. I loved him before the first movie came out, and then they went and cast Alan Rickman in the part and I was officially smitten...I also love Alan Rickman. That deep voice, those intense eyes...(shudder). They can try and ug him up all they want...that man is still a sexy beast!

From book one I knew, deep in my heart, that Snape was just misunderstood. Sure he treated Harry like crap, but c'mon! does everyone have to adore Harry? And then when we find out that Snape was tormented by that mean bully James Potter, I wanted to bundle Snape up into my arms and tell him, "It's okay...you'll end up a powerful wizard and a teacher someday, and that ass-hat will end up DEAD!"

Ian asked me recently if I would do Snape, and my immediate response was "Hell, yes, I would!" I would sneak down to his dungeon and clear everything off his desk with a sweep of my arm and crawl up and ask him for the "special" potion. Rrowr! But sadly, he wouldn't have me because he was so in love with Lily Potter that he could never love another woman.

I cried like a damn baby when we found out why Snape really was loyal, why he protected Harry even though he hated him, why he was such a sad and angry man. Twoo wove! He loved Lily since he was nine years old! It just tears at my heart! And his final words..."Look..at..me..." So that he could see Lily in Harry's eyes before he died. Okay, shit, I'm crying again.

I just want to give J.K. Rowling a big fat smooch for ending the series the way she did. It was so intensely satisfying...not just because I was RIGHT about Snape but because things seemed to work out just as they should have. Not too happy, not too sad. In the end, she proved that despite being wizards and witches, all of the characters were very much human, with their human flaws and their human hearts.

I'm sad now that my time with Harry has ended. There are a lot of people saying the same thing--what will we do with no Harry? I console myself, though, with the thought that in a few years, Matilda will be old enough for Harry, and I will get to start all over again with The Sorcerer's Stone...I will lie next to my daughter and open to the first page--"Chapter One..."

Thinking Blue

Sweep, sweep, sweepity sweep! Thanks to my sister's incredibly thoughtful birthday present, I got to see the Dodgers play the Giants on Friday night. Hmmm...not sure if "play" is the verb I'm looking for here...maybe "OBLITERATE" is more appropriate?

I was a bit nervous about visiting AT&T Park for the first time; it is, after all, ENEMY TERRITORY, but we live closer to San Francisco than Los Angeles, so bravely we marched into the den of evil to cheer on our team. In the spirit of good sportswomanship, let me point out the positives...

The Park is really beautiful and very clean...


and has amazing views...


and really excellent food. I was particularly fond of the Gilroy Garlic Fries...



So it's really too bad that THE TEAM SUCKS! (Okay, good sportswomanship over.)

I had SUCH a good time and even managed to adopt a zen-like attitude towards the many nasty comments being flung our way throughout the park. Of course, it's easy to be zen-like when your team is winning. There were many other True Blue fans there that night, which made things a bit easier--power in numbers and all that--and, as the game went on and the Giants fans started skulking out, we got a little braver, a bit more bold--that is to say, a wee bit LOUDER. Which is probably why the nice Dodgers fans below us were getting peanuts thrown at them, and why what I initially thought to be the random patters of rain turned out to be spit.

Oh you nasty Giants fans...no amount of your bitter saliva can wash out the sweet smell of victory!

Here is what victory looks like from the nosebleed section:


I didn't bring Matilda with me. Although it is important to nurture her love for baseball, and I CANNOT WAIT to take her to her first game, I want that game to be in the hallowed hollows of Dodger Stadium, where she can yell "CHARGE!" and "Let's go Dodgers" and sing "We will rock you," none of which you get to do when your team is the visiting one. It made me sad to see all of those tiny little Giants fans, their innocent minds being warped, their tiny little bodies sporting number twenty-five because their parents aren't responsible enough to tell them that CHEATING IS WRONG. I will bring my daughter up in the light of goodness; I will teach her to Think Blue.

Because some things are, y'know, IMPORTANT.

POST 100

This is my one-hundreth post. Hmmm...

I feel like I should have some super-amazing post to mark the occasion, but it's too damned hot for me to be that creative. So. Hot. I've been lying on my couch under a ceiling fan, with another rotary fan blowing in whatever ounce of cool breeze happens to pass by the front door, and a portable swamp cooler chugging away, filling the room more with humidity instead of cold air. And the computer, it just emits too much heat. Okay, well, maybe not, but it's certainly not making me any cooler.

So how about some random bullets?

• We saw Harry Potter late last night. I loved it; Ian complained the whole way home about all the things that were changed from the book. He and I have this argument all the time. No matter how much I love a book, I realize that elements that work in one genre may not work in another, and therefore adaptations require changes in order for the story to work. He is a purist who doesn't want any detail of the book tampered with, even if that means that a movie would end up being sixteen hours long.
• M. is still not crawling. She is SO close! She'll sit in "go" position rocking back and forth as though she's trying to work up the momentum to propel forward, and then she just quits, sits back on her bottom, and hollers. I think she's trying to fly instead of crawl. What a disappointment life must be sometimes.
• I ran my first ever D&D campaign Sunday. (For you non-dorks out there, that means that I was the "Dun-geon Mas-ter".) Ian was really tired of DMing and wanted to play, so I gave it a shot using a very easy first-level module, and I think I did pretty well! Hey! I have managed to succeed at something this year...I'm not just a SAHM, I'm a BIG DORK DM SAHM! I'm adding initials to my title all the time.
  
• It's hot.
  
• I'm going to see the Dodgers play the Giants on Friday in San Francisco--a late birthday present from my sister. I hope I don't get my ass kicked by some rabid Giants fan, but anything's possible. Especially if that cheating asshole Barry Bonds manages to hit homerun Number 755 during that game in which case I might have to boo. Loudly. It's a dangerous time for a Dodger's fan in Giant's territory. I could go on about how that junkie doesn't deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as Hank Aaron, but I realize that this argument, like so many others these days, is pointless because everyone has already made up their mind and not much is going to change it. Let me just say that if you think Barry Bonds deserves this record, you're WRONG!

Okay, that's it. I'm going to go stick my head in the freezer, now. Hope things are cooler wherever you are!

Independence Day

Though we've lived in Reno for nearly six years now, we had never bothered to attend the fabulous Fourth of July fireworks at Lake Tahoe. So this year, I insisted that we make the trip, even though it meant that I would have to be seen in a bathing suit for the first time since I was pregnant. Horrors! But I did it, and I even managed to strike a pose when my mother called out for a snapshot. And here I am, for all the blogosphere to see...

That's me in the one-piece...I don't think I'll ever be comfortable enough to expose my stretch marks to the world.

Tah-dah! I was so happy to be relaxing on the beach for the whole day that I managed to strike my own blow for independence...independence from my body anxiety. (At least for the day.)

Micaela and I got up at 4:30--AM that is--to be at the beach by six so that we would be assured a good spot when the beach opened at eight. Even at 6:00 we were sixth in line to be let in. After about half an hour, there were twenty or so cars waiting, and people were getting out of the cars behind us and sneaking out to the beach before it opened to claim prime spots. Because, you know, they're special and shouldn't have to wait in line behind the people that got there earlier. Sometimes I just hate people. Like this time at the Cake concert when several people shoved in front of us because "We're really big fans." Or the guys during the fireworks display who refused to sit down--even though they were blocking the view of dozens of people and even though their own girlfriends were tugging on their arms trying to get them to sit. (I don't know about you, but wouldn't that be a deal-breaker?) When people started calling out for them to sit down, one of them shouted out, "I can stand taller if you want!" I mean, WHY? Why do people have to be like that? Why do people think that on a beach or concert full of thousands of people, they should receive special treatment?

After the assholes refused to sit down, I think I might have commented--possibly in a loud voice--that I hoped their dicks shriveled up and fell off, and hopefully soon, before they were allowed to breed.

That wasn't right, either, but I do have a temper.

But the fireworks were spectacular--well worth the wait and the crowds and the assholes. I didn't know they made fireworks quite that big...I suspect that Gandalf was on a barge on the lake, orchestrating the whole thing. I tried to take pictures, but they were all puny in comparison, and many of them were tainted with asshole head.

Oh, and here is a free parenting tip for the day. If going to the beach with a young'un, invest in a good raft. It can serve as a raft, a kiddie pool, and, later in the evening, a bed.

This...Is...So...AWESOME!

This could quite possibly be the greatest thing the internet has ever produced...

I...am a SIMPSON!



And because I wanna be gettin' some during my time in Springfield...


Himself.

Thank you, Whit, for pointing me to this fantastic website. My life is complete.

What the...?!

So I'm sitting here at my desk, typing away at today's blog entry, when suddenly it strikes me...a sudden silence. M., who was seated not 5 feet behind me at her toy baskets, is not banging something against something else, or squealing, or shaking something noisy. I whip my head around and find this:
Holy crap! She's like a tiny, backward-crawling ninja! Clearly, I'm going to have to become more diligent. Because that worthless dog in the foreground, who should have been barking at me, "Mom! The puppy's getting away! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!" is lying there as if he didn't realize that there are cords and little pieces and open outlets all over the house where M. is backward crawling. Now I'm going to have to babyproof and shit. Dumb dog.

Yet Another Gender Post

In the spirit of getting myself writing again, I figured that whipping myself into a frenzy would be the best motivation, so here is yet another rant on gender issues:

First of all, it should be known that I am a scrapbooker. I loves me the scrapbooking. But one thing that I do not like about my hobby is its gender politics. For some reason, scrapbooking is considered "women's work"--that keeping the family history is the job of the woman-folk. That, however, does not keep me from doing it, nor is it the main theme of this post. It does mean, though, that I read a lot of scrapbooking magazines and that while reading such magazines I see a lot of layouts that glorify the "proper" gender identity of children. I am not going to post images of such pages here, though, because it is against the scrapbooking code to snark on other people's pages--let's just say that there are a lot of pages and products out there that announce "100% GIRL" or "All Boy" or "Girlie Girl." These titles are inevitably accompanied by photos of young boys and girls performing activities appropriate to their stereotypical gender roles: girls having tea parties in princess outfits or boys pushing toy trucks through mud...you get the idea.

This really pushes my buttons.

Especially the ones that read "100% girl" or "100% boy." What does this mean? Thank goodness my child is not a hermaphrodite? I'm so glad that Sally never grew a testicle--she's 100% GIRL! No breasts on little Billy--he's 100% BOY! And I know what these pages are supposed to mean, but really, the underlying implication is, I'm so glad my kid isn't queer.

Just once I'd like to see a page that says "Girlie Boy" or "Not-All Girl" or maybe even "75% Girl, 25% ?" I guess what I'm pointing out is that if Hillary Clinton represents one aspect of our society's deeply-rooted sexism, then parental expectations represent another. Most people want their children to follow strictly maintained gender roles, and when they do, it's a cause for celebration. When they don't, it's a cause for silence. Sons should never want to cruise the "pink aisle" at Target, and daughters should not enjoy the, er, "black aisle?" (I'm not sure what to call the aisle dedicated to Legos, Hot Wheels, and action figures--the "Action Aisle?")

And I know that there are those of you out there (Mom) who will say, "What's the big deal? A kid's gonna like what a kid's gonna like...you can't control that." But my point is this: by setting up these standards of what constitutes "All Boy" or "100% Girl," we also set up a framework for deviancy. A boy who wants a pink fairy Barbie is deviant, as is a girl who'd rather have a Millenium Falcon Lego set (Mmmmm...Millenium Falcon Lego set...drool!) We don't tell the children they are deviant, but we show them they are by celebrating those children who are not. So kids are not just "liking what they are going to like"; they are struggling with what they should like.

Of course, I'm the big hypocrite here because if M. decided to like Barbies, I would say, "Too bad...no Barbies in my house." So I guess I am encouraging her to reject her stereotypical gender role as much as another mother might be encouraging her daughter to accept it. I feel I have to do this, though, not only as a mother, but as a woman. Because it's only a short step from this "Girlie Girl"...


To this one...

click on picture for larger view

Matilda-Mania

I've been a lazy writer lately, so please accept more adorable pictures of M. in place of my ramblings. She is changing so fast that I need to take lots of pictures to remember what she was like the day before.

Where did she get all that hair? She's already got enough for ponytails!

A present from Aunt Megan...M.'s first mouse ears from Disneyland.

M. is working on crawling, but she currently can only push herself backwards, which means she usually ends up under the furniture.

Hanging out with Auntie Crystal and Lucy--M.'s swimming buddy.

At the movie theater--M. loved Homer! She laughed and laughed!
(Click on picture to get a better view of the laughing.)

Matilda in the LBC

Mama and I are currently in Long Beach visiting Auntie Erin and Uncle Brian so that Mama can be their professional organizer. I am so excited about this because it means I get to spend lots of time with my friend Claire. Mama has been very busy, so she asked me to post some pictures for everyone to see.

I was very good for my second airplane ride. Mama let me sit in my own seat and I even got this bag of peanuts! Mama told me that I wasn't old enough to eat peanuts, but I sure liked the shiny bag!

On Wednesay, Auntie Erin took us to meet friends of hers at the park. I was too little to play with all the other kids, but I liked swinging on the swings and riding this froggie.

On Friday we went to Claire's playgroup and I had fun playing with other babies. I had never been around so many babies before! I didn't mind, though...I was very interested in meeting them all.

On Saturday we went to a restaurant called Lucille's. They have food called barbeque. I know that this is Mama and Daddy's favorite food, so I thought I'd try some. Auntie Erin gave me something called a rib, and I LOVED it! I also ate macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes, and biscuits. Yum! Mama says that this is one of her very favorite restaurants...I think so, too!

I liked to chew and suck on my rib...

Claire uses hers to eat her sweet potatoes.

After eating BBQ we were so messy that we had to take a bath. I like splashing Claire and chewing on her rubber duckies. Claire likes combing my hair and splashing me back. We had lots of fun!

That's all! I am having a very good time. Mama says that she will be back to blog in a few days.

Love,
Matilda

Another Good Reason to Walk...

...Lots more chances for good photographs.

I'm not usually a big fan of pink...but these were awfully pretty.