Chickenbone Jones

Labor and delivery: The sequel

2011-09-19T11:45:00.000-07:00

Sure didn't mean to wait three months to write this! But I think I can recall most of the details. Nobody forgets that kind of pain, do they, GIGANTIC BABY ALEX?

You might remember that I wanted a drug-free birth with Mia, and that is what I got. (You can read about that here and here.) It was an amazing experience. When asked how I tolerated the pain without medication, I was one of those moms who would smile serenely and explain that the beauty of the natural birthing experience far outweighed any discomfort I may have felt.

That's not quite the answer I would give now.

But I don't want to get ahead of myself. So my due date came and went with no sign of baby. I grew a bit anxious since my OB was starting to talk about an induction, and I wanted no part of that. We spent week 40 doing the whole spicy-food, long-walks thing. And on Friday, July 1, when I was five days overdue, I had labor-inducing acupuncture.

And then Friday night, Saturday morning, Saturday afternoon, they all passed without a single sign that a baby was on the way.

This timing was unfortunate. If we had the baby anywhere near the due date of June 25, we would have been free and clear of one of the worst times of the year in the Pizarro household: the Fourth of July. Every year, for the better part of a week, we have to console a terrified Chickenbone all night as neighborhood idiots send bottle rockets and firecrackers whizzing through the sky. We give Chickens sedatives, but they barely take the edge off. And of course, with Independence Day landing on a Monday this year, the fun began on Thursday and continued for five nights.

I prayed that I'd go into labor at a nice, early daytime hour so that at least Sal could be home by nightfall to take care of Chickens. The only way to keep him from barking and waking up Mia was to snuggle him beneath a mountain of blankets to muffle the sound, hugging him tightly at every pop and whistle. But, of course, I felt the first contraction at precisely 10 p.m. on Saturday night, when the pyrotechnics were in full swing.

I waited an hour before calling my doula, Kathy. The contractions were still 7 minutes apart, so she suggested that I try to get some sleep (ha!) and call her when they were 5 minutes apart. I worried about Sal going into all this with no rest, so I sent him to the couch for a nap. Then I laid down with Chickens in our bed, hoping the white noise of the fan in our bedroom would soothe him.

For the next hour I laid in the darkness with Chickens, clutching Sal's Timex in my hand and using the blue Indiglo light to time my contractions. When the pain was really bad, I closed my eyes and clung to Chickens and stroked his fur. I focused on his soft little ears to keep my mind off the increasingly intense pain. I'm sure he was in heaven. At least somebody was!

It was nearly midnight when we decided to leave for the hospital. My mother-in-law came to stay with Mia, and she brought grandpa to take over Chickens duty. We crept around the house very, very, very quietly, gathering our things and pausing for contractions. Which I got through very, very, very quietly. One of my biggest fears was Mia waking up to the commotion and getting scared. I didn't want to leave her crying. I have some experience with this: When we left for the hospital in a rather noisy fashion in October 2009, Chickens was whining and pacing with worry. I absolutely hated leaving him like that. But luckily the handoff to my in-laws went smoothly, and we were off to have a baby.

The rest happened so fast that it's hard to put together the play-by-play. We arrived at Kaiser Santa Clara just before 1:30 a.m. I remember a very long walk from the parking lot to the ER - this was Sal's fault, as for the second consecutive birth, he forgot there was expectant mother parking just steps away from the ER entrance. I kept having to stop for contractions. They were very intense and took my breath away, and I leaned on Sal to get through them. When we got to Labor and Delivery, despite the fact that I could barely stand and could not even speak through the contractions, they put me in observation to "make sure" I was ready for a room. Which I got promptly when they found out I was already dilated to 6 centimeters.

At this point, after 2 a.m., I truly believed getting out of the stuffy, horrible observation room would help. I thought the spacious L&D room with the rocking chair and my birthing ball would help. I thought my breathing and my husband and my doula would help. But none of it did.

And what especially didn't help was my nurse. This woman enraged me. She kept asking me questions and touching me and bugging me to lay down so she could put monitors on my stomach. When my water broke as I stood over the bed heaving through a contraction, she raced over with towels to clean me up. I roared at her to leave me alone. I could not stand the feel of those towels on the back of my legs. I couldn't stand for ANYTHING to touch my body.

What I really wanted was to get into the damn shower. That's where I spent a lot of my labor with Mia, and I figured that there I'd be able get on top of this excruciating pain. Before the nurse would let me go, though, she wanted to give me an IV. I declined, she was irritated, and we compromised on a hep-loc. As I leaned over the hospital bed groaning and straining through one contraction after another, I stuck my arm out and she jabbed the needle into the back of my hand and taped it to my skin. She didn't want it to get wet in the shower, so she unwrapped some gauze and began to wrap it around my hand. Then she unspooled some blue tape and wrapped my wrist. Then some more gauze. Then some more tape. Gauze. Tape. Gauze. Tape. Gauze. Tape. It felt like every time I raised my sweaty head from the sheets to look at her, she was calmly unwrapping more freaking gauze and tape. By the time she was through, she had fashioned this fat blue mitt that covered my entire hand and wrist. Right there in front of the nurse, I held up my clubbed hand, turned to my doula and spat, "Is she f---ing kidding with this?" I am not a very nice person when I am in labor.

(Side note: By the time the baby was born, the mitt and the needle were gone. I have no idea what happened to them, but I felt triumphant nonetheless.)

Unfortunately, the shower didn't work. Things were moving too fast for me to relax beneath the water. And sitting on the ball was excruciating. Literally the only position I could bear was to stand up and lean on things - Sal, my doula, the bed, the wall. And when the contractions piled up one right after another, when I knew I could not possibly bear another moment of this terrifying pain, I began to feel some hope. Because I knew I was in "transition" - the very worst part of labor - and that pushing, and the end, would come soon.

I have a very vivid memory from Mia's birth of transition fading away, of returning to my normal self again. I was able to talk and even smile during pushing. Later I even described it as "fun" - all those people cheering me on, the knowledge that my baby was just minutes away. So I was absolutely stunned when this didn't happen with Alex. Things just got worse.

I started to push before anybody was ready - again, my body just did the pushing all on its own. I was powerless to stop it. My doula talked me into laying down so they could check me, and sure enough I was 10 centimeters. Then the commotion began. The doctor rushed in. The lights came on and they dropped the end of the table down. And everyone started telling me it's time. It's here. Pushpushpushpush.

Except the problem was that the pain of transition had NOT faded away. In fact, it became more terrible than anything I have ever felt in my life. I felt like I was being split in two, and I was panicked and petrified. I tried so hard to do what everyone was telling me to do. To curl my body up into a C. To stay silent so that the energy would all go toward pushing, not howling. To bear down and push with all my might to get the baby out. But it felt like I was failing. My brain was trying to do things, but to me it seemed like nothing with my body was changing. When I pushed, it was agony. When I didn't, it was agony. The pain washed over me.

They told me the end was close, but I didn't believe them. That's how crazed I was from pain - I remember looking at all those faces telling me excitedly that the baby was coming out right now and thinking "Liars! Oh my god, why are you f---ers LYING to me?!?" (There were a lot of F-words shooting through my brain that night.) It actually crossed my mind that I may spend the rest of my life with that baby stuck right there in the chute because I wasn't strong enough to push it out.

And very suddenly, oh dear sweet Jesus, the relief! I felt a sort of pop, and then the most indescribable sensation of things ... pain, warmth, fluids, A PERSON ... came tumbling out of my body. I collapsed back on the bed, closed my eyes and laughed. That's how good it feels when the most horrific pain you have ever felt vanishes into thin air. I saw them lift the baby up and thought "Oh my god, is that balls?!" And then Sal looked at me, grinned and told me we had a boy.

A boy! A BOY?! I know it is dumb for any mom to be shocked at giving birth to either gender - there aren't exactly a ton of possibilities. But shocked I was. Alex was born at 3:39 a.m., and they let me hold him for over an hour before taking him to get weighed and cleaned. As I sat there telling my doula what a nightmare this birth was compared to Mia, the scaled flashed 9 pounds, 2 ounces, which pretty much explains everything. It was all Alex's fault! I have since forgiven him and we have agreed to live happily ever after.

Despite the trauma of this experience - the memory of the pain haunted me for days - I'm happy I didn't have drugs. If it was that hard to push Alex out while I could feel everything and had full control of my muscles and my senses, I can't imagine how I could have done it if anything had been muffled by an epidural. I'm convinced I would have ended up with an emergency C-section. But as it was, in no time at all I was walking around, wolfing down a plate of food and taking a blissfully hot shower. One nurse even asked me if I was certain I'd had a baby that morning.

Later Sal told me that mere minutes after the birth I turned to him and said "NEVER. AGAIN." All these many weeks later, I do still feel that way. Not because I'm afraid of going through all that again, but because Alex has made our family feel complete.

A tribute

2011-08-31T08:45:00.001-07:00

Since my dad passed away in March there has been precisely one time that I thought of him and smiled. It happened when I opened up an email from my friend Craig Lancaster, who included my father in the dedication of his new book. Reading about this honor blew away all the grief and pain of missing him for a few moments as I sat back and thought, "God, dad would get a kick out of this."

As Craig explains in this blog post, he and my father never met. But dad was a big fan of Lanky (as some of his San Jose friends know him) long before he became a published author. I suspect my neon green 2002 Volkswagen Beetle had a lot to do with that.

Not long after I moved to San Jose, my pretty blue Saturn crapped out on me in a major way. And as a young, single female living paycheck to paycheck in a very expensive place, the idea of going out by myself to buy a new car was daunting. When I explained the situation to Craig, my new friend and colleague at the San Jose Mercury News, he kindly offered to climb into the ring with me and the scary, slick car salesmen. He relished the idea of beating those guys into submission, and beat them he did! As I watched in mostly silent awe, Craig spent an entire afternoon waving his fists, sputtering demands, poking holes in their sketchy math and stomping right out of the dealership until we got a gorgeous new car at the right price. He even got them to throw in a six-disk CD changer. It was a thing of beauty.

That evening I called my dad to tell him how the whole thing went down. Dad was always concerned about me and my transportation. He liked to remind me about oil changes and brake checks, and "How's the car doing?" was a question he asked regularly. But dad was a thousand miles away when my Saturn died, and he could do little to help me. So when he learned how Craig swooped in and saved the day, I could hear the relief in his voice. Dads appreciate when people do that sort of thing for their daughters.

Over the years, every now and then, dad would ask about Craig. Dad was an avid reader - books were something we bonded over my entire life - and he got so excited when I told him that Craig wrote a novel. Dad loved both "600 Hours of Edward" and Craig's second book, "The Summer Son." When Craig found out my dad was sick, he asked me for his email address. Late that evening, I got a text message from dad that said "Lanky sent me an email!!!" He felt so honored to hear directly from THE Craig Lancaster. Craig also mailed my dad signed copies of the books just days before he died, and as I opened up the package, dad warned me from his hospital bed to "be careful with those."

How I wish they could have met, and yet in my heart it somehow feels as though they were great old friends. Lanky, what a wonderful gift you have given me and all who loved my father - a joyful memory of him even after his death. If I close my eyes I can just picture the grin on his face if he could see this. He'd find it cool as hell.

p.s. I am bursting - just bursting! - with blog posts about my kids. But here's the big difference between having one and two: Now if I have a chance to sleep when the babies sleep, I freaking TAKE IT. But Alex, the little sleepless tyrant, appears to maybe be easing up a bit on the nighttime wakings, so maybe I'll be less exhausted soon. Maybe I'll even find more time for things like, you know, taking showers. Going to the bathroom. And blogging! In the meantime, here's a picture I took at breakfast a few weeks ago, Alex chilling on dad's shoulder while Mia devours her waffle.

Happy birthday, Alex!

2011-07-06T01:25:00.000-07:00

In the wee hours of Sunday, July 3, we welcomed the newest member of our family. A boy! A BOY! I can't think of anything luckier than having one of each. We named him Alexander David, after Sal's grandfather and my father. He is spectacular.

It was a very fast, very intense birth, and I hope to write about it soon while it's still fresh in my memory. But for right now, I think I only have the energy for photos. Many babies are sleepy little blobs in their first hours of life, but Alex was super alert from the start. He loves to gaze up at your face and look around the room, and he even seems to try lifting his head up. He seems so thoughtful and wise! Handsome as hell, too. How did we get TWO kids who look this good right outta the chute?!

He's also gigantic. Clocked in at 9 lbs, 2 oz, which explains why getting him out of my body absolutely clobbered me. It's only a pound and a half more than Mia weighed, but I ASSURE you that makes a significant difference to the whole, ah, "birth experience."

Proud papa and his son!

And here's Alex meeting his sister. Mia has been very excited about this whole thing for months, patting my belly to feel "bee-bee moo?" (baby move) and running around the house clutching his ultrasound pictures. Introducing her to the real deal was unforgettable. When I took him out of the bassinet and sat down to show her, she got a huge grin on her face and put her hand over her mouth. Then she walked up and showered him with kisses.

Now, the unfortunate part: I'm currently writing this from a parent room at the NICU, where Alex has been since early Monday because he has severe jaundice. He will be OK, but this has been a fairly miserable chapter for all involved. It was terrifying to have the visibly alarmed pediatrician enter my room and whisk way the little glass bassinet holding my baby. His bilirubin level was over 22, which is quite high. From what I can tell reading things on the internet (because that's always a good idea, right?) people begin to freak out about "high" bilirubin levels of 13 or 14. A level of 25 or 30 is when they start talking about blood transfusions and other scary things, so we were inching close to that, particularly since bilirubin levels rise in the first few days of a baby's life. In other words, we are grateful and lucky that they began treating it so aggressively so early.

So Alex went to the NICU, where he lays all day and night in one of those little blue-light aquariums. He's naked except for bandages and IVs and monitors all over his body, and a little mask covering the top half of his face. For two days (I think? I have lost all sense of time) I couldn't even hold him. Every time I pulled myself together to go visit him, I would walk in and not even be able to see him through the tears. Then later I feel bad, because I know there are far more woeful stories to come out of a NICU than dumb ol' jaundice. But seeing my son like that and being unable to scoop him up and hold him close is one of the worst feelings I have ever experienced.

However! Things are looking up. Alex's bilirubin levels have dropped to a far less worrisome number - it was 13.1 this morning. He gets to come out of the tank for feedings, so every few hours I get a chance to kiss and cuddle that sweet boy. And yesterday (well, 2 o'clock this morning) I even nursed him for a bit before we switched to a bottle of pumped milk. I also take his temperature and change his diaper (no small feat amid the tangle of wires and tubes) (oh, and yikes, there's a penis! also new diaper-changing territory for this mom.) The most important thing for him right now is to eat and poop, eat and poop, eat and poop, since that's how his body expels the bilirubin. And may I please just say, my son is already a world-class pooper. He pooped on the delivery table, he pooped four times our first night together, and he poops nearly every time I feed him. So he is definitely doing his part to get the hell out of here.

I find it amusing that my last blog post was basically a pep talk to myself over anxieties about introducing a new baby to our already hectic household. But at this moment I'd give anything to only have to worry about sleep, food and entertainment for two-under-2-plus-Chickens! We just have to be very patient. And remind ourselves that in matter of days we will be able to heave a sigh of relief, put this precious boy in a car and bring him home.

Note to self

2011-06-29T10:43:00.000-07:00

Here I sit, nine-plus months pregnant. My house is spotless, my toddler just went down for a nap that will likely last a blissful two or three hours, and I am well-rested with not one single to-do to worry about. All is peaceful, easy and well.

And because any day now this simple life will be blown to bits, I wanted to put this moment on the record. A reminder to myself that no matter how difficult the coming year may be, there will come a time and a place where my husband and I both sleep through the night. And go out to a nice dinner. And have kids who can walk around, tell us what's wrong, eat regular food and play together.

This sounds kind of dramatic, but the first year after Mia was born, I deeply feared our life would never feel settled again. But I think we had an unusually hard start to parenthood. The timeline looks something like this: Baby born. Breastfeeding awful. Baby blues like crazy. Breastfeeding improves, but dog goes paralyzed. Expensive and painful spinal surgery. Post-op complications that required dragging an infant to several middle-of-the-night animal ER visits. And oh, look! A colicky baby. Who screamed for weeks on end while mom and dad broke a sweat learning how to manually express the bladder of a handicapped dog. Months of recovery and rehabilitation. Working-mom exhaustion. Nighttime and nap battles that only grew worse until, at baby's 12-month checkup, a pediatrician issued sleep-training instructions to a weary, tearful mom.

And there came the turning point. We fixed the sleeping, which made the whole family happier and more rested. We finished up breastfeeding, which freed up TONS of my time both at work and at home. We somehow got ourselves to a place where Mia can ask for a bowl of cereal, and we can give it to her with a spoon (a real adult one!) and a cup of milk (not even a sippy!) and a meal is as easy as that. It's beautiful!

As for Chickenbone, well, he has his good days and his bad days. In fact, he recently spent a few weeks on crate rest because we noticed his back legs were wobbly and dragging a little. It's something we're going to have to be vigilant about for the rest of his life. He may have blown one disk, but he has many more and will always be at risk of further back injury. We are also still expressing his bladder four times a day. I know that is kind of shocking, but you know what? There's lots of stuff we have to do every day. We take showers and do dishes and keep a toddler alive and entertained every single day. This has become just another daily chore. It is what it is.

Most of the time, though, Chickens is a happy dog who brings much joy to our family, and he loves Mia as much as she adores him. In fact, a few weeks ago she decided to keep him company while he was on bedrest.

Mia's other near-constant companion is this Pooh bear. She likes to feed him Cheerios for breakfast.

She used to feed him in her high chair, but we recently acquired this nifty kid-sized table and chair set. Much more civilized.

What a helpful child! She also likes to assist dad with his yardwork.

Here are a few more recent pictures. Trader Joe's is our favorite grocery store because airplanes hang from the ceiling. After Mia "helps" by handing them items from the cart, the cashiers often give her a strip of stickers.

Waiting patiently for a somersault assist.

Father's Day back-yard barbecue. I can't help but crack up when she wears these sunglasses. She just stares back blankly, like, "What's wrong with you, lady?"

Chillaxin' in her lawn chair after a hearty meal.

And here she is on her way out the door to run errands with mom (or "mom-mom," as she has recently started calling me.) It is plain to see that my belly size has graduated from cute-pregnant-lady to freaky-circus-sideshow. Meaning, new baby, that we are awfully ready when you are!

A happy Mother's Day

2011-05-08T17:46:00.000-07:00

Even though I also got some lovely presents, my favorite parts about Mother's Day were Sal doing the weekly grocery trip (AND cooking brunch), me napping for nearly two hours, and this:

Mother's Day 2011 from Amy on Vimeo.

p.s. The song is Rachel Coleman's "In a House," one of Mia's favorites. She knows how to sing almost all of it in sign language, just like they do in the Nick Jr. video.

Easter girl

2011-04-25T06:36:00.000-07:00

Boy, I love me some then and now pics:

My dad

2011-04-21T21:16:00.000-07:00

This is a picture of my dad, taken nearly five years ago in the stairwell of a church. He was waiting for me to come downstairs so he could walk me down the aisle.

Tomorrow is his birthday, as well as the one-month anniversary since he died. I know I have been a terribly absent from this blog for months now, for this reason and many others. But no matter how hard it is to put into words, I really don't feel like I can blow right past this part of my life, so here I am.

Dad's illness came on quite suddenly. He was sick in January, diagnosed with cancer in February, passed away in March. He had pancreatic cancer, which had spread to his liver and stomach. When we realized how serious things were I took two weeks off work, and Mia and I went to New Mexico to spend time with him. I thought we were just going home for some good family times - you know, barbecues, laughs, family photos - before the chemotherapy or the cancer made him too sick for that sort of thing. But he took a terrible turn for the worse on the seventh day of our visit, and four days later he was gone.

I can barely stand to think about how much I love and miss this man, much less put into words. His death just feels ... too big. But there is something I want to write about.

One thing I learned about losing a parent is that folks who have already been through this are invaluable. Much like having a baby, it's one of those things you can't truly understand unless you have experienced it yourself. And as I was trying to calm myself and make travel arrangements, a dear friend who lost her mother eight years ago told me that even in an experience as heartbreaking as this one, there would be "moments of beauty" at the end. And she was right. So here are a few of the memories that, along with the grief, I will carry in my heart.

- The talk my dad had with us three kids the week before he died. He had us all sit down with him in my brother's living room, and he told us how much he loved us. And one by one, he described to each of us exactly why he was so proud of us. He said that if he played even a very small part in making us the people we are today, he considers his life a huge success. My brothers and I are so very, very lucky that we had the chance to hear those words from him.

- My brothers standing at dad's bedside for 12-plus hours at a time on the last two nights of his life. Dying is very hard work, both on the person doing it and the people around them. And my brothers spent two entire nights helping dad adjust his body, bringing his basin when he was ill and then cleaning him up, fixing his pillows and blankets, giving him his pain meds and, at the end, calming him when he woke up in a delirium, often frightened and confused. Those two boys were superhuman, loving and patient, bottling up their fear and sadness so they could put on a brave face for our dad. I will never, ever forget how incredible they were.

- My dad raising his hand weakly to wave at Mia the day before he died. It was the last piece of "him" I ever saw. I didn't even know he was awake - he had seemed mostly unconscious all morning. But when I picked Mia up and stood by his bed, she began exclaiming "Pa! Pa!" I turned to look at him, and his crumpled hand was waving around in front of his face. His eyes weren't even open, but he found the strength to wave at his granddaughter. God, he loved that little girl.

- The one moment of regret I ever saw on my dad's face, when he and I had a few minutes alone together in his hospital room a couple of days before he died. When I was trying to tell him how much I would miss him, I collapsed crying on his chest, a familiar place where I had been comforted and loved countless times before. Then I told him how much Mia loved him. And he got a wistful, faraway look and said, "Man, I wish I was gonna be here..." That was it. It was only wobbly moment I ever saw in the man who spent his final weeks on earth comforting us.

- The night of the memorial service, after the guests had left my brother's house, my brothers, Sal and I got out dad's bottle of terribly cheap scotch and had a toast to him. It was all smiles and love and laughter. Then the guys went out to the front porch to gather around the fire pit and smoke dad's cigars, Swisher Sweets. The smell of that cigar smoke creeping into the house filled and broke my heart all at once.

Dad, I will miss you forever.

Why, world? Why?!?!

2011-01-25T20:47:00.000-08:00

We filmed the most hilarious video of Mia this weekend.

Fresh out of the bathtub, she was prancing around the house wearing only a fuzzy kitty-cat hoodie towel draped over her head. She beamed at the camera as she darted here and there, her little paunchy belly sticking out as the pink terrycloth waved in the breeze behind her. She busied herself collecting a remote control and a couple of stuffed animals to bring over to Chickens, who was laying in his bed looking rather unnerved about the entire thing.

I thought it would be funny to share on the blog, so I went to upload the video. But the moment I named the file something like "naked kitty cat," I paused. And I thought of a question I will no doubt ask myself thousands of times in the next 20 years.

What about the perverts?

I realized I wasn't sure if this kind of thing is allowed. Posting naked pictures of your baby online? Is that a no-no?

So I turned to my online moms group, and I posed the question to them. They were unanimous in their opinion that, no, this isn't something you ought to do nowadays. But their reasoning absolutely floored me.

Maybe you already knew this, but I certainly did not: Evidently the real danger isn't perverts at all. The danger is that you, the parent, might be mistaken for a pervert and have your kids taken away from you for something as innocent as a bathtub picture.

They shared a story about two Arizona parents who took bathtub photos of their kids while on vacation. When a Walmart employee processing the film saw them and notified authorities, Child Protective Services took the three daughters away for a month. Another story is going on right this minute: A dad in California took his laptop in for service, and among his thousands of family photos were a several his unclothed kids playing in a bathtub and on the couch. A computer technician reported them to the sheriff's office, and seven months later the two kids are still in foster care, separated from their parents and from each other.

I don't even know what else to say about this. Except that it's a cryin' shame you'll never be able to admire the absolute perfection that is my baby's adorable little tushie, and that if this laptop ever goes on the fritz, we'll just have to back over it with the car and buy a new one. And that I am aghast that there is SOMETHING SCARIER THAN REAL, LIVE PERVS.

One on the way

2011-01-21T20:32:00.000-08:00

I'm getting sick of the fact that nobody is updating this blog, so I have decided to do it myself. Thankfully, I have news to report! See that wee little person up there floating in space? That's our new baby. It's supposed to come out and meet us in late June.

So far it has been a fine pregnancy. I'm 17 weeks along with a nice round belly and few complaints. In fact, I frequently forget that I'm pregnant. A few weeks ago when I was feeling a little sniffly, I proudly exclaimed to Sal how happy I am that I can take Nyquil again. He looked perplexed, so I explained that since I'm not breastfeeding anymore, I FINALLY have my whole body all to myself and can down whatever medicines I want! So he goes, "Yeah, but pregnant women can't take Nyquil." "Yeah, I KNOW," I said impatiently, "but... "

Oh. Right.

I'm sure the ease of this pregnancy has something to do with the fact that I spend so much time chasing down a 14-month-old toddler. A toddler who is frequently chasing down the gimpy dog while waving her Pooh bear wildly in the air and bellowing at the top of her lungs. With all that going on, who has time to notice every twinge and ache and wave of nausea? (OK, I did notice the nausea. But that's all gone now.)

It's also nice to feel like we only have one or things to do to get ready, as opposed to one or two million. Since we didn't know Mia was a girl until she was born, we have plenty of gender-neutral baby clothes (we won't be finding out this time, either). We have a lovely bedroom for it to sleep in (we're even throwing in a noisy but adoreable roommate!) and two parents who have been nicely seasoned. I'm also hoping for a maternity leave that is blissfully free of animal emergency rooms and spinal surgeries and paralyzed dogs who weep in the night. Oh, wouldn't that be WONDERFUL??!! Fingers crossed, everyone!

Catch-up time

2010-12-12T22:25:00.000-08:00

Holy crap. It is damned well nearly Christmas, meaning I have been working on this post for almost two months. AND IT'S JUST PICTURES! I am learning that this blogging-for-five-minutes-here-and-there thing is not the most productive thing in the world. But I will not, I repeat, I will not give up on you, chickenbonejones.blogspot.com!

OK. Well, forever ago, it was Mia's first birthday. We had a small party for her, at which she ate pizza for the first time, looked kinda freaked out when we sang to her, and then helped unwrap a present or two. Obligatory cake shot:

Her actual birthday was the next day, a Monday. Dad and I took the day off. We started with brunch at The Flames, then went to Happy Hollow, where we watched a puppet show, rode a carousel, and enjoyed the meerkat exhibit.

Probably her favorite birthday gift was a balloon bouquet sent by dear friends of ours who live in New York. She was absolutely entranced by them. (That animal whose head I chopped off with the camera is that one orange girl Muppet whose name I can never remember.) (At least, I think it's a Muppet? Do they still do those?)

Those balloons lasted for some time, and Mia insisted on clutching them wherever she went. Here's breakfast about a week later.

Of course, this is not a new obsession. This summer we went to a furniture store to look for a new kitchen table, and five minutes after we arrived, Mia started to get squawky. The clever sales lady offered her a fat orange balloon, and I swear she didn't let go of that thing for the rest of the day.

Speaking of baths, we finally graduated to the real tub. I had to go buy a new hooded towel because Mia is too tall for baby towels. I let her choose which animal she wanted, and much to Chickenbone's disappointment, she settled on the pink kitty-cat. (Look close at this kissing picture and notice mom getting the full-on French-a-roo. I swear I'll cry the day she learns how to do a real kiss, because the slobbery tongue thing is, to my surprise, off-the-charts adorable.)

But guess who REALLY loves that Mia kisses with an open mouth. (In fact, we're pretty convinced it was Chickens who taught her to kiss that way to begin with. Hopefully he'll leave the potty training to us! HA! HAHAHA! Just a little dog-bladder-expressing humor. Don't mind me!)

On Halloween, a little dog came to visit!

One of Mia's favorite "toys" is this cardboard box of junk. Lids, bowls, cups and various other bits of kitchen things that she can bang together to her heart's content. Recently a blue and gold SJSU pom-pom made it into the mix as well.

The box also contains Mardi Gras beads - I can always tell when she has put them on because the thump-thump-thump of her crawling on the hardwood floor turns to thump-rattle-thump-rattle-thump-rattle.

Here's the day Mia crawled into the dog's cage to see what the big deal is. When Chickens is inside, she loves to smash her face up against the bars so he can kiss her. I did not see him leaping up to return this favor when the roles were reversed.

Mia's starting to get a pretty good sense of humor. I don't know how she knows it's hilarious to put things on your head, but almost every meal ends with her doing this and cracking herself up. And she's right - comedy gold, I say!

In other news, she is almost a walker. First steps have been taken (on a day mom and dad were off, so we were her two-person cheering section) and every day she strings together a few more steps. She only crawls when she wants to be a hell of a lot faster than that - which is most of the time. She has six teeth. She knows how to sign "pig," "cat," "dog" and "horse," and in her picture books she can identify the banana, the airplane, the boy and the kitty-cat. Looking forward to a Christmas with her where she actually knows what's going on, and I'm sure we'll visit Santa real soon. That could easily go one of two ways. Mia loves new people, especially when they are jolly, so it could be fine. But plopping her on the lap of a crazy-looking man and then backing away to snap some pictures, I can also see it ending in back-arching get-me-outta-here hysterics. I suppose as long as she doesn't try to french him, it'll be OK.

The year in pictures

2010-10-25T22:27:00.000-07:00

Mia's dad made this to show at her birthday party. Everyone was getting a real kick out of it until about halfway through, when she crawled over to the DVD player, shut it off, then turned around and grinned triumphantly. By the time Sal got over there and turned it back on, it had already passed the naked bathtub picture, so I am pretty sure the whole thing was intentional. Mia's wicked smart.

Happy birthday, sweet girl.

Mia's first year from Amy on Vimeo.

I am here. I am alive.

2010-10-22T08:57:00.000-07:00

Wow. I'm like the worst storyteller ever.

If you are still hanging in there on ol' Chickenbone Jones - and I can't blame you if you aren't - then thanks. I really love writing in this blog, and I really love when you read it, and I feel horrible that I went this long without posting, especially when my last post ended on a bit of a cliffhanger.

In my defense, though, it would be easier to finish that "Setback" chapter if things were actually finished. To make a long story short, Chickens did just fine on the crate rest, and seemed to be back to his old self again. For about five minutes. Then, in developments that were either related to the setback or unrelated to the setback, in mid-September we entered a difficult stretch in which Chickens was having violent leg spasms, lots of trouble walking and copious amounts of diarrhea. We discovered some sort of problem with his back left foot, and he is obsessed with licking it, and that makes the spasms worse because the whole thing gets red and irritated, and it's even harder for him to walk than usual. These problems continue today.

We have been to a bunch of vet appointments - some at the regular vet, some at the fancy surgery vet - and there seems to be no answer other than this: We just have a very messed-up dog. In other words, regular problems that happen to healthy dogs are much more difficult when they happen to Chickens. His little nerves don't fire correctly, and lots of his muscles are either way too strong or way too weak. One small irritation on his paw might feel totally crazy to him and he can't leave it alone, which just makes things worse. The leg spasms can topple his whole back end, which makes him stop in his tracks and not move anymore. We are carrying him around more and not letting him use his dog ramp much because he's just not a good mover right now. It is frustrating for him and for us.

The most important thing, though, is that he's not in pain. He is lovable and smiley and tries all the time to wag his little limp tail. When one of us sits on the couch, he loves to sit on our laps snuggled up in a warm blanket. And now that his sister is mobile, those two adore taking turns chasing each other down and planting kisses on the other's face. He's a happy dog, and that matters more than all the rest.

Speaking of his sister ... guess who has a birthday next week!

The festivities have already begun, as we picked up her grandma and one of her four grandpas at the airport last night. I am looking forward to posting all 12 of my monthly Mia-in-the-chair photos when I take the last one on Monday, her first birthday. So, see? I already have my next post planned. Stick around, will ya?

Setback

2010-08-28T11:24:00.000-07:00

Last night I was in Mia's room putting her to bed when I heard Chickenbone yelp in the living room. My stomach lurched to hear him in distress, since earlier in the evening we noticed he was walking a bit gingerly and was more subdued than usual. I decided to finish putting Mia down and then go see what was up, but then I heard him yelp again. And again.

I opened the bedroom door and walked into the living room to find Chickens on the couch, with Sal standing in front of him. Sal said every time he went to try to lift him off the couch, Chickenbone snapped at him. So I gave it a try, and Chickens bit me. He immediately felt sorry about doing it - he was just in pain, and that's how dogs in pain react. We know this from too much experience.

I tossed a soft blanket over him and lowered him to the floor. (See? Experience.) Then Sal and I sat there staring at him in silence for a few minutes, until I said, OK, I'm going to put the baby to bed. And then we'll figure out what to do. I went back into the bedroom and was rocking Mia in the dark when Sal opened the door and said, "Stop what you're doing."

He said Chickenbone's back leg had gone out from under him when he tried to stand up. And his chin was quivering, just like it was that night in November when he went paralyzed. So, we loaded up the whole family and made our way to the animal hospital ER.

Did you know a baby can totally stay up till after midnight, an go nine straight hours without a nap, without totally melting down? Ours can, at least. That's how long we were out dealing with this, no thanks to a particularly busy night at the hospital. So busy, in fact, that after we had spent the better part of an hour waiting there, they urged us to go across town to their sister hospital where there was no wait. (A dying cat and two other patients were in front of us and it was going to be a good long while before they got to Chickens.) So! We loaded up the whole family and made our way to another animal hospital ER.

There a vet finally examined Chickens. He said it was tough for him to know exactly how much deterioration there had been - after all, Chickens wasn't neurologically normal to begin with, so our observations were all he had to go on. And he said that if we sensed a problem, then there's a problem.

I was stunned. And numb. We had done EVERYTHING to make sure this could never happen again. We kicked him off all furniture. We built the stupid ramp. We practically destroyed our back door to create an easy walkway for him to get in and out of the house without extra effort. How could we possible be here again? But the vet pointed out that people can throw out their back with a sneeze. It's not like Chickens needed to have some big accident for this to happen - it can just happen.

Now, it's not nearly as bad as it was last time. He isn't paralyzed, and he has deep-pain sensation. He's just very, very weak, and as we know, it's a quick slide to the worst-case scenario. The vet gave Chickens steroids and pain medication, and then said the two words I dreaded most: crate rest. Ten days of being in his cage around the clock, except for potty breaks. I wanted to throw up. We barely survived that the first time, back when both mom and dad were on leave and our daughter was a tiny newborn who slept through most anything. But what is our option? There isn't one. This is the only way to give his back time to heal, and hopefully avoid another disk rupture that only surgery will fix.

At the moment, I'm surprisingly calm about all this. I'm keeping the panic at bay by thinking about how it isn't EXACTLY like the nightmare we had last winter. After all, it's not like we're putting post-op Chickens in the crate, with the staples in his back and all the drugs making him crazy. We don't have the stress of learning how to express a bladder. It's only 10 days, not two months. And when I was reading the paper this morning, I saw the obituaries page and thought, those people are dead! That's WAY worse than what we're going through!

So, it's day one of 10. Right now Chickens is in his cage resting quietly. He's actually a little too quiet - I think we'd all feel better if he were good and pissed off about being caged up. That would be like his old, feisty self. But right now he seems lethargic and depressed. Think a happy thought for him, would you? Maybe one for the rest of us, too.

Pretty as a picture

2010-08-10T06:29:00.000-07:00

Here are a few pictures from Mia's first professional photo shoot. These beautiful photographs were taken by Kevin Meynell, the talented, hilarious photographer who kept me calm and laughing on my wedding day four years ago. I was so happy when he agreed to take our first real baby pictures, too. And all our schedules worked out that he took these on the exact date of our anniversary. It was a very sweet way to spend the day.

To be honest, I kind of expected that Kevin would just get here and, snap-snap-snap, take a few nice photos and then go home. I should have known better. He clearly adores his job, and I know that because I watched him work so damned hard at it. He spent almost the entire day here, dragging around 9-foot backdrops and gigantic umbrella lights, setting up "studios" in various parts of our house, and working feverishly to dazzle Mia into a thousand grins.

Here's the whole (human) family.

Partway through the day, Mia had to lay down for a nap, at which point Chickenbone decided to check out one of Kevin's backdrops. And by "check out" I mean "pee on." But Kevin just used the opportunity to take more cool photos. That's why we love the guy. Here's a great article about Kevin, along with a few more samples of his work.

Speeding right along

2010-07-25T09:43:00.000-07:00

When I mentally began composing this post many weeks ago, I figured I would entitle it "The summer so far." Unfortunately I didn't find time to actually write anything until "Summer is practically over, so let's get on with it already."

My head spins with how fast the past few months have flown. Mia turned nine months old today, and it seems like the more her little personality explodes and the more fun things we can do with her, the faster time drains away. This must be the beginning of what every experienced parent still reminds us about: Enjoy it now, because these parts will be over before you know it.

Summer begin with Mia's baptism. We held it in the chapel of the high school where I work, and it was lovely. Mia drew some laughs during the ceremony when she stuck the priest's hand in her mouth, and she was a very good sport despite wearing a giant cream-puff gown in the sticky June heat.

After the baptism we enjoyed a delicious lunch at Il Fornaio, where Mia bonded with her new godmother by munching on her jewelry. (See a theme here?)

We had our bottles, Mia had hers.

Also in June we took two weeks of swim lessons, with our good pals Amy G. and Sofia. Mia and Sofia were the only babies at the pool, so they were a real hit with everyone. We even had one mom tell us she forgot to watch her own kids because ours were so cute! I think you will agree.

Mia took to the pool like a champ, enduring regular dunks, water in the face and lots of kicks and splashes. Most of our time was spent passing her back and forth between me and her teacher, fully submerged in the water, which gave me regular heart attacks. But I adjusted.

The best part, each dip in the water ended up in a real tight hug for mom.

We went to work with dad! Sal's job takes him to lots of community events, and in the summer it's easy for us to tag along. We enjoyed a fine night out at the Valley of Heart's Delight fundraiser for History San Jose.

We were joined at our table by KRTY morning show host Gary Scott Thomas, his wife Heather, and their son, Luke. Mia gets a real charge out of seeing other babies. She even tried to hold Luke's hand. Hussy!

In July my dream of going out of town for a little break finally came true, and we made our first trip to Santa Barbara with our baby. Traveling with a baby is ... well, it's not the vacation we used to have, that's for sure. Navigating naps and feedings while being out and about all day, trying to find places to accommodate your giant stroller, sharing a hotel room with a baby ... all that adds an undercurrent of stress that we didn't anticipate. But we had a fine time, anyhow.

We took Mia for her first zoo visit!

We fed some lettuce to a giraffe!

Though Mia seemed a lot more excited about the goats and sheep than the actual exotic animals. Maybe they reminded her of Chickens!

One of our new favorite Santa Barbara restaurants is The Natural Cafe, where Mia enjoyed her lunch of pita bread and hummus with a side of steamed vegetables. Sitting her outdoors by the railing was a stroke of brilliance on our part, since she used her adorable, messy grin to make friends with almost every single person who walked by. Free entertainment for baby gives mom and dad the rare leisurely meal.

We spent the World Cup final at Union Ale Brewing Company. It was actually our second visit to the place, since it was close to our hotel, relatively baby-friendly, and filled with good beer and barbecue. Here's Mia and her dad. Notice the expert head-turn-gulp, a move every parent should know to maximize enjoyment of a drink while there's a baby in your lap.

Though I brought a bag full of toys, my tube of Clinique sunblock was the only thing that kept Mia content. Kids!

Our last outing was to Isla Vista, where we got our favorite burritos and had a picnic in the park. See that weird little tongue curl thing Mia's doing? I don't know what that's about. She does it all the time. It's cute.

Paparazzi shot.

And now here we are, staring August square in the face. In a couple of weeks school starts back up, and I go back to the full-time grind. But I'm not going to worry about that now, since today we're going to a barbecue and an outdoor concert. There's a little bit of summering left to be done!

8 months old

2010-06-25T22:16:00.000-07:00

We have some new tricks to show you. For instance, Mia loves to clap!

She also loves to blow raspberries. She has in fact livened up many a car ride by making fart noises in the backseat for miles on end.

Mia loves to gnaw, slurp and suck on anything you put in front of her. Or under her. Like this chair.

She also loves to laugh at her mom, who is making silly sounds from behind the camera.

Our Mia. God, but she's a charmer. Of all the milestones and new tricks and skills and habits, the most distinguishing thing about my daughter is that wherever she goes, she forces people to adore her.

Here is a scenario I have seen dozens of times. We go to a restaurant. From her perch - be it car seat, high chair or our arms - she scans nearby tables to pick her first target. When she has settled on someone, she stares at them intently. Without blinking. Without flinching. She patiently bores her eyes into her prey, craning her neck to catch their gaze, to the point that I am almost embarrassed - like, hey, kid? That's kinda rude to stare at people that way, did nobody tell you?!

When the person finally notices that strange baby staring at them, that's when Mia flips the switch. All of a sudden the catatonic stare melts into batting eyelashes, hands tucked coyly under her chin, and squeals and giggles and a thousand-watt grin. Predictably, the target begins to coo and smile and say over and over again how PRETTY that baby is, how FRIENDLY she is. And would you look at that SMILE? And those EYES!

And at this point, once she has reeled them in, do you know what this child does? She moves on TO THE NEXT PERSON. I'm not kidding, I have literally seen her tackle four tables in one meal. And of course, as we're leaving, she flashes a friendly grin at each of her new pals. But I just know that in her head, she's thinking, "Hahaha! GOTCHA, suckas!"

Father of the year

2010-06-21T21:03:00.001-07:00

For Sal's first Father's Day, I wanted to do something really big.

He totally earned it. During my pregnancy and childbirth, this guy did everything - EVERYTHING - he could to help me. If I asked him to read a book about a drug-free childbirth so we could discuss it, he read it cover to cover. If I wanted to make a 17th trip to Babies R Us to work on the registry, he hardly grumbled at all. If I needed a big pillow to help my hips stop hurting at night, he got me a really big damn pillow. He was an excellent pregnant lady's husband.

Then Mia was born. And I watched him melt into doting father. The first night we all spent in the hospital together, Sal basically hadn't slept since two nights before. But after Mia and I fell asleep in the darkened room, he kept himself awake for hours by reading a book near the glow of the laptop screen. He wanted Mia and I to rest, but he also wanted to be alert in case we needed him.

The next day, he dashed home to tidy up the house because he knew I would hate bringing Mia home to the mess we left when I went into labor. He even made me that awesome banner that made me burst into tears when we walked in the door! Remember?!

For the first month after Mia was born, Sal kept the household running smooth as clockwork, buying groceries and cooking delicious healthy meals, washing dishes, clothes and countertops. He made it so that the only thing I had to worry about was taking care of Mia.

Then one night our new family got sucker-punched right in its happy little face. At around 2 a.m., I got up to feed the baby and discovered Chickens sitting alone in the dark nursery, not moving and looking very frightened. When we touched him, he yelped and cried. And his back legs were very weak. We rushed him to an emergency vet clinic, where they gave him fluids and immobilized him in a crate. But his paralysis grew worse by the hour until he had no sensation or movement in his back legs at all. At 11 a.m. the next day, we consented to a costly and invasive spinal surgery. And over the next several months, as you likely read here, we helped Chickens recover from that horrible injury.

Except it wasn't so much "we" as "he." After Chickens came home from the hospital, most of the family pretty much fell apart. Mia was spiraling into her 6-weeks-long colicky phase, and Chickens barked and cried around the clock over being confined to his crate. And me, I was a hormonal, sleep-deprived disaster.

But my husband, he doesn't fall apart. Not ever. He stayed calm and reassuring, handling the post-op Chickens with endless patience and love. When Chickens stopped eating because his pain meds were making him feel sick, Sal gently coaxed him to eat grains of rice from his hand. To keep Chickens from crying all night, he slept on the couch for weeks and weeks - and even spent a couple naps on the floor beside the cage. Sal also kept me from going to pieces, taking plenty of shifts with screaming Mia, figuring out how we'd pay for the surgery, and reminding me over and over again of tiny signs of hope we saw that Chickens would someday walk again.

He is our family's very own superhero, and we could not have done this without him.

So! Even though he is now the father of an actual human child, I wanted to get him something special from Chickens. I commissioned a portrait of him from watercolor artist Rachael Rossman, whom I learned about from this post on Dooce. Rachael used pictures from this blog as her inspiration, and I think you'll agree that the piece turned out beautifully.

My dad likes to say that Chickens often looks like he's feeling concerned about you, and I think Rachael totally captured that. And also, of course, his natural movie-star handsomeness.

But the story doesn't end there, as many of you already know. The artist told me she was thinking about entering Chickenbone's portrait into the 2010 Dog Art Wine Label Contest sponsored by Mutt Lynch Winery and Dog Art Today, and would I be OK with that? (Answer: "Uh, OF-FREAKING-COURSE I WOULD!") So she asked readers of her blog to decide which of three portraits she should enter. I secretly reached out to friends, family, colleagues and even my online moms group, and everybody flooded the site with votes for Chickens, making him one of 77 contestants in the contest. Again, the vote was thrown out to the masses, and again, my peeps came through, launching Chickens into the top 10 finalist group. Thrilling!

Then the winemaker and founder of Dog Art Today picked the winner, and it was not Chickenbone. Still, it was loads of fun to finally be able to tell Sal this whole story on Sunday. And I think - I hope - that all this made him feel as loved and appreciated as he is. For being a rookie dad, he is damned good at it.

Baby's first food: Food.

2010-06-12T21:16:00.000-07:00

I'm kind of a weird mom.

I don't like filling my daughter's hair up with ribbons and headbands. I dread milestones like crawling and teeth. And for some reason, I never did look forward to the whole spoon-feeding "open-wide-here-comes-the-airplane" thing.

To me, the idea of starting solids spelled nothing but stress. Breastfeeding has been going so well for us that it seemed complicated to figure out a new routine. I don't think it sounds fun to sit there trying to spoon gloppy purees into the mouth of a squirmy baby. Also, the idea of baby food is kind of gross to me. Pulverized peas and jars of chicken? To someone who adores cooking and eating good food, that just doesn't sound like a hearty, delicious meal.

Well, one day I was perusing the message board of my online moms group and I saw someone wondering why we have to do all those bland cereals and purees. Couldn't we just feed our babies real, healthy food? Another mom replied: "What you're talking about is called baby-led weaning, and yes, you can totally do that."

I perked up.

I started doing some research and learned that baby-led weaning bypasses the entire purees stage and goes directly to finger foods - large chunks of soft, healthy stuff that the baby handles all on their own. With this method, you never put food into your baby's mouth. Instead, she learns to feed herself and controls when, what and how much she eats. I grew very excited about this idea and ordered this book. It is an excellent and quick read, and when I finished it I knew this was the right thing for us.

Here are just a few of the benefits of baby-led weaning:

The baby can eat what everyone else is eating, provided you are a healthy eater. You save money, and you know exactly what's in their food.
The whole family can eat at the same time, instead of mom or dad feeding the baby, and then parents eat later.
Because BLW babies control their own intake, you avoid mealtime struggles to get them to eat. The book also says BLW babies often have better relationships with food when they get older.
Baby-led weaning is fun! Your baby learns about the different textures, colors and flavors of food, and - the book says - is more likely to eat a wide variety of foods as an adult.

Finally, I was terribly excited about my baby having something other than breastmilk. And the week she turned six months old, Mia ate her first real food:

Avocado is a popular first finger food because it's rich in healthy fats and nutrients. (We'll introduce chips and tequila at a later date.) It was served alongside a spear of baked sweet potato sprinkled with a bit of cinnamon.

Since breastmilk or formula should be the main source of nutrition until a baby is one year old, the first months of baby-led weaning are about exploring and having fun. We have one meal a day (right before the bath, and you'll soon see why). "Dinner" falls between her normal milk feedings, so she's still getting all the daily nutrition she needs, and I don't have to worry about how much food actually makes it down the trap. Which is good, since most of it gets played with, but not necessarily eaten.

Here's Mia squishing and smashing her first meal. (Rookie parents forgot to put a bib on her - boy, you only make that mistake once!)

At first she mostly just sucked on the food, and seemed surprised when it started to come apart in her mouth. But within a week or two she learned to make deliberate chomping motions with her jaw to chew things up. She doesn't have any teeth yet, but that doesn't matter. Babies don't use their front teeth to chew food anyway, and she can do plenty of mashing with just her gums.

We soon moved on to steamed carrots and broccoli. Man, this kid is nuts about her broccoli.

One day I got a carton of gigantic organic strawberries in my weekly CSA delivery, so I washed one off and handed it to her. Do you know how cool it is to witness the first time a person tastes a plump, delicious strawberry? She sank her gums into the fruit and froze, her eyes wide as saucers as the juice streamed down her chin. Then she worked on that thing for a good 20 minutes.

With banana, I cut it in half, and then trim a ring of peel off the top. Then she can use the peel as a handle and easily get to the fruit.

She liked a few whole-wheat rotini noodles with a bit of marinara sauce.

She's loves cantaloupe, too, to the point that she bangs her hands on the tray and squeals when she sees me cutting it up for her. I leave the rind on so she has something to grip. It's amazing how fast she learned which side was edible. See? She'll even show you!

And after a skeptical first taste, steamed asparagus was a hit, too.

In fact, I haven't put a single thing in front of her that she didn't like. (That's my girl!) She has also had cucumber, yogurt, grilled chicken, toasted waffle, tortilla, tofu and rice cakes spread with hummus. Meanwhile on that online group I mentioned, moms who went with traditional jars and purees fret all the time about why their baby won't eat this or that - or why their baby won't eat, period. And while other babies Mia's age are only now starting to figure out how to go from purees to something more solid, she has been handling that stuff like a pro for nearly two months.

Oh, and she's not alone. At every meal, a faithful sidekick waits patiently by her high chair in the hopes that someday he, too, can do baby-led weaning.

He gets lucky now and then.

Hm. That might've been a little hasty.

2010-06-01T20:47:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry, but can anyone tell me who wrote that last post?! The one about borrowing dog pee? Because I don't quite recognize that burst of optimism as being my own. It is gone, and I can't recover it. Not 24 hours after I hit "publish post" on that sucker, I decided the whole idea was silly and futile.

And I still think that.

Because guess what. I remembered that we don't have time to borrow dog pee. To make the whole borrowed-dog-pee scenario work, we would presumably have to borrow it, like, a lot. And we don't see our neighbors very often. Maybe once or twice a month are we all home at once. And frankly, I think bringing a dog into our back yard to pee every now and then is going to piss Chickens off a lot more than it will make him cooperative.

That's the bad news. But I have good news, too: We found a vet tech who would love to come house-sit for us. She can express a bladder, she lives five minutes from our house, and she is delightful. And get this - she already knows Chickenbone because she works at his vet office. Uh, can you say MFEO?! So today I made reservations for three nights in July our favorite hotel in Santa Barbara. Just me, Sal and the little Meesters!

ROAD TRIP, YOU GUYS! Bladder-free!

Con man

2010-05-25T22:15:00.000-07:00

Do you know how much it costs to fix a dog's broken back? No? Well, let me tell you. It's just a shade over twenty jillion dollars. So when we were trying to pick up the pieces after Chickenbone's accident in November, we decided to be prudent and offset that cost by skipping a big vacation this year.

This plan seemed all well and good until about March, when after two months of two full-time jobs, a full-time baby and a dog bladder that needed full-time expressing, I realized it wasn't going to work. So one evening I sat Sal down. "Hi!" I told him. "I'm losing my shit over here. We NEED a break."

I didn't have in mind anything huge or expensive. Maybe just a nice weekend in our favorite place on earth, Santa Barbara. Just the three of us - me, my husband and my daughter. Well, let's just say this wasn't a hard sell. Sal's wiped out, too. So it was settled! And the next day I gleefully started calling around to make a boarding reservation for Chickens.

Five calls later, I hung up the phone and burst into tears.

Because, you see, it's difficult to find accommodations for a dog who can't pee on his own. Three boarding facilities flat-out refused to take him, and two vet offices said they could do it, but their employees go home at 6 and don't return till the next morning. Chickens just can't go that long without a pee.

Panic welled up inside me as I began to realize the situation we were in. That any "break" we could take would be limited to five hours, for as long as this FOUR-YEAR-OLD DOG shall live.

I've since been banging my head against a wall trying to figure a way out of this. Lots of friendly professional pet-sitters are willing to come stay at our house, and a few even offered to learn how to express his bladder. I wish it could be that easy. But it took me two solid weeks of expressing him five times per day to get good at it. Same for Sal. It's quite a special talent! One that takes lots of patience and lots of practice.

Then it hit me. There is, in fact, another solution. And that would be a little something I like to call THE GOD-DANGED DOG PEEING ON HIS OWN. Wacky, I know! So I did a little research, starting with a wonderful web site called Dodgerslist, which is devoted to dogs who suffer from IVDD. And I read that when a dog is able to use a leg to scratch his head, that's a good sign that neurological function has returned to his back end. Well, guess what. Chickens can do that.

So I sent an e-mail to one of the site moderators, an angel of a woman who has offered her advice and encouragement to us many times in the past six months. And I said, look. Chickens can scratch himself. He can walk fairly well. He spritzes pee on bushes and trees when we go around the block. What gives? How can we get this dog to empty his bladder on his own?

She replied with a question: "Is there a reason you're still expressing his bladder?"

To which I replied, "Um ... "

Is there? I don't know! We just are! It's not like we've seen him trot into the back yard and take a whiz on a tree - but then again, when would he have had the chance? We've been expressing his bladder morning, noon and night for SIX FREAKING MONTHS!

She wrote back and asked me a bunch of questions. Like, was his spinal rupture in his back or his neck? (His back.) Does he ever leak urine? (Thankfully, no.) Does his tail raise up when you express him? (Every time.) Do you ever have him him diapers? (Dear god. NO.) I answered all her questions and waited anxiously. And then I got this reply:

"Amy, congratulations - Chickenbone has bladder control!"

She said she's never seen a dog regain the neurological function that Chickens has without also regaining the ability to go pee. "When he marks like that, it is sure-fire proof that nerve messages are traveling to and from the bladder and brain through the spinal cord," she wrote. "The brain tells the bladder to release pee to mark, and the bladder releases." This is also in line with what Chickens' surgeon said at his last checkup, which is that it's rare for a dog to be able to walk again but not pee.

In other words, he's been scamming us!

Then she offered advice on how to retrain Chickens to pee on his own. She suggested that we get another dog to come pee in our back yard to trigger his marking instinct. Then we need to bring him outside regularly, encourage him to pee, and give him lots of treats and praise if/when he does. This will not be easy - he is just so accustomed to being expressed now. And ironically, just expressing him is actually easier for us than taking a bunch of time for training.

But whether he can pee on his own or not, one thing's for sure - we are getting awfully tired of carrying him up and down those steps in the back yard, especially when there's a dog in one arm and a wiggly baby in the other. Also, I suspect that if Chickens could get to the grass by himself, we might have more success with all this. So! This weekend my father-in-law came over and built us a spiffy new handicapped-dog ramp! It is excellent. And the moment it was complete, Chickens raced up and down it several times.

Next comes a trip to the neighbors to borrow some dog pee, and then we're going to solve this nonsense once and for all.

The jig is up, little buddy!

Milestone!

2010-05-15T16:56:00.000-07:00

Unless you walk around with a camera in your hand all the time, it's next to impossible to catch a "first." But luckily my keen mommy instincts kicked in this morning when I suspected Mia was going to accomplish the daredevil baby stunt known as ... BACK-TO-FRONT!

First Mother's Day

2010-05-09T07:31:00.000-07:00

I was laying in bed this morning when Sal brought in the laptop to show me one of my Mother's Day presents:

He followed it up with a beautiful card and a fat gift certificate to my favorite nail salon. Well done, husband.

Quality of life

2010-05-05T23:13:00.000-07:00

I'm part of an online moms group - a bunch of us whose babies were born in October 2009 - and this week I was heartbroken to read about a family whose dachshund suffered a back injury just like Chickenbone's. The mom wrote that her 8-year-old daughter accidentally dropped the dog, who could not walk the next morning, and she wanted to know how to keep the girl from blaming herself for what happened.

The mom also wondered about the dog's suffering, and whether it would have to be put to sleep. For a moment, my mind flooded with the terrible memories of the night of Chickenbone's injury, his surgery, and his long road to recovery. I vividly remember us sitting in the vet hospital exam room as the surgeon explained that lots of people think paralyzed dogs are better off being put down. But she said even if Chickens recovered no leg function whatsoever, he could still live a long and happy life using a little wheeled cart. So that's the worst-case scenario we braced for, and we went ahead with the procedure.

For a long - and, you'll recall, mostly miserable - five weeks, we saw not even a flicker of leg movement. Even when he did begin to move them, it still took months before he stood properly, and more months before he became a real walker again. Now he runs, scratches himself and whips around in little circles when he's excited about something. As I wrote my advice to the mom, I realized that it has all been 100 percent worth it. Which I suppose is another way of saying that a few times along the way, I wasn't so sure about that. But Chickens brings such joy to our house, and particularly to our daughter, and I just couldn't imagine our life without him.

But an important concern for us is whether HE is happy. Chickens was an incredibly self-sufficient dog before his injury, and he had many ways of entertaining himself when we weren't around. Most of which involved jumping up on furniture. Well, obviously that's a thing of the past. But even though he has to remain on the ground, we have figured out a few adjustments that help him enjoy his favorite things from his "old" life.

Old Chickens loved to hop up on the couch and doze in the sun.

Now, when we see a "sun spot" on the floor through a window or the front door, we drop a blanket down and he races over to lay down and catch some rays.

Old Chickens also liked to jump on the loveseat and stare out the window all afternoon.

Sal used a bunch of couch cushions to invent the "soft shoe" (explanation on that term here) so that he can still enjoy the view, and the pillows create a barrier that keep him from leaping off the couch when a cat wanders by.

Luckily for Chickens, there's someone else in our house who's on the floor a lot, and even has toys to share.

When she's not on the floor, he just needs a little boost to give her a kiss.

And now that it's summertime, we can just plop him down in the back yard where he can sniff the grass, chase squirrels and take long afternoon naps. I'd say this is a dog who's glad he stuck around, wouldn't you?

Looking back, looking forward

2010-04-25T18:15:00.000-07:00

We decided to shake off a particularly exhausting week on Friday by going to our favorite bar for happy hour. When the manager came over to say hi to Mia, we got to chatting about kids (his are 5 and 7) and we agreed that one of the best things about little babies is how just before bedtime, when they finish their last feeding, you pull them up for a burp and they slump sweetly onto your shoulder. Their breathing is heavy in your ear as they drift off to sleep, their arms draped around your neck. I said that it's such a precious, serene moment, my favorite of the entire day. The manager gave me a somber look. "You know," he said, "that'll be gone soon."

That's what I keep thinking about this weekend as Mia hits her six-month birthday. (By the way, the copy editor in me is completely annoyed at referring to anything other than a birthday as a "birthday." There is no such thing as a "six-month birthday," people.) But I keep thinking that I don't ever, ever want that part to go away! It hurts my heart just thinking about it. I know it will be replaced with new, even cooler parts. And yet I'm already missing my little baby Mia, who - from what everyone tells me - will soon vanish before my eyes.

Six months - it feels like the most incredible milestone. Particularly if we break it in half. I'm going to be honest with you, I walked around those first three months feeling like I got a bit suckered. You see, when you are a pregnant lady, you can't go anywhere without people clutching their chests and fluttering their eyelids at how WONDERFUL being a parent is. How LUCKY you are. How your life will never be the same, IN A GOOD WAY! And when a rookie like me imagined things like "maternity leave" and "bonding time," it sounded like three months of rocking chairs and lullabies and a soft, cuddly little teddy bear of a baby. Now, if you could just excuse me one moment...

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

What I mean to say is, I was entirely unprepared for how hard it would be. Even though I was one of those pregnant women who read everything she could get her hands on about having a baby, there were a few things nobody told me.

Nobody told me that you could literally spend 24 hours a day, 7 days a week doing absolutely nothing except keeping the baby alive, fed, changed, soothed or sleeping. I would watch in horror as the clock ticked off hour after hour after hour, while I sat there tethered to the baby and doing nothing else. And when by some miracle I did find a little bit of time? The list of things on my to-do list was so long it paralyzed me, and I was too exhausted to even fathom tackling it, anyhow. I'm the kind of person who really likes to get things done, a person who makes lists at work every single day and crosses things off with glee. So this part of motherhood was difficult for me.

Nobody told me that taking care of a baby could take such a physical toll on your body. Even more than pregnancy did, in my case. First off, boobs. Breastfeeding was tough for us at first. When it wasn't working right, I was so worried and frustrated. When it was working right, it hurt like holy hell. At the beginning, when Mia was eating every 2-3 hours around the clock, I lived in dread of the next feeding. It took us a solid month before the idea of breastfeeding didn't make me want to cry.

And then there was the rest of my body. Especially during months two and three, by day's end every muscle in my body ached. During the colicky phase - when we commonly referred to our child as "the unholy terror" - we'd spend hours taking turns holding, swinging, rocking and swaying with Mia to try to calm her down. That was a killer on my knees and hips, joints that were already weakened by breastfeeding hormones. For awhile there, I climbed steps like a 99-year-old woman. I also got myself a case of tendinitis in my left wrist from lifting her a hundred times a day. (To be fair, expressing the dog's bladder didn't exactly help that, either.) It's only a very tiny spot that's affected, but the shooting pain can be excruciating.

But here's the nice thing about parenthood: Absolutely none of this matters. Every single problem, complaint or frustration with being a new mom melts away entirely the instant you see this face.

And that's probably why the second half has been so gloriously different from the first. This must be what all those people were talking about! We're getting daily grins that would steal your breath away. Daily giggles and curious stares and funny sounds. I was astonished the other day to finally hear what my daughter's voice sounds like. I mean, clearly she's been capable of making noise since day one. But now she makes deliberate sounds with her real little-girl voice, and it's the most excruciatingly sweet sound I've ever heard in my life. (She mostly just says "Ba! Ba! Ba!" though to torment her grandmas a bit, we are trying to get her to put that syllable between an "O" and a "ma.") Developments like this are thrilling, and conveniently, they bring with them a lovely amnesia that erases all the hard parts from your mind.

And even though I know it's coming, it is impossible for me to comprehend that six months from now, our baby will have teeth. She will be able to stand up, and maybe even walk. She'll be a lot closer to little girl than baby. That's why I'm going to try even harder to slow down and keep in mind the other thing people are always telling new parents: It goes by so damned fast.

Must learn to play it cool

2010-04-20T06:43:00.000-07:00

Last night I went on a little walk with Mia, who was tucked snugly into her carseat with the hood up. And a bee flew in there.

Have you ever seen those cartoons where the person's eyeballs leap two feet out of their heads in alarm? That's what I looked like. Pure, instant, total panic. The bee landed right on her hand, and she looked down at it and didn't even flinch. I suppose I should be grateful she didn't immediately stick it in her mouth like everything else she can get her hands on.

I don't actually remember what I did besides hyperventilate and suffer heart palpitations and wave my arms around. She was strapped into the seat, which was strapped into the stroller, so when the bee flew off her hand and down behind her arm I nearly fainted. I have a hard time remembering exactly what happened, but I believe I tried to roll her over, which was stupid because of all the straps. So it was more like I just squished her into one side of the seat. A second or two later, the bee flew away, and Mia looked up at me and started cracking up.

My hands didn't stop shaking for six blocks.

What I'm wondering is, what would have happened if she had been stung? Besides the screeching sobs, I mean. What would I have done for her? Are bee stings very dangerous for someone so little? Dear god, there better not be a next time, but in case there is, I need to find out. Shockingly, I did seem to remember that swatting at the bee could make it sting her, so I think I resisted the urge to wave my hands close to it. So basically, anyone walking by would have seen a perfectly content baby smiling in a stroller, and a mom three feet away yelping and flapping her arms and, I'm pretty sure, saying the F-word once or twice.

I really hope I get better at this.

Best. Vacation. Ever.

2010-04-12T21:30:00.000-07:00

So! Believe it or not, I've been off work for more than a week. You'd think that would open up all sorts of time for blogging, especially when I have at least six posts churning in my head that I'm eager to pour out here. But alas, that's not how it turned out. Instead, I was far, far too busy with all the NOT WORKING to actually get anything accomplished.

You see, here's how the average workday goes for me: Alarm goes off at 5 a.m. (Unless, of course, the baby got up to eat at 4 or 4:30, which has happened a few times, in which case going back to bed would be pointless for me, so I just stay up. If she wakes up any earlier than maybe 3:30 to eat, then I try to sneak back to bed for a little bit. Most nights she sleeps till 6 or so, but seriously, you just can't ever tell.) So, to begin again: Alarm goes off at 5 a.m., and between 5 and 6:40 when I have to leave for work, I must accomplish four things: Feed the baby; shower and get ready; eat breakfast; grab my purse, breast pump bag, lunch and coffee before I sail out the door. The order of these things changes every day, as it all depends on what time I hear the little squawks come from the baby monitor. It is stressful.

Then I go to school. There, somehow between meetings and phone calls and e-mails and deadlines, I have to fit two breast-pumping sessions into the workday. These can 25 to 30 minutes. Sometimes I spill milk on my pants. Once I squirted my own self in the eye. Twice I have been walked in on by custodians. (If you have never seen what a woman pumping her breasts looks like, you have no idea how horrifying this is. Just trust me.) It is stressful to pump milk out of your breasts with a machine in your office.

Then I come home, usually by around 3:30 p.m. Between 3:30 and 8, here is what must be accomplished: Change clothes. Feed baby. Express dog's bladder. Hand wash approximately 497 little plastic breast pump parts. Take baby on a walk. Feed baby. Play with baby. Play with dog. If necessary, get groceries, do laundry and/or pick up house. Fix dinner. Give baby bath. Feed baby. Put baby to bed. Express dog's bladder. Pack lunch and pump bag for next day. Collapse on couch. Try very, very hard not to fall asleep 11 minutes into a TV show. Fail frequently. Go to bed.

It's a dead sprint from 5 a.m. till 10 p.m., five days a week.

So, I spent my vacation in pajamas. Resting. Rushing nowhere. Napping. Cuddling with my baby. NOT PUMPING. And grinning from ear to ear at having one whole week away from the chaos.

While I didn't have time for all the writing, I can show you some cool pictures!

Here's little Easter Mia, wearing a dress from her Grandma Eva. I tried to get her to pose prettily next to her stuffed rabbit, Mr. Bun.

However, he soon met the same fate as everything Mia gets her hands on these days.

Here we are practicing tummy time. We do not like tummy time. But we do it anyway. Glad Sal took this picture before the howling began.

Waking up from a snooze with the daycare provider.

We bought Mia a high chair, in preparation for starting her on real food in a few weeks. She LOVES it. And for the first time in months, we can actually sit together and enjoy a meal without a squirmy baby on somebody's lap.

Finally, Mia went to her first baseball game - the San Jose Giants home opener. She had a ton of baseball fans fawning all over her and how cute she looked in her Giants onesie. We made it two and a half whole innings, including beers and barbecue for mom and dad. That's a home run, I say!

Five months old

2010-03-26T20:49:00.000-07:00

Taking Mia's monthly picture was, for the first time, quite difficult. Instead of posing prettily for the camera, she would much rather...

... stare at Chickens.

... slobber on the chair.

... and play with the pillow.

But then I got lucky.

Pretty cool to see how she's grown since month one.

Oh, yeah! The baby!

2010-03-17T11:00:00.000-07:00

It has been brought to my attention that the Chickenbone Jones blog might be a WEE bit heavy on the dog-poop talk and not enough adorable baby girl.

Point taken. Let's catch up on Mia.

Affectionately known around the house as "The Little Meesters," she is very close to celebrating the five-month mark. Her favorite things include: Sticking her tongue out. Staring at Chickens. Sucking on the legs of Sophie the giraffe. Loudly babbling things like "BAAAAAA. BABABA. OOOOOOOOOO. BAA."

Recent new skills include: Rolling over front to back. Holding her bottle on her own. Throwing things violently onto the floor. (That one we learned with newspapers - at least she started with daddy's livelihood!)

She has settled on a favorite baseball team.

She loves to stare at herself in the mirror.

And there's nobody on earth she adores more than her dad. (I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual.)

Let's wrap up with a movie! Starring Mia and her favorite pastime of all. I would edit this down a bit except I don't know how. But come on, can't you suffer two and a half minutes of pure, Grade-A, giggly Meester cuteness? With a little dash of Chicken?

Guess this one's for the blooper reel

2010-03-13T14:27:00.000-08:00

When I started recording this, I merely wanted to show you how well Chickens gets around these days. But you! You're in for much, much more!

Life is looking up

2010-03-09T16:37:00.000-08:00

So I just spent the past 20 minutes chasing Chickens as he ran in circles around the living floor and under the bed.

Yes, ran.

It's wobbly, and there are plenty of stumbles, especially when he gets to the hardwood floor. But it is an unmistakable run, complete with a curly-tail wag and a big old Chickenbone grin.

Unfortunately, I have no such positive news on the bathroom front. In fact, I just got done expressing his bladder in the back yard (where, I might point out, he did more gleeful circle-runs beneath the big peppercorn tree). Do you realize we have been helping this dog go pee five times per day for four months? FOUR. Friends, that is a LOT of canine-bladder-squeezing. The pooping situation also remains the same. In fact, the day after my post about the housekeeping, a girlfriend and her 2-year-old daughter stopped by for a visit. Again, Chickens got so excited that he pooped. Again, nobody saw it. Again, my guest accidentally stepped in it, smooshing poop all over her pretty shoe and leaving me completely mortified. (On the plus side, you can totally tell who your friends are by how gracious they are when your home is a minefield of dog crap.)

But overall, I'd say we are adjusting. And it's moments like right now, with Chickens contentedly sitting in my lap as I write this (and Mia dozing in her swing, in my freshly cleaned house) that I just can't believe how far we've come. I mean, remember when I was going to pieces over having to "tail-walk" Chickens everywhere he went? While also holding my wiggly infant? And remember how he'd drive me crazy by barking at me to put him on the couch when I was feeding Mia? And this isn't even going back to the REAL dark days of Chickens with a giant gash down his back, weeping in his cage for hours on end. Of packing our newborn into the car in the middle of the cold winter night to drive to the animal hospital, again. Of Chickens refusing to eat because he was in too much pain, which also meant he wouldn't eat treats filled with medication, so Sal had to wrestle him down and shove food down his throat. Of his lifeless legs that never, ever moved. Man, those were some hopeless days. How far we have come!

Chickens is such a happy dog now. He has recently been discovered by his sister, who stares at him intently and reaches out to clutch his fur. He returns the affection by trying to jam his tongue down her throat as far as possible. The other day I thought he was being a little rough with her, so I reached over and gently batted him back a bit, but Mia just cracked up laughing. Those two are pretty adorable together.

Yes, it's a pain in the ass to do the bladder thing. And to pick up the poop. But you guys, we are pretty much down to these two issues. Out of all those countless problems and endless days and nights of worry and frustration and sadness, we're down to TWO problems. Uh, I'M PRETTY SURE WE CAN HANDLE IT. And that's the big difference between now and then. Now I know our little family can definitely handle it.

And if he never pees or poops right again? Well, we'll just have to focus on the good stuff.

Um ... welcome?

2010-03-02T21:37:00.000-08:00

This afternoon I noticed my neighbor's housekeeping service at work across the street, and I popped over to ask if they'd come over and give me a quote. Housekeeping is something I have been dreaming of for months. While I truly love cleaning my sinks, scrubbing my floors and making my home spic and span all by myself (seriously), it might not surprise you to learn that deep cleaning in this house has become a thing of the past. We do OK on day-to-day maintenance, but this weekend when I used one precious hour of a Mia nap to mop the kitchen floor, I realized it hadn't been mopped since, oh, maybe when I was seven or eight months pregnant. That's just sick.

I held Chickens in my arms while I waited for them, since Mia was sleeping and I didn't want him to run to the door and bark when they arrived. A little while later, the owner of the company and his sister walked over. They came in and looked around, and then we all stood in the living room as he explained their services and pricing. Well, Mia woke up and immediately began to wail, so I put Chickens on the floor and went to her room to get her out of the swing. When I walked back into the living room, to my complete horror, I saw Chickens stumbling around in a circle around our guests, with that familiar plop, plop-plop of poops falling out of his butt.

"HE'S POOPING! HE'S POOPING!" I yelped as I lunged toward them, so startling the nice housekeeping man that he took a step backward and planted his foot right onto a piece of poop.

Which he did not notice.

"YOU'RE STEPPING IN IT!" yelled the crazy red-faced lady with the crying baby and the crapping dog. "OH GOD! YOU STEPPED IN IT!"

Dude calmly opens up the screen door, kicks off his shoe, and then continues to describe all the wonderful things they will do to make my house sparkly clean. Completely ignoring the fact that he was surrounded by a circle of poop. But I was just so embarrassed. I kept trying to explain about the spinal injury and the surgery and the paralysis and how he can't poop right because he can't go on real walks yet, and he finally stopped me and kindly explained that he has lots of animals at home, including two cats, a bird, a pit bull, and a doberman who recently had surgery to remove a corn cob from its stomach. And then he smiled and said, "You know, I have a friend from India who says that when a person takes care of an animal, they have many good things coming to them."

So, yeah, they're pretty much hired.

Sparing you the details

2010-02-28T22:08:00.000-08:00

For about a week now I have been fighting a nasty illness. It started with a fever and sore throat but quickly settled into something quite sinusy. I'd describe it as cement nose. Know what I'm talking about? Like, I was so clogged up that if you had duct taped my mouth shut, I'd suffocate and die right then and there. And this sickness was ruining everything. My sleep was crappy since I couldn't breathe right. I had a splitting headache, especially at night. And breastfeeding a baby while hacking and coughing all over the place? Not fun for either one of us.

My method of dealing with this problem (ignore, ignore, ignore) wasn't working, so today I called Kaiser hoping to get an appointment early this week. I figured I just needed an antibiotic, since that's always what happens when I get a sickness like this.

Well, the Kaiser woman first asked me a bunch of questions about my symptoms. And then she goes, "I'm sorry, we have no appointments available. Would you like to speak to an advice nurse?"

I was confused, especially since to get an antibiotic, don't you have to see the doctor? "What do you mean, there are no appointments available?"

"I mean I can offer you no appointments," she said. "But there is no wait to speak to an advice nurse."

This pissed me off. Like she judged my symptoms and felt I wasn't quite ill enough to see a real doctor. "So, what you're telling me is that ALL OF KAISER is booked for appointments?" I sputtered. "That ... that there are no appointments EVER?"

I hear a heavy sigh, and then she said, "Ma'am, the only thing I can tell you is that there are no appointments. But AGAIN, there is no wait to speak to the nurse."

At this point I feel like I may burst into tears, so fine, bring on your stupid nurse.

Well, it turns out my frustration was kind of ridiculous, and I wasn't giving Kaiser nearly enough credit for being awesome. As it turns out, when you call Kaiser on a Sunday for an appointment because you are feeling terrible? They try to fit you in ON THAT SUNDAY. So the woman I was snotty to (haha, snotty) was merely telling me that SUNDAY was booked. Well, cripes, lady, of course it is! Sunday is today!

Anyway. So the advice nurse suggests that even though they are booked for in-person visits, I can have a phone appointment with a doctor that afternoon. A phone appointment! I didn't even know such a thing existed. But I'm fine with anything that means I don't have to find a spare hour in my life to drive to a doctor's office.

A couple hours later, a doctor calls and asks me a bunch of questions. Finally, I think, I'll get my prescription. But no! Instead she tells me that an over-the-counter sinus-rinse kit would solve all my problems. Instantly. All you do is take a little squirt bottle and shoot warm salty water up into your nose. You inhale it through your sinuses, then let it drain out through your mouth. (Yes, this means you'd essentially be hurling up the contents of your own nose, but let's not think about that too much.) "Let's say you have a gutter filled with leaves," she said. "If you sprinkle some water on them, it's not going to do anything. What you need to do is blast those leaves out with a HIGH-PRESSURE FIREHOSE."

Then she pointed me to a demonstration video on the Kaiser web site. She said the kits are available everywhere, and that I should do a rinse twice a day, morning and night, until I'm better.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love hippie crap like this. And I'm totally impressed that Kaiser suggested a natural home remedy first. HOWEVER. I have a thing about water going up my nose. The thought of it scares my pants off. Like, I'm that sissy at the pool who has to use one hand to pinch her nose shut at all times when underwater. But I was desperate, so even though I could not possibly fathom doing what they are asking me to do, I went and bought this kit at Walgreens for about $12.

The doctor had warned me that it would be unpleasant at first, and that was true. REAL true. It felt slightly like drowning. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I coughed and gagged quite a bit. But (and here's where I'd recommend setting aside your oatmeal or whatever you're enjoying for breakfast) oh my god, the stuff that fell out of my head! OK, on second thought, I have decided not to go into details. But be assured that the details are dramatic and plentiful. And the relief is indeed almost instant.

For the first night in almost a week, I could breathe comfortably while I slept. It was heaven. This morning I did another rinse, and it was a little easier. Again, there were LOTS and LOTS of ... um ... "results."

I just can't belive I've gone though my whole life - and many, many head colds like this one - without knowing about this. And, just think about about all the future days and nights of suffering I have saved myself by learning this trick. The kit comes with 50 packets of the salt solution, so it'll last me forever. And you know what else? I've even read that you can kill a cold right away if you do some good ol' sinus flushing at the first sign of a sickness. This means hours and hours added into my life, you guys!

Thanks, Kaiser, for teaching me how to fish. In my nose.

The small shoe

2010-02-18T08:09:00.000-08:00

Back in December, a couple weeks after Chickenbone's surgery, some of my relatives from New Mexico and Arizona came for a visit to meet Mia. One of those visitors was my brother, who is a sheriff's deputy in Curry County, N.M. As we were explaining Chickens' back injury and his round-the-clock crate rest, Mike nods at the big cage and goes, "So you keep him in the shoe, eh?" Er, the what? Well, in prison, "the shoe" is actually the SHU, or Solitary Housing Unit. It's where the baddies go, confined to their cells alone for 23 hours of the day. The nickname stuck, since "Stick Chickens in the shoe!" is funnier than if we just called it the cage.

Well, when an awesome Chickenbone Jones fan named Meghan read about our troubles with Sal sleeping in the living room to keep the dog quiet, she kindly offered to give us a wire crate that would probably fit in our cozy bedroom. And so we have the small shoe!

We began the transition to the bedroom last Friday night, and it was about as painful as I expected. Chickens basically sat with his whole face and body smashed against the side of the shoe that faces the bed, as close to us as he could possibly get, with this pleading look on his face. I lost track of how many times we had to get up to shush him (after a poop check, of course) and pull his blankets back over his head hoping he'd fall asleep. There was a lot of whining and whimpering, but we hung in there till dawn.

On the second night we had some quiet stretches. Between the two of us, we probably got up to check/comfort/shush him eight times, with a poop somewhere around 4? I think? When that night was over, Sal and I were sorely tempted to sneak in one couch night, just to have a break and catch up on sleep. But once you start down this road, it's just stupid to backpedal, so into the third night we trudged.

Shockingly, we only had to get up four times that night. And it was poopless! There is hope.

And on the fourth night, all was quiet until a poop at around 5:45 a.m. (Which, in the post-baby Pizarro household, is actually a perfectly respectable time to wake up.)

Four nights did the trick. I even let two nights go by before posting this, just to make sure I wasn't going to jinx it! But the past two nights have been peaceful as well. One thing that really helps: Sal figured out that if you want Chickens to fall asleep right away, just wrap him up in his favorite blue blanket before putting him into the bed. That's right, we're swaddling the freaking dog. And good lord, we Ferberized him, too!

And this is how comfy he is now: This morning when I opened the door, Chickens looked up at me and then put his head down and went back to sleep. He loves the small shoe! I told Meghan that if this worked, I was going to buy a star and name it after her. I am so grateful to her, and so very relieved to have this problem behind us and my husband back in his own bed.

Now, who knows how to fix the poop?!!

Cry it out, Chickens!

2010-02-12T06:50:00.000-08:00

Tonight, you guys, is a very big night in the Chickenbone Jones household. It's the night we're finally going to bring poor Sal off the couch, where he has been sleeping for weeks (and holy crap, maybe even months) and back into the bed.

I've outlined the problem before. Basically, since his back surgery in November, Chickens has to stay in a crate in the living room at night. He's actually somewhat OK with that, except for the fact that he's a giant sissy who doesn't like to be all alone in the dark. So Sal stays on the couch to ensure that the only whining we hear is because Chickens pooped his cage, a problem that needs attention right away. When there's no poop - which happens maybe half the time - we all get a decent night's sleep.

One solution might be obvious - put the dog in the bedroom. Right? Except we live in a house that's nearly a century old, so the bedrooms are very small. And the cage we bought him after his surgery is huge.

As was the Pack-n-Play where we stored him when he first came home. (What, mom? That's not why you bought us that?)

That first week, we did lug the cage into the bedroom every night, but it is ridiculously heavy. And that strategy was doomed anyway because Chickens was in so much pain and so drugged up that he cried a ton. And remember, Mia was just 4 weeks old at that time, so we (read: I) needed any amount of sleep possible. So to the couch Sal went, and he's been there ever since. (Oh, except for New Year's Eve, when we gave Chickens a sedative because of the gunfire and fireworks, and we gave ourselves a sedative of a bottle and a half of champagne, and Mia inexplicably, miraculously slept for like two extra hours. Otherwise known as The Last Good Night.)

Anyway. Well, here is where I have something very cool to report. A Chickenbone Jones reader whom I have never even met in person (HI, MEGHAN!) got tired of my whining - or, maybe she's just a very nice person - and offered to give us a smaller wire crate to put in the bedroom. Can you believe it? Sweetest thing ever. So it arrived last weekend, and we bought a pad for it, put some blankets and treats into it, and look what happened next!

Chickens walked right in and plopped down for a nap! I heaved a huge sigh of relief before it hit me - this isn't going to be nearly as easy as it looks. First of all, Chickens is all nice and used to his slumber parties with dad out in the living room. And I think he has made it clear he's not too fond of change. Second of all, this new "house" is putting him smack in the center of a memory that pains all of us - that for three years he slept in the bed with mom and dad. He'd start the night buried deep in the covers at our feet, but by morning he always worked his way up until he was laying between us, his head on a pillow and the blankets tucked over his shoulders like he was a real person. He loved it, we loved it. And it can never, ever happen again.

The chances of him leaping off the bed and reinjuring himself are just too great, so after his accident, away went his little steps and he hasn't been up there since. Which hasn't been a problem, but I have a sinking feeling that when we put him in the crate and he watches us climb into bed without him, it is NOT going to go over well. I fear we're in for some long and noisy nights as we all get used to the new setup.

So we decided to wait until tonight to try it, since as of 3 p.m. today, I'm off for winter break. And if my nights get ruined, at least I can try to nap during the day and not have to be coherent at work for eight hours. We have a full nine nights to work this out, and as with everything in my life these days, I think patience is the key. (Well, patience and bourbon.) And if we can solve this problem, it will leave us with just the whole handicapped thing.

Oh! And good news on that front. Lately we have been able to take Chickens on a "walk" outside without using that rear-end sling. He can make it maybe five or six house lengths, carefully putting one foot in front of the other, and not falling down at all. After that he gets a bit wobbly and tired, so we put him in the sling so he won't scrape his little knees. But still, this is huge progress. When I am feeling very blue, Sal likes to remind me that it was not even seven weeks ago that Chickens stood on his own for the first time. That we can take him on even a semi-successful walk less than two months later is pretty amazing. And when we get a bit more progress on that front, he can resume his regular pooping schedule, meaning no more little brown surprises at 3 a.m. Unfortunately we are still expressing his bladder four or five times per day, but when we go on walks he is still emitting small spurts of pee, so SOMETHING is going on there. We are convinced that we'll see improvement as we get better with the walking. The poor guy just needs some practice.

So, tonight! Here we go. I'm just glad I recently discovered the key to surviving sleep deprivation: It hurts a whole lot less if you stop counting the hours!

Manhattan girl

2010-02-07T18:52:00.000-08:00

Jesus, Mia. Take after your dad much?

Three months in

2010-02-04T20:56:00.000-08:00

So the 14-week-party known as my maternity leave has drawn to a close and I have returned to work full time. On my first day, people kept coming up and asking about the baby, and then they'd give me a sympathetic head-tilt and ask gently "So is it hard to be back?"

To which I reply: AHAHAHAHAHA! Are you kidding me? At work, I can actually sit down and enjoy a meal! I can go pee whenever I want! I can set goals for myself, AND THEN ACCOMPLISH THEM! I freaking LOVE work!

Fine, so it wasn't quite that easy. I do miss my little baby girl something awful. But she is spending her days with her favorite person in the universe (dad), and a couple afternoons a week her grandma comes over. So I know she is in excellent hands. And I love my drive home every afternoon - it's the most thrilling 12 minutes of my day, knowing that I'm on my way to see her.

Here are some pictures I took at 1, 2 and 3 months old. Look how much those little legs chubbed out!

And here's Mia at very beginning. She was maybe two or three days old when we took this picture of her laying in her bassinet on top of her blue bilirubin blanket.

She's grown a little bit, eh?

Also, it took me a week of working in 5- or 10-second bursts to put together this post. Why does it seem like the less time I have to blog, the more I have to say? Folks, my brain is bursting at the seams with stuff I want to write. More to come, including an update on Chickenbone (who, incidentally, recently pooped in the bathtub, just as I predicted.)

They tried to make him go to rehab

2010-01-22T18:30:00.000-08:00

Six weeks after Chickenbone's emergency back surgery and confinement recovery period, we got new directions from the surgeon: Time to focus less on rest and more on rehabilitation. Since then we have embarked on many adventures in doggie therapy. I thought I'd share them here, in case you ever find yourself nursing a feisty chugweenie back to neurological health. (But I really hope that never happens to you.)

I already mentioned the bathtub therapy. We fill it up with water up to about his chest, and then plunk him down and coax him to walk back and forth using treats. He really loves this. I try to break the Pupperoni down to the teensiest shreds possible so I can make the session last longer (he's already gained weight from having too many training treats, so it's two sticks only per session). I can't believe the effort he'll go to for one microscopic fiber of treat, but if it's at the other end of the tub, he'll clumsily make his way over there. He has not yet pooped in the water, but I have seen tiny bubbles float up from his rear, so I know this day is coming.

Another easy way to treat dogs with this kind of disk injury is to give them one sardine per day. There are lots of omegas and other things that help with spinal stuff. Oooh, see what an expert I am on this topic? THINGS THAT HELP WITH THE STUFF! Whatever. He thinks it is delicious, and I figure it can't hurt. Though it stinks to high heaven.

This tip we got from the rehabilitation person at the hospital: Put his dog food on a little riser. If it's higher up, then he's more likely to stand up when he eats, allowing him to work on his strength and balance. We also a put down cheap little rug down to help him with his traction.

This is the cool underwater treadmill they have at the animal hospital. It's a lot fancier than the pink bathtub! That girl in the tank is the rehab person, and Sal sat by the little window to cheer Chickens on. He did a great job and was walking on his own after just a couple of minutes. Everyone was very impressed.

OK, here's where we get a little ... you know. But we took Chickens to a holistic vet who does acupuncture treatments on animals. I wasn't sure if Sal would buy it - usually I'm the one in this family who gets into all the hippie crap - but he's a good husband and agreed we could at least try it. As you can see from the picture, Chickens was completely relaxed. Do you see the needles?! Crazy! He barely even noticed. She was so fast inserting them, and he just laid down on the cushion and waited patiently. Nutty dog. Anyway, who even knows if this will help, but as you know I'm quite desperate. I'll do just about anything to get this dog back to his old self again. Including...

... putting him on something called GREAT YANG RESTORATION. I had to try so hard not to look at Sal's you've-got-to-be-joking face as the holistic lady was prescribing this, along with another herbal supplement that supposedly helps restore neurological functions. I don't know much about Chickenbone's Great Yang, but if it needs restoring to get him peeing and walking again, well, here's my Visa!

Important announcement

2010-01-17T18:49:00.001-08:00

I know this is going to sound kind of unbelievable, but I would like to report that Saturday, January 16, 2010, was a good day. The whole damned thing, good! Let me tell you.

It started at Weight Watchers, which I rejoined two weeks ago because I am carrying around one hundred eleventy thousand pounds of baby weight. Unfortunately I had a supremely lousy performance my first two weeks out. I didn't write down what I ate, I didn't weigh or measure my food, and I consumed a ton of junk and approximately no fruits or vegetables. But Saturday morning when I climbed on the scale, I didn't gain ANY weight! Good ol' breastfeeding! OK, that's the first good thing.

Then: We came home and cleaned up the house. Nothing makes my heart go pitty-pat like a clean house.

And then: Mia's grandparents stopped by, so we had them hang out with her while we took Chickens for a "sling walk" up and down the street. Not only did he spurt out some pee, but he also pooped. In someone else's yard, just like a real dog!

AND THEN: Sal, Mia and I went downtown to a comic book festival, where Mia had lots of fun staring at all the nice nerds and their pretty pictures. Afterward, we walked to Caffe Trieste to have coffee and a pastry. You know, just like leisurely, breezy people! Who have time to go to COFFEE SHOPS!

AND THEN! After we came home, I was changing Mia's diaper and singing her a song. I sing to her a lot, very theatrically, with hand gestures and a fake microphone and everything. She loves it. And I don't sing those goofy kid songs, either. Lately I've been on a Lisa Loeb "I Missed You" kick, which is what I was singing when she looked up at me and laughed. She unmistakeably, adorably LAUGHED! Oh, you guys. There's just no way to describe how cool that is. And I am allowed to sound all goopy and obnoxious-parent about this because, is it just me, or has this blog been a bit of a downer lately? There's just a bit of imbalance between depressing dog stuff and cool baby stuff.

We wrapped up the day with an actual home-cooked dinner. OK, it was for the most part Trader Joe's quickies: orange chicken, which we served over some fried rice made by my wonderful neighbor across the street, plus some pot stickers and steamed string beans. String beans might not have been the wisest side dish - snipping all those tips with a fussy baby in the Bjorn was not easy. But snip them I did, one damn bean at a time! It was the first real hot, healthy meal we have pieced together in I don't know how long. So I was very impressed with us.

The nice thing about a string of endlessly shitty days is that a good one feels downright miraculous.

The problem of poop

2010-01-11T15:22:00.000-08:00

Last night we tackled a bad habit that has been going on far too long: Sal sleeping on the couch. This began shortly after Chickens came home from having his emergency back surgery. The dog had to remain on crate rest for 23.5 hours a day, coming out only for pee breaks, and this made him miserable. And barky. Which doesn't work very well with a sleeping infant in the next room.

We figured out that Sal sleeping on the couch helped the situation tremendously, as Chickens gives a very big damn about being alone in the living room at night. But a couple of times, Sal has tried to sleep in our bed again, and this never lasts longer than an hour or so because Chickens starts to whine and bark. Even though our bedroom door is RIGHT there, four feet from his cage. That's not good enough. There needs to be a warm body on the couch within sight of him, or else.

So you pet-owners might think, well, this is just a battle of wills with a stubborn dog. You just need to go all alpha on him, right? Show him who's boss! Squirt him with the water bottle, or rattle a can of coins, or some other training method to get him to quiet down. Yes, that's what you'd do normally. If your dog wasn't a cripple.

The problem here boils down to poop. Poop is a now very huge issue in this family, well beyond the 10-diapers-a-day infant. The thing is, Chickens' bowels move just fine, but obviously he isn't able to just trot out to the back yard when he has to poop. So he holds it as long as he can, sometimes trying to give us signals that we may or may not recognize. But when he can't hold it anymore, the poops just come out.

In fact, here's a story to illustrate what life is like in this house right now: A few weeks ago I was nursing Mia on the couch, and Chickens was relaxing with Sal on the loveseat while we quietly watched TV. All of a sudden, Sal leaps into the air and yells "He's shitting! HE'S SHITTING!" And I'm like "RUUUUUNNNN!" And as Sal races toward the door with the paralyzed dog in his arms, the poops are falling out of Chickens' butt, plop! plop-plop! right onto the hardwood floors. I laughed until I cried. This is just so completely ridiculous.

But my point is, the dog can't help when he poops. And when he accidentally goes in his cage, he is mortified and disgusted and wants it cleaned up NOW. And who can blame him?! I'm frankly glad my dog doesn't enjoy sitting in box with some shit. But this also means we can't scold him in the middle of the night for barking or whining, because half the time it means he has pooped. So when he cries, you have to turn on the lights, take him out of the cage, remove the 17 blankets he loves to sleep in, shake them all out and carefully check the (conveniently brown) floor of the cage. It's a whole huge process, and it's much easier for everyone to get back to sleep if Sal just sleeps out there. Especially since Sal on the couch usually eliminates the "I'm lonely" crying - in other words, it cuts the noise by about half.

Well, last night we decided enough was enough. We knew Chickens had pooped at like 7 p.m., so chances of a middle-of-the-night poop were slim. After Mia went to sleep, we had some playtime with him on the floor, and then we kissed him good night and put him in his cage. He burrowed into his blankets until we couldn't see him anymore, which is usually the sign that he's out for the night. But just in case, Sal starts building a Ferris Bueller-style decoy "person" on the couch, using my big pregnancy body pillow and some blankets. I think this is truly a stroke of genius until I see Chickens' head poke out of the blankets and whip around to glare at us. I swear to christ, this dog knew EXACTLY what was going on. So Sal pretended to sleep on the couch for a little while, and when Chickens appeared to fall asleep, Sal sneaked into our bed.

We both laid there awake for a bit, and sure enough, we heard Chickens start to whimper. But the TV was on, and I think that helped him go to sleep. Until about 3 a.m., when I heard him start crying. When I heard a bark, I sadly nudged Sal, who got up to check on him. Turned out the little weasel was just thirsty - he darted out of the cage, and when Sal picked him up to "tail-walk" him, he trotted over to his water dish. (And yes, we will be getting an in-cage water bottle just as soon as humanly possible. There just hasn't been much humanly possible around here lately.) So. After he had some water, Sal put him back in the cage and tried to fake him out again. But about a half hour later, as he crawled back into bed, Chickens started to bark and cry again.

We gave up.

I simply don't know how to handle this. One one hand, I can't have my husband sleeping on the dang couch for the rest of Chickenbone's paralyzed days. 'Cause, uh, that could still be ALL OF THEM. So we really need to just bite the bullet and win this war. On the other hand, and this is probably obvious, we need sleep. We need sleep so bad we could nearly lay right down and die of all the needing.

One wonderful resource on dogs who have had this kind of injury is a web site called Dodgerslist. Suggestions I have found there include bringing the cage into our bedroom at night (we can't, it's too big and heavy); getting another cage for the bedroom (the room is too small); and giving him benadryl or some other kind of sedative before we go to bed (um, we can't go around drugging the dog to sleep for the rest of our lives.) We also can't just bring him into bed with us because the risk of him jumping off onto the floor is just too great. I am telling you, there is no solution.

Though I suppose it would help if Chickens ever figured out HOW TO WALK AGAIN. Then we could let him be free throughout the house, and he would able to sleep in his regular doggie bed in our bedroom. I really believe that would help so much. He just wants to be close to us.

Last week we met with a rehab specialist at Chickenbone's hospital, and she is going to begin some work with him this Thursday. They have a great facility there that includes an underwater treadmill. While we were visiting with her, one of the two surgeons who operated on him popped into our room to say hi. He was so impressed with how well Chickenbone was moving that he grabbed a video camera so he could e-mail some footage to the other surgeon.

So everyone there is very encouraging, and they do believe he will walk and go to the bathroom on his own eventually. We are also going to be doing some acupuncture (yep, doggie acupuncture - totally a thing!) which will hopefully help him with peeing, another thing we're still taking care of for him. As for the sleeping ... well, this is why shortly after Chickenbone's injury, we doubled our weekly lottery purchases. Surely our luck is due for a change, and $4 million can probably solve just about anything!

Feeling a little frayed

2010-01-04T23:26:00.001-08:00

I wish the bar on what constitutes a "bad day" would quit moving on me.

Six weeks ago, a bad day was listening to my paralyzed, stapled-shut dog sob for hours on end. Locked in a cage, unable to move his legs, drugged out of his gourd, and snarling and snapping at us whenever we tried to take him out to squeeze the contents of his bladder onto a pad on the kitchen counter.

Now that dog can darned near walk, he can wag his tail and play with toys, and he has even started to pee a little bit on his own. So how can things possibly still feel miserable?

Well, it turns out Chickenbone's progress somehow makes this situation feel worse. For one thing, while he can sort of manage a very wobbly walk on our big rugs, he slips and stumbles on the wood floors. So whenever he wants to go anywhere in the house besides the living room, he sits at the edge of the rug and barks for someone to come over and "tail-walk" him to his destination. (He moves his front legs, and you hold his back end up by his tail. After awhile, this feels REALLY great on your back, especially when you are hefting a 12-pound infant in your other arm.)

Also, now he wants to jump back up onto his beloved couches, where he spent 90 percent of his days before his injury. Uh, Chickens? Hate to be the one to tell you this, but you're still crippled. You ain't jumping anywhere. Plus, even if he could physically jump, we simply can't let him do that ever again. Never, ever again can he get on the sofas by himself because the risk of reinjury when he leaps to the floor is just too great.

But today, with Sal back at work after his 10-week paternity leave, I was sitting on the couch when Chickens got out of his doggie bed, wobbled over to my feet, and started trying to come up for a cuddle. We can't even let him ATTEMPT to jump, so I had to stop him somehow, but I was nursing Mia so I couldn't do anything but yell at him. It felt awful! He is like the kid who had to stay home from school with the flu, only now he feels all better and he doesn't understand why he still has recuperating to do. He just sat there giving me his pleading eyes, and moving his upper body pathetically up and down in an effort to jump. It broke my heart.

Meanwhile, breaking my eardrums today was Mia, who was suffering some tummy and sleep issues. For four hours, she wouldn't nap, wouldn't eat, wouldn't do anything but squirm and wail in my arms. A couple of times, thanks to wild swinging and shushing and pacing and singing and bouncing, I finally got her to doze off in my arms. JUST IN TIME to hear Chickens sitting at the edge of the rug barking for a "ride" to his water dish, waking the baby and making mommy cry.

Folks, life is not easy around here.

I guess I just got used to Sal being around all day to help with the Chickens stuff. He had his baby, I had mine. At least we could divide the work. But one person dealing with both Mia and Chickens is very, very hard. If you're not neglecting one, you're neglecting the other. Neither one of them appreciates this very much, and they aren't shy about telling you so.

And then there's the pressure of all the stuff I want and need to do. There are basics, like taking a shower, doing a load of laundry, eating lunch. When I'm lucky, I get to a couple of these things. But there's a second to-do list in my head, one that every single day I intend to tackle. And every single day ends with absolutely no progress. Answering 800 e-mails. Writing in Mia's baby book. Digging my non-maternity work clothes out of storage and pressing and hanging them. Uh, BLOGGING. Putting away Christmas. Going through Mia's drawers and removing clothes that are too small, which is, like, everything. And don't even get me thinking about the third-tier list, stuff I'd just really like to do, but since they aren't necessities, they flat won't happen. Like going to a yoga class, cooking a fun meal, or reading a book. The hours just seem to slip right through my fingers, and it seems nothing gets accomplished except getting through the day.

That's a lot of whining, I know. Sorry. We just really need to get to the next part of Chickens' progress soon. So much of this will be solved when he's strong enough to walk through the house on his own. To that end, next week we are going to have a real physical therapy session at the hospital where he had his surgery. And we'll keep working on the pee thing. We take him out for a sling walks now - me holding the regular leash attached to his collar, Sal holding up his back end with a homemade sling (made of a leash, an old sock and rubber bands) and Mia in the baby Bjorn. We're quite a sight! And during these walks, we have seen many little spurts of pee come out, meaning there has been some neurological healing with his brain and bladder. (And can I just say, I never in my life thought I'd spend this much time squatting down to stare hopefully at a dog's penis. Not my most glamorous moments.) We still have to manually express most of his urine four or five times a day, but that's still improvement.

I guess I just need to dig a little deeper and find a lot more patience, because that's the only thing that's going to get us through to the other side of this mess.

Here, let's look at some fun pictures. Here's photographic proof of Chickens walking. He was eating a sardine (he gets one per day - they contain lots of good vitamins that can help with things like a back injury) and every time he licked the bowl it would move, so he'd walk to follow it.

Here is Chickens during his bathtub therapy. We plop him into the tub and wave treats back and forth across the water, and he walks trying to get them. He finds this setup terribly convenient, since if he gets thirsty, he just sticks his face in the water and drinks!

Speaking of baths, here is Mia's favorite time of day: bathtime with dad. Even if she is screaming her face off - as she often is at night - stick her in the tub and she's all coos and smiles.

Obligatory mohawk shot.

I love this one. I just wanted a picture of the cute outfit Mia's nana gave her. But it ended up being such a perfect snapshot of our life right now. Check out my messy, unwashed hair, and that big, wet spit-up splotch on my shoulder. And in the background, you can see the sad dog watching all the fun from his cage. Oh, poor everyone!

Christmas morning, Mia surrounded by a bunch of her presents.

And here is an exhausted husband and wife, staying home on their favorite holiday of the year. After Mia went to bed, we had a party for two, sitting in the back yard listening to a live mariachi band that was playing at a party down the street. We made it to midnight and well beyond, enjoying champagne and cocktails that resulted in my first hangover since January 2009. And that little Mia, she decided to sleep for 10 hours straight that night. So I guess life isn't all bad!

All we wanted for Christmas

2009-12-24T11:50:00.000-08:00

This morning when we opened the door to his cage, Chickens stood up and walked out.

He may have wobbled like a drunken sailor, and after two steps he promptly fell down. But this is still huge, huge progress. Three or four weeks ago, he couldn't stand on four legs even with our help - we'd prop him up and he'd flop down like a rag doll. But this time, ever so briefly, we had dog who stood up and walked all by himself.

Now, there's still much ground to cover and many problems to solve. For instance, how to get the husband off the couch, where he has slept every night for three weeks because that's the only thing that keeps the caged dog from barking and waking up the baby. Or how to get Chickens to learn how to pee without his beloved lifting of the rear leg. But for today we're just going to be grateful for his Christmas gift to us.

Chickens on the mend

2009-12-13T22:51:00.000-08:00

As we enter the fourth week of Chickenbone's recovery from emergency spinal surgery, I have a few hopeful things to report.

Last week after giving him a bath in the kitchen sink, I sat down on the living room floor to finish toweling him off. For one split second I relaxed my grip on his body, and before I knew it the HALF-PARALYZED DOG skittered on his front legs across the floor and flung himself headfirst into his old dog bed. The one that has sat empty for three weeks while he has lived in his crate. It was the most unbelievable thing - the little rascal was just so damned FAST. And when he hit that cushion, he began wriggling around joyously and wrapping himself up in his little blankets. You could almost imagine that he had been eyeing that bed from behind bars every single day, just waiting for the opportunity to make his great escape. After so many unhappy days, it was thrilling to see him act like his old self again. Here is the triumphant Chickens relaxing in his bed:

The other cool thing is REALLY cool: Sal's parents, who are two of Chickenbone's favorite people in the world, came over for a visit this weekend. And when they walked in the front door, that freaking dog wagged his tail.

HE WAGGED. HIS TAIL.

Now, it was the sorriest, most pathetic wag you ever saw. Especially if you knew how he wagged it before, when his tail was a springy little curl that popped up above his back. This new wag was fairly limp, and the curl is mostly gone, but who cares? It wagged, man. And wagging was not even within the realm of possibility two weeks ago.

I was really bummed that Sal didn't see this (and a bit fearful that I imagined it) but Chickens wagged it again today when we visited the vet for a post-op checkup. We got a pretty good report, all things considered. No miracles yet - he still can't walk, and he still needs help going to the bathroom. But in addition to the wagging tail, the vet also detected some small movement in his back left leg. So small we could barely see it, but it's there.

It may not seem like a lot to get excited about, but very slow progress was something we were warned about from the start. Chickens isn't even halfway through his two-month initial recovery period, so we still have lots of time for more improvement. Now, since he is in no pain and his surgery wounds have healed up, our focus is less on crate confinement (though he still needs to stay in there most of the time) and more on rehabilitation. Each day we will continue doing range-of-motion exercises, as well as sling-walking him in the back yard, encouraging him to pee on his own, and even doing water therapy in the bathtub.

So, pretty good news, no? Let's see how the next four weeks go. Even if improvements continue at this exact rate, we'll be overjoyed. And hey, maybe Chickens and Mia will learn how to walk together! AWWWW!

Smiley

2009-12-12T17:33:00.000-08:00

Colic or not, it's all so easily forgotten when your baby learns how to do this:

The C-word

2009-12-09T23:26:00.000-08:00

Introducing the most annoying question since "So, have you had that baby yet?":

"Do you think it's colic?"

Oh my, does this question make me crazy. It's just so pointless. I mean, whether it IS or IS NOT colic, how exactly is this label going to help? Let's say it is colic. Does that mean I get to go out and buy the special colic pills that make it all go away? Will we get a visit from the colic fairy, who will sprinkle my baby with the magic cure? No! So spending even one precious sliver of time trying to decide if my baby is colicky - which isn't even an official diagnosis ANYWAY - seems completely stupid. So don't ask me if it's colic, and especially don't ask me if I happen to be in the third or fourth hour of wildly swinging, shushing, bouncing and rocking my wailing daughter.

If I sound a bit edgy, it's because I live in the house of horrific noises. It's a vicious cycle that includes one pissed-off dog in a cage who whines and barks to get out, which wakes the sleeping baby, who howls and screams at being woke up, which gets the dog all agitated, causing him to whine and bark. And I don't mean to lay all the blame on the dog - sometimes it's Mia who gets the show started with her fussing, which wakes the dog and gets him riled up all over again. Once in awhile, the cacophony grows so unbearable that we take Chickens out and hold him for a little while, just to stop the madness. But we can't just go plucking the dog out of the cage all the time, because (a) he's supposed to be RESTING IN THERE, DUDE, and (b) acknowledging his barking in any way just exacerbates the problem by teaching him that barking works. In an ideal world, we'd ignore him until he stopped. But ideal worlds definitely do not contain sleeping infants.

So, yes. We've had a lot of fussy baby around here lately. But there have also been many things that are wonderful and not ear-splitting at all, and if I hadn't been so busy with the paralyzed dog, I would have been sure to write about stuff I don't want to forget about Mia's first six weeks:

- When we came home from the hospital, there was a banner hanging in our living room welcoming us home. It was from Chickens, who probably had a little help from his dad.

- Mia was born with the little tufts of dark hair on the edges of her ears. I'm told this is temporary, but at the moment I find it to be the most adorable thing ever. I call them her werewolf ears!

- She seems to like a little singing name game I play with her, involving variations of rhymes with her name. Mia Tortilla is my favorite, but we also do Mia Taqueria, Mia Mantequilla, Mia Flotilla, Mia Carpenteria, Mia BobbyBonilla, and so on.

- Sometimes when we have tried every trick in the book to calm Mia down, we have to bring out the big guns: Switching on the CD player so dad can belt out some Sinatra. It is already such a treasured memory, watching him in her room dancing and singing her to sleep - although if you know my husband, you know he does a MEAN Sinatra, so even more often than she falls asleep, she stays wide awake and stares up at him in wonder.

- After her umbilical stump fell off (a ridiculous FIVE WEEKS after her birth) we were finally able to give her a real bath. We just plopped her into the tub with me - so much easier than fiddling with keeping her upright an infant tub - and she loved it so much. Her eyes get wide as saucers, like you've just told her the most shocking secret ever. Also, it is surprisingly hard to get her entirely clean, particularly between the folds of chub on her arms, legs and neck. One time I counted the arm chubs - there were six! ON EACH ARM! Scrumptious little thing. Oh, and after a bath, her hair sticks up all over. I call her Porcupine Head.

OK, my time has run out! I hear the familiar sounds of a hungry baby coming from the bedroom, and if I tend to her quickly, we may be able to avoid this morning's "concert." An update on the furry patient coming soon!

A little bit of peace

2009-12-01T10:03:00.000-08:00

The baby is asleep in her swing, the dog is asleep in his kennel, and the husband is at the gym. I should be taking this opportunity to nap myself, but I'm just so thrilled about all the blessed silence in this house that can't bear the thought of falling asleep and missing it!

So at least one of our suspicions regarding Chickens was correct - that big surgery collar was making him miserable. After the vet removed 12 industrial-sized staples from his back incision yesterday, we were finally able to take the damned thing off. And when we got home, Chickens promptly curled up and slept for three hours. Without drugs. We couldn't stop staring incredulously at that quiet little heap under the blankets. It seemed miraculous that the dog who kept us awake for a week with his crying could sleep like such an angel.

No other updates on his paralysis - his back end is floppy and limp. But the good news is that his spirits are getting higher by the day. Yesterday when the vet set him down, Chickens bolted across the floor like a little seal, "walking" with his front legs and dragging his back behind him. He went straight to his dad for a kiss and a cuddle. A few minutes ago when I opened the door of his cage, he skittered toward me and out onto the floor. When I gave him a treat, he started whining with it in his mouth (he does that when it's a REALLY good treat) and then he dragged himself back into the cage to bury the treasure inside his blankets. And about 15 minutes ago, he even growled at his mortal enemy, the mailman! So his back end aside, he is more and more our old Chickens every day.

Now we wait. It could be weeks or even months before we know whether he'll ever walk again, but there's still plenty of room to hope for the best. We just have to be vigilant about his care. Several times per day, we have a session of P.T. in which we extend and retract each of his back legs 30 times. We also have to help him go to the bathroom. Poops come out on their own, but pee only comes with some help, so four times a day we have to manually express his bladder onto one of those doggie pee pads. You guys, I am an EXPERT manual-canine-bladder-expresser. It was really difficult at first, because I was so nervous - you have to push kind of hard, with your hands all over his back end where the surgery happened. Plus, well, it's just not easy to locate a dog's bladder with your hands and squeeze it in just the right way that makes pee comes out. The nurse who taught us how to do it was like, "Oh, don't worry - it's just like milking a cow!" Ah, yes. Very helpful. I'll just fall back on all of those cow-milking talents I picked up in college.

Later today we're going to take him to the back yard and let him sniff around. See if we can help get his brain and his bladder talking again. We're also very excited about giving him his first bath, now that the staples are gone. I mean, during those first dozen or so potty breaks, let's just say the farmer had a tough time aiming the teat at the bucket. The vet also said we could let him out of his cage for short, supervised periods. Let him scoot around and feel like he's part of the world again.

Life with a dog who requires this much attention, plus an adorable 5-week-old baby who is even more demanding, is hard. But when I start to feel like I'm losing it, I try to think back to where we were even five days ago, and I realize we have already come a very long way through this storm. And I'm hoping that five days from now, and five days from then, life will settle back into something that - even if it isn't - will feel kind of normal.

Turkey day, Chicken nights

2009-11-27T13:55:00.000-08:00

Hi. So remember how I ended my last post with "See you guys later, I'm going to get some sleep now!"

AHAHAHAHAHA. No. That is not what happened. Chickens did, in fact, quiet down long enough for me to snuggle into the chair in Mia's room and drift off for approximately four seconds. Then the crying started again, and then it got louder, and then it turned into crying mixed with barks, yelps and howls. By the time he had reached five and a half hours of this suffering, I couldn't take it anymore. I called the ER vet, who said we should bring him in. We didn't know whether he was in pain or just really pissed off about being in a cage and, you know, paralyzed. But regardless of the reason, healing requires rest, and he was clearly not getting that.

So for the second time in a week, we packed up the baby and the dog in the middle of the night and drove to the hospital. We arrived at around 4 a.m., and they said they'd like to admit him until the following afternoon. They wanted to monitor him, run some tests, and shoot him full of potent drugs. They told us to go home and go to bed. Of course, the moment I closed my eyes, the baby was wide awake and demanding her breakfast. Sal managed a couple hours of sleep before waking up to run the Thanksgiving Day Turkey Trot, where Mia and I watched him cross the finish line of his first 10K.

After Thanksgiving dinner at my in-laws' house, we returned to the hospital to get Chickens. They still weren't sure whether his distress was because of pain or sadness and frustration, but likely it was a great deal of both. So they replaced the pain-medication patch on his skin (which had worn off the day before) and injected him with some kind of super-painkiller. He was pretty well stoned out of his gourd. They also sent us home with a bottle of sedatives to keep him calm inside his cage.

It was a really good night. He was feeling so free of pain that he even showed a few brief flashes of his old, lovable Chickenbone personality. When we put some dry dog food in his cage, for the first time since all this began he gobbled it down. (Though the drug patch gives him the munchies when first administered - seriously.) And did I ever tell you how one of his favorite things is to get himself all wrapped up in a blanket from head to toe, like a little burrito? Well, even with his useless back legs flopping around behind him, he started nudging the blankets in his cage with his nose and teeth, and we watched incredulously as he somehow pulled one over his body. It was unbelievable. It was like seeing OUR Chickens again.

Then we all collapsed into bed and had an incredibly peaceful, uneventful night. And how I wish we could have strung two such nights together, but last night the crying began again after my 2 a.m. date with Mia. It wasn't as shrill as it was on The Very Bad Night, but it was enough to tear my heart into pieces as we laid there listening to him. (Luckily, I didn't break down crying myself because I'M TOO TIRED TO CRY! Silver linings, you guys. Silver linings.)

The crying went on for about 10 minutes before we got up to give him more pain medicine, but even that is an ordeal because his appetite is crap. He doesn't want treats, and he ESPECIALLY doesn't want treats with pills in them. Sometimes it can take more than an hour to coax him into eating something. But even after we got him to take his meds, he cried for an hour. This is an hour we spend busting our brains trying to troubleshoot the problem. Does the ticking clock above his cage in the bedroom irritate him? Is he cold? Does the fan bother him? Is he lonely? Our minds race trying to figure out how to help him. One thing we realized is that he rarely cries like this during the day, when his cage and his family are in the living room. So at 4 a.m., we got up and dragged the cage back out. We turned on the TV and hit the couches with blankets and pillows. He quieted down, and we all slept for about an hour before Mia woke up for a feeding. (I would whine more about not sleeping if I wasn't so relieved to finally be in the daytime again. Daytime is so, so much better than those endless nights.)

We just have to get to Monday. On Monday we get the staples taken out, and Chickens can stop wearing the big collar. He HATES the collar. Check out how he glares at us when we put it on him!

Scary Chickens! Anyway. Let's end this on a positive note. I'm afraid to think about this too much, because I don't want to get my hopes up, and I'm trying to brace for the worst. But when we were at the ER on Thursday morning, the vet did a little diagnostic test by propping up Chickenbone's back end so he'd stand on all fours. When they did this a week ago, his legs flopped down like a rag doll. But this time, he stood on his own for maybe 10 seconds. Which is AN ETERNITY in paralyzed-dog-land. It means he is getting a little bit of tone back in his muscles. Sal and I also wonder if his increased pain in the past few days doesn't mean he's regaining some sensation back there. Maybe we're just kidding ourselves, but sometimes for sanity's sake, we just need to indulge in a minute or two of hoping.

Better late than never

2009-11-26T00:50:00.000-08:00

I started this post about Mia's first few weeks at home awhile ago, but then I got sidetracked. Gee, wonder why! Might as well finish it now, while I'm sitting here in the dark listening to the dog sob in his cage. It has been a very, very long night. Chickenbone's crying - the most mournful, soul-wrenching weeping I have ever heard in my life - has been going on for almost two hours nonstop. Why can't the little guy just go to sleep, pleasepleaseplease?!

I think Sal finally fell asleep after I gave him some earplugs - he is running his first 10K in the morning and needs rest. I can't enjoy the same solution since I need to hear Mia when she wakes up for her feeding. I tried to sleep in the chair in her room, but I can still hear Chickens crying, and it's so upsetting. I'm wide awake right now. You know how everyone is always warning new parents about that moment when they are so sleep-deprived they could die, and the baby won't stop howling, and they can actually feel their mind coming apart into little tiny pieces? I think I'm experiencing that feeling right now. And my daughter is sound asleep. God.

But anyway. Let's cheer up for a moment and look at some pictures.

Mia had a touch of jaundice when she was born, so they sent us home from the hospital with something called a "Bili blanket," which isn't nearly as cute as it sounds. In fact, it's not even a blanket. It's a flat piece of plastic connected to a big heavy hose and a loud machine that lights up the plastic and helps get rid of the bilirubins in Mia's blood. She had to lay on it 24-7 without clothes on for the first four days at home. I personally would have screamed bloody murder, but she was a trooper.

This is Mia yawning. She is a champion yawner - each one lasts like a full minute, start to finish. They are endlessly entertaining.

Chickenbone and Mia get along famously. He was a little bit WTF when we first brought her home, and he spent that whole first night following us around barking incredulously. But the novelty of it wore off. He loves giving her big kisses on her face and hands, and he likes to snuggle with her and mom or dad on the couch.

Mia's first bath! I was sad to wash her because I was afraid that scrumptious baby scent would go away. Turns out it grows right back.

Mia and her dad, who adored each other from the start. I love this picture so much I can barely stand to look at it right now. I can't believe it was taken a mere two weeks ago. WHEN LIFE WITH A NEWBORN WAS SO EASY!

OK, I just gave Chickens another pain pill, and I sat by his cage and scratched his ears until it started to kick in. I don't hear him anymore, and it has been a good five minutes or so, so maybe he finally fell asleep. I'll take advantage and try to close my eyes for a few minutes, since Mia will be awake and hungry in an hour or two. Hope I don't fall asleep into my turkey dinner tomorrow, but if I do, I hope my face lands somewhere near the gravy.

Unhappy pup

2009-11-24T06:24:00.000-08:00

Well, Chickens came home yesterday from the hospital where he had emergency back surgery. But things are tough. He's extremely sad, pissed off and afraid. And who can blame him? He's locked in a cage, he's wearing one of those giant collars, he can't feel his legs, and he has a long gash in his back that has been stapled shut. We spent much of last night with one baby or the other bawling their face off, often both at once. Today's goal is for mom and dad to remain as positive as possible, even if we have to fake it. I think our stress is noticeable by both Mia and Chickenbone, and we'll all have a better time of it if we can somehow put on a smile and pretend this isn't the most difficult thing our little family has ever been through.

Things will be a bit better, we think, when the staples are removed in a week and he can lose the giant collar. Until then, we're taking it one hour at a time.

Thanks so very much for the kind thoughts and prayers. Chickens is such a loveable little guy and it makes us feel better to know that he has friends out there rooting him on.

Pulling for Chickens

2009-11-22T07:57:00.000-08:00

I have a terrible thing to report. On Saturday morning at around 4 a.m., we had to take our little Chickenbone to the animal ER with a back injury. A serious one.

This problem actually began a couple weeks ago when we noticed him acting sluggish and sad. We suspected he was feeling depressed about the baby, but when he yelped at being touched on his back or being held, we knew it was a medical problem. We took him to the vet, and an X-ray revealed a compressed disc in his spine. This is evidently a common problem with dogs shaped like Chickens - he has a long dachshund spinal column, but a stubby, thick torso that probably comes from his pug background. Chihuahuas are also known for having this problem, and he's a little of that, too. Genetics were not on his side. The vet gave us muscle relaxers and pain medication and sent him home.

He appeared to improve over the next week, even though he couldn't break one habit that surely made the whole situation worse: Chickens loves to jump off things. The sofa. The bed. The stairs in the back yard. Making matters worse, we have had dozens and dozens of friends and relatives here over the past month. People make Chickens absolutely giddy, so when visitors come, he climbs onto the couch arm to greet them - getting higher up, you see, improves his chances of getting a nice pat on the head. And then of course he leaps gleefully into the air like a little reindeer, before landing with a plunk on the ground.

Well, two nights ago I got up to feed Mia at around 2:30 a.m., and when I came into her room, Chickens was just standing there in the dark. One look at him and I knew something was wrong. While I changed Mia's diaper, I tried to get him to wag his tail at me by talking to him, but he just stood there. So I woke up Sal. Soon we realized that Chickens wasn't moving his back left leg. He was trembling, and he was arching his back and sticking his nose in the air. His eyes were wide, and he looked completely freaked out. We drove him to the ER where they told us his leg was paralyzed, and that the situation could get much worse unless he has a surgical procedure to remove the bad disc. An expensive and invasive spinal surgery seemed like it should be the last resort to us, and the vet said we could also just admit him and see if confinement and medicine could help his back improve on its own. We went that route, but when I returned yesterday morning at around 11, I could tell he was getting worse. The vet said he was now paralyzed in both back legs. He wasn't urinating on his own, and his poops were just falling out because he had lost bowel control. We gave the green light on the surgery, which happened yesterday afternoon.

The surgeon said there is a 50 percent chance Chickens will remain paralyzed in his back legs for the rest of his life. We simply won't know for many, many weeks. The surgery went OK, though we still have a couple more days before we are out of the woods on severe complications from that. We should be able to bring him home tomorrow, where he will begin a very long recovery period.

We are pretty devastated here today. Even though there are three of us here, the house feels empty without his little nails clicking on the hardwood floors and his slobbery kisses waking us up in the morning. Walking or not, we just want him to come home.

The rest of the story

2009-11-13T10:26:00.000-08:00

Um, you guys? I am at a coffee shop. For the first time in two and a half weeks, I am ALONE. With a computer, a piece of carrot cake, a steamed milk and a lovely view. Time to pick up where I left off.

You'll recall that I spent the day before Mia was born trying to get my labor started, using acupuncture, an herbal labor tincture, lots of walking, and a deep-dish pizza loaded with pepperoni, sausage, meatballs, Canadian bacon and linguica. I wolfed down quite a bit of that spicy pie, enough that when my stomach began to hurt at around 10 p.m., I figured I had too much to eat. I told Sal I was going to lay down. During the next two hours, my "gas pains" kept waking me up, but I was so tired I drifted back to sleep every time.

But at around midnight, it had grown too painful to ignore, so I got out of bed. Sal woke up and asked what I was doing. I told him I couldn't sleep, but not to worry about me! No sirree! I said was just going to read for a little bit and then I'd go back to sleep.

Then I went into the baby's room and sat on my birthing ball. A birthing ball is essentially just a big exercise ball, and I had been sitting one one for weeks while watching TV. It was more comfortable than hefting my big ol' body on and off the couch, but more important, it alleviates back pain and supposedly helps your pelvic joints widen, allowing the baby to descend more easily into the birth canal. I'm not entirely sure that worked for me, but I was 2 centimeters dilated the day before my due date, so who knows?

Anyway, so I was on the ball and trying to read a book. Only the "gas pains" kept disrupting my train of thought. I decided to start timing them. My logic was that if they came at a regular pace, it MIGHT be contractions. If not ... gas!

Well, somewhere in the next hour or so I grew frustrated because I couldn't keep track of the clock and the pain at the same time. The cramps were coming two to five minutes apart, and they didn't seem regular at all. I figured I must be doing something wrong. So at 2 a.m., I woke up Sal. Told him I needed him to come time the pain, because I couldn't figure out what was going on. I dragged my ball out to the living room, and Sal plopped down on the couch with a watch. He also put on a DVD of "The West Wing." I'm not sure why I need to mention that, maybe because it's my last vivid memory for awhile.

So Sal started trying to figure out the timing, only this also goes terribly, because I kept forgetting to tell him when the pain began. Or when it ended. Or anything useful whatsoever. I believe there were maybe two times I remembered to say something, and both times the duration was around two minutes. So we called the hospital, which basically said, "Uh, yeah, you are IN LABOR, dumbass. So you might think about popping in for a visit tonight."

At this point things get a little frantic. For Sal. Who realized well before I did that This Is It. He began running around the house collecting the various things we would need to take to the hospital. We had our bags packed already, but he needed to grab stuff like cell phone chargers, the laptop and camera, birthing ball, etc. Me, I jumped into the shower because it seemed very, very important that I shave my armpits before having a baby. By this time I knew I was having real contractions, because a few times in the shower I had to stop what I was doing and cling to the wall to get through them. After I got dressed I sat on the ball again until we were ready to get in the car. We arrived at the hospital at 3:30 a.m.

I don't really remember the ride to the hospital, where I arrived dizzy with pain. But I definitely remember the woman who greeted us in the ER. As she pushed my wheelchair toward the elevator, she chirped, "Don't worry, honey! Once you get the epidural, you'll be JUST FINE!" I was not capable of responding, but Sal, who knew I would burn with fury at such a comment, said, "Actually, we are hoping to do this without the medication." Nurse goes, "Oh. Well. Good luck with that!"

She was one in a series of hospital folk who would royally piss me off in the next hour or two. Like the sing-songy receptionist at Labor and Delivery, who heard me gasp at Sal to give me a water bottle. She clucked her tongue and said, "Now, you aren't supposed to be having waa-terrrr!" God, I would have loved to see her try to take it away from me. And for the record, the nurses let me have as much water and juice as I wanted, so maybe the freaking secretary ought to button it up with the medical advice, hmm? Then, because all the L&D rooms were occupied or being cleaned, we were put into a small, stuffy observation room. And in came this timid little med student who fired off a hundred pointless questions, including this gem as I huffed through a particularly nasty contraction: "So, um ... Are you in any pain tonight?" I don't even remember my response, but I hope it knocked him a good one in the nuts.

Two more things happened in that horrid little room. One, a doctor came in to check me, and I was already 5 centimeters dilated. Cool. Halfway there! Two, we learned that, evidently, when Amy Pizarro is in labor, she prefers that her body remain UNTOUCHED BY EVEN THE TINIEST STITCH OF CLOTHING. The only reason I can even admit this is now is that it felt so out of my hands. I mean, it's not like I sat there thinking, "Gee, this hospital gown is a real bummer. I shall decide to remove it from my person!" No, I simply was covered up one minute, and the next, whoosh! I was naked. Naked as a jaybird. Except for the stupid fetal monitors strapped across my belly, but hooooo boy, guess what happened next! The crazed pregnant lady ripped those off, too! With a flourish! I was just so incredibly hot and uncomfortable that this was simply the only way things could be.

Also around this time, Kathy, my doula, had arrived. Which was really good for poor Sal, who learned that Amy in labor also does not care for people touching her, or talking to her, or anything else we had practiced in our birthing prep class. He'd try to touch my shoulder, and I'd shrug him off. He did my breathing with me - something that was so sweet and helpful in class - and I told him to stop. I had no idea I'd be so distracted by that, and I think it was freaking him out to see me in such awful pain AND to realize how little he could do to help me.

I'm not sure when we got moved to an actual L&D room, I think maybe it was close to 5 a.m. (They did convince me to wear a gown between rooms, but DON'T EVEN think I wouldn't have strolled right down that hallway in my birthday suit.) I immediately took off the gown and got into the shower, where Kathy began spraying me down with warm water. Meanwhile, Sal went to move the car from the holy-shit-please-help-us spot by the ER front doors to a real parking space, and to get my birthing ball. When he came back, I rested my legs by sitting on the ball in the shower. The sound and feel of the water were soothing to me, so this is how I spent most of the next hour. In the shower, being coached by Kathy to moan low and loud through each contraction.

A note about the low moan: This is something we practiced in my prenatal yoga class, and we all felt ridiculous doing it. It's embarrassing. We sounded like farm animals. But the reality is, the low moan for me was the very best way to work though the worst of the pain. The ha-hee-ha-hee breathing did help during the early parts, but that breathing doesn't work for shit when things get ugly. You need something far more powerful for your mind and body to focus on during the bad contractions, and for me that was moaning.

The next part is blurriest for me, but here's what I remember. At around 6, Kathy said I needed to move around a little more, so I got out of the shower. She and Sal dried me off, and we went to the bed, which I leaned on for awhile. At this point, I was in the very worst of the worst part of labor, known as "transition." I remember this funny diagram they showed us at our birthing class, with cartoon faces of a woman in each phase of labor. The transition face was crumpled up like a person who might be thinking, "Ow! That kind of hurts!" But real transition? Man. The truth is, it was the most terrifying pain I have ever felt in my life. The contractions rocked me. And they were piled one on top of the other, no break in the pain whatsoever. I was petrified. It felt like I was trying to outrun a monster, and every single time I thought I'd escaped, I'd feel it tapping me on the shoulder. Over and over again.

But do you want to know the weird thing? As much as it hurt, the pain wasn't the hardest part. The hardest part was trying not to totally lose my shit. The panic was so close, OH SO VERY CLOSE, and I knew if I lost my balance even a little, I'd nosedive into a sobbing, pleading, screeching hysteria. And I think keeping my senses focused on staying calm made the pain, which I couldn't do anything about anyway, somewhat of a secondary issue. I focused my mind and ears on the moan. I opened my eyes and tried to find Sal's face (which was 12 inches from mine, but it still took me forever to spot him). I clutched his hands. I moaned, and I moaned, and I moaned.

And then there was one contraction that ended differently than the others - I heard my moan turn into a strange, teeth-clenching grunt. Kathy whipped around and said, "Amy, are you pushing?" I couldn't answer. But with the next contraction I heard a bigger grunt, and Kathy told Sal to get someone to check me. They helped me onto the bed, and then I heard someone say I was 9 centimeters. Kathy helped me get back up and said one more really good contraction would probably get me that last centimeter, so she and Sal held me up and I clung to them both while I fought through another one. Then I was back on the bed, and another check put me at 10.

Next I remember a flurry of commotion. With transition behind me, things were becoming a bit clearer, and I was able to open my eyes and realize what was going on. There were cheerful people in masks, a light coming down from the ceiling, noisy stuff being wheeled in, and someone telling me not to push. This is funny, because the thing I discovered about pushing is, it's not really something you DO. You can certainly participate, but in my experience, pushing happens TO you. It's an urge that is out of your control and nearly impossible to rein in. So I ignored them and pushed anyway, but they got a bit more insistent - later I found out they were waiting for the doctor to arrive. So I huffed and puffed through one contraction without pushing, and then the doctor was there and I was given permission to push away. Sal was on my right, holding up my leg and foot, and Kathy did the same on the left. During each contraction, they held me by the shoulders, helping me curl up my body. The cheering and yells of "PUSHPUSHPUSHPUSH!" were so loud, and the lights blazed down all of us, and it was such awesome, scary chaos.

A nurse asked me if I wanted to touch the baby's head. My birth plan specifically said I did not want to do such a thing. But at this point in my labor, especially with the worst of the pain behind me, I was fascinated by everything that was going on. So I said yes, and they helped me reached down and HOLY SHIT THAT IS A HEAD. Then they asked if I wanted to see it in a mirror. Again, I said yes. I'm glad I did. It was so encouraging to see how close we were - even though they were telling me that my pushing was moving the baby out, it was hard for me to feel the progress. Then there were a couple more pushes, and I felt the baby slide out. Sal's beaming face leaned over close to mine, and he told me that we had a little girl.

The big moment!

Under that blanket is a slippery, bony little body wriggling on my stomach. I kept trying to see her face, but all I could see was the top of her tiny head, which was covered in dark wet hair.

They let Mia stay with me for more than an hour before taking her to be weighed, measured and washed off. Here we are after dad cut the umbilical cord, allowing me to pull her up to my chest.

After she was cleaned up, a nurse took two little hospital hats and cleverly cut and folded them into one hat with a pretty bow.

Our first family portrait!

Here we are on our way from the L&D room to our recovery room. It was so cool to be wheeled down the hallway while holding my new baby - everyone kept stopping to grin and say congratulations. We were like our very own parade!

And that was that! And as for natural childbirth, I'm just so happy I went for it, despite the overwhelming feeling that everyone thought I was crazy. I'm glad I trusted my body to figure this out without a medical tangle of drugs, tubes and monitors. Yes, it hurt like holy hell. But the bad parts were over SO fast. From our hospital arrival to baby, it took a little more than three hours. I pushed for 20 minutes. And about an hour after getting a few stitches for a small tear I never felt, I was up and about like the whole thing had never happened. I walked around. I took a shower. I devoured a huge pancake breakfast.

While I know an epidural woudn't necessarily have made any of this impossible, I firmly believe that a birth this fast and relatively easy would have been far less likely if I had gone the modern-medicine route. And now I'm just so incredibly grateful. It must be among the rarest experiences a person can have, trudging through the most excruciating pain I could imagine, and then watching that suffering become the most joyful memory of my life.

A grand entrance

2009-11-05T19:05:00.000-08:00

So! We had a baby. Let me tell you about that.

Mia didn't make her way into the world until Sunday morning, October 25. But the story actually began the Friday before, two days beyond my due date. While Sal and I were on a morning walk to Japantown - a walk during which we joked about what we'd do if my water broke - my water broke. And even though we were 45 minutes from home, on foot, with the dog, we didn't panic. We began to laugh.

I ducked into a coffee shop restroom to check out the situation, and I was surprised to see that there wasn't nearly as much fluid as I expected. It was more like I had mildly peed my pants, and it hadn't even touched my clothing. We decided to make our way home, where I picked up the phone to call my doula.

Now's probably a good time to mention that I was pretty determined to have a natural childbirth - no epidural or other pain medication, no pitocin to induce labor, none of the so-called "medical interventions" that are quite common in today's labor and delivery rooms. Lots of people think going natural is insane, especially for a first-time mom. In fact, it wasn't long before I stopped talking about it because I was tired of the chuckles or pats on the head from women who were like, "Mm-hmm, you give that a try, honey. We'll see how that goes." An epidural has just become part of the process, something most women don't even stop to think about, because why WOULDN'T you want one?

But the thing is, the epidural scared the shit out of me WAY, WAY more than contractions. Let's recall for a moment the last time someone jammed a needle into my spine. (If you don't feel like reading all that, a recap: I went to the ER with food poisoning, and the crackpot doctor decided he had to rule out spinal meningitis. Even though I KNEW it was food poisoning, I let him bully me into having a spinal tap. The consequence of not trusting my own judgment: I was knocked flat by a crippling weeklong headache, because the needle hole didn't heal properly and I didn't have enough spinal fluid to keep my brain from banging around in my skull. No joke. Oh, and it SO WAS NOT meningitis. Asshole.)

My point is, I could fly into a hyperventilating panic at the thought of dealing with such a side effect while having my newborn in my arms. Relatively speaking, contractions did not seem like that big a deal. And furthermore, do you know all the shit you have to be hooked up to if you have an epidural? Fetal monitors for the baby, who may or may not be distressed by the drugs; an IV for fluids; and a catheter since you can't go to the bathroom by yourself. Being tethered to a hospital bed like that sounds like pure torture to me.

I knew, though, that having a natural childbirth would require some additional effort on my part. So here's what I did to prepare:

- I hired a doula. If you don't know what a doula is - a lot of people don't - she is a birth coach, a woman who has a great big bag o' tricks to help you bring your baby into the world. She is there at the hospital just for you and your husband, as opposed to labor nurses who are tending to several patients at a time. Now that I have been through this experience, I think it's wrong that so many labor prep classes try to paint a picture where the husband is a qualified coach. I'm sorry, but I just don't believe a husband should be saddled with that kind of title. He should be there for support and love and ice chips and anything else his wife needs, but I don't think he should be expected to think clearly when his spouse is doubled over in writhing pain. Especially if he's never done this before, either. A doula is the clear head in the room who has done this hundreds of times before and is equipped with knowledge and experience and techniques that make the birthing process smoother for everyone.

- I did my homework. After reading this post by Heather Armstrong of Dooce, I picked up a copy of a book she read called "Your Best Birth," by Ricki Lake and Abby Epstein. Reading it made me even more set on having a natural childbirth. The statistics regarding the "medicalization" of childbirth were stunning, and the scenario that particularly got to me was this: A woman is past her due date and the doctor wants to induce. Mom gets pitocin, which gets contractions rolling. But the drugs make the contractions far more powerful than they would be if they came on their own, so she is more likely to opt for the epidural. Only the epidural can slow the labor process, counteracting the pitocin. And too often this tug of war between the drugs leads to an unnecessary (but quite common) C-section. The book describes these things as a "cascade of interventions." I describe it as my worst nightmare.

- I took a six-week prenatal yoga class, where we spent a lot of time discussing a woman's options regarding childbirth. It amazed me that most of the women in my class didn't even know you COULD have a baby without medicine. So we spent a lot of time talking about options. About the fear of pain, and mental and physical coping techniques. Our instructor had given birth naturally to several babies, which gave me a lot of hope that I could do it, too. I could find so few real-life examples like this.

One more thing on this topic, just for the record: I don't feel judgmental of people who DO opt for the epidural. I know lots of women who had very rewarding, happy birthing experiences using pain medication. I just knew I wanted something different.

So anyway, I called my doula, Kathy, and told her I think my water broke but that it seemed like only a small amount. I said I was afraid to go to the hospital because I knew they would want to induce since I wasn't having contractions. She agreed. She said it sounded like I just had a leak, but that I needed to get myself into labor as quickly as possible. And as long as I could feel the baby move, this was something I could do at home.

Kathy suggested two things: acupuncture and an herbal labor tincture. I was skeptical but desperate, so I made an appointment for labor-inducing acupuncture on Saturday. Then we went and bought the labor tincture, a tiny bottle of rotten-smelling liquid that tastes like a cocktail of Jagermeister and motor oil. Awful, awful stuff. But every 30 minutes, as we spent Saturday walking around, seeing a movie, walking around some more, I dutifully closed my eyes and squeezed an eyedropperful into my mouth. We ended this long day by picking up a giant spicy, meaty pizza from Pizz'a Chicago. Spicy food - the granddaddy of labor-inducing old wives' tales.

And now I must tell you that it took me four and a half freaking days to write this post. I guess that's what happens when you only have five-minute bursts of time between this diaper and that diaper, this boob and that boob. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

So for now I'll pause the story, because my husband and daughter are all snuggled up on the couch and I'm missing out!

COMING SOON: Amy is a moron who devotes an entire day to witchy labor-inducing home remedies, but later that evening firmly believes she just has a bad case of gas.

Introducing Mia

2009-10-28T15:59:00.000-07:00

Everyone, this is our daughter!

Mia Elisabeth Pizarro was born Sunday, October 25, at 6:50 a.m. She weighed 7 pounds, 12 ounces, and she was 20 inches long. I have so much I want to write about the past five days that it feels like my head could burst. But if I don't squeeze in a nap this afternoon, I'm in for a scolding from my husband. So for now I'll just say we're home, we're tired, and we are having a ball with this little girl.

p.s. Mia is already making headlines ... check out her dad's last column before his paternity leave!

Losing it? Perhaps just a bit.

2009-10-24T09:01:00.000-07:00

Realization: "Nesting" just means that a pregnant woman HAS NOTHING LEFT TO DO. When the crib, the clothes, the car seat are all ready, well ... guess I might as well organize the goddamn spice cabinet!

Kid, IT IS TIME.

Happy week 40!

2009-10-21T13:15:00.000-07:00

Check out that belly, wouldya? And I'm even sucking in!

So since we found out we were pregnant in mid-February, every Wednesday morning before I even get out of bed, I have marked the new weekly milestone by chirping at a sleeping Sal, "Happy week 11!" "Happy week 25!" And so on, and so forth. And no, I'm sure that did not get annoying to him AT. ALL.

So to hear myself say "40" this morning was, um, crazy and unbelievable. But here we are, at the due date. Evidently this kid doesn't realize it comes from a family who makes deadline.

I saw the doctor yesterday, and she said I'm 2 centimeters dilated and that she could feel the baby's head. Hooray! There's a head!

I celebrated my due date today by splurging on a prenatal massage. It's been months since I have spent 60 whole minutes feeling THAT comfortable in my own body. It was bliss. Of course, I have also been having contractions all afternoon (not the real deal) (at least, I don't think it's the real deal) (I'm new at this) so half the massage was spent fretting that my water might break all over the fancy table. At least they had lots of towels!

Presents for everyone!

2009-10-20T10:57:00.000-07:00

Is there anything more fun than random, unexpected surprises being delivered to your front door? I DON'T THINK SO! I mean, it's completely awesome to get a package you ordered yourself. And then followed breathlessly via online tracking from New Jersey to Utah to Sacramento to San Jose to right there to your very own house - oh boy, do I get giddy about packages. But when a treat drops onto your doorstep from out of the blue?! EEEEEEE!

This has happened to me twice recently. For instance, just now a FedEx guy delivered a surprise package from my first college roommate, Paige. Well, correction: My FIRST college roommate was an angry girl named Michelle who sulked a lot and refused to decorate her side of the room. One of the first things she said to me was, "The thing about me is, when someone's a bitch to me, I'm all 'BITCH, you better step OFF.' " It's lovely to meet you, too, Michelle! A few weeks later I moved in with Paige, who was a thousand times more pleasant, and not just because she was a candyholic who kept troves of milk duds and peanut butter cups on hand. Paige and I also decorated our room by dangling empty beer cans from the ceiling. Oh, college. You make me smile.

Anyway, so the surprise package. It contained a gift for the baby - a soft, snuggly blanket decorated with dots. Red, brown, blue and orange DOTS! I am loving me some dots, you guys. And she bought it awhile ago, so she didn't even know I had dots in the baby's room already. A delicious coincidence!

Wrapped in the blanket was a book for mom and dad called "How to con your kid." It's full of inventive ways of getting your child to do stuff it doesn't want to do. My favorite idea so far is about getting your kid to eat veggies by giving those foods cooler names. Carrots become "orange suns." Broccoli is "baby trees." Love it.

But there was a third present in the package, this one for good ol' Chickenbone, who has been woefully left out of this whole baby-gift thing. And don't even THINK he hasn't noticed.

See that pink thing? It's called a "candy ball" from PetCandy. It's the perfect treat for dogs like Chickens who love to chase after tennis balls but can't quite get their little jaws around them. He's already nuts for this toy. Check out this glare, which means "I dare you to try to take this away, suckah":

Sorry for the crappy quality of these photos, but I had to take them with my BlackBerry because my good camera is in the car. IN THE LABOR BAG OMG. Anyway, thank you so much, Paige - especially from Chickens!

OK, the other gift I got was from my crazy-talented friend Robyn. Merely because I left a comment on this post. I'm telling you, I should have had to do far more to earn treats this neat.

The cool thing is that I had already fallen in love with her little kitchen towel embroidery projects, which she had written about earlier. So I went to pieces to have one of my very own. Also in the package were these adorable sushi potholders.

Robyn said she had to fight the urge to add some blood to the end of that chopped-off hand on the left. While I personally would have appreciated that, I suppose she made the right call since I won't have to hide these for company. Thanks, Robyn!

OK, kid, ready when you are.

2009-10-12T07:44:00.000-07:00

For most of my pregnancy, I haven't been prone to those teary emotional spells that come over new mommies as they prepare to welcome their baby into the world. Of course, I'm beyond excited about everything, and I've had a blast getting the room and house ready for our new son or daughter, but I've kept the waterworks to a minimum.

But a few weeks ago, I rounded up all the baby clothes we've received at showers and from friends and relatives and threw them into the washer with, naturally, a cupful of Dreft. And when I opened up that dryer and caught a whiff of that OMGTHISSMELLSLIKEBABY soap, and when I saw this little green sock sticking out from the mound of clothes, I nearly swooned from the WOW of it all. And folding up all those impossibly tiny socks and jammies did, in fact, get me quite choked up.

I'm so happy to finally have a few minutes to sit down and post these pictures I have been taking for months. My maternity leave began last week, two weeks before my due date, and it has been so nice to have a some time to mentally prepare and to rest. I'm still feeling mostly OK, but I do have one major complaint that has finally pushed me into god-let's-get-this-over-with territory: My hands are a disaster. Evidently carpal tunnel syndrome is a common ailment in late pregnancy - it's a circulation thing. It's not my wrists, but my hands themselves. And while they are pretty stiff and achy all day, at night they hurt so much I can't even clutch the covers to pull them up. Last night I even woke up to find that one finger on my right hand was curled up and would not uncurl! I'm told this problem will vanish practically the moment I have the baby, so I shouldn't have to suffer too much longer. Stupid useless appendages!

But anyway, OK, on to the baby's room. Which used to be a guest room/office. Here's what it looked like before:

This summer, I spent my two-week vacation painting the ceiling and walls a color called Plastic Pear. For days as I painted, I couldn't decide if the color was crisp and bright and fun, or if it looked like urine.

Luckily all that blue tape was casting quite a strange tint over everything, so when I finally yanked all that crap off, I was pleased.

My most prized possession in the room is the big huge reclining armchair. I must have sat in three dozen rocking chairs at at least four stores, and this is the only one that could even remotely be described as comfortable. The regular rockers were too hard or jabby, and they didn't go up high enough so you could lean your head back. This chair, it feels like heaven. I've already taken four naps in it. And do you see the little red table next to the chair? Found it on clearance on Target. That's where mommy's cocktail goes!

Here's a picture of the crib and the polka-dot bedding set I fell in love with. I like how it's not a THEME, it's just cute and fun and colorful. The soft little lamb cuddler thinger was a shower gift from the best man in our wedding and his wife.

A closer look at the bedding, which is from Land of Nod. I love the brown dotted crib sheet! It also came with a solid yellow one.

Here's the top of the chifferobe, which is a somewhat unusual piece of furniture but it was perfect for our purposes. This room conveniently has NO CLOSET so we needed something with a little bit of hanging space. However we didn't want a gigantic armoir, because we also need lots of drawer room. The chifferobe is the best of both worlds, with one half devoted to hanging space and shelves and the other a tall stack of deep drawers. Anyhow, sitting on top are all the cool children's books we've received, as well as a cute lamp and my birthday gift from Sal, a radio/CD/iPod player that has already been used one million times.

The very first things I bought for this room, before I knew the paint color or anything, were these adorable prints from an Etsy shop called barkingbirdart. It was so hard to pick just a few!

A treasured gift from my girlfriend Amy, whose talented friend used a sewing machine and some fabric to make these burpcloths so much more adorable than spit rags have any right to be. And look! Polka dots!

Here's the other dresser/changing table. Between the chifferobe and this, I think we might have secured enough room to put away all of baby's things. And holy crap, does this kid already have a ton of things. But wait! What's that on top of the dresser?!

Why, thank you for asking. Those would be the favorite childhood toys of mom and dad. The green monkey was Sal's when he was a little boy. It was the mascot of this old San Jose amusement park called Frontier Village. The brown bear was a gift my mom's friend gave me when I was a baby. It used to have really cute brown eyes, but my dog Max was fond of chewing the bear's face off, which always sent me into HYSTERICS. My mom performed "surgery" each time this happened and was able to save the eyes a couple of times, but one time I guess they were goners, so she sewed on these red buttons. My point is, it didn't always look so scary. I halfway feel like I should go out and find some freaky little stuffed animal for our baby - the ones we have now are way too normal-looking to join this bunch.

So, that's the baby's room! And about an hour ago, our first batch of cloth diapers was delivered, meaning I get to use the "R" word now - ready. I have a good friend who likes to point out that you're never READY to have a baby, and I can buy that. But my great big 1,000-things-long list of things that must be done before the birth is now entirely crossed off. So maybe I'll just say I'm ready in all the ways I know how to be.

Oh, and also, the baby and I were under strict orders not to get this show under way until after Sal and I saw "Star Wars in Concert," which we did last night!

READY!

A very pregnant birthday

2009-09-17T08:31:00.000-07:00

Well, this is me, 33 years old and 35 weeks (plus one day) pregnant. Hoo boy! Some women comment that I look small, and then I comment that their eyes are probably broken. I feel a lot of things right now, but small ain't one of them.

So far it has been a spectacular day. My little brother who is stationed in Saudi Arabia called me to wish me a happy birthday, and it was the first time I have been able to hear his voice in months. And this morning my darling husband made me French toast for breakfast. And tonight? TONIGHT! Sal and I are retreating to the couch with a huge and delicious pizza for the season premiere of Survivor. We are practically the only people we know who are still faithful followers of Jeff Probst and his merry band of castaways, but this is a tradition Sal and I have had going for a LONG TIME. Years and years. Before we got married. Before we lived together. Heck, we had pizza-and-Survivor-premiere parties way back when we were "just friends" who sat around trying very, very hard not to flirt with each other. So! A happy birthday it shall be.

UPDATE! The day got even better! Check out what two of my colleagues just brought me. A dish full of dainty desserts, plus a mocktail! Which I'm drinking! As a religion class is being taught in the room across from my office! God, it feels good to hold a cocktail glass again.

Oh, for pete's sake

2009-08-28T15:44:00.000-07:00

Somehow I have it in my head that to recover from a long spell of not blogging I need to have something truly profound to say that will distract you from the absence. Well, if that's so, today is not your lucky day. Because I'm merely here to complain.

Turns out that at 32 weeks, the easy parts of being pregnant might be over. And today I have two completely whiny complaints that I haven't read about anywhere else, but they are happening to me now, and I am hot and cranky and need to vent about them!

First of all, did you know that when you are pregnant, sneezing hurts a lot more? Holy mackerel! Now when I feel a sneeze coming on, not only do I have to concentrate on squeezing my baby-bumped bladder closed tight, but I have to brace for the smack of pain in my chest, right above my belly. I suspect maybe my because my lungs are so squished up, the power of a sneeze just knocks the hell out of them. Is that possible? Nobody writes about this. Probably because, what on earth are you going to do about it.

Second of all, the skin on my stomach is stretched so tight that it feels like it could burst open at any moment and send my baby hurtling across the room. And WOW, did that feeling come on suddenly! I notice that I subconsciously suck in all the time, presumably because it feels a bit more comfortable (or is it because that's how I spent, oh, I dunno, ALL OF MY 20s?) And when I focus on relaxing my stomach muscles, I swear you can actually hear the uncomfortable stretching sound, like that wincy-sounding rubber noise a balloon makes when you twist it. It is so, so, so tight. And then five minutes later I forget and accidentally start sucking in again. What on earth do I do? Do I take a bath? Lotion? A bath in lotion?

That is all for now. Blogging dry spell over. Again. Yay!

Week 26: "Bump" may be an understatement

2009-07-17T08:54:00.000-07:00

I sort of can't believe I am posting such a horrid, grainy dressing-room self-portrait. BUT WOULD YOU GET A LOAD OF THAT BELLY?!

The heat is starting to get to me, so last night I went to the mall in search of some cool summer dresses. And I remembered way back when I was 8 or 9 weeks pregnant, I practically had a breakdown in the Old Navy dressing room. I was already starting to feel uncomfortable in my regular clothes, so I set out to see what maternity wear would look like. Turns out, it looked ridiculous. I was like a chubby ragamuffin with all that material sagging over my not-yet-fat-enough belly. And I couldn't tell which was worse: feeling fat and constricted or feeling thin and dumpy. So I decided the best thing would be to cry.

When I pulled this dress over my head yesterday, though, I couldn't believe the difference. It's like a basketball shoved under there! This takes me by such surprise, because I don't really FEEL like that. I'd say 90 percent of the time, I feel like my normal, pre-pregnancy self, with the same old body and same old everything. So it's a shocker to look in the mirror and see this crazy pregnant lady. I did a happy jump-up-and-down dance right there in the Baby Gap dressing room. And then I took this picture. Wheeee!

Presents!

2009-07-06T08:40:00.000-07:00

I love presents! One for me, one for you! My friend Robyn did a cool thing on her blog that I am going to copy, because I want a free present. And if you are among the first five people to leave a comment on this post, then you will also get a present, made with love and smooches by me. But you have to do the same thing on your blog, and make something for five other people.

The details are as follows, and if you want to play, copy the following onto your blog and leave me a comment:

1. I make no guarantees that you will like what I make. Whatcha get is whatcha get.
2. What I create will be just for you.
3. It’ll be done this year (2009).
4. I will not give you any clue what it’s going to be. It will be something made in the real world and not something cyber. It may be weird or beautiful. Or it may be monstrous and annoying. Heck, I might bake something for you and mail it to you. Who knows? Not you, that’s for sure!
5. I reserve the right to do something strange.
6. In return, all you need to do is post this text on your blog and make five things for the first five to respond to your blog post.
7. Send your mailing address - after I contact you.

Hop to it!

Feeling a little ranty

2009-06-24T08:18:00.001-07:00

About halfway through my body pump weightlifting class earlier this week, the instructor chirped that we had just finished what was voted "most challenging squats track of the year." Yay, us! But I was also reminded, for about the millionth time, that I'm still pissed off at Vicki Iovine, author of "Girlfriends' Guide to Pregnancy."

I discovered this book years ago in the waiting room of my OB/GYN office. I'd often pick it up and thumb through a few pages, feeling sorta guilty for peeking ahead but being unable to resist reading about this most mysterious topic. So when I became pregnant myself, I was excited to have an legitimate reason to read it.

The book claims to explain what REALLY happens during pregnancy, stuff your doctor won't tell you but your girlfriends will. A lot of it is fine, I suppose, but when I got to the chapter on exercise, the entire book was pretty much ruined for me. In this chapter, Vicki offers up eight reasons pregnant women shouldn't bother to exercise. And now I am going to share that list with you, along with my own personal opinion about why each and every item is total bullshit.

1. You will be too tired.
During my first trimester, the exhaustion was absolutely crippling, and it was indeed tougher to drag my ass out of bed in the morning. And nausea kept me off the elliptical a few times. But even during those morning (...noon, night...) sickness weeks, I tried to get out for a walk or two. And when I got back to regular workouts, I realized I had far more energy (aka fewer midafternoon naps at my desk) when I was getting regular exercise. For me, activity = energy.

2. You won’t like yourself in harsh gym mirrors.
Oh, right. I forgot how the most important thing at the gym is to look gorgeous! I seriously can't believe a woman wrote this. Vicki says she would prefer to "sulk and stop exercising" before becoming one of those "die-hard" pregnant exercisers who wear their husband's T-shirts "to camouflage things." She also warns that regular gym clothes "take on a whole new identity when stuffed with pregnant bellies, pregnant thighs and pregnant knees, and topped off by pregnant arms." I guess I am supposed to be ashamed of this? Well, I'm not. Look, I'm quite aware that the giant-T-shirt-over-a-beach-ball look isn't sexy, and that I'm likely plumping out all over right now. But I still feel a little proud when I look in the gym mirror. Watching my body doing lunges or shoulder presses is cool, like I'm still a strong and motivated person despite the increasing physical limitations of pregnancy. And guess what? If I wasn't at the gym, I'd probably be staring in the mirror at home, feeling depressed about the weight gain Vicki thinks I should do nothing to control. Fun!

3. You will get fat anyway.
No shit. Hey, Vicki, nobody thinks you can exercise away a pregnant belly. But just because weight gain is inevitable doesn't mean I should let the flab just wash over me. My doctor said I should gain 25-35 pounds during pregnancy, and so far I'm within the ballpark. If I wasn't working out several times per week - especially considering the volumes of food I'm eating - I don't think I'd stand a chance at achieving this perfectly reasonable goal.

4. Exercise will not help you during labor and delivery in any way.
I am going to go out on a limb here, since this is an area in which I have no experience. But I'm pretty sure I'm right that LABOR IS HARD. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Vicki explains that exercise won't make your vagina more delivery-friendly or your contractions less painful or more productive (did anybody really think that anyway?) But I believe the mental endurance and focus I have learned through exercise - particularly with running, yoga and weight training - may indeed come in handy one day in October. Another book I read suggested that you get lots of sleep as your due date nears, since you never know when you'll have to get up and perform the gynecological equivalent of running a marathon. For 18 hours. So to me, it seems that, in the months leading up to this feat, a little activity for the ol' ticker and the rest of your muscles MIGHT not be such a bad idea.

5. You might endanger the pregnancy.
I know there are situations in which exercise is a bad idea for pregnant ladies. But those ladies have received those instructions from their doctor, and it's just silly of this writer to alarm the pregnant population at large. This might be a good time to mention the benefits exercise can bring to your pregnancy, including alleviating constipation, making your back feel better, and helping you sleep at night.

6. Even if you don’t, and something goes wrong, you will forever wonder if your exercising caused it.
Well, I wasn't GOING to wonder that, but maybe I will now. Thanks a lot, "girlfriend."

7. It’s nine months up and nine down no matter what you do.
It's stupid to make a blanket decree like this. Some women drop the weight in a couple of months. Others take a year or more. In fact, pretty much all advice about pregnancy can in some ways seem worthless, since every complaint, every body change, every labor and delivery story, is different for every single woman.

8. Our compulsion to exercise when we are pregnant is a reflection of our inability to surrender and let nature run its course.
This is when I had to put the book down and laugh. Guess what. I surrendered the moment I saw that positive pregnancy test in February. And nature? Well, from the look and feel of things, it's running its course just fine, not hindered whatsoever - and perhaps even helped - by my dedication to working out.

And let me share my favorite part about working out while pregnant: When I go to the gym these days, I am heaped in admiration. My locker-room pals marvel at the fact that I'm still working out at nearly 6 months. They pat me on the back. They tell me I look great. And believe me, when a person is getting fatter, zittier, crankier, sweatier, and ever more uncomfortable living in their own skin, there is no quicker way to feel like a million bucks.

Spaghetti squash and a Subaru

2009-06-19T10:12:00.000-07:00

Lots of big news and fun updates from the past couple of weeks, which has been a flurry of budgeting, buying, selling, list-making, fixing and organizing. The goal, I believe, is to be "ready" for the baby by the beginning of September, giving us a month or so of just-in-case time before we hit the real home stretch. So let's just say I'm feeling some pressure right now. But the good news is, I really dig shit like this. Diving headfirst into seven projects at once - especially when they have nothing to do with actual work! - is about my favorite thing. So here's what's been going on.

First of all, we realized several months ago to that to change our second bedroom from office/guestroom to nursery, we had to get our act together in two or three other rooms to find places to put all that stuff. We started with Sal's office, getting rid of some junky furniture on Craigslist and buying several large bookcases to organize our 1.8 trillion books. We also made one of Sal's lifelong manly dreams come true, buying him a cool leather chair. (And he totally tested out the baby-holding allowability of this model at Cost Plus, using a squishy long pillow from a nearby patio set. See? Manly!)

We also began the rather terrifying process of figuring out what we want in things like a stroller, car seat, crib. To do this, we took the advice of many and drove all the way up to Lullaby Lane in San Bruno. Everyone who tells you this is the ONLY place to do major baby shopping in the Bay Area is, I'm sure, 100 percent correct. We dealt with three salespeople about three different products and all of them were friendly, spectacularly knowledgeable and low-pressure. But this is not to say that the day was easy, so around noontime, we took a halftime break here:

We didn't make any purchases that day (we'll do that next week) as this was just to test the waters. But as we drove back to San Jose, we began to feel kinda bad about the idea of spending our money in another city. So just to play fair, we also visited San Jose's Babyland, which is famously located next to the Pink Poodle adult theater. Well, nobody talked to us, the selection wasn't nearly as good, and the whole 20 minutes we spent there just felt deflating. So we head back out to the car. And as I'm opening my door, Sal goes, "Want to know another reason we're not buying at Babyland? Because at Lullaby Lane, you don't find THIS in the parking lot."

Don't miss the fine print on that bad boy! Ahem. OK, so moving on, last week we sold my little green VW Beetle to a lovely young college student who answered my Craigslist ad. This was the first time I have ever sold a car privately (probably because it's the first time I was ever not selling a total hunk of crap) and I must say it was overall quite a pleasant experience. I LOVED that car, and I bawled as I turned the keys over. But this young woman was so sweet and barely acted scared of me at all. And a few days ago, she even sent me a photo of her and my car on a road trip to Napa. She wrote that she is in love with the car already and promises to take very good care of it. Adorable.

Then it was time to find the new, baby-friendly car. So on Tuesday night we went to the local Subaru dealership to look for a Forester, which we love because it's a teensy bit tall and a teensy bit wide, but it's not a big honking SUV. (Bonus: It's the 2009 Motor Trend Sport/Utility of the Year!) I saw a color I immediately loved in the exact trim I wanted, we took a test drive, and it was perfect. So we headed into The Scary Room with our salesman, who said the price they could give us was a hefty chunk off the sticker price, plus we qualified for an outstanding finance rate.

At this point, it had been a good 20 minutes since my last meal, and I was starving. So I told the guy we were heading out to get dinner and we'd be back. He paled, then offered to send someone to buy us dinner. Er, no. We're leaving. So he tosses us the keys and insists that we take the car. DAMN, that's a good trick. We drove it over to the nearest Round Table, since in this family, all important decisions and discussions are required to unfold over pizza.

Seriously! We had pizza twice when buying our home (once to discuss what kind of offer to make on our house, once when meeting with our financing guy) and we had pizza after the first time we saw our baby in the ultrasound. These are but three of many, many examples. We also have lots of pizza for non-important reasons, but that's not my point right now. Anyway, what we had to discuss was this: How to bargain with this guy when (a) we knew their offer was actually pretty good, (b) there's nothing more I want or need regarding the car, (c) we have a down payment, so there's no trade-in to haggle about, and (d) oh yeah, we've never done this before and are kind of clueless.

So I decided to be honest. We went back and I told the guy, "Look. The truth is, I love this car. I want this car, and I want to buy it from you. And I know you are offering a fair price. But the thing is, only a moron would walk into a car dealership and pay the very first thing the dealer offered. And I just can't be that person." And he's like, "So, you NEED something." Yes, I need something. So he went to his boss, got me a few somethings, and we shook hands. Could we have done better? Probably, but I feel pretty good about this considering it was our first time out. (Plus, don't tell Phil or whatever his name was, but we would totally have paid that first price.)

I would have posed in that picture with the car, but I didn't want to obstruct the view. HA! Jokes. But I have popped out a little bit. My helpful weekly BabyCenter e-mail tells me that the Appleseed is now the size of a spaghetti squash, hence the title of this blog post that probably should have been explained 18 paragraphs ago. Anyhow. Here's the grainy BlackBerry self-portrait taken of me and my baby at week 22!

New thing to save if the house burns down

2009-05-28T17:17:00.000-07:00

I had the loveliest surprise on my front porch when I came home from work yesterday from my friend Robyn, who creates the prettiest things you ever did see, right out of thin air. Check this out:

It's a baby quilt, WITH MY DOG ON IT! Chickens on a blanket! Isn't it marvelous?! And since we aren't finding out the gender of the baby until it's here, Robyn cleverly used a nice balance of pink and green with a soft brown lining that will be perfect in either case.

How Robyn found an applique that looked so much like Chickenbone is beyond me. I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but he's a somewhat peculiar-looking dog. Handsome, for sure. But unlike any other dog anywhere, ever. This patch is spot-on, though, especially with the shape of the ears, the tilted head, and those ridiculously short legs. In fact, this is exactly how he looks after he sprints into the kitchen when he hears me grabbing cheese out of the fridge!

Thanks, Robyn, for a present that includes BOTH my babies!

Week 17 ultrasound

2009-05-15T08:34:00.000-07:00

Here are some pictures from yesterday's peek at the baby, aka the best television show ever. The technician said our child is "gorgeous" and "cooperative" and "a real character." Therefore we like her very much. (The technician, not the child, whose gender we won't know till it's here. I mean, we like the child, too. But you see what I mean.)

At this visit, we could actually see organs for the first time, including all four chambers of the heart. We also saw two legs, but only one arm. I'm opting not to dwell on that.

Here's a closeup of the face, wherein my child looks like a bald, grinning, one-eyed clown pirate.

Some people may think this photo shows the baby trying to suck its thumb. But if it takes after me, Sal or Chickenbone, it is probably saying "Uh, trying to sleep in here, do you mind?"

We named him "Ratbone"

2009-05-13T09:57:00.000-07:00

Had a little excitement during the Mother's Day brunch we hosted this weekend. After the meal, I was sitting at the dining room table chatting with my mother-in-law and our other lady relatives when Sal walks in and calmly explains "Well, we have a situation. There's a rat in my office."

A-WHA?????

Turns out that while Sal and his two dads were lounging in the back yard, they watched a giant, hairy rat zoom out of the garden and right into the open door of Sal's office, a big room that is part of our detached garage. So what do the dads decide to do? Why, shrug their shoulders and have another gulp of beer, of course! "He'll come out eventually," said one. "I'd put out some D-Con!" said another. "That thing is huge!" they chortled.

Well, I am not the kind of person who can just forget about a giant crazy rat in a room, any room, of my house. Also, I was curious to get a look at this monster. Sal said it ran into a corner, beneath one of the metal shelving units that hold his fourteen hundred thousand comic books. So I get down on all fours (waaaay on the other side of the room) and flick on the flashlight. And let me just say that this was hardly a scary beast. In fact, it was the sorriest excuse for a rat I have ever seen. It was pale and raggedy, and it cowered in the corner with little black frightened eyes that were wide as saucers.

I stand up. "We are not killing it."

For a moment, Sal stares thoughtfully around the room. And then he instructs me to start grabbing comic book boxes off the shelves. "We're going to build a run!" he exclaims. How deeply I love this man. So we dragged the heavy boxes across the floor until we had barricaded this area from the rest of the office. There was only one way for this devil to run, and that was OUT.

(The dads think all this is hysterical, and they keep getting up to look inside and snicker at what we're doing. One stands by the door with his foot raised. "When he runs out, I'll get 'im!")

We finish constructing the run, and I rattle a broom around back in the corner. The rat squeaked in terror, which totally hurt my heart, but he did run out. Unfortunately, we forgot to block one important crevice - the space behind the tall, heavy filled-to-the-brim bookcase - so naturally that's exactly where he runs. Swearing ensues. Especially when we realize he was hiding in a small space beneath the bottom shelf, where we couldn't even shoo him out with the broom.

So we begin the process of removing all the books. And once they were out, Sal tilts the shelf over and I do my broom-waving thing, adding for good measure some yelps and shrieks and "GETOUTTAHERE! GETOUTTAHERE!"

This poor, sad fellow. In broad daylight I realize he is half-bald. And what fur he does have is a sickly looking, mottled grey. He keeps running in circles and bumping into boxes, so I bang the broom on the floor in a strategic manner, and the rat finally makes his way out the door and into the woodpile near the garage.

Here's a picture of the run. We are quite proud of ourselves. (You can also see Chickenbone, who was too much of a pansy to face the actual rat itself, but still wanted to growl at the scent lingering behind the bookcase.)

As for the rat, he stayed in the woodpile, no doubt petrified of the giant red dog who kept shoving his snout into the wood and barking. A couple hours later, after Chickens had gone inside, the rodent (now affectionately known as Ratbone) creeped out and headed toward the garden area, and then down the driveway and behind our trash cans. We assumed he probably escaped under the fence, because what kind of nutjob rat would want to stick around all this broom-waving, dog-slobbering craziness?

But a little while later, Chickens comes out to inspect the woodpile again, and from there we watched him slowly sniff out the exact trail the rat took, all the way around the yard. Next thing we know, he's lunging at the trash cans barking and snarling up a storm. Actual spittle is flung from his jaws as I pick up the writhing little dog. Sal runs over, moves the cans and opens the gate, and our friend the rat makes his exit.

And that is the story of my very first mother's day! I also got flowers and a lovely card from my husband, and I ate bacon. It was a really good day.

Obligatory belly shot: Week 16

2009-05-06T19:55:00.000-07:00

(How I love the first GOOD fat picture of my life.)

Building my garden

2009-05-01T11:26:00.000-07:00

Here are pictures from my latest home project. Because of the gigantic peppercorn tree shading most of our back yard, there was really only one spot that ever gets enough sun for a garden, along the side fence where we had a woodpile and a long strip of this tangly ground cover.

First step was pulling out a bunch of those vines. I measured how much space I needed and got to pullin' - and these suckers were much heavier and deeper than they looked. After we moved the woodpile to a new corner of the yard, I discovered that I'd have to pull out even more ground cover because under the wood wasn't dirt but a patterned brick surface that was too pretty to remove. We put our potted Meyer lemon tree on it, and it's much happier now, bursting with green leaves and blooms.

This is me in my digging gear. I wore a mask not just because of how ultra-cool it looks, but because my allergies were killing me and I didn't want to get a ton of dust in my nose and throat. Also, pregnant ladies aren't supposed to dig around too much in gardens, on account of all the infected cat poop. I actually don't think there was any cat poop in this garden, but I wore a mask just the same.

Now, the next picture isn't the greatest illustration, because you can't even tell how impressively deep I had to dig. But right in this spot is where I was digging away at the soil when my shovel went thunk. I reached down and brushed away some dirt to uncover some wood. Since it was so close to where that woodpile stood for lord knows how long, I assumed it was just an old log. Especially because there were so many other random objects in that dirt - old bricks, a moldy tennis ball, an unidentifiable tool - it seemed feasible that a log just got buried long ago. So I began to dig, then paused to try to pull it up. It wouldn't budge. I dug some more, tugged at the wood, again it wouldn't budge. As I cleared away dirt, the "log" grew longer and longer, and eventually I realized it was actually a root. What the hell it was attached to, I have no idea, as it snaked out under the fence from the neighbor's yard. And all they have back there is a palm tree way on the other side. Can palm trees have roots a whole freaking back yard long? I have no idea.

But I knew this thing had to go, or else my whole garden plan was ruined. So I busted out the old crappy hand saw that the previous homeowners left in the garage. I sawed my ass off, for a good 20 minutes and until my hand hurt, and I only got maybe an inch and a half into what was a four-inch diameter. By then the sun was beating down on my back and I was super pissed off. So I went snooping around in the garage and A-HA! I found a screwdriver and a mallet. I jammed the screwdriver into the crevice I made and started banging on it. To my delight, the crack began grow. My plan was working! I yanked it out, jammed it into another part of the crack, and banged the SHIT out of it. Only this time, when I went to pull it out, it wouldn't budge. Fuck.

I go grab another screwdriver and stick it next to where the other one stuck. (Hoo boy, is this a thrilling story or what?!) For the next 20 minutes, I executed many careful, calculated maneuvers of widening the crack with one driver (though not TOO much) and wiggling the other. I also began to bang the side of the stuck screwdriver with the mallet. And then a hammer. And then I went back to the mallet and accidentally missed the screwdriver and knocked myself in the shin. I was really nervous, because I knew if I got two screwdrivers stuck in there and had to give up, Sal would never, ever, ever stop laughing at me. Also he'd hide all his tools forever.

Finally I managed to dislodge the screwdriver (I think it helped when I hissed "COME OUT, YOU BITCH") and sadly it suffered irreparable damage. It was shaped like an L. Oh well. I went back to the stupid saw and spent the next half hour changing hands, positions and angles until I finally got the stupid freaking root cut off from wherever it came. (And if that palm tree dies, you never read this.)

Here's a picture of the root, next to my foot for size comparison. It is one big mother.

The planting was pretty easy. Starting on the left, I have a string bean plant. (When I looked up string beans online, it seemed that you normally plant a whole bunch of plants together, but I just had the one. Anybody up for a coupla green beans for dinner?) In front of the bean plant is some pokey green stuff that was sticking up out of the ground cover. I don't know what it is, but I decided to leave it till I find out. Then I planted four tomato plants, and on the far right is a zucchini plant.

So far everything is still alive, though one of the tomato plants looks cranky most of the time. I can't figure out why, because it gets the same things all the other ones get. Quitcher bitchin, tomato plant! I nearly lost a limb for you!

Week 13 glamour shots

2009-04-24T11:51:00.000-07:00

Here are a couple pictures from an ultrasound I had last week, the final week of the first trimester. Here's to expanding waistlines and happier boobs!

A veggie surprise

2009-04-23T19:05:00.001-07:00

Holy crap, you guys. I forgot about the Universal Rule of Bacon!

The cabbage recipe I was so worried about was actually fantastic. I served it atop a plate of quinoa with a parsley garnish. Despite its rather gloppy purple appearance, it was delicious. That cabbagey taste is mellowed out by the sweetness of the carrots and the beer, and as we all know, bacon makes everything better. Here is the recipe, courtesy of Blue Moon Organics:

GABRIEL'S BRAISED CABBAGE

2 Tbsp. good quality olive oil
2 medium onions cut in half and sliced (I used just one)
1/2 lb bacon, pancetta or tasso ham, medium dice
1 head cabbage halved and julienned (I used three small heads of red cabbage)
2 carrots scrubbed and cut into matchsticks
1/4 cup good Dijon mustard
1/4 cup red wine vinegar
1/2 cup whiskey or 1 can quality beer
1/2 cup chicken or veggie stock
1 bunch chives, chopped
2 Tbsp flat-leaf parsley, chopped
Salt and pepper to taste

Heat tablespoon of oil over medium heat and render pork until it's crispy, about 10 minutes. Pull out pork product, blot with a towel and reserve.

Cook onions in pork fat until translucent, about 5 minutes.

Add cabbage, carrots and mustard and stir. Add vinegar and beer or whiskey and let it cook off for a couple minutes. Add stock and reduce until liquid is almost vacant. Fold in pork.

Serve warm on top of a starch in a bowl (polenta, risotto, quinoa or potatoes would be great) and garnish with chives and parsley.

An amazing week in produce

2009-04-16T16:54:00.001-07:00

Last week my mom and her husband were visiting from New Mexico, and I took this opportunity to drag my mom around the house and pepper her with questions about my garden, what curtains to put in the breakfast nook, how to arrange the baby's room. While we were outside deciding where to plant my tomatoes, I pointed out some green stuff that, for the second year in a row, had come sprouting out of some ground cover that runs along the side fence. "Do you know what that stuff is?" I asked her. "I keep thinking I should get rid of it. It doesn't seem to be anything." She reached down and plucked one of the long green stems out of the ground and found A BABY BULB OF GARLIC. I have garlic! In my back yard! There are at least six or seven bulbs brewing back there, and I have no idea how or why. This house is so terribly exciting to me sometimes. Remember when I discovered a secret tiny rosebush? That thing is a good 18 inches tall now that I cleared out some space for it to breathe!

Last week I also picked up my first box of produce from the Community Supported Agriculture program I signed up for with Blue Moon Organics. I am bonkers for this idea: Every week, a box of fresh organic fruits and veggies will be delivered to me at school. What will be inside the box? That's the best part - WHO KNOWS?! It could be anything!

Here's what the first crop contained: a bunch of purple kale; three beets; seven giant carrots; three artichokes; three heads of red cabbage; four - waddayacallem, stalks? bunches? - of baby bok choy; and four cartons of strawberries that were so sweet, you'd swear they had been swirled in sugar. My goal with these boxes is to never let anything to go waste, which is going to be a real challenge. Especially since I'm not sure what to do with half of this stuff.

I already made a pretty good stir-fry with the bok choy and carrots, plus some shitake mushrooms, black bean garlic sauce and udon noodles. Last night I made a braised cabbage recipe that came with the box: cabbage, beer, mustard, bacon, carrots, and bunch of other stuff. I haven't tried it yet because it looks scary. I bet it wouldn't if it weren't so dang purple. But I will give it a go tonight for dinner, spooning it over some polenta or quinoa. The chard is also gone: In less than 20 minutes, my magnificent mother whipped that into the most amazing baked-potato topping using a bit of bacon, the garlic from my back yard, some flour, water and our favorite family seasoning, Maggi.

So all I have left is are the beets and the artichokes (the strawberries took care of themselves.) I found a recipe for beet risotto, but as for the pretty artichokes, I'm not really a steam-and-dip-in-butter kind of person, so I don't know what the heck to do there.

Finally, last week I planted a garden in a patch of the back yard that was previously just more of that viney ground cover. Even though I have no idea what I'm doing and the whole thing could be dead in a week, I feel very proud of this little garden as it took a ton of work, including a battle with a 3-foot tree root that cost me one hour, one screwdriver and a painful knock on my shin. Pictures soon!

Cirque du Bebe

2009-04-14T08:58:00.000-07:00

So it turns out there is a baby in my belly!

OK, obviously I've known about this pregnancy for two entire months now, but I never felt this truly and honestly pregnant until yesterday when I went in for a 12-week ultrasound. I mean, last time we took a peek inside at 8 weeks, all I could see was a small white blob, which the doctor referred to as a baby. And I loved this small white blob, and I knew it was MY small white blob, but let's be honest ... how thrilling can a blob really be?

Well, yesterday, the moment they put the scanner thing on my belly, ta-daaa! There on the screen was a freaking BABY. With fingers! And legs! AND A FACE! And oh my goodness, was it an active little thing. My tiny acrobat! I just felt so damned proud of it as it bounced and stretched and waved its wee arms ... it rolled over and twisted and turned ... one time it even stood on its head! It took my breath away. And then I saw Sal checking the Dodgers score on his BlackBerry, and I got it back again.

Just kidding. Well, I mean, Sal really did check the score. But in his defense, we had to wait quite awhile for the baby to be in the exact right position for this screening, so we had a lot of down time. Also in his defense, he was gleefully watching the Giants get pounded, and that plus hanging out with his on-camera baby is otherwise known as my husband's best day ever. And I'm SO not interfering with that.

Good ol' Dooce!

2009-04-02T09:01:00.000-07:00

When I see famous people, even ones I really admire, I am generally reluctant to go up to them. I don't want to bother them and say the same dumb things a hundred million other fans have said, forcing them to fake a smile while secretly thinking, "Jesus, she couldn't have come up with something more original?" So I admire from a distance, staring and smiling and perhaps creeping them out more than if I would have just said hi.

But last night when I had the most ultimate pleasure of meeting Heather Armstrong, aka Dooce, it was all I could do not to wrap my whole body around her face in a gigantic, suffocating bear hug. I LOVE DOOCE, OK. I distinctly remember stumbling across her blog several years ago (before I even knew the WORD blog) and thinking, holy shit. What is this treasure?! What the hell is all this free, awesome, hilariousness?! I have been a constant reader ever since, and in one way or another, reading Dooce has led me to a few other blogs I read rabidly, particularly those of Maggie, Kristy, Jenny and Kate. All such fine, funny women, whose blogs you should really be reading this very minute, because their shit is way better than mine.

Heather is on a book-signing tour for her New York Times bestseller "It sucked and then I cried: How I had a baby, a breakdown and a much-needed margarita." I'm already halfway through it, even though I have owned it all of 16 hours. It's a fantastic read, unless of course you are pregnant, in which case it is a petrifying and gory horror story. Oops.

Last night at Mountain View's Books, Inc., Heather read two passages from the book, and then took questions from the audience. In addition to being a total knockout, she was just as hilarious and honest as she is on her blog. At first she struggled with the volume and was trying to adjust the mic, raise the stand and lean in closer. Then she began to read again, and was interrupted by someone in the back who bellowed "CAN'T! HEEEEEEEAR! YOUUUUUUUU!" She stopped, heaved a patient sigh, and then said politely into the mic, "Well, I'm practically giving this thing a blow job." Awesome.

Up there on the mezzanine is Maggie Mason, aka Mighty Girl. She lives in San Francisco and is good friends with Heather, yet I didn't even think until a couple hours before the program began that she very likely would attend. When she tweeted that she was on her way, I nearly wet my pants.

So when it was my turn to see Heather and get an autograph, of course I immediately broke into a cold sweat and my voice got loud and shaky. I said something like "Thanks for coming. And you kick so much ass." She flashed this dazzling smile and asked me where I lived, and then said something about the weather. To which I blurted out, "I'M PREGNANT, TOO!" So much for not looking like an idiot. But she was cool, congratulating me and asking how I'm feeling and when I'm due. I THINK I answered those, but I was so starstruck I can't be entirely sure. I do know, however, that I stifled the urge to ask if we could rub our pregnant bellies together for luck.

A peek inside

2009-03-24T08:59:00.000-07:00

I almost forgot to show you the pictures! I went in for my first doctor's appointment at week 8 and she did an ultrasound to check on the heartbeat. I also had to fill out a whole bunch of paperwork, including one sheet that began with this line:

"Mother: __________________________"

So I dutifully wrote in my mom's name before realizing HOLY SHIT THEY MEANT ME.

Anyway, here's our baby. The doctor also commented that I have the most perfectly round gestational sac she has ever seen. Sal: "Well, you ARE really organized."

It's like holding your breath for five weeks

2009-03-22T12:33:00.000-07:00

One thing I have learned about myself is that if I can't speak freely on this blog about what's on my mind, it's hard to speak at all.

So when I found out I was pregnant last month, and we decided to keep a lid on it for awhile, it gave me a crippling case of writer's block. It sucks when all you can talk about, think about, fret about, dream about and beam about is a big, fat secret.

But now it's out, and I hope you'll allow me to finally take a few giant, gasping glugs of air here, while I remember everything I can about the past five weeks:

- I took the test on Valentine's Day, when I was three days late. I knew I was going to test that morning, but didn't tell Sal because I didn't want to get his hopes up for nothing. I tossed and turned all night because I was so anxious for morning to arrive, and as 5:30 a.m. rolled around, I couldn't take it anymore. I went to the bathroom, peed on the stick, and then watched the digital monitor flash a little clock at me for about a minute. Then it blinked, "Pregnant." I did this funny shriek-sob-gasp thing, clasped my hands over my mouth, and then stared at my face in the mirror for awhile. Then I checked the stick again. Still pregnant. I raced into the dark living room, then back to the bathroom to check the stick. Then to the living room, then the kitchen, then back into the bathroom to check the stick. Did a few more laps like this, not sure why, it just seemed like the thing to do. I finally made it into the bedroom to wake up Sal, who stumbled sleepily into the bathroom with me to check the stick. Still pregnant! These new digital tests are the best, because it actually has the word RIGHT THERE. So much cooler than pink lines.

- The first thing we did after this was go out to breakfast, where I triumphantly ordered decaf.

- We were both off that week, me for winter break, and Sal on furlough. So with nothing but time on my hands, I read everything I could get my hands on about being pregnant. Days later, I slid into a truly bitchy funk. I was worried, cranky and very unhappy. (Then I'd feel guilty for being unhappy at being pregnant, which made me feel even worse. It was one hell of a spiral.) Then I realized something kind of important: Most of the stuff written about being pregnant and giving birth is quite alarming. "Your hair will fall out!" "Your marriage will suffer!" "You'll never sleep again!" "Your finances are screwed!" "YOUR VAGINA WILL NEVER BE THE SAME!" I suspected I had just OD'd on the whole topic, so I put myself on reading restriction for a week or so, and that lifted all the clouds.

- Speaking of reading, Sal got a hilarious and very informative book called "Dad's pregnant, too" by Harlan Cohen. It kicks the crap of "What to expect when you're expecting." A sample passage from a section entitled "Tip #27 THE ME-TOO EXPECTANT FATHER: She Doesn't Give A Shi* If You're Tired":

"If your partner is complaining that she has a headache, don't say 'My head hurts, too.' If your partner is tired, don't tell her how tired you are, too. If she says she's nauseous, don't be nauseous, too. When she complains about aches and pains, don't talk about your aches and pains (even if you're a professional football player). If she says she can't sleep at night, don't tell her how you can't sleep, either. If she talks about her big belly and stretch marks, you can talk about your big belly and stretch marks, but only in an attempt to make fun of yourself (weight jokes about her are never never never never never never funny - she might laugh, but she'll kick your ass later)."

- I miss drinking. A lot. Nobody ever seems to write about this, because I guess you're supposed to feel all "Tra-la-laaaa! I'm a perfect and serene mommy-to-be who is thrilled to trade her martini glass for a nice, warm mug of pregnancy tea!" Surprisingly, drinking fruity non-alcoholic cocktails makes me feel tons better. Like I didn't get kicked out of the party. Also, for obvious reasons, one of the first people we told was my favorite bartender at my favorite bar, and he made it his mission to come up with interesting, delicious "cocktails" that he discreetly serves to me before I even have to ask. Awesome.

- Speaking of drinking, my husband is a genius. Early on, I was fretting about how I'd get through parties and dinners without people noticing that I wasn't drinking. Sal had an idea that must have pained him greatly, which was that he'd give up drinking for Lent. This took all the pressure off me, as everyone would stand around aghast at the diet coke in his hand, and they barely even noticed that I wasn't drinking either, to be "supportive."

- Except for the most debilitating exhaustion I have ever felt in my life and some queasiness that seems to have subsided in the past week, I am mostly feeling OK. I have only barfed once, and to be honest, I thought it was kind of cool.

- The first thing I read about week five of pregnancy was how the embryo was no bigger than an appleseed, and that's how we now affectionately refer to the baby. As in, "Uh, Sal? Appleseed's craving a nice cabernet."

Maybe that's all for now - oh, except to answer the big questions: I'm almost at 10 weeks, due Oct. 21, and we aren't going to find out the gender till the baby is born. And no, we do not expect Chickens to be thrilled about this.