Should Write More But Have Ungodly Amounts of Reading to Do.

So I will post pictures of Cricket instead.

Here we are readying him for his life of education. I had my "fake" graduation a few weekends ago. Fake because I still have 20 credits to go. Every credit more takes a little bit more of soul, so I guess it was good to pseudo-celebrate while I still own part of my soul before the nursing school takes it all. The Cricket was very good at a full day's worth of festivities, therefore he got to wear the hat. Cricket: Pre-leg break, shopping for bread with me on a cool Saturday morning. I almost can't even remember these Halcyon days of walking. By himself.

Cricket's cast is off. Which I'd say should be a resounding "THANK GOD" but he's still not walking on it. He is holding his leg up, but crawling everywhere. He will pull himself up to standing, but will not stand on the leg. After three set of x-rays from his very own grandfather and nary a fracture to be seen, I'm flummoxed. There was one spot where there was maybe a fracture. The grandfather doctor says to not push it. Maybe there's a break that we can't see (?!?!?) and he's protecting it. I just want walking/running Cricket back. Here is the kid moments before his leg broke:
I post this pic for Chris especially. Another reason I'd like my kid to start walking again is that he was so into the Swiffer. I need the help around the house. It's time for him to start earning his bread (or cheese as the case may be) again.

Finally, Cricket says goodnight. He and I both hope that I will find time to blog again in earnest soon. I have so many things to say, my head hurts with the sheer multitude of things I'd like to be blogging about it. Keep fingers crossed that the Cricket returns to walking soon.

Bright Blue: Why Mommy Can't Sleep

The story, in third person.

Mommy's classes ended on Thursday and since that time she had really been enjoying time with her son, Cricket. They went to the park Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Cricket was pretty impressive with his mobility. Running everywhere, up and down hills, mastering the slide, impressing total strangers with his climbing ability. So Sunday when he was at his grandparents, Mommy hurried everyone along. "I think it's going to rain soon! Let's get moving!"

At the park, Cricket did all the park things and totally ignored the astro turf hill, the one kids slide down on cardboard boxes, or just their pants. Mommy knew she and Cricket had gone down the hill before, so when he headed toward the hill, she let him climb to the peak of the hill. Previously they only went down half the hill. Mommy remembers the sun glinting off the hair of a little girl, trying to go up the hill one more time, but instead this girl was nabbed by grandmother. The little girl said, "Sweet niblets!" and everyone laughed, the nabbing grandmother, the little girl, the Mommy, her parents and even the Cricket because everyone else was laughing. Mommy will always remember this little girl saying sweet niblets.

Once Mommy and Cricket reached the top of the hill, she watched the little girl and grandmother walk away, she scanned the bottom of the hill to make sure it was safe, she swooped her child up into her arms and kissed his bonny face. "Do you want to go down the hill?" she asked him. She smiled at her own parents at the bottom of the hill and put Cricket between her legs. They pushed off.

She still doesn't know what she heard first: the snap of her child's bone or her father yelling "Stop!" but she stopped. Instantly. Picked up her child and ran down the hill, hugging him to her chest and he cried, cried. "Did you hear a snap?" Mommy's own mother asked her. Mommy said I don't know, even though she knew she heard a snap. The child continued to wail. Mommy's father, the one who yelled stop, was an orthopedic surgeon. "Is it broken? Is it broken?" she asked over and over again.

"I don't know. I don't have x-ray eyes. It feels okay," he said.

Mommy sat on a park bench and prayed "OmyGod" over and over again, kissing her child's head. He stopped crying, and she believed his bone couldn't be broken if he stopped crying. They tried to see if he would stand. But he wouldn't. He started crying again. His leg was shaking. So everyone decided it would be best to get x-rays. And they did. But x-rays weren't conclusive, and Mommy laughed and laughed. But still Cricket would not stand, and Mommy's dad, the bone doctor, said it was best to treat the child, not the x-ray. And sometimes fractures don't always show up immediately, and maybe he did see something on the fibula. And so that's how Cricket ended up in a bright blue cast, from his toes to his hip.

And that's how it ended up that Mommy can't sleep at night for hearing the snap of her child's bone as he sat between her legs.

It's Late, but I Didn't Want to Admit It Happened.

Cricket turned one, people. Yes, it was a few weeks ago.

*Lump in throat*

He's not a baby anymore. He walks everywhere, and mostly does. not. want. to. hold. my. hand. He's started whinging. But he also gives the most glorious hugs and kisses. And snuggles in the morning. And sticks his nose out for a kiss when I ask where his nose is. And he loves books. And he shares. Oh, the love fest. For my baby who is no longer a baby.

Happy Birthday, Cricket.

We love you, too.

Cutest One in the Patch

(I really do want to write more, but it's "finals" so to speak. I'd like to write about the chronic cough that gets worse at night and keeps me wide awake while I listen to Cricket cough all night long. But I'll write more about that later. For now, Cricket shall be featured.)

Cat Plot

At first I thought the cat was channelling Lassie, banging on the door because something was wrong with the Cricket. I looked over at the sleeping babe, peacefully breathing away, and realized that no, the cat was just being a shithead.

Yes, that's right, the cats have officially been banned from the bedroom. In the beginning, I was terrified of how the cats would respond to Cricket. My mother echoed my concerns, although her concerns were a little more, let's say, histrionic: "You have to make sure the cat won't steal the baby's breath." Yes, because that happens. Can't you see it? The cats huddled underneath the dining room table, plans laid out, and discussing who's going in to steal little Cricket's breath? ("But, you guys," Maya, our bushy black cat, says all breathlessly, "What will we do with the breath once we steal it?") So when Cricket first came home from the hospital, the cats were duly locked out of the room.

They came back soon enough. First of all, if you remember, we slept with Cricket on us for the first few months, and then he progressed to sleeping in the car seat, and finally to the co-sleeper. And really only one cat, Eli, sleeps in the bed with us. Noah is intermittently present, but a strong sneeze scares him into oblivion, so you can guess what baby gurgles do to him, and Maya-- dang, we can't even reliably pet her. Ultimately it seemed like the cats didn't really care about Cricket, and Cricket, honestly, he didn't seem to notice the cats either.

That is, until he did. Now the cats are an endless source of joy to him. A few weeks ago he watched Noah chasing a stuffed mouse and laughed and laughed. Belly laughs. Eli is his new best buddy. He reaches out and grabs huge chunks of fur to the soundtrack of his mommies yelling out "Gentle! Gentle!" He pumps Eli's tail up and down. He tries to chew on his ear. A normal cat might flee from such abuse, but not our Eli. Instead, Eli plops himself down right in front of Cricket seemingly inviting torture. Loving it, you might say.

One a few weeks ago, I got up to use the bathroom. Eli often takes this as a cue for midnight snuggling. "Oh, you're awake? Great. Pet me." He continually came at me and I continually pushed him down. I wasn't in the mood. I drifted off to sleep, thinking I had rebuffed the cat. And then I heard Cricket making what I thought were awake noises, opened my eyes, and there was the damn cat, in the co-sleeper, sitting next to Cricket's head. The action was swift-- pull the cat out of the co-sleeper, check baby for breathing, and a quick smack on the cat's nose. I hissed for Partner to wake up. We shooed all cats out of the room and laid in bed, both of us eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. We were freaked out. I don't think we ever returned to sleep that night. If Eli had chosen to lie down on Cricket, there's no way he could have gotten the cat off him. Eli is, well let's say, persistent. There's no easy swatting him off. And he likes to get up on our chests, face in our face. It's annoying to us, but dangerous for 8 month old babies.

The cats have been locked out since. Eli routinely bangs on the door every night, several times a night. When we go to hiss shut up at him, he flees down the hallway. I feel slightly bad for this cat that was our little lover kitty. He's regulated to the cold dark house outside our room. But I don't feel that bad, thinking about him sitting there, next to Cricket's head in the moon filled bedroom.

So maybe my mom was right. Maybe they are plotting after all...

So Much To Do

I'm awake really early today, finding that I can't sleep thinking of all the things I have to do still. There are a lot of things I have to do, and unfortunately updating here has been low on the list. And my body misses it. I've grown used to writing here and when I don't get to do it, I feel the words that are inside me get itchy, which makes me anxious. I need to write here more. But in order to do that, I'll probably need to get up at 2:59 am. I keep getting up earlier and earlier every day, but somehow the rush to get out of the house never gets better.

I already feel behind in school, but I think so does everyone else. I think it's a calculated effort to immerse into the world of nursing, where somehow, I get the feeling, one never feels there is enough time to do anything. Yup. I got that now. Can we go back to life when I felt I had a handle on it? Last night I got into bed and just started to cry. I kept thinking of all the reading I had yet to do, and health histories, and case studies, and Jesus Christ-- I can't even take a reliable blood pressure reading and tomorrow I'll be in the hospital with patients...

Crap. I'm having another anxiety attack and aren't I supposed to be writing about this relieve my anxiety?

My child doesn't seem to care that much about the time period in which I'm missing. I lucked out and got care for him in the same building where I take my classes, which means that on breaks or at lunch, I can run down and nurse him. The staff are so supportive of this, but I'm not sure all of my fellow students quite undertand. After all, the Cricket is eight months, and to some people that seems like extended breastfeeding. It's not at all in my mind. First of all, my kid won't take a bottle. He chews on the nipple like a puppy. Second, it's really his primary nutrition. I don't worry so much about the fact that he doesn't like vegetables because I know that he's nursing still. Yet one fellow student was telling me she was talking about my situation with her partner, and they were talking about whether they'd wean if they were in my situation. There will be no weaning.

That being said, I'm terrified that when I do my L&D rotations, which start the second week of November, that things are going to go south. I do two twelve hour clinical shifts two days in a row. I feel like I'm never go to see Cricket. I will see him, but it will be at bedtime only. I can feel myself starting to cry again about this.

I have to go now and start the craziness of my morning. I miss blogging. I miss checking on everyone everyday, but I'm still here. I still jump around and your blogs, I just don't comment as much. And hopefully I'll be able to update with more soon. (Like the fact that Cricket has three teeth! Teeth!)

Not Fallen Off the Face of the Flat Earth

Just on vacation, then haggling over financial aid (not enough to cover tuition!), buying uniforms and books for the fall, trying to sell two houses, finding daycare and jobs, and finally, spending every single minute possible with Cricket before starting school full time in less than two weeks.

More soon, but an overseas houseguest (hurrah!) arrives tomorrow and there's much cleaning and work to be done still...

Upgrading?

If, for example, we were thinking of getting a new car seat, and knowing that Cricket probably weighs at this point around 22 pounds (we'll know for sure on Wednesday), what kind of car seat would you recommend and why?

Four Summer Things Cricket Loves

1. The pool: Cricket is enjoying summer so far. He loves the pool. The first time we went in, I stupidly forgot the sun screen, so I was little obsessed about staying the shade and we only went in for a few minutes. On the Fourth, he did pool redux, this time with sunscreen. Unfortunately the pool was a little bit cooler, so we still didn't stay in that long. He went under twice, and after he got down looking shocked, he flashed a big smile. I can't wait to see what he's going to do in the ocean.

2. Mastering parseltongue and wrestling snakes: Best money I have ever spent at IKEA. He loves this snake almost as much as he loves the pool. I love to see him pull this snake all over the place.

3. Reading: He's figured out how to hold books up and look at the pictures, which I think is super, but just as often, he grabs the book to put into his mouth too. But he's looking on his own. I could swear that this morning he turned the page on his own, which I'm sure is a fluke, but it was great fun. 4. Hanging out in the hammock: He loves to be under the trees or looking up at the sky. He sings songs to the birds, which is really charming. He could be there for hours just looking up. He's looked up like this since he was just born. I wonder what it all means.

Monday Cuteness

Cricket likes to have serious conversations with some of his toys. Here is really getting into it with a frog, probably talking about the politics of cricket consumption by frogs. I mean, this kid really likes a good discussion. He's so our boy.
This face, while slightly cute here, will probably be the face that annoys me when he's fourteen and being defiant. He could also look three sheets to the wind here. Which he is, sorta. On breast milk, you know?
No more needs to be said. Adored, alright.
Not above using the kid to make statements.
Here is relaxed baby. Not a care in the world. He has just been slathered and it is feeling rather content. He's also mesmerized by the red-eye reducer. Last night we were laughing about little baby bodies and how out of proportion they are. His short little arms in relation to his long body-- it's cute when he's five months old.

Trying (to not think) Again

The kid is five months officially now.

And officially I'm ready to try again.

Actually I've been ready to try again since he was officially four months.

If we were a heterosexual couple, I would have said to Partner, "Let's live on the edge-- no protection tonight!" Unfortunately, as we all know, it doesn't quite work that way over here chez lesbian. When we are ready to get another baby, we'll ring up Dr. BusyBusyBusy, get our OPKs, start the peeing on a stick cycle, and ready ourselves for repeated IUIs and more two week waits. And even that is presumptuous. Remember? That's how we thought it would happen for Partner.

A lot can happen between now and when we'll actually start trying again. We believed we'd get Partner knocked up relatively easy and fast and then that all came tumbling down with a finality that was bleak and dark, a feeling it's hard to remember for all its real blackness now that we have Cricket. I can remember how awful it was, and certainly Partner will carry that with her for her whole life, but while Cricket hasn't erased the loss, he's certainly mitigated it. Like Partner, I would imagine that Dr. BusyBusyBusy will want to do an hsg on me too. I have been pregnant, true, but from a little embryo tucked up inside me, not because of any natural process on my part.

Assuming (dangerous!) that I'm clear, so to speak, we'll probably do two IUIs per cycle. And I want to try and be honest with myself about it. Last time we were in the game, we both just thought that IVF cycle one would work. Bang. Done. And baby comes home. We learned the hard way about that. So when we start doing IUI, I want to try and think it might take four to six times for it to work. You know, I want to be honest with myself. I'm not so good at that. In my heart I have this little hope that the first IUI will work and all heartbreak will be avoided. I'll only have one wrenching two week wait. The baby will stay in my until I'm full term.

We've decided we won't talk seriously about having another until Cricket is one year old. I'll be four months into my twelve month program. I'm not entirely sure I want to be pregnant during an intensive one year nursing program, and additionally, since my midwife said I have an increased chance of the next baby coming early, I really want to be sure I don't jeopardize finishing the program either. If I decide I can be pregnant during the program, that means not trying until probably February or later. And then of course, should I time it so the baby only comes after I've been working for awhile? Or have the baby, take a few months, and then look for a job? And look! How quickly I assume in this calculus that I will get pregnant on the first try! Not bloody likely, girl.

We've decided that we'll do IVF again for me if the IUI doesn't work, but I'm trying to be this mix of hopeful with a dose of reality that doesn't fall into the bleakest of situations. And I'm trying to remember we aren't talking about this again, yet. But here I am talking. I think I'll go watch the Cricket sleep for the last minutes of his nap and enjoy what I've got. A good life policy in general, don't you think?

([No] Blues) Traveller

I thought I should post a little update about the Cricket in flight since I got such great advice from everyone. Cricket is a flying champ!

First of all, the plane we went on was smaller than we are usually on, only 13 rows of two seats. Pretty small. When we got to the gate, carrying the car seat in hopes of a free seat, we were advised by the surly agent that the flight was fully booked. "No chance of the bulkhead then?" I asked.

"I told you: We're fully booked."

Northwest really wins on customer service sometimes, eh? We got on the plane while those around us eyed with a mixture of disdain and suspicion. Cricket was getting a little kvetchy since it was time to nap. The man sitting across from us was the ray of light though, telling me how Cricket would be okay as long as I nursed him, and that this was easiest time to fly with kids, and all about this two kids and one on the way. I really liked him. I wanted to take him home with us.

And then we pushed back from the gate and I started with the breast. I was a little worried I was premature since there was a line-up for take off, but it was perfect. He nursed himself to sleep, and sleep he did, all the way to the gate in Charleston. At that point, all those around us who cast the evil on when we embarked, remarked upon how cute and good he was as they disembarked. Trial by fire, what?

I tried to make nice with the air hostess the whole trip, the same pleasant lady who told me the Flight. Was. Fully. Booked. At one point, I asked if she pronounced her name "Sha-von"; she said yes and then I chirped, "Oh! That's a real Irish name!" She glared at me and said, "Yes, I know. But I don't spell it like they do." Listen, lady, I'm the they you poo-poo. I decided she was hopeless. All that worrying about Cricket and his possible unpleasantness, and really my biggest hassle was obnoxious flight personnel.

With our dreamy flight into Charleston, I wasn't so worried about the return flight to Detroit. Incidentally, NW redeemed themselves here by getting us onto the earlier flight out, giving us the bulkhead, and not charging us at all to change the flights. Cricket, it's true, really did look bad at this point, so I think we got the "pity fare." Nice to know it still exists. Actually everyone at NW on our return was great. When I called the airline to see if there were seats available, the woman I talked told me how much it would be to change through her on the phone ($238), but then told me to just go the airport since there were seven seats left and we'd have no problem getting on. Once at the airport, the rep told us it would cost $25 to verify our flight there, or we could go standby for free. She said we should choose standby since she was sure we'd get on. After I agreed to that, she booked me anyway. I really felt good about NW for the first time in years.

Once on the plane, he wailed. Screamed. I knew all I had to do was offer up the breast and with the first suck, he'd pipe down, but I was saving the boobs as my secret weapon for take-off. It's a good thing I held out a little because it took some time to push back. Once we started moving, he fed and again there were no problems. What a champ. Once off the plane, a young man told me how good Cricket was. "For a minute there I thought we were in for a nightmare," he said. Yup. Me too. Of course, don't forget how Cricket was masquerading as lobster at this point, deep in the throes of his sulfa-allergy outbreak.

Things were so good with him on the plane, I'd even go so far as to say, it helped my own phobias too. Here's a picture of our little traveller. How could he not charm the pants off anyone?

I also think this picture really highlights how small those damn seats are. Cricket is a mere 16 pounds here; he's got some room in the seat, but for how much longer?

Flying High

Cricket is headed for his first plane trip on Saturday. I have so many fears about this I have actually kept myself awake at night thinking about them. Them. The fears.

1. Although everyone says he'll be fine if he nurses at take off and landing, I'm terrified his little ears will hurt so much he won't nurse and then will scream for the two and half hour flight. And landing takes so damn long. Sometimes you start to descend and the pilot hasn't even said it's happening. What do I do if this happens?

2. If he falls asleep before take off or in the air, do I wake him to nurse? Or hope that everything will be okay?

3. Those damn seats are small. How am I going to manage nursing in them? I should be practicing nursing in a cradle hold, but we so like the football hold over here.

4. I know it's safer to have him in his own seat. Gah. This is the one that makes me feel sick. Sick, I tell you. Literally I feel like throwing up right now. But we do not have a seat for him. We used our miles to take this trip otherwise it wouldn't be happening, you know, with our house on the market and bad real estate economy, etc. Clearly on the take off and landing, I'll be nursing (hopefully) and then plan to sling him. Still... I know about the safety stats now.

5. I'm a nervous flyer. I did not used to be a nervous flyer. Going to the airport and getting on a plane was one of my favorite things to do. When I got old enough (and the credit card that allowed me entrance) I'd even get there early to enjoy a drink at the NWA lounge. Flying represented impending adventure.

Then a couple years ago we were on the worst flight ever to New Orleans. The plane was rocking back and forth. We were doing those drop hundreds of feet at once turbulence deals. You could hear the wind hitting the plane. At one, we were nose diving and Partner looked at me and said, "Are we going down?" The pilot couldn't climb over the storm, so he was trying to go under it. After about forty-five minutes of this, the pilot came on and apologized. He said if he had known it would have been that bad, he would never have left Detroit. The plane was okay, he emphasized, but he knew it was rough going.

I've never been the same since. Last summer when returning from South Carolina, I was a wreck on the planes. I should have taken something, but was pregnant. Now I'm nursing and really can't take anything again, but a Valium wouldn't be amiss.

Partner's concern is mainly with this last point. She's worried that Cricket is going to pick up on my anxiety. I've been talking myself into being calm all week, but as the day gets closer, my fears are picking up intensity. I'm so fucking good at worrying, this shouldn't be surprising, but I've got to get a check on it. I like to travel far too much for this to become an issue.

Help?

(Kinda) Celebrity Look-a-Like

I admit it: I watch Regis & Kelly in the morning. They are my morning friends, after Diane Sawyer and Robin Roberts. I enjoy the witty, yes witty, banter that sometimes happens on the show. I even like the guest hosts, in particular, Pat Sajak (yes, Pat Sajak, who is remarkably funny and dry. But it won't get me to watch the Wheel. I hate the Wheel.)

Anyhow, they're having a celebrity look-a-like thing which is far more fun than I thought it might be. In the spirit of their show, I thought I'd show you our own version with Cricket. Tell the similarity isn't striking:

Cricket:

The Infant of Prague:

Imagine the funky hat being on Cricket and think of him holding the globe. He's got the hand thing down. This is probably totally sacrilegious, but it was my mother who pointed it out to me and since I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself, I thought I should share.

I also think he bears a small resemblance to Broderick Crawford, but it's all in the cheeks.

My poor kid. I'm teasing him already in front of the whole Internet.

Exponential [Secret] [Love]

This morning as I sat with the Cricket nursing on my lap-- both he and I still prefer the football hold-- I was thinking about how big he's gotten, easily twice the size of when he was born. And then I thought of how I loved him.

I'm going to confess something I'm hesitant to reveal, which means it's really true and "close to the bone." (I used to teach my own writing students to write 'close to the bone'-- it's honest and scary and wonderful all at the same time... See how I'm hedging my confession here?)

When the Cricket was born, I don't know if I loved him immediately. Oh, and see I don't know that love is even the correct word here because of course I loved him, even when he was in the womb. I can remember one day when I was pregnant and Partner and I were driving the Very Busy Road in our city and I had to swerve and slam on the brakes to avoid a woman who was turning left into us. I pulled over into the first parking lot and just sobbed thinking how if she had hit us, Cricket would have been in serious danger. So, yes, I loved him even then, but it was different.

When I realized that I was going to have the baby five weeks early, I stood in my sopping wet socks and cried. I wasn't ready. Yet. I was hoping to have those five more weeks to think about his impending arrival, decorate the nursery, mediate with my hands on my enormous stomach and try to get closer to the new life. Instead I sat on a towel in my Partner's truck hurtling down the expressway to the hospital three days after Christmas and tried to calm myself down. Just because things didn't start the way I wanted, it didn't mean, I thought, I couldn't have the birth I wanted. And as calm as my demeanor in the hospital was, I was scared. Scared to have the birth I wanted, more scared to have the birth I didn't want, and petrified of the new life inside of me that I would soon be responsible for in an ever-so tangible way.

Not once when we finally got the hospital did I cry, scream, or otherwise. Toward the end of the first pitocin drip when I had no epidural, I probably mooed. But to no one, not even my Partner did I admit how scared I was. Then when I was wheeled into the OR, I told them I was freezing and so they put a warming blanket over the top half of my body, but nothing could stop me from shaking. Why? Because I was not so much cold as scared shitless.

And when they showed me the Cricket, I stretched out my fingers to touch him, but no one could see since they were strapped down under the warming blanket. When they took him to the NICU, it only made me more scared. When the wheeled me into the NICU, I can remember looking at him lying on his stomach, tubes and wires attached to him. I wanted to pick him up and hold him as much as I wanted to close my eyes and not see any of it. And so while I loved him, I was more scared of him and his fragility and my responsibility for such in the first few weeks of his life. Love underlined all the fear.

Now he really is growing into a sturdy boy, just as I wanted him too. I'm not so scared, however that's not to say there isn't any fear. Tears can appear instantly if I think of something happening to him, but that's just normal mommy fear. So what's happened is that the love is growing, exponentially. As my confidence as a mother grows, so does my love for the kid. I feel totally different about him now than I did when he was first born. Instead of love underlining the fear, love is the dominant emotion now. Fear is a footnote; always present in some ways, but regulated to the end of the text. It's important enough to be present, but not so central to the text of my motherhood.

With exponential growth, the larger something gets, the faster it grows. Being one of the few geeks that actually enjoyed differential equations when I took calculus, I was thrilled when we did problems that demonstrated exponential growth. Then this past year in Microbiology, I was captivated by bacterial and their log growth in optimum conditions. Hey, I'm a dork, and you should now that by now if you read my blog. But as I studied different ways things grow, exponential growth seemed to be concept limited to things like growing interest in bank accounts and specimens of S. aureus. Probably there was some sort of learning exponential growth curve too, but I never thought of love following such a graph. Which is silly because now that I think of it, most love in my life has followed such a pattern, such that real love begets more and more love. My brothers, my parents, my partner, and now my child have all proven that such a mathematical model holds true. It would be difficult to prove in the mathematical sense, in that I have no values to place on where we started and where we're going, but if you can know in your heart a math concept is true, I know it keenly and joyfully.

I'm quite sure that I'm not the only woman who felt this way when her child was born, but isn't it taboo to talk about? What we hear is "I fell in love the minute I saw him/her" which is, as I said, true, but that love might be fraught at the start. I had to tell the truth because where I've come from that time to now is unbelievable, and reaching such new heights deserves to be chronicled. To be close to the bone. And all that love for such a wee man.

1 April

We had the best April Fools day ever. The lesbians baptized their baby in the Catholic church.

Ha, ha.

No really. We did.

Before Cricket (I almost said his name! I'll post the winners of the contest soon!)... Anyway, starting again: Before Cricket was born, and even before he was a reality, I thought about religion and his life. I feel like my own faith has gotten me through some bad times. Organized religion isn't for everyone, and I can understand that. My own Partner goes to church with me I think just to support my need for it. She's not sure what she makes of the whole thing.

I felt pretty embraced by the church until my relationship with Partner. Then things got more sticky, as you can imagine. If it was only ever going to be Partner and me, I would have had less questions about what to do. I would have stayed in the Catholic church without ever reaching out to other faiths. I would have believed my role was to stand up and make noise. Agitate for change from within, so to speak. I don't want to leave the Catholic church. The rituals have meaning for me. But I knew we wanted to start this family, so I thought again.

Was it fair to have children raised in a faith that didn't recognize the legitimacy of their family? Nope. Absolutely not. After all, one of the things that my faith taught me was about the unconditional love of God. Wasn't this just the church putting conditions on it? Does God love our family less because we are two women raising children together than he loves the family of one man and one woman? I know the answer to that in my heart, and it's a rousing no. God loves us all. And my family is so right, I just know that God smiles on us, and often. Yet the church's very position did seem answer that question with an affirmative, so I questioned.

I went to a priest and talked about it and his answer was that the church was schizophrenic on the issue. He encouraged me to explore the Episcopal church, but said he'd regret if I left the Catholic church. I listened to his words, but I didn't really hear them. We kept going to the Catholic church, at least once a month when I was scheduled to do the readings, and we went to the Episcopal church too. I liked it there. I liked the people. The smallness of the congregation compared to our large Catholic church was both refreshing and scary. If we weren't in church, people knew it. Whereas we could be gone for a year from the Catholic church we attend and I don't know that anyone would know. Yet I never felt the same after leaving the Episcopal service as I did after leaving mass. Even the services are largely the same, I just never quite got "there" after an Episcopal service. More and more we were Catholic. I haven't been to our Episcopal church in months, although we plan on attending the Easter Vigil there.

I ran into an acquaintance from this Episcopal church when I went to get my hair cut last week. She remarked on our absence, and I admitted to her that we had been increasingly Catholic, and I spilled the beans about Cricket's impending baptism. She said that she though being Catholic was a lot like being Jewish, almost a cultural thing and hard to fully ever walk away from. I get that.

When I called the Deacon about the pre-meeting for the baptism, he said I should bring my husband along. I was surprised by this because I assumed he knew I was a lesbian. I had a letter published in the Detroit Free Press when the state had the divisive proposal two on the ballot and I also very publicly walked out of the church when the Bishop sent his taped message to churches urging us to vote yes on this proposal. So taken aback, I said to him in one rushed breath, "There's no husband, but I have a partner and she's a woman; is that going to be a problem?"

"Not for me," the very conservative Deacon responded.

And it wasn't. Frankly, it hasn't been a problem for anyone we've talked to in the RC. The nun who runs the music at the church brought (only) us a book for Cricket about his baptism. It's a beautiful book. The pastor was welcoming to us as we came into church for the big day. It seems that the priest I talked to wasn't just spouting platitudes, but he was actually telling it like it is. He said there'd be some people who had a problem with it, but only because they'd be concerned about me. But I haven't run into any of those people yet, and if I did I'd try to educate them. More and more I wonder if it is our particular mission to be open and out in the Catholic church. Often Partner and I talk about how we feel like we are ambassadors for gay and lesbian people.

I was raised in an upper-middle class neighborhood-- or rather the whole city was that way. Conservative politics are de rigueur, and the whole place is rather homogeneous. There was one African American at my school. Thus this is the pool from which my parents have their friends, and when we had our commitment ceremony, many of them attended. I hazard to guess it was probably the first lesbian wedding many had attended, and I further that by supposing that it will be the last too. Not only did these friends come, but they really celebrated with us. At our baby shower, I told a few of these parental friends about the draconian adoption laws in our glorious state. Both of the women I was talking to had adopted their own children and both were appalled. Now one of them sends me clippings from her lawyers office detailing attempts to allow second parent adoption. They dote on the Cricket. I think in our own way we've changed some peoples minds about gay people.

We do this by just being who we are. I'm going to be honest here and note that I think it helps that we're perceived to be young, healthy, and in a rising middle class ourselves. Neither of us gets too strident in mixed (political-parental friend) company. We're both relatively cheerful and intelligent people. Our style is best described as preppy. I can talk about my crystal pattern. And that seems normal to these parental friends. Because we look like and act like their own children, our message about the normalcy of gay and lesbian relationships does get heard.

That's not to say that this is the only way to agitate for change. Or that everything about our relationship with the Catholic church is hunky dory. For example, when meeting with the Deacon, he commented on how certain nuns protested at the Pope's visit (John Paul, that is) and his position on women in the church. The Deacon was very critical and said they did more harm than good and I disagreed with him vehemently. I said that sometimes people did need to get up and rock the boat. That there were many ways to raise consciousness. I'm not sure he agreed with me at all, but then again, wasn't I raising his consciousness at that very moment by sitting his office with my partner discussing baptism for our son?

I'm more loose about the whole thing now. I think we've made a commitment to raise Cricket in the Catholic church, but I'm open to other faith experiences too. We'll take him to the Episcopal church also and let him make up his mind when the time comes as to how he'll choose to practice, or not practice, religion. I'll be honest with him about the shortcomings of the Catholic faith and the Episcopal and others for that matter.

Yet all in all, I can say the day was wonderful. He looked elegant in a baptismal gown that is over 150 years old, worn by many members of his family. He slept when the poured the water over his head. His family-- my family, Partner's family-- all came together on a beautiful sunny day to celebrate the role of God in his life. And ultimately that is what mattered.

Why I Don't Blog More

Or a more in depth portrait:

The Kiddio Recovereth

When I wrote my essays for nursing school, I thought it might be helpful to indicate what type of nursing I'd like to do. I think this approach worked because when I was interviewed, I was asked about my essays and my intended speciality. What did I say? Pediatric nursing.

Cricket is making me doubt it this week. I can hardly stand to hear him cough. How exactly did I (do I?) think that I could work in a PICU? Or children's oncology? I'm not saying I'm totally off the idea, but it's really heartbreaking to see a kid sick, and I knew all along he was going to get better. Get my gist?

The big news? He's sleeping, upstairs, in his swing. I am downstairs, at the computer. For the past four nights he has slept alone, albeit in his car seat, which I have placed into the co-sleeper. We strap him in and off he goes. While some sleep people/parents might say not to do this, I can't help but note that is far far safer than sleeping on us in a chair. He can sleep with the fucking car seat until he's ten. I don't care. Just sleep. Without me.

The Cough Cometh

I don't type very well one handed. I'm slow and clumsy (yet still I think I am faster than my dad's two hands-- probably because I know where all the keys are.) In my senior year of college I tore a ligament in my right thumb (playing rugby) and wore a cast that came over my fingers. I mastered one handed typing then. I am wondering if I can get back some of my former dexterity. To really appreciate just how awful I am at this, I should leave my typos in. It's woeful. I can't tell you how many times I've typed a capital "O" for a capital "I." And it's taken me so long to type that, that I have started wondering why I am using the pronoun I so much. Me, me, me.

I'm blogging! while breastfeeding! But breastfeeding is a slight misnomer. It's more like light sucking which will need to be followed up by some serious pumping. Last night I couldn't get my breasts to shut off! After Cricket stopped eating, the breast just kept going, literally into the air. It was quite a sight to see.

But why isn't our Cricket eating so well? The previously ravenous Cricket is lackluster because he's sick. Sick, sick, sick. The poor pup has a nasty case of broncholitis most likely caused by the dreaded RSV. It started, sadly, on Saturday when we thought all he had was a modest cold. As you can see from the photos, we took him out anyway. Sunday he started feeling warm and axillary temps ranged from 99 too 100. Monday, a cough developed and a night call to the nurse line assured us that this probably meant he was getting better, but as dawn broke on Tuesday morning, it was obvious that getting better was the last thing he was doing. After eating, since he was still eating then, his cough was worse (probably because he was flat) and then the scary wheezing started. I called the vet, whoops, the pediatrician's office and discussed his wheezing with a nurse.

"I don't want to be a hysterical mother," I said to her. I was asked his temperature and admonished for not taking it rectally. (!!!) After imitating his wheeze, she told me to bring him in. How soon could I be there? "Well, I haven't taken a shower yet, but considering that are out of shampoo I could skip it and be there by 10:00."

"Come right over," she said. She told me to say "wheezing" to the receptionist and that would get a nurse right out there. She also told me to go to the "well child" waiting room. Previously I thought we were safe in that room, but apparently not...

Once at the doctor, I felt like he had stopped wheezing, but he brought it out just in time to show the doctor what I had heard. "You aren't being hysterical," he said to me. "He's sick alright." I asked if I was aggravating it by having him sleep on his chest on me, and assured the doctor that I was trying to get him to sleep on his own. The sweet doc, not my own, gently told me that no, I wasn't aggravating anything, and quite possibly I should abandon the sleep projects when he was sick. "Just let him sleep on you until he gets better." Like I wasn't doing that already.

Last night I set a two a.m. deadline: If he hadn't fallen asleep by then, a midnight call was in order because it was all kvetch-cry-wheeze-bark. He fell asleep at 1:45 and slept until about 8:00 am. And then he woke up, ate, and wow, did he ever wheeze hard core after that. His coughs were (are) quite spectacular-- resulting in a totally scary purple face. Accompanied by loud grunts, think female tennis player style, a la Monica Seles, it was really quite concerning. And there was some serious retraction happening, so I called the doc's office again, and again, they said, come right away. And since today he sounded 1000% worse than yesterday, I went even faster.

It's a virus and I know as well as anyone else that there's nothing to give a virus. Except, apparently, Albuterol. And a nebulizer. My sweet baboo did not like that mask over his face. Possibly it conjured up bad memories of the C-PAPP machine, but whatever the case, he coughed his way through his first treatment at the doctor office. It felt like I was gassing my own baby. And although he was still coughing when the doctor checked on us, she assured me he sounded better though the scope. I'm going to start insisting that I get to listen also. That, I'm sure, will really endear me to her.

The cricket is sleeping mostly, which is good because he doesn't wheeze as much in his sleep and coughs even less. I am concerned at the fact that he's not nursing as exuberantly, but hey, when I'm sick I don't really like to eat that exuberantly either.

Okay, that's it for now. I'm going to wrap him up and let him breath some of the moist spring air before the sun sets. And hope beyond hope that even though I had to BUY the damn nebulizer, I never ever have to use it at home.

Oh, and incidently, rectal temperature? Really my issue, not his because he could give a shit. Literally.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day-- A Day Late

I know you don't know Cricket's name, but let's just say that there are those who just cannot get his name right. ("Uh... Could you spell that?") Yesterday at the Detroit Irish festival no one had that problem. He was right at home with the other babies. He met a Sean, Siobhan, Liam, etc. He was the only one of his name. But everyone knew it. Here's our wee fella on the high holy day.