Well, actually, in front of the nurses. But still...
It was my six-week check up after giving birth to my son, Ian. I was still not back in shape, I was breastfeeding for what felt like every minute of the day and night, I was hot and sweaty and I was feeling flustered and tired. July and the constant sticky feeling that came with breastfeeding were taking their toll. I arrived early for my doctor’s appointment in Stamford, risking our lives on the busy northeast corridor that is I95.
The thing about I95 is that you can never be sure if the ride will take 10 minutes; we lived in Norwalk, CT, just north of Stamford, or 10 hours depending on traffic, the time of day and general dumbass drivers maneuvering around the road like they were in grand theft auto.
I was early, and I parked us on a loveseat. The décor reminded me of a cross between a bordello and my aunt Libby’s house, maroon furniture, mauve walls, mauve carpet, and lots of silk flowers (what is the point of those anyway? They send the message: I want flowers, but I’m too pathetically lazy to buy them, water them or throw them out when they’re dead) and little bric-a-brac thingies everywhere that I despise. Though to see our house today, filled with taxidermy, paintings and bird’s nests, doorknobs and medical equipment, you’d think differently. The point about stuff is, if you’re going to collect things, say like doorknobs or dead birds, it should have a point of view or an edge. And crystal candy dishes in my opinion have no point of view and are most definitely edgeless.
But where was I?
Oh, back at Dr DeBordello’s office. Ian was just starting to wake up as I parked myself, and him on the sofa. I had on a sundress: yellow with white flowers that allowed for ventilation, and let’s be honest, it was one ugly dress but it was the only one that actually fit around my belly. Ian was scrunching up his face, (we joked that he was the love child of Lee Harvey Oswald, and George Steinbrenner). I took him out of the car seat to try and comfort him with a pacifier, or if he’d take it, a bottle. He was still in his clench fist stage; little hands clenched, arms close to the body. I guess it takes a while for them to unfurl once they’ve been in tight quarters for nine months. That’s when the nurse called me. I was flustered, as I mentioned, and I had a whole sofa of stuff to pack up; the baby, the diaper bag, the bottles, pacifier… and she was standing there, waiting. I grabbed all the stuff and threw it in the diaper bag. I put Ian in the car seat, grabbed my purse, the diaper bag, and the car seat and made my way across the waiting room to where the exam rooms were located.
Now, as I’ve mentioned, I was leaving the brothel/waiting room behind, and the lip of the carpet ended by the door jamb, and behind that door, it was all bright lights, clinical white tiles, more what you’d expect a doctor’s office to look like. So, when carpet ends, they, whoever they are, put a little rubber lip thing on the end, again, as I mentioned. My big clumsy stupid sneakered feet, yes, I was wearing a sundress with sneakers, caught on that lip.
And that’s when it happened. I pitched forward. The car seat slowly swung forward and a six-week-old Ian sort of plunked out of the car seat. Onto the floor, right there in front of the nurses. Luckily, he was still in curled up position, protecting his head and face with his little fists and arms, but really. How could I have forgotten to strap him back in?
The nurse scooped him up, noticing my face, hysterical, shaking, and she comforted him while I went into my exam room. “You won’t be able to calm him down, so let me do it.” She assured me that he was fine, just startled, and that “babies are pretty resilient.” Well believe me, I was thinking, he’d better be if he’s got me for a mother.
The kindness of that nurse was the one thing that I remember the most from that visit. I do not remember the actual check up. I don’t remember even seeing the doctor. I just remember how she expertly scooped, hugged and cuddled Ian during my checkup.
I finally told Ian about this. We joke about it and now that he’s about to go to high school for the first time in about three days (I’m more nervous than he is I think) he says to me, “see, look how I turned out.” Pretty good actually. Even if he’s had to put up with my “bumpy parenting” through the years.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
In which I reveal way too much about myself.
It started with a text message. One pregnant Christina testing a non-pregnant Christina, the first Christina in an obvious, even for texting, snit because she was about to leave for the airport to go visit friends in Toronto, when she realized that a) her shirt was on inside out, and b) she had no passport. “What is this lentil getting her into?” She wrote. Lentil was the pre-birth name for her baby. It was either that or Nunzio Domenico DiZebba, or Annunziata Cannoli DiZebba.
In an attempt to calm her down I texted back: “It’s called prego brain,” I texted “It’s totally normal. The point is that you CAUGHT it. You didn’t actually get on the plane with your shirt inside out.” And to further comfort her so that she wouldn’t feel like a total incompetent, I texted again: “Did I tell you the story of when I locked myself out of our apartment with a five day old baby Ian inside? Or the time when I dropped him? At the doctor’s office? Or the time when I was pregnant and I had a meltdown because I couldn’t make a pie crust?” It went on for several more text exchanges. And so this idea was born...
Bad Mommy Stories. If you’re a mommy and you don’t have one, congratulations. You’re either perfect or lying. And my money’s on the latter.
Either way, enjoy the stories.
Lock Out.
We had just brought Ian home from the hospital three days prior and it was the first time that I was truly alone with him. Really alone. No one around at all. Just me. And him. It made me panic a little bit because I had never really been around babies before and we had recently killed several houseplants and an iguana. I stared at him sleeping in the bassinet thinking how am I going to do this? The “this” was keeping him safe and alive for the next 18 or so years. I had barely finished that thought when I decided to get the paper so I could rest while he rested.
The apartment’s front door was one of those old metal doors that automatically locked as it closes. I had gone out the front door to get the newspaper. I had to walk a bit farther than usual because the paperboy had bad aim. That’s when I heard it. Click. The door had shut. I had no key. And I forgot to push that little button on the door that unlocks the lock.
Now I’ve done it, I thought. Shit. Shit. Shit. I have screwed up really badly this time and it’s only day five. I stood in the same spot, frozen with panic. Sweat was dripping down my neck, most likely a combination of the hormones trying to work themselves back to normal and the 90-degree June weather. I stood there, thinking about my options and all the "What ifs" that could happen.
What if Ian woke up hungry? What if the cat sucked the life from him (I’m Italian and this is a classic Italian wives’ tale)? What if there was a fire? I had to get back in there and fast. I didn’t have time for a locksmith even if I could call one.
Okay, I thought. Maybe our neighbor, Megan who was a friend, had left her door open. She did that from time to time. If she or her husband Don were there, maybe they might let me in and not tell my husband, (who would think I was a complete idiot), and I could…. It came to me in a flash. Every apartment had a balcony overlooking Long Island Sound. I could jump from their balcony to ours. But, what if the sliding doors to our balcony were shut and locked? I couldn’t remember if I had left them unlocked or not. I didn’t care. I’d smash them, I thought. Now, the distance between balconies was maybe three feet. (It felt like three feet, I honestly can’t remember the EXACT distance) They were not connected at all, but stand alone balconies.
Three feet isn’t a lot except when you’re two stories up and you’ve just had an episiotomy. And you’re still not back to your normal size…
I knocked on Megan’s door. Her mom, who was visiting, answered. She was there alone. I pushed past her babbling something stupid about locks and balconies and rushed straight through their apartment to their balcony. I stepped out. I looked over. I was panting. I looked at our balcony. The doors were shut. Great. Don’t worry about it just get there… okay. Just do it. Okay. Don’t look down. I got up on the ledge, I eased myself up to a standing position and I did not look anywhere except at my goal. I held my breath and leapt over.
.
I made it. I was sweating and shaking but I made it. I went to the first set of sliding doors, the bedroom balcony doors. I peaked in; Ian was still sleeping peacefully. I tried to open the sliding doors. Nope. Locked. Of course they were. I had locked them to keep out baby-nappers who lurked everywhere now. You just couldn’t be too careful. I went to the living room balcony doors. I put my hand on the hot metal handle. I pushed it to the left; it gave way and I slid the door open. I wanted to cry. I was so relieved. I had made it back to my child.
I don’t think Megan’s mom ever told anyone, nor did I tell my now ex-husband. Until now.
Pushing the Errand Envelope.
Anna hated her car seat. I think most kids dislike their car seats because of the straps but Anna really truly despised hers. Anytime I had her strapped in it, I figured I had at the most, half an hour tops, to do all my errands. This meant in 30 minutes, with a 4 month old baby I had to grocery shop, pick up and drop off dry cleaning, pick Ian up at pre-school, and whatever other random errands that needed to be done on a weekly basis.
Needless to say, it was Errand Impossible. This forced me to pick and choose which errands to run on any particular day. My limit in 30 minutes was two. It was not physically possible to get more than three done in the suburbs in a giant SUV.
There was one day however, that I decided to go for it. I decided to push the envelope of suburban errand running. I had to get the dry cleaning so I went for it; whopping three errands: post office, dry cleaners, and bank. I figured if she started crying, I’d be home soon enough, and what the hell, it was only me who would hear her tortured cries coming from the back of the car. I could tough it out. Anna had the most piercingly loud cry, and truth be told, her decibel level even now is why the dogs in the neighborhood sometimes howl. At 11 we still remind her to “turn her volume button down.”
She started whimpering at the post office. Not too bad. Give her a binky I thought and boom, I could pop into the dry cleaners, drop off the pile and whip back into the car; the dry cleaning place looked deserted so we were able to zip in and zip out pretty painlessly. She was crying a bit harder now, her rhythmic high pitched wails were getting on my nerves, and she was red, blotchy, and she looked pretty annoyed, but I was determined to persevere (once Anna wants something, she is pretty tenacious. A trait we noticed later and hence has earned her the nickname, Annie the pit-bull).
We headed toward the bank- bad news; there was a line of cars waiting to use the outside drive thru teller. Crap. I was stuck in it too because two cars had pulled up behind me. I had no choice but to wait in the line. She was screaming pretty hard now. The red face up to crimson, the blotches spreading over her baldhead and neck. I was pissed off at myself for being so stupid as to think I could actually pull this three-errand marathon off. Who was I kidding? In what felt like hours but was more likely no more than ten minutes (which is a long time to listen to your child in distress), we finished at the bank and we were headed home.
I was concentrating on driving and trying not to get in an accident so I was white knuckling the wheel. I just wanted to get home, and comfort her. I didn’t want to speed, but I wanted to get home quickly. I think I didn’t even want to look at her because I didn’t want to get distracted and upset, and really, I thought to myself, she was perfectly safe in her seat, just in a snit and it would all be over soon.
As we got nearer to the house, her cries began to sort of muffle. I thought maybe she’s trying to comfort herself with her fist, or maybe she’s losing steam and will sleep for the rest of the afternoon.
We pulled into the driveway. I turned the car off. Got out. Ran around to her side of the backseat. I opened up the back door. I was mortified. Somehow, Anna had managed to scream and contort herself in a Houdini like maneuver where she was literally face down in the car seat. She wasn’t trying to comfort herself. She was pissed off. So pissed off that she somehow channeled her rage into a contortionist’s ability to slide her shoulders out from under the straps.
I picked her up. Studied her for any signs of distress. She looked at me with all the disdain her old soul held; a sort of matron grand dame looking her nose down at the peasant, “How very dare you” the look said.
I never did try to push the errand envelope again. Though she’s 11, almost 12 now, she’s not so great on long car rides. I can’t help but wonder if somewhere lurking in the back of her brain is the memory of that afternoon, where her cries were muffled by her balled up little fists against the backside of her car seat…and I can’t help but think, if that’s the case, I hope she never reads this because I’ll never hear the end of it
Anna Ready for Splash Down.
Anna was the kind of baby who was fine to sit in her car seat, as long as she was within eye shot earshot of you. And it wasn’t actually moving in the car.
She would sit in the car seat while I cooked dinner, while I fed Ian, while I did the laundry and while I folded the laundry. I’m not saying that’s all I put her in, she had play time on her back, and tummy time, but for the practical parts of the day, those parts where you need to get stuff done, the car seat was brilliant. The minute it got in the car, forget about it. You could actually see her anxiety level percolate.
On this particular day, I needed a shower. Badly. She had spit up all over me and I’m pretty sure that the neighbors thought that a) I actually preferred my clothes with big white splotches on the front and b) that I always smelled like cheese. We were going for a stroll down to the video store (which dates me pretty badly, because yes, I was using a VHS machine to watch Mystery Science Theatre 3000 and The Birdcage).
[As an aside, for some pop cultural references as to when I was raising my babies: Anna has grown up in a world without Princess Di, who left the earth, a month before Anna entered into it. And with my son, I was nursing him through such famous lines as “If the glove don’t fit you must acquit.” But enough about how elderly they are now. Me? I’m ageless). Anyway, This is back when Anna was six months, tops.]
Back to me and my hygiene needs. I put Anna in the bathroom with me, on the bathmat. She happily began to rock back and forth in the seat; it had that sort of curved bottom to it. I started the shower with that sort of senseless running dialogue that you do with babies, and which now, everyone does publicly on twitter or facebook. “I’m turning the hot water on now, Ouch, now I’m turning the cold on.” Really inane things, but strangely, they seemed to keep her quiet and calm.
I continued my verbal diarrhea from behind the shower curtain; “Mommy’s shampooing now, now mommy’s rinsing. Mommy’s conditioning. Mommy’s shaving her legs with a dull blade. Mommy’s trying to stop the bleeding.” That sort of thing.
I stepped out of the shower, and there she was like a little astronaut strapped into her capsule, but completely upside down. She must have rocked so hard that she tipped. She was there, quietly calmly looking at me, judging me. Anna has an old soul. She was born old and on that day, Her 40 year old inner woman was looking at me, inwardly tsking, shaking her head and saying “You really can’t do anything right can you?”
In an attempt to calm her down I texted back: “It’s called prego brain,” I texted “It’s totally normal. The point is that you CAUGHT it. You didn’t actually get on the plane with your shirt inside out.” And to further comfort her so that she wouldn’t feel like a total incompetent, I texted again: “Did I tell you the story of when I locked myself out of our apartment with a five day old baby Ian inside? Or the time when I dropped him? At the doctor’s office? Or the time when I was pregnant and I had a meltdown because I couldn’t make a pie crust?” It went on for several more text exchanges. And so this idea was born...
Bad Mommy Stories. If you’re a mommy and you don’t have one, congratulations. You’re either perfect or lying. And my money’s on the latter.
Either way, enjoy the stories.
Lock Out.
We had just brought Ian home from the hospital three days prior and it was the first time that I was truly alone with him. Really alone. No one around at all. Just me. And him. It made me panic a little bit because I had never really been around babies before and we had recently killed several houseplants and an iguana. I stared at him sleeping in the bassinet thinking how am I going to do this? The “this” was keeping him safe and alive for the next 18 or so years. I had barely finished that thought when I decided to get the paper so I could rest while he rested.
The apartment’s front door was one of those old metal doors that automatically locked as it closes. I had gone out the front door to get the newspaper. I had to walk a bit farther than usual because the paperboy had bad aim. That’s when I heard it. Click. The door had shut. I had no key. And I forgot to push that little button on the door that unlocks the lock.
Now I’ve done it, I thought. Shit. Shit. Shit. I have screwed up really badly this time and it’s only day five. I stood in the same spot, frozen with panic. Sweat was dripping down my neck, most likely a combination of the hormones trying to work themselves back to normal and the 90-degree June weather. I stood there, thinking about my options and all the "What ifs" that could happen.
What if Ian woke up hungry? What if the cat sucked the life from him (I’m Italian and this is a classic Italian wives’ tale)? What if there was a fire? I had to get back in there and fast. I didn’t have time for a locksmith even if I could call one.
Okay, I thought. Maybe our neighbor, Megan who was a friend, had left her door open. She did that from time to time. If she or her husband Don were there, maybe they might let me in and not tell my husband, (who would think I was a complete idiot), and I could…. It came to me in a flash. Every apartment had a balcony overlooking Long Island Sound. I could jump from their balcony to ours. But, what if the sliding doors to our balcony were shut and locked? I couldn’t remember if I had left them unlocked or not. I didn’t care. I’d smash them, I thought. Now, the distance between balconies was maybe three feet. (It felt like three feet, I honestly can’t remember the EXACT distance) They were not connected at all, but stand alone balconies.
Three feet isn’t a lot except when you’re two stories up and you’ve just had an episiotomy. And you’re still not back to your normal size…
I knocked on Megan’s door. Her mom, who was visiting, answered. She was there alone. I pushed past her babbling something stupid about locks and balconies and rushed straight through their apartment to their balcony. I stepped out. I looked over. I was panting. I looked at our balcony. The doors were shut. Great. Don’t worry about it just get there… okay. Just do it. Okay. Don’t look down. I got up on the ledge, I eased myself up to a standing position and I did not look anywhere except at my goal. I held my breath and leapt over.
.
I made it. I was sweating and shaking but I made it. I went to the first set of sliding doors, the bedroom balcony doors. I peaked in; Ian was still sleeping peacefully. I tried to open the sliding doors. Nope. Locked. Of course they were. I had locked them to keep out baby-nappers who lurked everywhere now. You just couldn’t be too careful. I went to the living room balcony doors. I put my hand on the hot metal handle. I pushed it to the left; it gave way and I slid the door open. I wanted to cry. I was so relieved. I had made it back to my child.
I don’t think Megan’s mom ever told anyone, nor did I tell my now ex-husband. Until now.
Pushing the Errand Envelope.
Anna hated her car seat. I think most kids dislike their car seats because of the straps but Anna really truly despised hers. Anytime I had her strapped in it, I figured I had at the most, half an hour tops, to do all my errands. This meant in 30 minutes, with a 4 month old baby I had to grocery shop, pick up and drop off dry cleaning, pick Ian up at pre-school, and whatever other random errands that needed to be done on a weekly basis.
Needless to say, it was Errand Impossible. This forced me to pick and choose which errands to run on any particular day. My limit in 30 minutes was two. It was not physically possible to get more than three done in the suburbs in a giant SUV.
There was one day however, that I decided to go for it. I decided to push the envelope of suburban errand running. I had to get the dry cleaning so I went for it; whopping three errands: post office, dry cleaners, and bank. I figured if she started crying, I’d be home soon enough, and what the hell, it was only me who would hear her tortured cries coming from the back of the car. I could tough it out. Anna had the most piercingly loud cry, and truth be told, her decibel level even now is why the dogs in the neighborhood sometimes howl. At 11 we still remind her to “turn her volume button down.”
She started whimpering at the post office. Not too bad. Give her a binky I thought and boom, I could pop into the dry cleaners, drop off the pile and whip back into the car; the dry cleaning place looked deserted so we were able to zip in and zip out pretty painlessly. She was crying a bit harder now, her rhythmic high pitched wails were getting on my nerves, and she was red, blotchy, and she looked pretty annoyed, but I was determined to persevere (once Anna wants something, she is pretty tenacious. A trait we noticed later and hence has earned her the nickname, Annie the pit-bull).
We headed toward the bank- bad news; there was a line of cars waiting to use the outside drive thru teller. Crap. I was stuck in it too because two cars had pulled up behind me. I had no choice but to wait in the line. She was screaming pretty hard now. The red face up to crimson, the blotches spreading over her baldhead and neck. I was pissed off at myself for being so stupid as to think I could actually pull this three-errand marathon off. Who was I kidding? In what felt like hours but was more likely no more than ten minutes (which is a long time to listen to your child in distress), we finished at the bank and we were headed home.
I was concentrating on driving and trying not to get in an accident so I was white knuckling the wheel. I just wanted to get home, and comfort her. I didn’t want to speed, but I wanted to get home quickly. I think I didn’t even want to look at her because I didn’t want to get distracted and upset, and really, I thought to myself, she was perfectly safe in her seat, just in a snit and it would all be over soon.
As we got nearer to the house, her cries began to sort of muffle. I thought maybe she’s trying to comfort herself with her fist, or maybe she’s losing steam and will sleep for the rest of the afternoon.
We pulled into the driveway. I turned the car off. Got out. Ran around to her side of the backseat. I opened up the back door. I was mortified. Somehow, Anna had managed to scream and contort herself in a Houdini like maneuver where she was literally face down in the car seat. She wasn’t trying to comfort herself. She was pissed off. So pissed off that she somehow channeled her rage into a contortionist’s ability to slide her shoulders out from under the straps.
I picked her up. Studied her for any signs of distress. She looked at me with all the disdain her old soul held; a sort of matron grand dame looking her nose down at the peasant, “How very dare you” the look said.
I never did try to push the errand envelope again. Though she’s 11, almost 12 now, she’s not so great on long car rides. I can’t help but wonder if somewhere lurking in the back of her brain is the memory of that afternoon, where her cries were muffled by her balled up little fists against the backside of her car seat…and I can’t help but think, if that’s the case, I hope she never reads this because I’ll never hear the end of it
Anna Ready for Splash Down.
Anna was the kind of baby who was fine to sit in her car seat, as long as she was within eye shot earshot of you. And it wasn’t actually moving in the car.
She would sit in the car seat while I cooked dinner, while I fed Ian, while I did the laundry and while I folded the laundry. I’m not saying that’s all I put her in, she had play time on her back, and tummy time, but for the practical parts of the day, those parts where you need to get stuff done, the car seat was brilliant. The minute it got in the car, forget about it. You could actually see her anxiety level percolate.
On this particular day, I needed a shower. Badly. She had spit up all over me and I’m pretty sure that the neighbors thought that a) I actually preferred my clothes with big white splotches on the front and b) that I always smelled like cheese. We were going for a stroll down to the video store (which dates me pretty badly, because yes, I was using a VHS machine to watch Mystery Science Theatre 3000 and The Birdcage).
[As an aside, for some pop cultural references as to when I was raising my babies: Anna has grown up in a world without Princess Di, who left the earth, a month before Anna entered into it. And with my son, I was nursing him through such famous lines as “If the glove don’t fit you must acquit.” But enough about how elderly they are now. Me? I’m ageless). Anyway, This is back when Anna was six months, tops.]
Back to me and my hygiene needs. I put Anna in the bathroom with me, on the bathmat. She happily began to rock back and forth in the seat; it had that sort of curved bottom to it. I started the shower with that sort of senseless running dialogue that you do with babies, and which now, everyone does publicly on twitter or facebook. “I’m turning the hot water on now, Ouch, now I’m turning the cold on.” Really inane things, but strangely, they seemed to keep her quiet and calm.
I continued my verbal diarrhea from behind the shower curtain; “Mommy’s shampooing now, now mommy’s rinsing. Mommy’s conditioning. Mommy’s shaving her legs with a dull blade. Mommy’s trying to stop the bleeding.” That sort of thing.
I stepped out of the shower, and there she was like a little astronaut strapped into her capsule, but completely upside down. She must have rocked so hard that she tipped. She was there, quietly calmly looking at me, judging me. Anna has an old soul. She was born old and on that day, Her 40 year old inner woman was looking at me, inwardly tsking, shaking her head and saying “You really can’t do anything right can you?”
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