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Our church had its ‘Night in Bethlehem’ this past Sunday. It’s supposed to be a social time; a chance for the little people to make some crafts, like leather bracelets.
Even though it was beyond freezing outside, and I could think of a million (or at least two) reasons why we should stay home, I braved the negative temperatures and took my two oldest boys out for a night o’ fun.
The professor very graciously agreed to stay at home in his sweatpants, to watch over our very ‘high maintenance’ infant. Selflessness personified, that man.
Of course it’s always a bit of a mystery how the little people will react to something their parents think will be fun for them. My theory is that when parents think something will be enjoyable for their kids, it rarely is. Either that or the experience doesn’t quite unfold as intended.
It was definitely a case of the latter, last night.
Adamantly opposed to going, at first, once in ‘Bethlehem’ the Gort became a man on a mission; determined to stop at every possible craft station. His younger brother was determined to affix himself to my hip; unwilling to enter any craft station.
So there I stood. Desperately trying to have a conversation with a friend about the newest residents on my underarms: bat wings. Apparently the very second you hit your ‘mid-thirties’ the bat wings arrive. Literally overnight.
It doesn’t matter if your exercise routine is the same (as in, nothing). It doesn’t matter if you’re constantly carrying a 32 lb kid or a 15 lb baby. Or both at the same time.
You hit 35 and bam, you get your ‘wings’.
So as I was trying to learn some bat-wing-combating tips, I had a two year old tugging at my clothes, insisting I pick him up. And a five year old tugging at my purse strap, trying to steer me to the next craft station. ‘I’m getting un-patient!’ he informed me.
Several minutes later, with a leather bracelet and a decorated cardboard box and two paper crowns in our possession, we sat down for some snacks: soup, pita bread, hummus and cookies.
I started chatting with a friend. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Gort leave the table and return. With two more cookies. To his credit, he shared one with his brother. To his discredit, he hadn’t asked if he could have another. Several minutes later, I noticed my oldest pushing past people. With two more cookies in his hand.
Talk about taking advantage of a parent who’s trying to be sociable.
Having availed ourselves to six cookies, I decided it was time to take our leave of Bethlehem.
We entered the coat rack area for my least favorite parental duty of all time: putting snowboots, jackets, hats and mittens on kids in an effort to get them to a car.
I was in the middle of another conversation when my peripheral vision was activated. I saw one kid lunging at another, smaller child; initiating revenge of some sort.
They were my kids, of course. Fighting in the middle of the coat rack area. In Bethlehem. While other adults were standing around taking it all in. With bemused/mildly concerned expressions on their faces.
The pummeling, over an injury to a cardboard box, led to screaming which could be heard all over Bethlehem. And North America too.
It was a definite ‘I love being a mom!’ moment. With gritted teeth and blazing eyes, I proceeded to re-attach snowboots and jackets and hats. All while trying to command the Hen to stop taking off his mittens.
We walked into the frozen night and returned to our home. Where I relayed the evening’s events to the professor. ‘I’m sure that’s what Bethlehem was really like,’ he attempted to reassure me.
Yes, a manger complete with shepherds lunging at each other in anger and wise men wailing because they don’t want to wear mittens. And angels running around with fistfuls of cookies. I’m sure it was just like that, back in the day.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true loves gave to me…..twelve minutes frostbite, eleven all sorts licorice, ten handmade cards, nine yummy cookies, eight hours’ cleaning, seven minutes’ crying, six undone advents, a five seater Volvo SUV…….four Diego drawings, three tasty treats, two U.S. passports and a mushy brain with no memory
Minus 18 degrees Fahrenheit is cold. It is, in fact, so cold that if you put gas in your car, even while wearing gloves, your fingers will sting for many minutes afterward. Also, your car may develop frost on the windows…from the inside. And your husband might even wear dress pants. On a Saturday. Because they’re made with flannel and slightly warmer than his other pants.
The people driving really nice cars with heat that works immediately and effectively don’t look markedly ‘happier’ when you pass them on the road. Except for the guy who drives a custom orange-rust colored Escalade, while wearing a fur coat and sunglasses with diamonds on the side. He looks happier – in a Liberace/Outkast sort of way.
When I check on my sleeping boys at night, I always think ‘man, I wish I could have ten of them.’ But since a room full of perpetually sleeping boys is an unfathomable impossibility, I’ll stick with the three I have.
Things like ’sledding’ sound like a lot of fun on paper. Except when it’s colder than snot outside. And your two year old hates his snowsuit and screams for twenty minutes while you try to force it upon his rigid limbs. And continues to scream while you place him in the sled and pull him around the yard for exactly two minutes, before sending him back inside.
Kids will play with anything….even a mini food processor. Conversely, a mini food processor can serve as a sort of poor-man’s/ in-a-pinch pull toy. Much like those fancy Melissa and Doug toys, but without the hefty price tag or annoying bright colors and cute designs. Did I mention we own two of said toys, and no one ever plays with them.
A baby tends to look grumpy when you put a too-tight hat on his head. For the sole purpose of taking a picture of him in said hat. Either that or the sound of a two year old crying makes him grumpy.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true loves gave to me…..seven minutes crying, six undone advents, a five seater Volvo SUV…….four Diego drawings, three tasty treats, two U.S. passports and a mushy brain with no memory.
It was 10pm. The professor and I were trying to get stuff done. Work for him. Who knows what for me. When the littlest Johnson started crying. He’d been asleep a whopping two hours.
Since I was not asleep and felt up to the task of dealing with the possible ramifications of additional awake children, I decided to let him cry. Just for a bit. ‘I’m going to see if he can fall back asleep on his own,’ I warned Jason. Lest he thought I hadn’t heard the crying and went upstairs to get the little man.
I sat down at the computer to do some very important Facebook-checking; to keep my mind off the ensuing wailing. All while watching the clock. What is it about baby-crying that even one minute of it feels like an hour?
About seven minutes later, the house was silent again. ‘Did you go check on him?’ I asked the professor. ‘Nope’ he replied ‘who knew’.
As in, who knew it was possible for a baby to cry for a few minutes and fall asleep again. It seemed positively…miraculous.
We’re a little battle-scarred, chez Johnson. Our last infant – the Hen – was, what some might consider, an appalling sleeper. For all his exceptional qualities: round cheeks, hilarity, remarkable pain tolerance, and general adorableness…..he was, and is still, inept at going to bed and staying asleep.
Even tonight, the clock had struck 9. The Gort was lying facedown on his bed. Snoring. And the Hen was sitting up in his crib. Wide awake. Paging through ‘The Places You’ll Go’, asking to be covered with ‘blankies’, asking for water, asking ‘whayouwannadotoday’. As if it was nap-time instead of the end of the day. Pointing perplexedly at his slumbering brother – as if he was the weird one for sleeping. At night.
So, absurd as it may sound, P-baby’s short spell of tears was the Johnson equivalent of a (minor) Christmas miracle. Even if his arrival necessitated the acquisition of the ‘beloved’ car-van, we are quite fond of B3.
The saga of the pacifier continues.
Last Saturday I came home quite late. The professor was half asleep on the couch. ‘Your son just fell asleep, about fifteen minutes ago,’ he muttered. The Hen? Of course, the Hen. ‘He lost his da and has screamed for hours.’
The twinge of guilt I felt over the professor’s plight was minute in comparison to the relief I felt at having avoided another ‘da’-less night.
I walked upstairs to check on my spawn, who were all sleeping and adorable-looking. As I walked back into our bedroom, I noticed a pacifier lying on the dresser. Covered with blue sharpie scribbles. Suspecting child vandalism, I casually asked: ‘what happened here’ pointing to the pacifier.
‘I thought maybe if I colored it blue, he would think it was his da,’ the professor confessed. Not a child having a heyday with a very permanent marker, but a desperate man trying to get a very unhappy child to go to sleep.
‘How’d that work out for ya,’ I asked rhetorically. There was no need for a response.
The tiny bit of guilt I felt about the professor’s traumatic Saturday night faded instantly when I found the ‘da’ downstairs in the basement after roughly 5.2 minutes of careful searchng. Yes, it was in a very strange place – the bottom of a laundry basket – but still. I think I’d look just about anywhere to avoid having to listen to hours of wailing.
Since the Hen had (eventually) managed to fall asleep without one of his comforts, I suggested we try to keep it away from him. To see if we could wean him of his silicone addiction. Naptime was a success, even if the nap itself was rather short.
But by evening he’d grown weary of our games. It was shortly past eight, he’d been yelling for his ‘da’ for a good thirty minutes, and the professor caved. He walked upstairs, handed the da to its rightful owner, who received it with profound gratitude. Shoved it in his mouth. And plopped down in his crib. Asleep within seconds.
There’s a reason we’ve a love-hate relationship with this piece of plastic. We love the ‘da’ for its soporific powers and its ability to soothe. Instantly. And we hate the ‘da’ for its tendency to get misplaced; for forcing us to spend hours looking for it.
And so we continued, one semi-happy pacified family. Until Thursday night. We’d celebrated Thanksgiving at a friend’s house and when we finally left, we had a ‘ba’ (greyish-white pillowcase that no amount of bleach can restore) but no ‘da’.
It was like a ‘have you seen this child’ situation, as we desperately tried to remember if he’d had the ‘da’ when we entered the house. Forget what he was wearing, or his height, weight and eye color – was he carrying a pacifier? We couldn’t remember. We could only assume he did, after all he never travels with a ‘ba’ but not a ‘da’.
We went home fearing another sleepless night. Luckily he was worn out from dinner and playing with other kids and fell asleep without much of a fuss. The next day I cleaned up the trash pile that was our basement play room. At the end of nearly thirty minutes of work, when I was putting away the stack of books that had been removed from the bookshelf and thrown on the floor, I found the pacifier. Buried in a book.
Such a scholar, that Hen.
I buried it in the back of a drawer in the kitchen, with the hope that I’d never have to reach for it again. Evening came and operation ‘no-da’ was in full effect. I tried everything. His favorite enormous book on monster trucks? It kept him busy for a few minutes before he’d stand up and yell for his da. Perhaps some snacks? I gave him an apple and a cup of water. Aside from the pieces of peel he spat onto the floor, it seemed to work. Except, like a nicotine addict: he kept wanting more apples. And more apples. I feared I’d end up with a child who’d have to eat three apples every night just to fall asleep.
Eventually it was 10.30pm. And I brought him into our bed to read Dr. Seuss. I figured ‘Mulberry Street’ might tire him out. But it didn’t. And finally, at 10.45pm when he had the nerve to demand another story, I caved.
I went downstairs. Retrieved the ‘da’ from the recesses of the kitchen drawer. Walked back upstairs. Handed it to him. And we all fell asleep promptly.
The professor was staying up late preparing for an exhibit on Wednesday, so I went to bed. Because the cherubs are making me tired these days, what with summoning me to their chambers at all hours of the night….to find their pacifiers and cover them with blankets.
Jason came upstairs just before 10 to bid me good night. He started talking about some architect. It morphed into a discussion about what it takes to become famous in the world of architecture. I believe shortness may have been one of the criteria. It was past ten at this point and my initial dream of being asleep by 9.30 was fading fast, as the professor showed no sign of terminating the conversation and returning to his work.
So I turned off the light on my nightstand, thinking he might get the hint.
‘Well,’ he rubbed his hands together, ‘I can see that you’re really interested in this discussion. So how about I go downstairs and make us some coffee and then we can stay up all night and talk.’
I burst out laughing and bid him good night.
It’s good to see that he’s retaining his sense of humor in his old age. Because he is old. Another year older today. Now he comes home from his weekly soccer games smelling of muscle ointment. ‘Did you lose again?’ I ask each time. Because his orange team is on an epic streak…of defeat.
And then he holds his arms aloft and proudly declares: ‘our record is untarnished…by victory.’
It pleases me that he doesn’t take himself too seriously.
But the older we get, the lamer the birthdays get, it seems. ‘Did you get anything exciting for your birthday?’ his mom asked him over the phone. ‘Well, I got to sleep in,’ he replied.
As if sleeping until nine is the mid-thirties’ version of a really thoughtful birthday present.
It’s true, I entertained the troops so that he could rest his head until 9am. I made scones too. The Gort grabbed one off the cooling rack and took it upstairs, pressing it into his father’s hand. ‘Here’s a scone for you.’ (And a very random green marker drawing…of a triangle with legs?)
‘What do you want for your birthday dinner,’ I asked him. ‘Butternut squash ravioli, a good salad and creme brulee,’ he ordered. Apparently people in their mid-thirties have particular tastes.
So in lieu of a Porsche this year, you’re getting squash.
Happy Birthday professor hotness. I promise I’ll get you a (miniature) Porsche next year.
Balloons
I hate balloons. I’m not sure if it’s connected to a traumatic childhood incident or an OCD-like aversion to the sound and feel of a balloon. Whenever one is near me, I have an irrational fear of it popping in my face, and my ears want to crawl inside my head when I hear the rubbery sound of someone touching its exterior. Also, the presence of a balloon means a sibling fight is less than two minutes away. Someone’s balloon will pop or float away and they will try to take the other’s and fisticuffs will ensue. It’s just a fact.
And yet, Mr. Johnson still accommodates his boys’ requests for balloons. He obligingly takes the empty latex shell and fills it with air and leaves me to walk around the house fearing for my life. Or having to break up the inevitable fights. Like this morning. He went to a meeting. And I got to referee a balloon fight. Also, I have no voice. I may have stomped my feet on the floor at one point to ’stop the insanity’ as Susan Powter would have said. Who’s the kid here, I wonder.
The basement lights
The professor likes to think of himself as a bit of an environmentalist. By ‘bit’ I mean, he recycles roughly one percent of his trash. And occasionally instructs the rest of us to turn off lights when we’re not in a particular room. A suggestion he mostly fails to comply with. Especially when said lights are out of the way…like in the basement.
There was an episode on Everybody Loves Raymond where Ray went on a business trip. He came back and dumped his suitcase right by the front door instead of taking it upstairs. His wife got mad. But she refused to move it. So it became this ‘thing’ where they both refused to take the suitcase upstairs and it stayed there for a long time. Apparently that’s what the basement lights are, for us. To be fair, neither of us uses the downstairs much, it is our offspring who play there. And I understand at the end of a long night, it’s just unthinkable to have to walk downstairs and back up again just to turn off a light or two. I understand because I don’t want to do it either.
But the environment! Last night, after observing he’d left the lights on three nights in a row, I said to him: ‘can you please turn off the basement lights when you go to bed?’ I don’t remember his exact response but I think he agreed. I came downstairs around 3am. Lights on.
Gmail
We have four or five computers in our house at any given time. Roughly one for each member of the family. Herr Johnson rotates between them, depending on his software needs and his location within the abode. I use whatever computer is available for my important work of checking email and facebook and celebrity babies dot com.
For reasons I cannot fathom, Jason likes to leave his gmail ‘open’ all the time. He logs on and doesn’t log out. Apparently so he can know right away when an email enters his inbox. Or something like that. However, it is not possible to log into two different gmail accounts using the same internet browser. So I have to log him off so I can log on. I will not use Mozilla’s Firefox, dangit.
I then check my email and I log off again. I’m just polite that way. And this drives him crazy. To return to a computer only to find his email has been closed. Because by the time he enters his username and password (a 3.5 second process, I’m guessing) he may have missed that email from the Nobel committee saying his important environmental conservation efforts have won him the prize. But he only has two seconds to reply in order to claim the award?
Seriously.
He returned from his meeting this morning and saw me doing my important blog work. ‘What are we fighting about now,’ he asked. ‘The basement lights,’ I said to him, pointedly. ‘What, I went down there with the Hen this morning,’ he offered in his defense. ‘At 3 am?’
‘Oh, maybe not….Well, can you at least talk about how you leave the dresser drawers open and how annoying that is and how when I talk to you about it you say ‘yeah, that makes sense’ but then nothing changes?’
Done.
When I arrived home from church yesterday, I couldn’t walk. There was nothing wrong with my legs – there just wasn’t enough cleared floor space for me to put my feet. Such was the state of our home. Whenever this happens, it sends me into a tizzy – and I start cleaning and stomping around like a madwoman. Threatening to take every toy we own to Goodwill; threatening to convert our house into one of those minimalist homes with no ’stuff’ in it – a couch, a table, a few chairs and beds. That’s it.
The professor has grown accustomed to these rants and hardly bats an eye. At some point he suggested I take a nap. But I was too fueled by my outrage to even consider resting.
When you meet an attractive dark haired man in the cafeteria on campus during your freshman year of college, and you (eventually) contemplate being married to him, you really don’t think: ‘I bet we’re going to fight over some seriously dumb stuff.’
As I was stomping around the house, blaming my men-folk for littering my living space, I thought of all the weird stuff we’ve come to argue about over the last thirteen years.
Like pumpkin slash sweet potatoes slash squash. And unlined muffin tins.
Without fail, nearly every time I make food or baked goods with pumpkin or sweet potatoes in it, the professor carps about it. A revelation which would cause an objective outsider to say: ’so stop making things with pumpkin/sweet potatoes/squash in them.’ But it’s not that straightforward, of course. Living with another in holy matrimony rarely is.
For example, I made sweet potato muffins yesterday. And the professor ate three of them. If I make sweet potato chipotle soup, he pronounces it his favorite. And if I make pumpkin bread, the loaf manages to disappear even as he protests its existence. When I make curried squash soup he eats it, too. Even if he makes choking sounds while doing so and, inevitably, regales me with the tale of how as a young child he’d gag on squash.
Luckily I’d used paper liners in the muffin tin. Because Jason has gone on some serious rants when I haven’t. As was the case on Tuesday. I’d made mini frittatas in the muffin pan. Without liners. Because, frankly, there’s something strange about peeling paper wrappers off baked egg, There were violent sighs and accusatory stares at the sink that night. Culminating in his oft-used threat: ‘I’m throwing this away.’ I interceded. Possibly vowed never to make the frittatas again. And the pan was saved. He’s thrown away at least one or two pans over the years.
As I was cleaning the upstairs, I was confronted with the culprits of several more dumb fights. Open drawers, for one. I, apparently have this annoying habit of leaving my dresser drawers partially open. And I really don’t know why or how. Possibly because they’re too full to close? Or because I’m just too ‘busy’ to push the drawer completely shut?
The thing of it is…Herr Johnson is as guilty of this as I am. His dresser drawers are so crowded with balled-up clothes that it is not possible for them to shut all the way. Sure, he could quote that infamous public service announcement: ‘I learned it by watching you!’ but, really? I’d argue it was the other way ’round.
On the other hand, my major peeve with him is that he considers the bedroom floor – actually all floors – his personal laundry basket. A lovely habit he has passed on to our children: wherever you happen to be when you remove an item of clothing, just drop it right there. Someone (moi!) will pick it up and take it to the laundry basket. Eventually.
Honestly, I drop my share of clothes on the floor. But the difference is I eventually take the items to the laundry basket. Which is why I feel justified in pointing fingers.
Once I’d finished cleaning up the bedrooms, I made my way to the basement – where there’d been an explosion of toys and moonsand. The professor and I have long argued about moonsand; he’s publicly vilified me for purchasing the stuff and allowing it in our home.
While I tend to loathe the stuff, it has in its favor one little thing: it keeps my kids busy for a long time. Even the Hen can sit at the table for 30 minutes, maybe even an hour if I’m lucky, playing with the stuff. And the Gort. He could spend half a day playing with the sand; making roads and who knows what else. Surely they’re becoming more creative and genius-like by being exposed to these nano-particles?
But clean-up, as I’ve stated previously, is a pain. And that’s an understatement. Which is why I’ve always made sure the moonsand is used at a table. Set upon a floor covered in an easily swept surface like wood. Or linoleum. Never carpet.
But, apparently, Daddy-o didn’t get that particular memo. And when I got downstairs, the train table was covered in red and grey moonsand. As was the beige carpet beneath it. And every toy within a fifty foot radius.
While I appreciated the opportunity to utilize every one of the vacuum cleaner’s attachments, I still think unsupervised, out of sight moonsand is a bad idea.
Another rite of passage came upon us today: Picture Day.
That day of the year when mothers all over the world try exceedingly hard to get their offspring to look camera ready. A day when mothers speak through clenched teeth as they order, nay threaten, their children not to wear hockey jerseys or the green shirt with the huge grease stain on it. Hair is washed, or at least combed, all in an effort to produce a photogenic subject. A stressful process which culminates in the delivery of printed photos of said subject; sporting a strange smile, head tilted at odd angles, and squinty eyes.
And copious amounts of homeless wallet photos. Because, after all, a kid usually has a maximum of four grandparents. What to do with the remaining four or twelve wallet sized pictures?
Yes, it was picture day today. And I didn’t even forget. Because that’s so……preschool 2007…..to forget this hallowed day and send your child to school with regular (likely stained) clothes and uncombed and unwashed hair. The teachers, who helpfully offered to let me drive home and pick out another outfit, were not impressed with my breezy response: ‘Agh, that’s okay, this is what he really looks like, after all.’
But that was preschool. This is Kindergarten. I decided this first picture day warranted a new shirt. Why I felt the need to spend money on a shirt when I was also going to have to shell out money for funky pictures, I don’t know. Rookie performance anxiety, maybe.
But there weren’t any opportunities for kid-free shopping from the time I became aware of the photo session (Monday night) to when it would transpire (Wednesday at noon).
Which is why the whole family was ensconced in the car-van at 10.40am today, headed towards the Westhills Shopping Centre in search of a suitable shirt in a size 5. The professor hunkered down at the train table in the bookstore with the older two; I half-walked, half-ran into Mexx and Winners while toting B3 in his carseat. To see what I could see.
At 11.17am I emerged, victorious. The proud owner of a size 5 plaid button-up shirt. I hustled to the bookstore to corral the troops. It was approximately 11.37 when we pulled up to the curb in front of our house. And 11.56 when the Gort and I jumped back inside to drive to school.
What happened during that nineteen minute interval?
I ran inside the house like a madwoman (reminiscent of Elaine from Seinfeld trying to get her annoying boyfriend to the airport on time), grabbing leftovers from the fridge, which Jason reheated for the boys’ lunch. Then I ran upstairs to get a coordinating t-shirt to wear under the new purchase. After which I ran back downstairs, instructing my oldest to raise his arms so I could whip off the (hypothetical) green shirt with the grease stain, and put on the other two shirts.
Before he could finish protesting ‘I don’t want to wear this shirt’, he was wearing it. He started making a fuss about how the shirt still had tags on, so I used my Jack Nicholson voice (‘You can’t handle the truth’) about how I was just leaving the tags on to make sure the shirt fit and then I would remove them.
By the time the tears dried, the tags had been removed and all was well.
Except the hair. The hair!
I’d honestly meant to wash his hair the previous night. But there was a red alert meltdown at the Johnson home and the Gort was sent to bed before the clock struck 7. No bath. No hair washing. Which meant I could only try to comb his ’sandy’ blond hair into picture perfection.
Minor problem: the kid doesn’t like to have his hair combed, and the only time I ever comb it is after a hair washing. (Judge not, lest you be judged.) I figure there’s a reason God gave me boys instead of girls: He is tired of seeing me walk around with the same ponytail I’ve been sporting since first grade, and doesn’t want me to pass on my non-haircare to another female.
Really, I’m surprised I haven’t been lured under false pretenses to one of those makeover shows in order to be publicly ridiculed for being 35 and not having a discernible hairstyle.
But this isn’t about me. It’s about the kid who was batting away my hands as I tried to swoop in with the black comb. And tiny tube of hair gel. To combat flyaway strands. ‘You can’t comb my hair…I’m trying to eat!’
We raced to the Kindergarten drop-off line, to arrive at the appointed 12.03 time, only to stand around because the bus was late, again. I stood beside a couple of moms and we watched our kids line up and walk into the building.
‘Remember to take off your socks,’ the fellow mom called to her (adorably dressed) little girl. ‘No socks!’ she reminded-ordered. Because the socks were just to keep her feet warm in her fashionable but unsuitable-for-cold-weather shoes. ‘And remember – don’t wear your inside shoes for pictures. Wear your outside shoes. Because the inside shoes do not go with your outfit!’
Ugh. I hadn’t even considered what shoes he should wear.
I raced back home so the professor could leave for his 1pm appointment. Once home, I rabidly consumed six delicious oatmeal cookies, chased by my second cup of coffee for the day.
Until next year.
In order to round off what can best be described as ‘birth week’ on this blog, I thought I’d include an interview with a real, live labor coach. Seeing as I only really know one, my interviewee had to be the (slightly verbose) professor who kindly answered these questions.
‘Thank you for your interest in my labor coaching seminar. I am happy to answer your questions and should your readers be interested, to provide them with my new video on the subject “A Father’s Guide to Labor” in which I cover the various do’s and don’ts of your participation in the wonderful world of childbirth. (Hint: DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT EATING HER FOOD (even if she says she doesn’t want it).’
What has been indispensable in your role as labor coach?
I try and imagine passing a kidney stone, divide the pain by 2 and that gets me into the appropriate frame of mind for understanding what my lovely wife is feeling each time she squeezes the life out of my arm.
Our vast male readership (Shawn) would like an explanation from you about what shall be known as ‘the epidural incident of 2009′. Would you care to address the incident? Please note I will edit your response if needed.
Part of being a good coach is understanding your players and what they want now vs. what they will want tomorrow. Right now your team may just want the pain of man to man pressing defense to go away and just play zone. But tomorrow as they lick their wounds from the inevitable beating they took, they will wish they had stuck it out. (This isn’t a direct correlation of course but merely a metaphor for the vast male audience to get into the frame of mind for the real answer, just refer to the DVD chapter “Labor is NOT Like Sports (except when it is exactly like sports)” )
More to the point.
- The nurse for all her great qualities (pushiness, sweet accent, positive thinking, uhh shortness) wasn’t very good with the needles as the puncture wounds on your forearm will attest to. In my one run in with the Canadian health care system (see the kidney stone incident of 2008) I also noted a lack of skill in inserting needles into my arm which was particularly vexing given my general fear of needles. Yada, Yada, Yada, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to seeing someone line up and try to hit you in the spine with a thick needle, while you were having painful contractions, sure people do it all the time, but I was worried
- There is the matter of what happens next. Bedpans and an audience are not really your thing.
- I can’t even get you to take an aspirin on most days and these years of seeing you build up an ethos of non intervention, just led me to interpret that what you really were saying was “Jason I know you aren’t going to let me have one, so I feel it’s safe to ask, get me an epidural. Your refusal will give me a good subject heading for my blog and will also make me feel ok about ripping all the skin off of your arm.”
On a scale of 1 to 10 (1 being the worst possible offense and 10 being the most egregious offense) how would you rate your most recent remark to me: ’so, when are you going to start jogging again’, six days after I bore you a third son?
In my defense I was unaware that in addition to our third child leaving your body, so had your ability to detect sarcasm, as in “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I see you are up and walking, when are you going to really be all better and go for a jog (and maybe make some sort of awesome cake with frosting and caramel to congratulate my excellence in husbandry”…..)
Any tips for smooth and successful umbilical cord cutting? Do you do special exercises ahead of time, or do you just go in and wing it?
It always seems so cool in the movies, like it might be a moment where the room goes quiet and you become one with your wife and child. In reality this of course makes no sense. First of all the baby has just exited a nice warm hot tub where he is constantly supplied with food, and entered a world that is cold, with bright lights and a tiny Indian nurse, a lanky doctor and some weird unshaven guy all staring at him and you are about to cut him off completely….. also it’s a bit like cutting through a bratwurst so these are my tips for properly observing the decorum and appropriate manliness/sensitivity of the moment.
- Do not refuse the request. The doctor/midwife will ask if you want to cut the cord. You may at the time be standing in something of a mess, the baby is possibly not as cute as you had hoped, maybe he’s covered in white sticky stuff… but you must suck it up an proceed.
- Now is not the time for jokes. You may be tempted to ask if you can use your lucky pocket knife, or maybe even chew the cord in two caveman style. No one will laugh at these jokes, not even in retrospect, so save them for the pub night with the guys in a couple months when you can safely leave the house.
- Cut it to the outside of the potato chip clamp they have affixed. Don’t worry the doctor will point to the exact spot multiple times like you are a moron or something.
- Hand the baby directly to the mother so they can both exhaustedly bask in one another’s glow. This is the actual moment when the room seems to go quiet and the baby starts to look cute and the gentle sounds of violins can be heard in the background.
Would you like to comment on the anchovy incident of 2004?
Nope, that one was totally my bad. I panicked.
One of the boys comes to you and says, ‘Dad I want to be an urban planner.’ Your response?
Four immediate retorts come to mind all of which are unprintable and involve references to the Banana Republic, figure skating and fascist dictators…But based on the piles of rocks, blocks and sticks I seem to trip over in every room and nook and cranny of the yard and the drawings of burning buildings, crooked streets and stacked housing with scribble surfaces they seem to favor at this point, they would make great urban planners… Certainly better than Corb anyway.
Another boy says he’s going to have a recurring role in ‘Days of our Lives’…your response?
“Can you buy me a Porsche?”
Would you rather have twin girls or send me to Canyon Ranch Spa for a long weekend by myself?
That one’s easy. A weekend of mancation mayhem, beats a lifetime of miniskirt/sweats with bizarre words like “ouchie” written on them, acne covered boyfriends with Camaros, shopping for dresses and movies about fairies and princesses any day. Are you asking this as a real question? If so then I may instead call your bluff….
Would you rather be married to Sarah Palin or Ann Coulter?
Is rupturing my ear drums and option?
What about Ann Coulter or Hilary Clinton?
What about gouging out my eyes?
What’s the best thing about being married to me?
That would be like choosing a favorite child. It’s all so good I could never choose.
The worst? Oh, sorry it looks like we’re out of time…
Well thank you very much and don’t forget for only $19.99 all this wisdom and more can be yours…
The middle-aged girl with the lazy uterus
In the end, I went into labor. Maybe because I changed the sheets on our bed, or because I made scones and had a friend over, or because Jason cleaned the office. I’m pretty sure it was because he cleaned the office. That, and my third cup of raspberry leaf tea.
I woke up at 3am on Thursday, after dreaming I was having some pain. Turns out it wasn’t a dream..it was a contraction. Maybe.
After waiting around for a while to make sure it was the real thing, we gathered up the boys and dropped them off at a friend’s house. We arrived at the hospital shortly after 8am.
While I was familiar with the location of the hospital, I had not set foot in it. In keeping with our tradition of winging it, I decided against informing myself about the location of the birth unit.
And our ignorance showed. We emerged from the parking garage elevator, and walked out onto the main floor of the hospital, where we got on the wrong elevator…headed for the parking garage. The medical personnel walking out stifled a laugh. They took a look at my gut, announced ‘6th floor’ and pointed us in the direction of the (clearly marked) correct elevator.
We got to the sixth floor, where additional strangers took pity on our ignorance and pointed us to the correct ‘unit’. Not so clearly marked, I must say. I saw a heavily pregnant woman standing at a desk, getting checked in and figured we must be in the right place.
I took a modicum of satisfaction in noting the woman had a bump that was larger than mine. The satisfaction waned, however, when I found out the woman was carrying twins.
After another jaunt downstairs for paperwork, we were sent back upstairs. They admitted us, fortunately, because if they had sent us home ‘to wait’, I may have chained myself to the triage bed in protest.
We were introduced to our attending nurse. I liked her immediately, despite her obviously pushy nature. Apparently she is a former midwife, highly supportive of natural deliveries. It figures I’d get assigned a pushy epidural hater the one time I actually thought a needle in my spine sounded like a good idea.
After reviewing my medical history, she sent me to shower for about an hour. I think it’s something to do with hot water and contractions. I don’t really know. But I was getting pruny. And bored. Finally, around 11am the doctor handling deliveries came in and introduced herself. She also seemed like a very nice person. She announced I was 5cm dilated. And offered to break my water. Because apparently my labor was taking a little too long for their liking.
I’d spent nine months telling anyone and everyone that I did not want my water to be broken again, because after the Hen’s birth, I swore I’d never do that to myself again. (And, I swore, if I did have my water broken, I’d get an epidural.)
But, at this point we’d already been at the hospital for 3 hours. The Gort was due to start Kindergarten at noon. I’d half expected to be ‘done’ with the whole thing in time for Jason to run him over to the school for a bit. Sensing hesitation on my part, Nurse Pushy stuck her head in my face ‘let’s have a baby!’ she urged me on.
Suddenly, I understood the pressure of those fraternity drinking games.
And, so, my water was broken. And I steeled myself for the horror to come. The Hen was born roughly four hours after they broke my water, and that time I was only 3-4 cm dilated.
Around noon, nurse P waltzed back in the room and announced she was going to lunch. She instructed Jason to time my contractions for two periods of fifteen minutes, roughly 12.15-12.45.
And that’s when the going got rough. All of a sudden there were contractions every two minutes. Supremely painful ones. Nurse P had left a canister of ‘laughing gas’ by my bedside; ‘fifty percent oxygen and fifty percent nitrous oxide’ she’d announced. (I think). I put the mask on my face once, and inhaled. It smelled terrible, and I felt claustrophobic. It reminded me of my failed experiment with the TENS machine in London during the Gort’s birth.
‘I want an epidural’ I told the professor, thinking he’d run out into the hallway and find the anesthesiologist. Instead, he said: ‘no you don’t, you can do it without one.’
Will the contestant with the actual uterus in labor please stand up? Thanks for playing Mr Johnson and Nurse Pushy. You can go home now.
A sub-nurse came to check on me, and saw that I wasn’t quite as ’stoic’ as two hours before. ‘I’d really try the gas,’ she encouraged me. So I did and, though it did absolutely nothing for the pain, it provided a nice loopy feeling…sort of an ‘I’m about to implode with pain, but man my head feels woozy’ feeling.
Only caveat, apparently the person in labor is supposed to hold the stupid mask while inhaling and exhaling, not her labor coach. To prevent the woman from passing out, I guess. Which makes sense, for people with regular labor coaches. But if you’ve ever seen Jason in action as a labor coach, you’d know that he was quite up to the task of holding the mask over my face.
It seems 13 years of marriage to a woman with extraordinary non-verbal facial cues has more than adequately prepared him to be a labor coach. He can look at the way I squint my eyes and know exactly what I need. Which is supremely useful since I spend most of labor with my eyes shut, unable to ask for anything.
Sadly it’s a gift he only seems to have when I’m in labor.
Laughing gas or not, I still had my wits about me. And heard everything the professor and the nurse were saying about me. ‘Is the contraction over,’ she asked him. ‘Must be,’ he replied, ’she stopped crushing my fingers.’
‘She’s got a lazy uterus,’ the nurse informed the doctor later on.
‘I’m right here!’ I wanted to say. But didn’t.
Around 1pm they determined I was 9cm dilated and at 1.18 the B3 Bomber emerged into the world. Superman style, with his arm extended above his head, apparently.
An hour or so later, after everyone was settled, the nurse looked over at us. ‘So, are you going to go for a fourth, try for a girl?’
‘No,’ we replied, in unison.
‘Yeah,’ she agreed. ‘You are 35.’
As she took leave of us, she kissed me on the cheek and pronounced me superwoman. ‘All woman should do labor that way,’ she praised.
Whatever. I wanted an epidural.
