Urban Drool

As those of you who read the Boy's blog know, our lives became topsy-turvy over the past 4 days with the onset of not one but two job offers for the Boy. Not having brought in any real income for almost a year now, this was welcome news to him. And, obviously, to me.

His income will not be enough for me to quit my job, or even cut back to part time. However, it most definetly will supplement my income to the extent that we will be able to do the following:

a) pay bills
b) occasionally treat ourselves to a lip-smackin' dinner at our local TGI Friday's
c) pay bills
d) go to NYC and visit our most excellent friends for a weekend in October
e) pay bills
f) get me a new pair of shoes (seriously folks, not kidding here, I have worn the same pair of shoes to work since last March)
g) and...pay bills

To me, the coolest part of this whole new world is that the Boy will be able to actually earn money doing what he loves the most. Job #1 - acting in a professional theatrical production that is slated to run for the next 8 months and Job #2 - be the uber-impressive theatrical producer extraordinaire that I know him to be. I don't know very many people who can earn money at a job(s) that they love and is satisfying to their very heart.

Very excited and very proud am I.

The fact that PickleWatch 2006 has pulled a cloud over our sunny skies (it's not so angst-y as to be truly black, rather more of a cool and stealy gray) has only fueled my fire to finding a job closer to downtown.

Although, speaking of PickleWatch, the wee mite has been in three seperate pairs of hands over the past 3 days. Today? Grandma M (da momma of da Boy).

This fine lady (you all know her as the "Mom" who frequently comments on my blog, yes girls, my Mother in Law reads my blog, have you all fallen down from shock?) drove all the way out from the Koresh-like middle-of-nowhereness that is her town to spend the night last night to be ready and refreshed to mind her grandbaby for us today. All this on very last minute notice. Now THAT folks, is love and dedication.

Although it doesn't surprise me in the least. My MIL, while not perfect (and who is, really?) is unwavering in her love for the Boy and, by proxy, for anyone that HE loves. I don't want to divulge tender and sensitive family history, but my MIL herself suffered from heartbreaking fertility issues way back in the 60s and 70s and her pregnancy with the Boy was her last shot at having the second child that she so desperatly wanted. 6 months of bedrest and the constant fear that he would be another one of her many miscarriages, and yet they both got through it and he was born. So...he is very much her miracle baby, her little angel here on earth.

**cough-cough** (um...angel?) :-)

While my MIL and I don't always understand one another nor always agree with one another, we love each other and have been very successful at peaceably living in one another spaces. She came over last night and hung out, watched TV, drank her English Breakfast and went to bed. We companionably ate some scrambled eggs this morning and I have all the confidence in the world that she and the Pickle will do just super today by themselves.

I am very lucky, as I know a lot of woman cannot say the same things about their Mother's in Law.

What will next week bring? Who knows. My mom is due back from Washington state this weekend, and will undoubtedly take up most of the slack. The Pickle will spend a day with Mya's Mommy.

And the Boy and I will get used to the new normal.

I don't feel like I have a great deal to blog about right now.

Or rather, there's stuff to blog about, but it's all the same old shit and it's sounding more and more boring (even to me - especially to me) as the record player just spins 'round and 'round and 'round.

-my current job sucks
-actions taken to find a new job sucks
-being away from my baby sucks
-knowing that my baby has a tendency to prefer her father over me (unless she wants to nurse) sucks
-having no money and owing a million dollars to a million people sucks
-having not had a decent nights sleep in nearly a year sucks. Having already taken my vacation for the year, and having that vacation be neither physically nor emotionally restful and refreshing really, really sucks.

...see? See how boring that is? We have all heard this from me before ad infinitum.

So I feel like it's time for another List of Things That Do Not Suck:

-my baby's smile whenever she notices that I am a) in the room and b) looking right at her
-my baby's laughter, which gets louder and more expressive and more frequent every day
-really, really good bacon
-the Sam Adams Summer Ale, a half glass of which I got to drink last Saturday night
-the Boy's love for me. Not always perfect, not always the stuff of romance novels, but always and ever more there and mine.
-seeing a really cool friend of mine over the weekend whom I have not seen in 5 years

and lastly...

-these two. Quite possibly my favorite relationship in all of HBO miniseries-dom.

I am 29 years old today!!!!

Yea!!!!!!!

I love my birthdays. (I can't wait for next year - I'll probably be the only woman I know who will be excited when she turns 30 - Ha!)

The Boy and the Lucy emailed me this picture today...

So cute I wet myself a little bit...

So monumentally depressed.

I have sent out over a dozen resumes in the past 5 weeks.

I received exactly one telephone call in response.

One.

I had the interview last night.

He was such a nice, laid back guy.

In a little law office not even 10 minutes away from my house.

He was willing to let me work on my own files, without a lot of heavy supervision.

He was even willing to have flexible hours. I would have been able to have one more whole day a week to be at home with Lucy.

But…but…

It would have been a pay cut. A small pay cut, but a pay cut nonetheless.

And…and…

No medical insurance of any kind.

So it was unacceptable.

And I turned him down.

And I am seeing endless weeks and months and years of commuting almost 2 hours total every day back and forth to a job I hate for a boss that treats me like a red-headed stepchild for not enough money and did I mention that I only have around 6 “real, awake” hours with the baby per day (at least, when those days are Monday thru Friday)??

I can’t believe I had to turn down this job.

I feel like I am never going to be able to leave the office I am in right now.

My stomach turns into knots when I walk out my door every damn morning.

so. monumentally. depressed.

…he was a very nice man, despite having a penis instead of a ute.

We ended up sitting in his (very lovely Native American themed) office for nearly two hours, just talking. He made me feel very comfortable. We could have been sitting at a coffee shop enjoying some soy lattes, for how easy and free our discourse was. It was nice.

I…don’t know how much I am going to blog (or even speak IRL) about what we did/will talk about. It’s not that I want to keep any secrets or am ashamed, quite the opposite. But, if Wednesday’s appointment was any indication on how future sessions will go, this whole process is going to be very moving and altering, but in a very subtle way. I don’t think I could do justice to this whole thing with just words.

Wednesday was just Part 1 of his “assessment” but he has already started to cobble together a diagnosis of sorts: (I hate using that word, but that’s what he called it)

I have occasional and moderate depression (but it’s not his biggest concern); I do NOT have any type of “actual” Post Partum Depression.
I have a bit of an “adjustment disorder” (again…not a huge deal)
I am presenting with very strong and obvious symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. (his biggest concern)

…basically, he said that I am a highly intelligent, well educated, animated and articulate person. I appear to be out going and very kind and, in general, have a rather cheerful outlook on life. But I was unlucky enough to experience a very traumatic and life-threatening event and am more than a little bit freaked out by it.

I told him that I agreed with his assessment. I told him that my biggest goal was to find a way to resolve what happened and finally move past it so that it no longer haunts me or my family and MOST IMPORTANTLY so that it does not “plague” any future pregnancies/childbirths that fate has in store for me.

He agreed with me 100%.

I see him again at the end of the month.

Good.

I found some interesting articles today while I was online. They are from various medical journals. I am (obviously) thinking a lot about this stuff today...with my big therapy appointment being 4.5 hours from now.

Here are some excerpts:

Women's emotional reactions and adjustment to cesarean birth vary widely. Although some women recover fairly quickly and accept the surgical birth as a necessary step to a healthy baby and to becoming a mother, others experience various degrees of sadness, disappointment, anger, violation, loss of self-esteem, guilt, depression, and sometimes post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

It is normal for a mother to appreciate the fact that her birth by cesarean resulted in a healthy baby while still feeling sad, confused, or angry about the experience itself. Mothers who have an unexpected cesarean, have general anesthesia, or are separated from their infants are especially vulnerable. A mother’s satisfaction with her birth experience depends on whether or not she was included in the decisions made on her behalf, if she was treated kindly and with respect by her caregivers, if she received medical interventions she feels were unnecessary, and/or if she felt she was “in control” of her birth.

Friends, family, and even partners of mothers who have had an emotionally difficult cesarean often do not understand why mothers don’t just “move on,” or why they “obsess” about their birth experience. It is important that, whenever you are ready, you find the right time, a safe place, and a person you trust to resolve some of these feelings. It might be weeks, months, or years after your cesarean, or even during a subsequent pregnancy, before you will be able to talk about your birth. If you are planning to have another baby and plan to labor for a VBAC, you will feel better about that pregnancy and birth if you first process your feelings about the difficult cesarean you’ve already experienced. Find out how you might be able to avoid the reoccurrence of those events.

To help you understand and resolve some of your negative feelings:

• Know that you are not alone; many other mothers have felt the same way.

• Trust yourself to know that you are a good mother, even though you may have very confusing feelings about your cesarean-delivered baby.

• Talk to your partner about how you feel without placing blame on his or her role in your baby’s birth.

• Talk to a friend or family member you trust—one who is likely to validate your feelings.

• Write or draw your feelings in a journal.

• Write letters to the people who affected you negatively. You don’t have to mail them.

• Join a cesarean/VBAC support group, or become part of an on-line group of mothers who feel as you do. (See “Support Groups,” under “For More Information.”)

• Unresolved issues can sometimes lead to clinical depression. You might need to seek professional counseling.


Some more...

Emotional Scars of Cesareans: Personal accounts from women who have had a cesarean, as well as emerging research, suggest that despite a healthy baby and a timely physical recovery, some women experience cesarean birth as a traumatic event. An unanticipated cesarean is more likely to increase the risk for postpartum depression and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). As in other traumatic human experiences, the symptoms of birth-related PTSD may emerge weeks, months, or years after the event.{9-11} Women re-experience the birth and the emotions associated with it in dreams or thought intrusions. They avoid places or people that remind them of the event. Some mothers have difficulty relating to their infants, and some will avoid sexual contact that may result in pregnancy. They will also exhibit symptoms of hyperarousal, such as difficulty sleeping or concentrating, irritability, and an excessive startle response. Untreated post-traumatic stress often leads to clinical depression. {12}

Hmm....

It took me awhile to get to the point where I realized and accepted that I really needed some professional assistance in dealing with both the trauma of the Pickle’s birth and my post-partum depression.

Once I got to that point, it was apparently another enormous struggle to actually GET the help. Through an odd chain of events that included my insurance only covering psychiatrists and not therapists and but wait! here’s a counseling program for moms that I can do but then the case manager for that program had emergency surgery and was out of the office for 8 weeks and her temporary help misplaced my file after my initial intake and then I had my intake but they cannot begin actual sessions, group or individual for another month because their building is being renovated, etc…and it’s really been a long couple of months.

Ahem.

But. Intake appointments 1 and 2 have been completed. And I have a mammoth 2-3 hour long one on one session in two days. And then (hopefully) will begin with group sessions every week thereafter.

I am more than a bit apprehensive about this next appointment. OK...I am pretty scared about this next appointment - for a number of reasons. As I told the Boy the other night, I feel like I have placed a rather effective band-aid over my emotional hurts, and this whole process is going to rip those band-aids right off. It needs to be done, sure, but I have a feeling that it's going to really suck.

Also...although my insurance will cover counseling sessions at this facility, it only covers sessions with specific professionals at this facility. Which is no big deal, except that all the counselors that I am permitted to see are men.

Men with penises.

With no uteri or vaginai or cervixi amongst the lot of them.

And I wonder how much I will actually be able to open up and eventually absorb, in a tiny 8 x 8 room with a 45 year old man who has never given birth.

I don’t know if I am being unreasonable here (which is very likely) or what, but I guess I just always assumed that when I began treatment, it would be with a female counselor. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t think a man would be an excellent counselor. It’s just that for this particular type of therapy I am a little doubtful that…I don’t know. That a person of the penile persuasion is the most appropriate option.

Am I being weird here? Or do I have a legitimate concern?

We shall see. But it’s obvious to me, in any event, that help is needed.

Exhibit A: I had to drive past a hospital on my way to the freeway a few days ago and nearly had a panic attack. This wasn’t the hospital where I had the baby. This wasn’t even a hospital that I have ever been in, for crap’s sake. Just some…random hospital. And I immediately started hearing the voices of the doctors and smelled blood and felt such a wave of shame, fear and self-loathing that I almost pulled off the road to calm down.

Exhibit B: I had to call the actual hospital where I had the baby last Friday and order my medical records. I was told by the case manager (now back from medical leave, sporting a brand – new, artificial hip none the less!!) that my medical records, detailing the birth and aftermath would be a “helpful tool in assessing the series of events that you will be chronicling with your therapist.” And I was shaking and sweating the whole time I was on the line with the nice folks from the Department of Patient Records.

Fun.

Erk and sigh and oh my flipping Joe Pesci.

So, help is apparently on the way, even if it comes with a penis.

(in case you wanted the final count, the word penis was either referred to or stated outright a total of three times)

(four, counting the above sentence)

Dear Boy,

I remember the day that I met you, sprawled out on the stage at the theatre where we were having our first rehearsal. When you looked up at me and introduced yourself, I remember thinking to myself,

“Wow. His eyes are a really soft brown…but there’s those green flecks all around. If we have babies together they might have those gorgeous eyes.”

No. That’s so not true. I actually just thought that you were hot and damn, it had been a long time (nearly 2 years) since I had had a guy, and wouldn’t some post-rehearsal canoodling be nice?

Answer: it was nice. Very nice. So nice that I decided I should marry you!

The day of our wedding was an absolutely wonderful day, filled with love and smiles and flowers. And I truly enjoyed the place where we married and the ceremony. But oddly, I did not really feel any more connected to you at the conclusion of the ceremony then I did beforehand. In a way I feel like I have been “married” to you for quite a longer time then these past 3 years. Does that make sense? You and I have shared such an amazing connection for such a long time, before we were even living together, I think, that the wedding day was like fantastic buttercream frosting on an already existing, truly delicious red velvet cake.

We have been through some incredible times these first 3 years of our marriage, haven’t we?

Year One:

- I failed the Bar Exam, and I was so horrified and upset with myself that you had to spend an entire morning calling all our family and friends to let them know and then carried me into the bathroom and showered me and washed the vomit out of my hair.
- We bought our first house
- You made the hardest decision in your life and left the theatre company that you dreamed up, began, maintained and saw to amazing success for 5 years
- We decided to stop using birth control
- My body decided to stop ovulating

Year Two:

- I got a new job (which, of course, I now hate)
- You got several new jobs…
- You got infections, tests and lots of drugs
- I got examinations, cysts and even more drugs
- You decided to go back to school
- Lucy decided to get conceived

Year Three (i.e. this past year)
- You completed your Master’s Degree with near-perfect grades

…and…

- Lucy

You want to know something? Everyone always assumes that you are some driveling selfish jerk with no control over his emotions and I spend every minute of every day “taking care” of you. I cannot think of a more unfair and inaccurate portrayal of our marriage. There have been innumerable times over the past several years where I would not have made it through the day without you and your support. In the space of a heartbeat you can become the strongest rock in the universe.

Your humor, which always makes me stop, laugh, take stock, and see the situation through more realistic eyes.

Your words, which seem to always equally infuriate and enrapture me.

Your smile, which warms me from the center of my belly through the bottoms of my feet, tips of my fingers and up to the top of my head.

Your skin, which puts forth the most comforting smell in the world to me.

Your mind and soul, with all the complexities and layers that they contain.

Your daughter, your most incredible gift to me. Our wonderful gift to each other. The reason I get out of bed every morning.

These are just some of the things that make our marriage the amazing partnership that it is.

I used to feel very unsure of myself and my role in your life. Why did you pick me? Why am I the one, after you had so many “ones”, that you ended up deciding to share your life with?

I’m still not 100% sure of what the answers to those questions are, but I no longer doubt that I am the woman you want, should be, and are with.

And I love the fact that, despite my certainty of our place with each other, I still wake up EVERY SINGLE MORNING and look over and you and think to myself “Wow! You mean he’s still here? I really get to keep him? I get to love him forever and ever?”

And I will.







I can’t think of anything else I would rather do with the rest of my life than to be yours.

You’re a good man, Charlie Brown. I love you with everything that I have.

Happy Anniversary.

My dear little Pickle…

Yesterday, on your six month birthday, you laid in bed with your Papa and grinned and gurgled and squeed out loud, kicking him in the ribs with your “egg beater legs” (only done when you are very happy and excited about something) and I felt once again the daily tug at my heart and thickness at the back of my throat, because I knew I had to walk out the door.

If I was not already ridiculously in love with you (Hint: I am) I would have fallen head over heels in love with you this past month. This past month we have witnessed what I like to call the Beginning of the Era of Advancement and Exploration. The things you have done, seen, felt and places you have been in these past 4 weeks is astounding! Let’s re-cap, shall we?

- you, YOU, young lady have been on your very first vacation. Hilton Head Island, South Carolina shall ne’er be the same place again, now that it is felt the love o’ the Lucy. In order to get there, we had to travel to the airport, hang around for 2.5 hours, then actually board the plane (smiling beatifically at the very nervous looking passengers who noticed that we were boarding a plane with an infant oh my God are you INSANE?!?!), spend 1 hour and 37 minutes in the air and a total of almost 8 hours in a car.

I was exhausted by the time we got to the condo at 9 pm that night and ready for the vacation to be over already.

But you handled it like a champ and merely looked around, wondering when happy hour was going to start.

While on vacation you “swam” in the ocean (read here: had your feet dangled in the water at the edge of the surf while Gram-Gram hovered nervously around the periphery and glared at Grandpa K every time he referred to you as “Shark Bait”), “swam” in the pool (read here: sat like a lump in the blow up “boat” that Grandma M gave you while being tooled around the pool by me), went on many a sunrise and sunset walk on the beach, ate crawdads and shrimp at a raw bar, spent the afternoon in Savannah, Georgia (dining on the Plantation Buffet at a restaurant that was housed in the oldest building in the state of Georgia), and took the whole big long trip back home in your stride. What a little trooper.

Of course, you did make us pay for it later. Oh, yes. Need we mention the 4 times a night requests for nursings at 40 minutes apiece that started almost as soon as we got back home? Need we mention the screeching for endless minutes on end for no apparent reason?

- while on vacation, you got to meet the coolest uncle in all of uncle-dom, your Uncle Z. Now, I know he’s kind of scary looking (people who are 6 ft, 5 inches tall but only weigh around 135 pounds do tend to resemble your average scarecrow) but I assure you, he’s the coolest, nicest dude around. Don’t hold the fact that he’s vegan and hippie and blasts his trumpet at all hours of the day and night against him, OK?

- So…you can move now. And…my life is officially over. While you are not exactly crawling yet, you are definitely “creeping.” You love to simultaneously straighten out your arms so that all your weight is supported on your hands, stiffen your legs and thrust yourself forward in a constant attempt to get at your latest love (these days – either the Snoopy doll or your little plastic purple block.) You will also on occasion get up on your hands and knees and rock back and forth, grinning at your damn self the whole damn time. Wow. I am told that this means that actual, legitimate crawling is just around the corner. Yikes.

(Note to self: maybe we should move those exposed wires out of the way?)



- Your constant need to explore and discover has taken over, and it is the dearest, most wonderous and most exhausting quality you have yet to exhibit. While the dirty floor and it’s environs hold substantial interest, nobody or thing is more irresistible to you and your inquiring hands than either me or Papa. You crawl and roll all over us, patting down various parts of our anatomy (ahem), poking your wee fingers in our noses/mouths/ears and twisting and turning those little pinchers to see what you can extract (um, ow). My long hair continues to be a particular favorite plaything of yours, and I laughed until I peed myself the first time you grabbed my cheek with your hands, planted your little lips on it and started sucking away, actually EATING my face, while making “mmmm…mmmm…MMMMM!!!” sounds. In truth? I absolutely adore witnessing this huge leap in your development. Your constant need to see, smell, taste and touch us is amazing to me. To me, it is a representation of the remarkable trust you have in us.

- Your sounds. The noises you make. They change and become more numerous with every passing day. Your current repertoire includes the following:
o Mmmm!!!!
o Dadadadadadada…..
o Ppffffbbbbtttt (this one is done with your tongue thrusted out and spit flying everywhere)
o Oohhhhhhh!!!
o eeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeee (like a ambulance siren. Only cuter.)
o dddduuuuurrrrrrrr…….
o ggrrrrgrgrgrgrggguuuurrrrrrrrgggglll…(a kind of back of the throat, gurglish, Marlene Dietrich kinda
thing)
and so on…

- you have gotten so big and so strong. You can no longer be contained in your bouncy seat. You love to illustrate just how inadequate the safety belts and various limitation-enhancement options of the bouncy seat are by twisting and turning your wee little body until you reach up with both hands and grab the TOP OF THE BOUNCY SEAT AND TRY TO DRAG THE TOYS THAT DANGLE THERE DOWN TO YOUR GAPING MOUTH!! And then you look over to make sure one of us is watching you, as it to say “Do you see? Are you understanding the depth and power of my abilities here, people? Time to step it up a notch or two, you poor bastards.”

And step it up we will. The pack and play for the living room and the exersaucer have already been ordered and are on their way. Papa is doing mental list making and general hysteria in his planning on how to baby proof the house. You eat three meals a day and like to watch Nick Jr. and know which buttons are your favorites on the remote control.

But you are still such a baby to me. You will still on occasion sigh and melt into me while you nurse. You still curl yourself up against Papa when you take your morning naps in the big bed. You still will not go to sleep at night unless you are swaddled and rocked, with tiny kisses being rained down upon your wee little head.

And I love it. And I love you. Happy 6 months birthday, my little pickle. My pickle-tickle. My squdge. My boo. My Lucy-Goose-Juice-Monster.



Warm sloppy kisses all over your belly,
Mama

Luciana Marina da Squdge turned 6 months old today.

At this exact moment, 6 months ago, she was swaddled and in her little bassinet next to my bed at a hospital outside of downtown Cleveland. I had 5 IV lines in my body and was receiving the 2nd of 3 blood transfusions, hoping that I would make it through the night.

I did.

Today, she woke up early, ate a bowl of mashed bananas and cereal and is (hopefully) playing nicely with her purple block (don't ask) and not giving her father too hard a time.

I am sitting at my desk at work (HATE!) drinking an excellent cup of raspberry-chocolate coffee (LOVE!) and thinking about her. She is all I have thought about today. (but then, she is all I think about most days)

I am going to write a Pickle Periodical, to be published tomorrow, but for today I wanted to post a collection of some of my favorite Pickle Pictures. Some of these were taken when she was just minutes old, some of these were taken a little over a week ago.

I love this little girl so amazingly much. I even love her more than chocolate.