I know it probably means little to you lot, but I've been struggling with a "villain" for my new book, and praise be, I've found him/her (I haven't decided on the gender yet). I know what the villain is now, and I've even got a start on the villain's motivation.
Go ahead, cheer for me, 'cause I am!
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Confessions of an Internet Stalker
I wanna say that I'm not really an internet stalker - it's a bit of a joke between a friend of mine and I.
On another note - yes, there is more to the Mommy Chronicles tales - I feel the ick coming on right at the moment and don't feel like writing another post that's that long right at the moment. Instead, I'll explain myself a little bit, lest people think I'm a crazy lady.
Anyway, yeah, I'm an internet stalker. But only to the point that if someone links me a blog, I absolutely MUST read every word that person has written, and then I will visit said blog daily to see if new entries have been made. I can hear you all out there going, why? Well, see, it's like this.
Some may say that I have an interesting life myself, but I absolutely don't. I'm a stay-at-home mom who spends her time in my own fantasy world (meaning the world of the characters whom which I am writing about) or in someone else's fantasy world (meaning the world Blizzard created for us that's called World of Warcraft) or....reading about someone else's life.
As a writer, I'm a trained observationalist (hence the name of this blog). I watch, I glean, I use. I take what I read from other people's lives (not the exact occurrences, but their reactions, their experiences) and use them in the books I write. I strive for the realistic in what I write - I want my characters to be genuine in their reactions, and reading other people's blogs, the blogs of strangers that I will never meet (and quite honestly, I don't want to meet) I get plenty of fodder for making my characters seem real and three-dimensional rather than "just another cookie-cutter fantasy dude".
So really, no, I'm not an internet stalker, for all you out there whose blogs I read. I'm a student of humanity, at it's highest definition, and merely insatiably curious at it's lowest. I'll probably rarely add a comment to your blogs (because most often what I'd have to say would be so wildly off-topic that it wouldn't make any sense) but you will see a habitual, almost obsessive click from me every day.
You can go sleep easy now that you know.
On another note - yes, there is more to the Mommy Chronicles tales - I feel the ick coming on right at the moment and don't feel like writing another post that's that long right at the moment. Instead, I'll explain myself a little bit, lest people think I'm a crazy lady.
Anyway, yeah, I'm an internet stalker. But only to the point that if someone links me a blog, I absolutely MUST read every word that person has written, and then I will visit said blog daily to see if new entries have been made. I can hear you all out there going, why? Well, see, it's like this.
Some may say that I have an interesting life myself, but I absolutely don't. I'm a stay-at-home mom who spends her time in my own fantasy world (meaning the world of the characters whom which I am writing about) or in someone else's fantasy world (meaning the world Blizzard created for us that's called World of Warcraft) or....reading about someone else's life.
As a writer, I'm a trained observationalist (hence the name of this blog). I watch, I glean, I use. I take what I read from other people's lives (not the exact occurrences, but their reactions, their experiences) and use them in the books I write. I strive for the realistic in what I write - I want my characters to be genuine in their reactions, and reading other people's blogs, the blogs of strangers that I will never meet (and quite honestly, I don't want to meet) I get plenty of fodder for making my characters seem real and three-dimensional rather than "just another cookie-cutter fantasy dude".
So really, no, I'm not an internet stalker, for all you out there whose blogs I read. I'm a student of humanity, at it's highest definition, and merely insatiably curious at it's lowest. I'll probably rarely add a comment to your blogs (because most often what I'd have to say would be so wildly off-topic that it wouldn't make any sense) but you will see a habitual, almost obsessive click from me every day.
You can go sleep easy now that you know.
Friday, January 25, 2008
This Just In...
Well, no, I don't really have a newsflash or anything for you, I just thought I'd give you a break today from the regularly scheduled programming that is the descriptions of conception and baby birthin'. One can only take so much, and then, well, you know - even slasher films have overkill.
Today we're watching Spider Man 3 on the 'ole DVD. We saw it in the theaters, but it's one of those movies you just gotta watch again. I mean, there's mom, apple pie, baseball and Spider Man. It's just one of those things that comes with being American.
Now, I'm an old skool comic book fangirl. I've collected comics since my junior year in high school when an old boyfriend got me interested in them. For years I followed the works of the fantastic Stan Lee, from the X-Men to all the other Marvel Comic books with any measure of fame. I was as deeply involved with the characters as any "regular girl" would be in the daily soaps. My "Patch" and "Kayla" and "Bo" and "Hope" had names like Jean Grey, Cyclops, Rogue and Gambit. I have, since the very beginning, been deeply engrossed in their histories, their stories and, most importantly, what they stood for.
The movies for all of these comics were not at all disappointing. Some might say that they didn't stick close enough to the story for any true fan to enjoy them, but I differ. I say the movies for Spider Man, X-Men, Fantastic Four, The Hulk (as bad as it was) stay true to the spirit of those comics, focusing instead on "staying true to the story" and more on the interactions between the heroes and "normal humanity", and the struggle of those heroes to remain true to themselves, their humanity, and those they care about. That's what comic books have always been to me.
Parents see comics as a waste of time. They see them as a way to avoid doing homework, a way for kids to sequester themselves in their bedroom and do God-knows-what. What parents don't realize that a lot of times, comic books teach valuable lessons that kids might not get otherwise. Where else can you find a group of people who are hated because of who and what they are (prejudice, anyone?) and who fight to change the way society thinks about people and things that are different from them? You'll find that in the X-Men. Want to learn lessons about a troubled youth who is unsure how to balance life, love, and responsibility (oh, yeah, and there's that radioactive spider bite stuff) who is actually not just a do-no-wrong superhero; he has flaws, he makes mistakes, and he owns up to them and does his best to make them right. You can find that in Spider Man.
They're far from a waste of time. If used correctly, they're a vehicle to teach children that society isn't perfect; we have our flaws as a human race, but if we work together we can learn from each other and not only overcome our differences, but manage to get those differences to work for us.
Now, I haven't read and collected comics for a few years now, and they may have changed. My bet is that they haven't, at least not that much. If the new books don't reflect what I'm talking about, then the older books (from the '90's) are more than likely fairly easy to find. Give 'em a shot, keep an open mind, and besides, you might enjoy 'em, too.
Today we're watching Spider Man 3 on the 'ole DVD. We saw it in the theaters, but it's one of those movies you just gotta watch again. I mean, there's mom, apple pie, baseball and Spider Man. It's just one of those things that comes with being American.
Now, I'm an old skool comic book fangirl. I've collected comics since my junior year in high school when an old boyfriend got me interested in them. For years I followed the works of the fantastic Stan Lee, from the X-Men to all the other Marvel Comic books with any measure of fame. I was as deeply involved with the characters as any "regular girl" would be in the daily soaps. My "Patch" and "Kayla" and "Bo" and "Hope" had names like Jean Grey, Cyclops, Rogue and Gambit. I have, since the very beginning, been deeply engrossed in their histories, their stories and, most importantly, what they stood for.
The movies for all of these comics were not at all disappointing. Some might say that they didn't stick close enough to the story for any true fan to enjoy them, but I differ. I say the movies for Spider Man, X-Men, Fantastic Four, The Hulk (as bad as it was) stay true to the spirit of those comics, focusing instead on "staying true to the story" and more on the interactions between the heroes and "normal humanity", and the struggle of those heroes to remain true to themselves, their humanity, and those they care about. That's what comic books have always been to me.
Parents see comics as a waste of time. They see them as a way to avoid doing homework, a way for kids to sequester themselves in their bedroom and do God-knows-what. What parents don't realize that a lot of times, comic books teach valuable lessons that kids might not get otherwise. Where else can you find a group of people who are hated because of who and what they are (prejudice, anyone?) and who fight to change the way society thinks about people and things that are different from them? You'll find that in the X-Men. Want to learn lessons about a troubled youth who is unsure how to balance life, love, and responsibility (oh, yeah, and there's that radioactive spider bite stuff) who is actually not just a do-no-wrong superhero; he has flaws, he makes mistakes, and he owns up to them and does his best to make them right. You can find that in Spider Man.
They're far from a waste of time. If used correctly, they're a vehicle to teach children that society isn't perfect; we have our flaws as a human race, but if we work together we can learn from each other and not only overcome our differences, but manage to get those differences to work for us.
Now, I haven't read and collected comics for a few years now, and they may have changed. My bet is that they haven't, at least not that much. If the new books don't reflect what I'm talking about, then the older books (from the '90's) are more than likely fairly easy to find. Give 'em a shot, keep an open mind, and besides, you might enjoy 'em, too.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Mommy Chronicle, Part 2
So, last post, you got the whole "how we made him" story. This time, like it or not, you're getting the whole "how he got here" story.
Now, just to be up-front and honest, this one might be a little rough. I mean, we are talking about delivery room antics, and by and large, those can get a wee bit on the disgusting side. Therefore, you have had your fair warning. Gross-outs may very well follow.
Anyway, here we go.
As indicated in the last post, I got pregnant. 5 weeks into said pregnancy I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes and had to take insulin shots a couple of times a day my entire pregnancy. When the time finally came for our little bundle of joy to arrive, I was convinced that I would have little scars on my stomach where I stuck the needle every day; actually, I was hoping for those little battle scars, so that when the boy got old enough to understand I could say, "Look! Look what you did to me, child, before you even arrived! You gonna pull that crap with me, now? You've got to be kidding!", show him the scars, and shame him into good behavior. Alas, the belly-track-marks are gone, but I still have one weapon in my arsenal - the C-Section scar. I fully intend on whippin' that baby out whenever the situation calls for it (embarrassment, shame, guilt...you know, the regular stuff).
That leads us to this. There came an afternoon when the contractions were coming strong and regular, and I looked DH square in the eye, and in the time-honored fashion of wives and mothers everywhere uttered those infamous words: It. Is. Time. Like the dutiful husband that he is, DH bustled me out of the house and into the car to fly on vulcanized...uh...tires to the local hospital. After finally telling the fifth person what I wanted to go into the hospital for (you mean it wasn't evident by the huge, undulating lump on my lower abdomen? Can I speak to someone with eyes connected to a brain, please?) I was admitted. And then, I waited.
See, there are two OB/GYNs who practiced at my chosen hospital. Yes, you read that right. TWO. One of them was out of town, and the other could not be reached until the next morning. Let me set you a little time frame here - this was Sunday night, Memorial-Day-Eve. It was right about 6PM. Sooooo....I was admitted. "A doctor" checked me, declared that I had not dilated enough for a "fast birth" to occur, given a hearty dinner, and sent to bed.
Now, let's fast forward to Monday morning, 6AM. My lovely OB/GYN trotted into the room, checked me, ordered an enema ('cause some moron gave me food the night before - I don't know nuthin' 'bout no birthin' babies, so I ate. It's what happens when you put food in front of me), and then declared he would return to "get rid of that sack in there". Now, at this point I was a little confused, but heck, I'm having a baby, like, NOW, so I was sorta goin' with the flow at that point. If he wanted to get rid of some sack, who was I to argue with him? Sack, begone!
Enema is now completely complete (if you know what I mean) and the good doc is returning to my room, nurse in tow, who happens to be carrying a large tray with some shiny instruments. The doctor positions himself between my legs, lifts up what looks to me like a large knitting needle, and says something like, "so, are we ready to bust the sack?" I'm sure white terror was on my face at this point, because I saw a distinct smile touch his eyes as he began the procedure of breaking my water. All I can say is revenge is sweet - that there man had to change his shoes when he was done.
So, everything is set and should be ready to go, right? Dilation should begin at any time, and then the pushing and then the crying and then the baby-lovin'. Right? Ain't that how it's supposed to work?
About two hours later, no dilation had occurred, and the good doctor orders Pitocin. The drip is started, and an hour after it's started, the doctor rushes back into the room, removes the Pitocin drip and declares, "we must stop the medicine. Emergency heart surgery, you cannot have labor now." WTH? I have lived here all my life. I have been to the hospital I am in many times. Never, in all my years, was I told that there was only one operating theater. Why does this make a difference? Well, if there's complications and I can't have a natural birth while the heart surgery is taking place, there's nowhere to do a C-Section with the exception of the bed I'm laying in. NOT a very good idea. Therefore, the Pitocin is stopped. A couple of hours later the doc comes back in and restarts my IV drip.
Let's catch up a little bit on the timeline, then, shall we?
6am - enema, water manually broke.
8am - Pitocin drip started
9am - Pitocin drip stopped
11am - Pitocin drip re-started
That about has us caught up, right? Okay. On with my tale.
So, a couple of hours later (that makes it 1pm), the doctor comes back in to check me, and notes that I'm still not dilating like he'd want me to. This is a new one on me, since I've been complaining for two hours about the pain of the contractions. My dear, sweet DH has not left my side and has coached me "not to push" the entire morning. I wanted to, believe me. My poor dad is a basket case, and mom hasn't spent more than a couple of minutes in the labor room with me. Anyway, the doctor orders the first epidural, the pain subsides, and a couple more hours pass.
What are we up to now - ahh, yes, that's right. 3pm.
Doctor returns - still not dilated. Epidural is wearing off. Orders another one. Blood pressure cuff, which is set on automatic, is beginning to cause abrasions and bruising on my left arm.
Couple more hours pass. Epidural is wearing off again. Doctor checks, still not dilated. He declares he is going to his office to take a nap. Does not order the third epidural. We're at 5pm now. At around 6pm, I begin to feel the "deep pressure" my friends who have babies have told me about. You know the pressure I'm talking about - good 'ole back labor - the kind you feel down really low. It's at this point I begin to pull my husband in close about every ten minutes and whisper, Honey, something's wrong. The baby's not...well, he's not...Honey, I think he's coming out of the wrong hole... to which I get more than a few completely puzzled looks. DH informs the nurses of my complaints and they laugh and giggle as they check me out, assuring me that he is in the right spot for delivery, he just doesn't have the room to make his entrance. I, however, am convinced otherwise. Some weird combination of Pitocin and fading epidural has made it crystal clear to me that I am NOT delivering a baby from my vagina, like any normal woman would, rather he is making his entrance into the world via my asshole, thus making his mark on the world at an early age.
Finally, at about 8pm, the good doctor reappears and checks me for a final time. He orders the third epidural and decides to wait it out a little longer, see if there's any change.
Uh, hello - I've had this thing in my hand delivering "medicine" (I'm not quite convinced it's not saline solution at this point) for the past oh, I dunno, 12 hours, and you're gonna wait it out A LITTLE LONGER? WTH is your PROBLEM, you freakin' masochist!
So, midnight rolls around, and we still have no baby. By now, I have spent most of Sunday, all of Monday, and we're now beginning on Tuesday in this chamber of horrors. My left arm is now bleeding and bruised from elbow to shoulder (from the BP cuff), my right hand is bruised from the tips of my fingers to mid-forearm (from the IV), I'm not dilated, the baby's coming out my ass, and I'm beginning to feel it...again. It's finally, at this point, that the doctor decides that it's time to consider a C-Section (ya THINK?!?) and has the operating room prepped for surgery. It's midnight (or thereabouts), and an hour later, they wheel me in.
I'll spare you the whole "oh, HELL no, I'm not going in with you" argument with DH that nearly ended in divorce right there in the delivery room. He went with me. I win.
I'm prepped. I'm ready. I'm shaking so hard I'm afraid I'm going to fall off the operating table. DH is next to my head, trying to calm me, when they scoot the stepstool over to the table so my OB/GYN can "be tall enough" to perform my surgery. DH and I informed the staff before the doc arrived that we DID NOT want to watch the surgery, so the mirror with a birds-eye-view is not rolled into place. We also tell them that we would like for them to not talk about what they're doing - no "'okay, we need to cut that muscle there" and "cut the fascia so that I can get the head out", please. Doc gets in position, and states nice and loud, "Okay, people, I'm making the first incision. Let's get this fella out!" As one, the ENTIRE operating room staff cry out, "NO!" and the doctor pulls away like my belly is a nest of poisonous snakes. The staff let him in on the secret, and the surgery is finally (praise be to God) completed, and the birth is over. At 2am Tuesday morning.
So, there you go, that's the story of the birth. Lesson you should learn? If you're going to have a baby in WV, for the love of God, go to Charleston, Morgantown, Huntington, Beckley, Bluefield...somewhere big. Don't do it in a country hospital. You'd be better off going to the five-and-dime and squatting right there in the floor to have your baby.
Now, just to be up-front and honest, this one might be a little rough. I mean, we are talking about delivery room antics, and by and large, those can get a wee bit on the disgusting side. Therefore, you have had your fair warning. Gross-outs may very well follow.
Anyway, here we go.
As indicated in the last post, I got pregnant. 5 weeks into said pregnancy I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes and had to take insulin shots a couple of times a day my entire pregnancy. When the time finally came for our little bundle of joy to arrive, I was convinced that I would have little scars on my stomach where I stuck the needle every day; actually, I was hoping for those little battle scars, so that when the boy got old enough to understand I could say, "Look! Look what you did to me, child, before you even arrived! You gonna pull that crap with me, now? You've got to be kidding!", show him the scars, and shame him into good behavior. Alas, the belly-track-marks are gone, but I still have one weapon in my arsenal - the C-Section scar. I fully intend on whippin' that baby out whenever the situation calls for it (embarrassment, shame, guilt...you know, the regular stuff).
That leads us to this. There came an afternoon when the contractions were coming strong and regular, and I looked DH square in the eye, and in the time-honored fashion of wives and mothers everywhere uttered those infamous words: It. Is. Time. Like the dutiful husband that he is, DH bustled me out of the house and into the car to fly on vulcanized...uh...tires to the local hospital. After finally telling the fifth person what I wanted to go into the hospital for (you mean it wasn't evident by the huge, undulating lump on my lower abdomen? Can I speak to someone with eyes connected to a brain, please?) I was admitted. And then, I waited.
See, there are two OB/GYNs who practiced at my chosen hospital. Yes, you read that right. TWO. One of them was out of town, and the other could not be reached until the next morning. Let me set you a little time frame here - this was Sunday night, Memorial-Day-Eve. It was right about 6PM. Sooooo....I was admitted. "A doctor" checked me, declared that I had not dilated enough for a "fast birth" to occur, given a hearty dinner, and sent to bed.
Now, let's fast forward to Monday morning, 6AM. My lovely OB/GYN trotted into the room, checked me, ordered an enema ('cause some moron gave me food the night before - I don't know nuthin' 'bout no birthin' babies, so I ate. It's what happens when you put food in front of me), and then declared he would return to "get rid of that sack in there". Now, at this point I was a little confused, but heck, I'm having a baby, like, NOW, so I was sorta goin' with the flow at that point. If he wanted to get rid of some sack, who was I to argue with him? Sack, begone!
Enema is now completely complete (if you know what I mean) and the good doc is returning to my room, nurse in tow, who happens to be carrying a large tray with some shiny instruments. The doctor positions himself between my legs, lifts up what looks to me like a large knitting needle, and says something like, "so, are we ready to bust the sack?" I'm sure white terror was on my face at this point, because I saw a distinct smile touch his eyes as he began the procedure of breaking my water. All I can say is revenge is sweet - that there man had to change his shoes when he was done.
So, everything is set and should be ready to go, right? Dilation should begin at any time, and then the pushing and then the crying and then the baby-lovin'. Right? Ain't that how it's supposed to work?
About two hours later, no dilation had occurred, and the good doctor orders Pitocin. The drip is started, and an hour after it's started, the doctor rushes back into the room, removes the Pitocin drip and declares, "we must stop the medicine. Emergency heart surgery, you cannot have labor now." WTH? I have lived here all my life. I have been to the hospital I am in many times. Never, in all my years, was I told that there was only one operating theater. Why does this make a difference? Well, if there's complications and I can't have a natural birth while the heart surgery is taking place, there's nowhere to do a C-Section with the exception of the bed I'm laying in. NOT a very good idea. Therefore, the Pitocin is stopped. A couple of hours later the doc comes back in and restarts my IV drip.
Let's catch up a little bit on the timeline, then, shall we?
6am - enema, water manually broke.
8am - Pitocin drip started
9am - Pitocin drip stopped
11am - Pitocin drip re-started
That about has us caught up, right? Okay. On with my tale.
So, a couple of hours later (that makes it 1pm), the doctor comes back in to check me, and notes that I'm still not dilating like he'd want me to. This is a new one on me, since I've been complaining for two hours about the pain of the contractions. My dear, sweet DH has not left my side and has coached me "not to push" the entire morning. I wanted to, believe me. My poor dad is a basket case, and mom hasn't spent more than a couple of minutes in the labor room with me. Anyway, the doctor orders the first epidural, the pain subsides, and a couple more hours pass.
What are we up to now - ahh, yes, that's right. 3pm.
Doctor returns - still not dilated. Epidural is wearing off. Orders another one. Blood pressure cuff, which is set on automatic, is beginning to cause abrasions and bruising on my left arm.
Couple more hours pass. Epidural is wearing off again. Doctor checks, still not dilated. He declares he is going to his office to take a nap. Does not order the third epidural. We're at 5pm now. At around 6pm, I begin to feel the "deep pressure" my friends who have babies have told me about. You know the pressure I'm talking about - good 'ole back labor - the kind you feel down really low. It's at this point I begin to pull my husband in close about every ten minutes and whisper, Honey, something's wrong. The baby's not...well, he's not...Honey, I think he's coming out of the wrong hole... to which I get more than a few completely puzzled looks. DH informs the nurses of my complaints and they laugh and giggle as they check me out, assuring me that he is in the right spot for delivery, he just doesn't have the room to make his entrance. I, however, am convinced otherwise. Some weird combination of Pitocin and fading epidural has made it crystal clear to me that I am NOT delivering a baby from my vagina, like any normal woman would, rather he is making his entrance into the world via my asshole, thus making his mark on the world at an early age.
Finally, at about 8pm, the good doctor reappears and checks me for a final time. He orders the third epidural and decides to wait it out a little longer, see if there's any change.
Uh, hello - I've had this thing in my hand delivering "medicine" (I'm not quite convinced it's not saline solution at this point) for the past oh, I dunno, 12 hours, and you're gonna wait it out A LITTLE LONGER? WTH is your PROBLEM, you freakin' masochist!
So, midnight rolls around, and we still have no baby. By now, I have spent most of Sunday, all of Monday, and we're now beginning on Tuesday in this chamber of horrors. My left arm is now bleeding and bruised from elbow to shoulder (from the BP cuff), my right hand is bruised from the tips of my fingers to mid-forearm (from the IV), I'm not dilated, the baby's coming out my ass, and I'm beginning to feel it...again. It's finally, at this point, that the doctor decides that it's time to consider a C-Section (ya THINK?!?) and has the operating room prepped for surgery. It's midnight (or thereabouts), and an hour later, they wheel me in.
I'll spare you the whole "oh, HELL no, I'm not going in with you" argument with DH that nearly ended in divorce right there in the delivery room. He went with me. I win.
I'm prepped. I'm ready. I'm shaking so hard I'm afraid I'm going to fall off the operating table. DH is next to my head, trying to calm me, when they scoot the stepstool over to the table so my OB/GYN can "be tall enough" to perform my surgery. DH and I informed the staff before the doc arrived that we DID NOT want to watch the surgery, so the mirror with a birds-eye-view is not rolled into place. We also tell them that we would like for them to not talk about what they're doing - no "'okay, we need to cut that muscle there" and "cut the fascia so that I can get the head out", please. Doc gets in position, and states nice and loud, "Okay, people, I'm making the first incision. Let's get this fella out!" As one, the ENTIRE operating room staff cry out, "NO!" and the doctor pulls away like my belly is a nest of poisonous snakes. The staff let him in on the secret, and the surgery is finally (praise be to God) completed, and the birth is over. At 2am Tuesday morning.
So, there you go, that's the story of the birth. Lesson you should learn? If you're going to have a baby in WV, for the love of God, go to Charleston, Morgantown, Huntington, Beckley, Bluefield...somewhere big. Don't do it in a country hospital. You'd be better off going to the five-and-dime and squatting right there in the floor to have your baby.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
The Mommy Chronicle, Part 1
In this post I'm going to start the saga of how my Conman came about. No, not the down-and-dirty, blow-by-blow report of the conception, but the general story around how he "happened".
Before I go into it, though, I want to say that yesterday one of my favorite movie stars passed away - Heath Ledger. I enjoyed his films, and considered myself among his fans. It is a tragic loss, and I feel like we're somehow "less" culturally because he's gone now. I feel similarly now to how I felt when Brandon Lee passed away. It was too soon, and we will be without many fantastic films and, what I think we could have termed "landmark" films because of his death. It has saddened me, and I for one will feel a void in my movie watching without Mr. Ledger. Godspeed, Heath Ledger, and my prayers are with your daughter and family.
On to the other stuff...
When the DH and I first got together, I didn't want children. I was 19 years old, and no "kid" really knows what they want. I knew that I wanted the DH, but that was about it. Kids? Nah. I'd make do with the kids he already had (I'm a second wife, and he already had children with his first wife). I was happy with this decision until my grandmother passed away, and I began to think about my legacy here on the planet. I was positive that I would be a famous writer someday, and that children wouldn't be needed to carry on my legacy - my writing would do that for me. When my grandma died, I thought about her children and grandchildren, and thought about how, even though she didn't do anything monumental with her life, her children have, and her grandchildren have, and without her, they wouldn't even be here. I decided, at that point, that I, too, wanted children.
I didn't tell the DH that I had stopped the birth control pills. I just stopped them and continued with our "marital activities" as normal. After three or four months with no results, I let DH in on the secret and my reasons. He didn't want another child, but he agreed and went along with my plans. I saw a doctor and was informed that because of polycystic ovaries I would have difficulty conceiving a child.
Three years later, and we were still without child, still seeing a doctor, still being tested. The final step (just before in-vitro fertilization) was Clomid, an ovary-stimulating and egg-releasing medication. Often children conceived on Clomid are multiples, so there was the risk of that. You start Clomid with a smaller dose and if that doesn't work, the dose is upped a bit, and if that doesn't work, it's upped yet again. After three rounds of Clomid you have to let your body rest, and then start over with the low dose again. The higher the dose, the more likely you are to conceive multiples. I got pregnant on the third dose, first round of Clomid. That's not the story here, though. The story is exactly how the conception happened.
Now, along with the pills, the doctor prescribes certain positions for a higher rate of conception while on Clomid. One of these positions is that after you finish doing your marital activities you put a pillow beneath your bottom and put your legs up in the air to keep the stuff inside that you want to stay inside. Now, I'm a big woman. You have to stay that way for ten minutes, and while that doesn't seem like a long time, go try it. It feels like ten hours instead of ten minutes. Well, I got the big idea that rather than lie flat on my back with my legs up in the air, I would just flop over the edge of the bed and stand on my head.
Now, I said above that I'm a big woman. That means I'm big all over - if you know what I mean. My bed and chest of drawers at the time were fairly close - about 2 feet apart - and guess where I ended up when I flopped over the edge of the bed? Yep, between the bed and the chest. Upside down. Wedged between these two pieces of furniture. As usual, when you're performing marital activities, I was naked, so my big 'ole boobs were upside down, too - and covering my nose and mouth. So now not only am I stuck between the bed and chest, but I'm effectively smothering myself with my own breasts.
Now, I can't imagine what DH thought when he first saw me when he walked back into the bedroom. He told me later that his first impulse was Oh, my, I need to help my wife, but he couldn't do much more than stand there and laugh. Obviously, he eventually helped me down, I didn't smother to death, and we conceived a child. For a moment there, though, I thought, Dear Lord, my husband is going to have to actually EXPLAIN to people how his wife died.
So there is the story of the conception of my child. It's no wonder he's an odd bird - just look at the parents he came from!
Before I go into it, though, I want to say that yesterday one of my favorite movie stars passed away - Heath Ledger. I enjoyed his films, and considered myself among his fans. It is a tragic loss, and I feel like we're somehow "less" culturally because he's gone now. I feel similarly now to how I felt when Brandon Lee passed away. It was too soon, and we will be without many fantastic films and, what I think we could have termed "landmark" films because of his death. It has saddened me, and I for one will feel a void in my movie watching without Mr. Ledger. Godspeed, Heath Ledger, and my prayers are with your daughter and family.
On to the other stuff...
When the DH and I first got together, I didn't want children. I was 19 years old, and no "kid" really knows what they want. I knew that I wanted the DH, but that was about it. Kids? Nah. I'd make do with the kids he already had (I'm a second wife, and he already had children with his first wife). I was happy with this decision until my grandmother passed away, and I began to think about my legacy here on the planet. I was positive that I would be a famous writer someday, and that children wouldn't be needed to carry on my legacy - my writing would do that for me. When my grandma died, I thought about her children and grandchildren, and thought about how, even though she didn't do anything monumental with her life, her children have, and her grandchildren have, and without her, they wouldn't even be here. I decided, at that point, that I, too, wanted children.
I didn't tell the DH that I had stopped the birth control pills. I just stopped them and continued with our "marital activities" as normal. After three or four months with no results, I let DH in on the secret and my reasons. He didn't want another child, but he agreed and went along with my plans. I saw a doctor and was informed that because of polycystic ovaries I would have difficulty conceiving a child.
Three years later, and we were still without child, still seeing a doctor, still being tested. The final step (just before in-vitro fertilization) was Clomid, an ovary-stimulating and egg-releasing medication. Often children conceived on Clomid are multiples, so there was the risk of that. You start Clomid with a smaller dose and if that doesn't work, the dose is upped a bit, and if that doesn't work, it's upped yet again. After three rounds of Clomid you have to let your body rest, and then start over with the low dose again. The higher the dose, the more likely you are to conceive multiples. I got pregnant on the third dose, first round of Clomid. That's not the story here, though. The story is exactly how the conception happened.
Now, along with the pills, the doctor prescribes certain positions for a higher rate of conception while on Clomid. One of these positions is that after you finish doing your marital activities you put a pillow beneath your bottom and put your legs up in the air to keep the stuff inside that you want to stay inside. Now, I'm a big woman. You have to stay that way for ten minutes, and while that doesn't seem like a long time, go try it. It feels like ten hours instead of ten minutes. Well, I got the big idea that rather than lie flat on my back with my legs up in the air, I would just flop over the edge of the bed and stand on my head.
Now, I said above that I'm a big woman. That means I'm big all over - if you know what I mean. My bed and chest of drawers at the time were fairly close - about 2 feet apart - and guess where I ended up when I flopped over the edge of the bed? Yep, between the bed and the chest. Upside down. Wedged between these two pieces of furniture. As usual, when you're performing marital activities, I was naked, so my big 'ole boobs were upside down, too - and covering my nose and mouth. So now not only am I stuck between the bed and chest, but I'm effectively smothering myself with my own breasts.
Now, I can't imagine what DH thought when he first saw me when he walked back into the bedroom. He told me later that his first impulse was Oh, my, I need to help my wife, but he couldn't do much more than stand there and laugh. Obviously, he eventually helped me down, I didn't smother to death, and we conceived a child. For a moment there, though, I thought, Dear Lord, my husband is going to have to actually EXPLAIN to people how his wife died.
So there is the story of the conception of my child. It's no wonder he's an odd bird - just look at the parents he came from!
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Momma of a Boy
Over at Oh, The Joys on January 21, she discussed a friend of hers who is about to give birth to a bouncing baby boy and requested other hints and tips from her readers about raising boys. I have a few stories about that, and I hope she reads this and can get a little information out of them. At least, I hope they give her a chuckle.
My son was born the day they took the last piece of the World Trade Center down and carted it away - the day after Memorial Day, 2002. I wanted him to be marked for greatness, since he was born on a day of such significance. Although that day was marked by sadness, to me it was also marked with hope. Not only for the future of my child, but for the future of NYC and the country.
Conman was born a week early, which is generally no problem. He was born via C-Section, and had fluid on his lungs, a heart murmur, and a problem maintaining his blood sugar levels. The hospital he was born in didn't have a staff pediatrician, nor a nursery for "medical problem children", so when he was less than 24 hours old, he had an experience that I have still not had - he had a helicopter ride to transfer to another hospital four hours away where they could care for him.
Now, six years later, the boy is in fine shape - his heart murmur has corrected itself, his lungs are clear and he's rarely ill with respiratory infections, and his sugar levels are fine. He's a happy, healthy, intelligent little boy. He deserves a lot of credit for his intelligence; he strives to learn every day, asks questions and actually listens to the answers I give him, and is forever curious about the world around him.
That doesn't mean that the road to this point hasn't been curvy or bumpy - in fact, it's been both. We've had our problems with the boy, and DH and I have worked together and diligently to correct the problems. Sometimes it's been a problem with us, sometimes it's a problem with him - either way, though, we've been able to recognize the problem and work to correct the problem as a family.
My parents have been a huge help in this. Conman stays with them three or four nights a week simply because it is more convenient for his school. Although my views on child rearing and their views sometimes differ, they are often close enough to be consistent in our parenting. There have been, however, a few things that have happened that have really shaped his personality.
When Con was about two, my mother had him while I was at work. This particular day, she was maintaining her mother's (my grandmother's) gravesite in a cemetery, and had Conman with her. Nearby, a new grave had been dug in anticipation of a funeral (you can see where this is going, can't you...). Mom was diligently working on the gravestone while Con played nearby. She looked up to check on him, and didn't see him anywhere. She panicked, but luckily had enough composure to listen and see if he was somewhere unseen, calling for help. He most certainly was. He had fallen into the open grave. Luckily, the vault was already in the hole, and he didn't fall the full six feet; he only fell about four feet (which is bad enough) and landed on the vault. Mom found him, Spider Man action figure in hand, yelling, "Help, Mamaw, I fell in a pit!" As luck would have it, one of the maintenance men for the cemetery was nearby and helped her get him out of the hole. The cemetery where he fell in the grave is on the way to the supermarket, and every time we pass by, he says, "Hey, mom, that's where mamaw let me fall in the pit. That place right there."
He just now ran past me into his bedroom and said, "I need to get my sword!" and disappeared into his bedroom. He came out of his bedroom with his play-sword in hand and when he ran by me going back to the living room he cried, "A battle awaits!". That's normal activity around here.
I've said a time or two that I'm a writer, but I don't think I've mentioned exactly what it is that I write - well, it's fantasy. Think DragonLance, Lord of the Rings, things like that. We have, since the boy has been around, wanted to have him interested in that sort of thing - the world of fantasy, where your imagination can run wild and it's okay. Where you can escape and be a knight errant, or a mighty wizard, or a cunning rogue. Quite honestly, he's taken to it like a duck to water. We've used the love we have of all things fantasy to introduce him to classical literature and managed to forego the current "fads" in kid's lit. Yes, he still likes watching Thomas and Little Bear and all that stuff on TV, but when it comes to story time, he wants to hear about Peter Pan and the Three Billy Goats Gruff. It makes me proud to think that he's heading down the same road I am, and that he may one day surpass me.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Kids Say the Darndest Things
Now, I know you don't know a whole lot about my child. Let me take this opportunity to spread a little knowledge and give you a little insight into the Conman.
First off, he's 5, almost 6. However, he would like for you to believe that he's much, MUCH older. He already knows everything about anything (which does not bode well for his teenage years, or mine), and he has absolutely no problem telling you everything, all at once. Unless he hasn't met you. Then you might have to ask twice.
In this household, words are important. I, myself, am a writer by trade. I also consider myself a novice hobby linguist - I'm just now getting into discovering the magic and mystery behind the formation of words, their meanings and their etymologies. I'm learning how to write fictional languages, and looking into learning real-world foreign languages. So yeah, words are important. A little bit of this has rubbed off on the boy, and every so often, he declares "his word".
For an example, I give you awesome. I noticed Conman using awesome a lot, and in an effort to be a hip and with-it mom, I've adopted to the practice.
"How's that hot dog, Con?"
"Oh, mom, it's awesome!"
"Did you have a good day at school, boy?"
"Yeah, mom, playing with the Lego's was awesome today."
"I bet you did awesome in school today, didn't you, son."
"Mom."
"What, boy?"
"Don't say that, mom. Awesome is only cool when I say it. But yeah, I was awesome today."
I'm overjoyed that he's taken possession of something as ephemeral as a word. I've asked him to explain to me what his "declared words" mean, and he's always been able to give me a reasonably correct definitions, which makes me exceptionally proud. I'm glad that he seems to have an inherent quality for intelligence and a firm grasp of the English language at such a young age. What I hope does NOT happen is that he develops into a little wise ass. That would be worst case scenario.
It didn't take him long, once he began to become aware of the world around him, to grasp crude words, the use of the middle finger, and a few other of the more base uses for language (not that we taught him these words, but he sorta...picked them up...you know...around the house...). He's smart enough to realize that you don't say those things (or, in the case of obscene gestures, don't do 'em...).
All in all, I'm proud of my fella. He's a smart boy, quiet, and well-behaved. He pays attention to me, does what he's told, and listens to other authority figures (teachers, grandparents, etc.). It makes me glad that, given my childhood, it hasn't come back to haunt me. I actually have a good child, after I was such a hellion. I'm a lucky mom.
First off, he's 5, almost 6. However, he would like for you to believe that he's much, MUCH older. He already knows everything about anything (which does not bode well for his teenage years, or mine), and he has absolutely no problem telling you everything, all at once. Unless he hasn't met you. Then you might have to ask twice.
In this household, words are important. I, myself, am a writer by trade. I also consider myself a novice hobby linguist - I'm just now getting into discovering the magic and mystery behind the formation of words, their meanings and their etymologies. I'm learning how to write fictional languages, and looking into learning real-world foreign languages. So yeah, words are important. A little bit of this has rubbed off on the boy, and every so often, he declares "his word".
For an example, I give you awesome. I noticed Conman using awesome a lot, and in an effort to be a hip and with-it mom, I've adopted to the practice.
"How's that hot dog, Con?"
"Oh, mom, it's awesome!"
"Did you have a good day at school, boy?"
"Yeah, mom, playing with the Lego's was awesome today."
"I bet you did awesome in school today, didn't you, son."
"Mom."
"What, boy?"
"Don't say that, mom. Awesome is only cool when I say it. But yeah, I was awesome today."
I'm overjoyed that he's taken possession of something as ephemeral as a word. I've asked him to explain to me what his "declared words" mean, and he's always been able to give me a reasonably correct definitions, which makes me exceptionally proud. I'm glad that he seems to have an inherent quality for intelligence and a firm grasp of the English language at such a young age. What I hope does NOT happen is that he develops into a little wise ass. That would be worst case scenario.
It didn't take him long, once he began to become aware of the world around him, to grasp crude words, the use of the middle finger, and a few other of the more base uses for language (not that we taught him these words, but he sorta...picked them up...you know...around the house...). He's smart enough to realize that you don't say those things (or, in the case of obscene gestures, don't do 'em...).
All in all, I'm proud of my fella. He's a smart boy, quiet, and well-behaved. He pays attention to me, does what he's told, and listens to other authority figures (teachers, grandparents, etc.). It makes me glad that, given my childhood, it hasn't come back to haunt me. I actually have a good child, after I was such a hellion. I'm a lucky mom.
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