2, 4, 6, 8 - We Don't Like To Separate

That is the face of a baby that does not want me to leave. EVER. Yes dear friends, it is separation anxiety time at the McCall household. Separation anxiety is when your baby knows who you are, that they like you, that you are fun, and oh yeah, you carry those treasures that provide a steady supply of frothy milky bliss and if you leave them, they think you have stumbled into a black hole of non-existence so they start to panic and cry uncontrollably. Babies are so stupid. This is the stage in which Maggie has to grasp onto Object Permanence, wherein she recognizes that when I leave to go into another room, I still exist. I told you they were stupid. This does not really cause too much of a problem, but at night, after I nurse her and try to slip her back into her crib she is revolting. Because she is all - hey booby lady, where are you? Where are you? WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? I love my daughter, and for the most part, she has been a wonderfully easy baby. But for that all goodness, there had to be one bad. And that bad is a cry that is absolutely piercing and ultimately destructive to my nerve core. It sounds as if she is being stabbed to death, it is not a cry - it is a gut wrenching wail of wounding. I can’t listen to it without an immediate twitch in my right eye combined with a searing pain behind my temples. All those not familiar with the wail of banshees, I submit to you the following: In Irish Folklore is a spirit in the form of a wailing woman whose appearance is an omen that you will die. Although in Maggie’s case, it is just that I want to die. Oh, separation anxiety, how the hell did I forget about you? Oh yes, I know, because one tends to block out traumatic injuries to the psyche.

The Beast Within

What just occurred in the ladies bathroom was absolutely gruesome in nature. Have you ever had a pimple in your nose? Or Nasacne, little buggers of excruciating pain that pop out of nowhere to create havoc in your life. Do you realize how many times you touch your nose in a day? Why surely, not because you are not obsessive compulsive and insane. But imagine a pimple eligible for statehood in your right nostril and you have allergies. Egads! After six hours of what must have been an extreme growth spurt I inspected the specimen. Good god, its large size and white nature surprised me so. There was no other answer; it had to be dealt with. I grabbed a Kleenex and prayed no one entered the bathroom as I stood nose up to the mirror with fingers probing. There are many things in life I aspire to be, weirdo at work, not one of them. In what can only be attributed to Twister like gifts - right hand on forehead, left hand on nose - I managed with a shriek and tear filled eye to pop said beast. Except for the fact that my nose bled like it was 1985 and Michael J. Fox in Bright Lights, Big City, success was had.

The Birthing of Maggie Nicole

Yesterday on my run it occurred to me that I never did detail the magic that was the birth of Ms. Maggie Nicole McCall. In an effort to correct this huge injustice, and also let her understand what exactly she did to me on March 23, 2009, I submit the following.

After eight weeks of bed rest, four weeks of wondering if she would come early, the due date of March 14, 2009 came and went. This did not surprise me since her brother was eleven days overdue, and I was still hoping for a St. Patty’s Day baby. At my doctor’s appt on March 16, I was asked if I wanted to be induced. No doctor, I would rather continue my life as the world's largest woman not currently in a circus. Of course, induce me. Unfortunately, St. Patrick’s Day was booked. This was probably for the best considering a daughter named Maggie McCall born on St. Patrick’s Day is just screaming for hospitalization during a future twenty-first birthday party. The next date available was Thursday, March 19. It was during this appointment I was told that my cervix was 100% effaced and dilated 4 cm and basically my baby would be coming at any moment. However, they did not know Maggie “I love my womb” McCall, because on Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. as instructed, I called the hospital. If you have never been pregnant, let me tell you that 40 plus weeks of pregnancy without a baby does something to the mind and spirit. It is an anxiety mixed with zero patience and the slightest bit of crazy. I gave the nurse my information and she told me “Sorry, but we are really busy, call back at 9:00 a.m.” So I did. I was then greeted with the information that there was no way I would be induced today. It was here when my I had a psychotic break, as I put the phone down, went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and cried the howls only the overly pregnant can make. My doctor called later in the day to say that she was sorry, but there was nothing they can do, and my new induction date was Monday. She also said she thought I would not go over the weekend. Placing bets? Correct! On Monday, I called again and this time got the okay to come. Hooray - baby exit, stage vagina. Also it should be noted that if I was denied admittance, I would have gotten a coat hanger. Just saying.

To the hospital we went. Surprisingly, we were given the very room we were going to have Owen in before it was discovered that the TV did not work and there was an upgrade to birthing room Shangri-la. But I was fine with this room, because this bitch was getting her eviction notice. The plan was to break my water, because I was already so dilated and effaced, labor would start pretty soon after. Yippee.

I was offered an epidural and since I vividly remember my OB/GYN up to her elbows inside me after my placenta with Owen detached I wholeheartedly said yes. However, since with my first epidural and a puncture of my spinal fluid that in turn created the worst mind numbing headache known to man, I was cautious. I told the anesthesiologist exactly what happened, and he said okay. Also he wanted to know the doctor’s name, which I did not know, because I am pretty sure when you do puncture the spinal fluid, the other anesthesiologists think you are a fucking retard. This guy however claimed to be “super good.” And I was all “Okay, buddy, whatever.”

It is here that I should also mention our nurse. Because I was 100% effaced, 4 cm dilated and this was my second baby, it was thought I would “go fast” when my water was broken. This nurse was assigned to me, and only me. And that nurse had no sense of humor. In fact, at one point when John, his mother and I were all cracking jokes, she said to us “Oh, I get it, you are funny people” in a heavy Asian accent and a look of complete scorn. Yes, lady, we are funny people, now do me a favor and get the funny progeny out of my funny vagina.

So back to the epidural (get it, “back”?). The numbed me accordingly. And Mr. Expert got to work. After what I can only guess was forty-five minutes, twenty plus pokes and me sweating profusely in pain, he decided to abandon the space where you usually put the needle and go one above. Guess what people? Epidurals are actually not that bad and only take two minutes. Seems in addition to having a freakishly long back, I also have an “elusive” space between my L4 and L5, and that he recommended in the future they go in L3 and L4. As if I am going to have any more kids asshole.

After my epidural, they came in to break my water. Do you know they break your water with what pretty much looks like a big crochet hook? So honestly, I could have gone up there with a wire hanger and been fine. It was a breeze. Okay, contractions. Let’s go! We waited, and waited. There was nothing. No blip on the Contract-In-Nator. Nothing but a steady line of you will never have this baby. It was here that my nurse started to get a bit pissed. She would come in, look at us funny people, and then silently swear to herself as to why I was not going into labor. I mean I was 4 cm dilated, 100% effaced and they broke my water three hours ago. Then she mentioned the magic word “pitocin”. Do you want pitocin? Hell yes, I want pitocin. And then it happened. Contractions. Glorious, sweet, wonderful contractions. But the Contract-In-Nator was not recording them, but I sure as hell was feeling them. It was then decided that the baby would have internal monitors because they could not get an accurate reading on her heartbeat. This was about thirty minutes after the contractions had started, and as they reached in to put them on Maggie’s head, it was discovered I was fully dilated. Have I mentioned to you how much I adore the inventor of Pitocin? I am pretty sure both Maggie and Owen would still be in my uterus at this moment playing a game of pinochle if not for its invention. As our nurse fluttered about the room, happy to do something other than try to understand our humor and roll her eyes at my belly, I was happy. Truly happy that this pregnancy was coming to an end, and I would finally see Maggie. They then told me to do a practice push, so that they could determine my pushing ability. I pushed, and then the nurse said “Stop, I am calling your doctor.” That is right, I had that kid’s head pretty much out with one push, and my doctor had to race over so that she could say to me, “Okay, Cassie, push.” I did and Maggie was out. Two pushes bitches!

John told me that basically Maggie came out with a face of “Hello? What the hell? Oh my god!” And the tears came, and they put her on my belly. I gazed upon the back of her head full of dark hair while John and his mom gushed over her beauty. I then became progressively pissed off, as evidenced in the photo below.

Because Owen had pooped himself, and I had a detached placenta I did not see him and pretty much thought I was going to die. This time, I carried Girlzilla for 40 weeks, 9 days and 8 weeks of bed rest and all I got to see was the god damn back of her head. But then I did see her, and she was absolutely gorgeous. (Have I told you that people say we look alike? Take that as you will.).

Maggie Nicole McCall, born in two pushes on March 23, 2009 at 3:58 p.m. to “funny people.”

I Like Big Butts

Today as I was perusing Nordstroms.com for some denim, I stumbled across the following:


I like the fact that Nordstroms just goes out there with this. They don’t simply say “available in plus sizes”, they say - here is a big ole denim covered ass for your perusal. Whoah! Once again I am involved in the frantic search for jeans because the ones that I loved from The Gap are now too big. Which is great in the sense my ass is no longer that big, but sad in the sense it took me a very long time to find those jeans. Also, I don’t know what it is, but I pretty much want to set a match to everything I own and start over. But I am cheap, and hate shopping so there is that. So if you are reading this, why don’t you nominate me for What Not To Wear. Thanks.

Reason #257

I am suffering from a cold, and it is a total lingerer. Although starting to feel symptoms last Monday, nothing truly manifested itself until Wednesday evening. Now a week later from that Wednesday evening it feels as if my head is surrounded in a green snot haze. For the first three days, I pretty much wrote it off to allergies, because I like to do that. I am not one to ride the sickness pity party parade. Its allergies, dude. But nope, this is not allergies, this is a cold. And like any crazy person with denial about illness, I ran yesterday, with a chest cold. In all honesty, I can say it was okay, I felt better. But then this morning, I woke up. The worst part about all of this is that because I am breastfeeding there is nothing to take. I can’t Nyquil into hazy facial recognitions and purple ponies, nor can I Dayquil in order to make my officemates not look at me with abject fear. I take Halls Menthol Cherry Drops and this Vick’s Vapor Rub nasal shot that looks like I am doing cocaine. And this is reason #257 I will be happy to stop nursing in March 2010. Go Immune System!