Maggers Turns Three

Happy Birthday Maggie! Typing this today I am overwhelmed by the fact that you are three. It seems impossible that three years ago I was in a hospital bed, 5 cm dilated, 100% effaced with broken water and still not in labor. Thank god for pitocin, because once I got that, you were born in less than 40 minutes. One Push McCall should have really stuck more than it did. Oh well.

You are very proud of the fact that you are now “a big girl”. “I not a little girl Mama, I a big girl.” However, last weekend, after your repeated pleas to go into the bottom bunk of Owen’s bed and abandon your crib, this fact was put to the test. As you lay down in the bed and looked around, you eyes grew wide. You jumped out of bed, saying “Mama, I not a big girl. Look at me, I still little. I still very, very, very little. I go downstairs.” It was impossibly cute, and the best thing was when Owen was tearful that you would not be sharing a room, you said “Owen, I just not ready. I’ll be ready soon. I give you a kiss.” I don’t think anyone can argue that for a just turned three year old, you have a very good sense of yourself. You know what you want, when you want it. And this a very good quality, even if at times it borders on bossy, and, believe me, it does.


Recently, you were moved from the 2 year old class to the 2/3 class at preschool. There were some concerns that you might have a bit of difficulty, emotionally and academically. But you did extremely well, took it in stride like “a big girl” and caught up no problem. You are so smart. I try to stress this often since you also get a lot of “she is so pretty” comments. You are both, and I want you always to know that. And somehow, I don’t think you will forget.


Yesterday, I looked up famous birthdays and you share yours with Joan Crawford. And nope, I am totally not going to sugar coat it. You have a temper. Maybe not wire hangers in the closet temper, but close. Your Dad and I are thankful that you were second, I fear that if we had not had Owen first, we would cater to these episodes and make you a mini-megalomaniac. But unfortunately for you, we have been “through the shit” and we know when to walk away when a crazy eyed semi-psychotic toddler has a fixed idea. You will wail, howl, cry. All of this will not even cause us to raise an eyebrow, and when you realize this, which is often quick, you pick yourself up, huff on over and say, “I sorry. I need a hug.” Oh, by the way, you give the best hugs. They are full body in, arms tight across the neck, head firmly pressed against the chest awesomeness. And I am Boston Irish Catholic, we don’t ever like to be touched (except, when intoxicated), so yeah, best hugs.


Also, you just happen to have this older brother that you adore. I know at some point you will be reading this and say, “Oh my god, Mom. I SO did not like Owen.” But guess what? You did, and you do, you idolize him. You imitate what he does constantly, you demand his attention, which he thankfully gives (see temper). You love your brother, so, so much. And he you.


Maggie, you make me so happy. You make your Dad so happy. I can’t imagine my life without you and have a hard time remembering it without you. I feel so lucky, so blessed, and so overly emotional right now so I am going to stop before the waterworks come. My baby girl, my monkey, my little spitfire full of piss and vinegar I am sure to regret 10 years from now, I love you. Thanks for making my life so much better than it ever could be without you.

Love, Mama

P.S. Your singing is just sort of rad.

Joys of Parenting: Toddler OCD

As someone that the sight of an open cabinet immediately creates within a spastic twitch in the cortex of my brain signaling - CLOSE, CLOSE, CLOSE, CLOSE, CLOSE, CLOSE - the fact that my daughter is a creature of habit bordering on psychosis should not come as shock. Since having children, the phrase “you get what you give” has been painfully defined. On one hand, I have an ultracompetitive sore loser who I much preach the concept of “fair play” to and the other a girl whose bedtime routine is an exercise in torture (and probably might be in Dante’s version of a modern Inferno).

A few weeks back, John once again came upstairs after putting Maggie to bed exasperated and shaking his head, reaching for the immediate beer. Since we have been alternating Owen’s bedtime routine, I said “You know, maybe we should share Maggie’s stories too?” (Usually I cook during this time). John responded, “Totally.” He then may have danced a bit and praised Jesus and smiled at me with a face of “You have no fucking clue what you are getting yourself into.” I realize this now, at the time I just though - what is the big deal?

Let me explain the big deal to you. After the kids finish their bath, and get dressed, at 6:45 p.m. it is time for Maggie to go to sleep.

Me: Maggie, it is time to go to bed.
Maggie: TWO MINUTES. TWO MINUTES. TWO MINUTES.
Me: Okay, two minutes.
(Two minutes pass).
Me: Mags, time to go to bed.
Maggie: TWO MINUTES!! I WANT TWO MINUTES!!
Me: Time for bed.
Maggie: I need to kiss Daddy. DADDY, DADDY, KISSES!
Me: Okay Maggie. Bed.
Maggie: OWEN, OWEN, kisses for Owen.
Owen: (Kissing Maggie). Good night Mags, I miss you. (Awww).
Me: Maggie, bed.
Maggie: I pick out my bottle.

She picks her bottle; we fill it with ice and water. The left side of my skull starts to throb. We head down the stairs to her room. She first goes to the computer to turn it on so that her Mozart playlist can be played (brainpower!), then she goes to her heater to turn it on, then she throws her bottle over her crib and climbs in. For those thinking: She is still in a crib? How old is this kid anyway? The answer is 3 in March and she sleeps from 7:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. every single day. She will be in that crib until she is 18 if I can help it.

Now, the stories. At this point in the adventure, Maggie chooses one book which is usually a Dora book. These books are long, and if you try to skip words, you are in trouble. Like last night when I skipped the part about crossing the sea on the pirate ship to avoid the snake and we did not say “Arrggggh”. So then we said it 18,000 times. Mama you forgot AAARRRGGGGGHHHHH. ARRGGHHHHHH. MAMA ARRRAGGHHHH. Mistake. After the first story this is the time when Maggie goes to the bathroom. We head in, where she turns on the light. I DO IT. Then sit and go pee and try to go poop. If she can’t poop she will strain until you are pretty sure an aneurysm will be had, and you are okay with this. She climbs off, flushes and turns off the light. POOP MAMA!

We exit the bathroom, wherein we have come to the touching shadows portion of the evening. “I TOUCH SHADOWS.” She proceeds to touch all the shadows in the room taking care not to step on the treadmill “This is Daddy’s Mama, IT’S NOT A TOY.” Thanks Maggie, I keep forgetting.

Back into bed for more stories. But first, “I NEED BIG ICE”. I get a piece of ice for her to chew on. THAT NOT BIG MAMA. I find another, my headache growing. Goodnight Moon is now read, a favorite since she repeats everything I say. This is a good moment, I almost love her again. That is until the Cheerios book. The Cheerios book has me wishing for death. How can a six page book seemingly take six hours? Oh, because she has to point out every color, and then pretend to take cheerios from one page to put them on another. Then count them, over and over, and then tell me which mice don’t have glasses. I need to get him some glasses Mama. TIME FOR BED MAGGIE. GLASSES MAMA. More placing of pretend cheerios. Until finally every mouse has glasses, every fish has bubbles, every car has wheels, and she agrees to end story time.

We next discuss her day. This is another part of the routine in which I kind of forget that I want to hang myself. She informs me who was her friend, who wasn’t her friend, how she sang Wheels on the Bus and the baby went Wah, Wah, Wah, how she pooped in the potty. The life of an almost three year old is quite compelling. I then tell her, “Good night Mags”. She then asks for a fist pump. We fist pump. Then we high five. Then we high five again. One more high five. I zip up the crib tent and start for the stairs, Maggie then pulls off her all of her blankets and says, “MAMA, MY BLANKETS!”. Shocked. As if she did not take then all off when I turned around. I go down, unzip to tuck her in. First one blanket (tuck, tuck, tuck), her baby blanket (tuck, tuck, tuck), her Dora fleece blanket (tuck, tuck, tuck). LOOK MAMA, DORA!!! AND BOOTS!!! Said happiness and joy, as if she does not say this every single freaking night. My love is back. Good night Maggie. Good night Mama. WHERE IS OWEN? Going to sleep. WHERE IS DADDY? Going to sleep. WHERE YOU GOING? I am going to sleep Maggie. DADDY TIRED. OWEN TIRED. MAMA TIRED. MAGGIE TIRED. Yep. Go to sleep, sweet dreams. NIGHT MAMA. Night.

As I climbed those stairs I know that I am free (to drink copious amounts of wine). And although torturous in its execution and not to mention high pitched cries of anguish for any transgression of the “routine,” I try to tell myself that this will be over someday, I will miss this, I will ache for this. But you know what? I really don’t think so, I really don't. At least she is cute. She has to be.

When Rainbows Vomit

There was a time when I would see little girls dressed like rainbow vomit and say “What is wrong with that mother?” That was before I had a girl, a girl who now picks her own clothing. Maggie is 2.5 years old, and has the fashion sense of an eccentric bag lady drunkard. “No, I want my tights, Mama!” “I want my boots!” “No, I do it, Mama!” It is pretty much to the point John and I throw up our hands and let her have at it. She is a girl very adamant (bordering on pyschosis) about her wants and dislikes. She HATES when I put her hair in ponytails, much preferring “my barrettes”. Last Saturday, she grabbed 8 barrettes and made John put them all in her hair. And seriously, this sucks because even though I am a tomboy, I loved doing my Barbie’s hair. Now I have a girl with hair, lots of curly ringlet hair that just screams “Play with me!!”, but, no, it is a steady stream of headbands and barrettes for Mags.

Today this is what Maggie wore:


Please note the cowboy boots, with blue tights, and pink tutu.


Her Beatles Shirt with bedazzled elastic as a bracelet (because you know, not like I can actually ever put her hair up in one).


And the hair. Today we have a blue and white striped headband with hot pink flowers. Maggie, opting for an around the head effect ala NBA stars, as well as a purple barrette - because hell be damned if this girl does not have a barrette in her hair.


Maggie McCall, Fashion Maven.

Its Starts Early . . .

While Maggie repeatedly uses the phrase “Where my socks?”, when John repeats it, she suddenly remembers that said socks are “downstairs in my bed.” John then volunteers to get said socks. And there you have it, pretty girls getting guys to do things for them when they can do it themselves, starts very early, indeed. Also, her curls are killing me I love them so much.

Running and Kids Update

This afternoon for strength training, I decided that the best course of action was to run one mile to the front part of AT&T Park in order to do the exercises, because the likelihood of anyone seeing me from the office was minimal. And it is pretty.


On that grassy field I proceeded to do pushups, triceps dips, step ups, lunges, and sit up after sit up. I also had the audacity to see some guy working out with a kettle ball and thinking him strange. Ah, yeah. I killed myself and was virtual jelly, but still had to run the one mile back to my office. This just goes to show you that the pain of embarrassment from your co-workers looking at you while working out maybe less than that of running a mile after “toning” up. Anyway, I truly doubt I will be able to walk tomorrow.

This weekend we headed to Point Reyes Drake’s Beach which is very lovely, and the kids got their Clam Chowder fix. Of course, Owen napped on the way back home. This is not good for me, because usually on the weekend he does not nap. Meaning 7:15 p.m. bedtime and no yogup (his term for yoga) or talking about our day or me reading to him from my Kindle. Which he now likes me to do as he rests into oblivion. Does reading aloud Wuthering Heights to your child qualify as child abuse? Anyhoo, in an attempt to get him tired we allowed him to ride his bike to the Park Chalet - about 2.5 miles back and forth. He was very excited. Someone not so excited, Maggie. To their credit, Owen and Maggie share pretty well. They take turns picking out what to watch on TV, sharing their toys, etc. But Owen’s bike is Owen’s bike. She can’t use it because she is smaller than him. So the entire time Owen is riding his bike, Maggie is in the stroller screaming “Owen no share the bike!!” “I want the bike!!” “BIIIKKKKEEEEEEEEEE.” There is no reasoning with the two year old in tantrum mode. There is drinking though, thank you Park Chalet. When we finally arrived, Owen got off his bike and Maggie proceeded to grab his helmet, climb on top and stay there pretty much the entire 90 minute visit. Trying to peddle, but not able to because she does not fit on the thing, but that did not stop her happily sitting atop the seat. And then when it was time to go home, Little Miss Crazy threw another tantrum because “Owen no share.”, even though she was on the bike for 90 minutes. I told John to just go with Owen and I would walk her in the stroller another way back. This way she would not be tortured by the sight of a happily riding Owen. But Maggie is a girl that does not give in easily to her Mom’s attempts to distract. Bubbles? “BIKEEEE”. Raisins? “BIIKKEEEE”. She clawed, shook and moved her body so that she was able to get out of her five point harnessed BOB stroller. Houdini has nothing on this kid. She refused to get back into the stroller. So, I got to carry her in my arms all the way home while pushing the BOB and hearing her whispers of bike, bike, bike until one block from the house. Because that is when she decided to go into the stroller with her bubbles. She is insane.

Ten Things About Maggie McCall On This Her Second Birthday.

1. Strawberries. I do not believe there is anyone on the planet more in love with strawberries than you. I have to hide the pints below the carriage at the supermarket so you don’t go into hysterics shouting “STAHHHBEERRRRIIIEEESSS.” After giving you a half a pint, you will return with the empty bowl 3.2 seconds later, your face covered in strawberry juice, moaning “More, more, more, more.” Strawberries are freaking expensive, and it is your crack.

2. Your Hair. Holy cow, I don’t even know where to begin with this one. Your hair is nuts. It is fine and curly, not tight cork screw but sort of long dangly curls that are always dry. This is what you looked like on Saturday when you woke up:



Wow. Thank god for conditioner and elastics, because if strawberries are your crack, this is your crack ho hair. Is it wrong to liken a 2 year olds hair to a crack ho, I don’t think so.

3. Owen. I believe that your brother is your favorite thing on the planet, aside from strawberries. Ohwin! Ohwin! You love him. You follow him around imitating his every act. Which is not good when he is doing something wrong, but hey, I decided to have two kids, and that is my punishment.

4. Fearless. You really have no real fear that I can see. In fact, a few weeks ago you at 22 pounds decided that it was an opportune moment after your 45 pound brother stole your car to tackle him, put him in a head lock and then throw him and you to the ground. I think you realized when you smacked your head, that your next assault would have to be better planned.

5. Rage. I think it is apparent that you have a bit of a temper, you always had. God forbid I got my boob to you 0.0003 second late when you were a baby, but now when you are mad, you throw up your arms and shake your clenched fists, a screaming malcontent. Its pretty hilarious. We try not to laugh, but its really hard. You look like the cover of Platoon for crying out loud.



6. Sunglasses. Just let’s say you like them:







7. Hugs and Kisses. You are very responsive with kisses and hugs to anyone. Which in the family is fantastic, but when we are leaving MUNI for the street, and you start saying bye and hugging the person next to us, well that is a tad bit too friendly. But also pretty awesome.

8. Dancing Maggie. Your dance moves are sick.



9. Toy Story 1, 2 and 3. I am pretty sure if you could replace your father and I with Woody and Buzz, you would.

10. The Mags. That is what we call you when we are not calling you Maggie, Maggers, Maggaroons, and her Magsesty. I think your brother said it best last night when I told him that today was your birthday and remember to wish you a Happy Birthday, “Mags is crazy. I love her.” I know your father and I feel the same.

Happy Birthday Maggie. We love you.

Little Ms. Independence.

Ah, the tiny toddler tyrant. The formation of confidence and independence are a necessary evil in the development of the mind. Maggie is currently in the “I do it” stage. She needs to do everything, even if she can’t. “No, I do it. Mama. I do it.” I tell her she has to take a bath 15 minutes prior because that is about how long it takes her to take off her socks. I try to help in ninja like sweeps to her heel. But she will quickly brush away my hand and say with authority and a frown “NO, I DO IT.” Okay, bitch, go for it. Luckily for me she is easy to distract with gummy bears. But who isn’t really? Last night when getting home, John said “Guess what your daughter did?” “Kill someone with her fury?” Not yet. However, while watching Dora the Explora, which she calls “Dorie”, she had a moment. If you are not familiar with Dora, it is a Nick Jr. animated show in which a girl is faced with a problem, and she needs to figure out the clues to attain a positive result. This, in theory, sounds reasonable. But this morning’s Dora, involved Dora waking up to find her twin brother and sister aged 6 months out of the cribs, and on a stroller that was capable of moving itself since the twins all of sudden disappeared. As Dora, her monkey, her mom and dad raced to find “the babies”, they went through a gate, and then came to a red hill, which was actually a giant rooster. Finally, they found the babies. Yeah. Anyway, when the mission is accomplished, Dora and her pals launch into a rousing edition of “We did it. We did it. Yes, we did it.” Ms. Maggie McCall, finding issue with this, suddenly ran to the television and started screaming at the top her lungs "NO. I DO IT. I DO IT.” And that is your tiny toddler tyrant.

Happy Thanksgiving To You

Thanksgiving was had at a relative’s house (Thanks Sue!), so I did not get to indulge in best of Thanksgiving traditions - leftovers. Also there no Green Giant corn niblets in butter sauce, which is just fucking nuts. And San Francisco, it is called a Rutabaga. I am Irish and if I spend another god forsaken Thanksgiving without sweet creamy stick of butter in it amazement that is mashed yellow turnips, I might have a breakdown. On Friday morning, in a mission for leftovers, I purchased a nineteen pound butterball turkey for half price. On Saturday, the beast was cooked and my somewhat immediate family dined upon the carcass. Maggie who never eats a ton of anything was shoving corn niblets in butter sauce and turkey down her gullet like a Nathan’s Hot Dog contestant. A very impressive display of gluttony for a girl who maybe eats every three days. Later that evening the kids were bathed and dressed for bed. The usual fall asleep in 20 seconds at 6:30 p.m. Maggie McCall did not. Instead she cried, then cried some more, then had a hissy fit, then decided just to shriek. My mind, incapable of dealing with her wails, did the only thing it could. It sent the appropriate message along synapses to drink repeated shots of whiskey. Finally at 8:30 p.m., after two hours of delirium inducing screeching, I took her in our room where she promptly fell asleep and I promptly passed out. The next morning, she seemed better. We figured she was either over stimulated, teething or possessed by the devil (my vote). Later that morning, John took her to be changed. Wherein I heard, “Cass, I think there is something up Maggie’s nose.” “WHAT?”. “I think there is something up her nose.” “Let me see.” As I tilted her head back to peer into her nostrils, there was something. “What the hell is that?” “I don’t know.” “Get the tweezers.” John holding her hands and me armed with the tweezers, we removed one, two, three, four, five, six, SEVEN pieces of turkey. Out of her nose. She had not eaten like a champ, but instead put various sized turkey pieces up her nose. And all that crying the night before was probably related to the fact that 2 pounds of that 19 pound bird were up her left nostril. And this, my friends, is my daughter: a person who puts bits of food up her nose for fun. Help me.

My Name Is Maggie, And I Am A Bagelholic.

Because of a work meeting, while John got coffee at Peet’s, I took Maggie into Noahs for bagels. As soon as she had a look at the bagel display window she began to point while simultaneously humping my hip and repeating “baaayyylllll”, “baaaayyylllll”. A few weeks ago Maggie received her first taste of boiled and baked doughy goodness instantaneously falling in love. I ordered her a plain cinnamon raisin with John's toasted pumpernickel with butter and plain blueberry. Usually plain bagels are handed you immediately while you walk down to pay. But today some lady starts asking questions about the cased salads. Because who doesn’t want lettuce at 8:00 a.m. The Noah’s assembly line only prepared for toasting, cream cheesing and buttering came to a halt. Maggie did not take kindly to this, looking around and becoming increasingly agitated. She looked to me with fright pointing and saying “Bayyyylll, Mamba. Bayyylll.” while we moved to pay. "BAAYYYLLLL!!!!" Dude, I get it, you want a bagel. I ordered okay, it’s not my fault some fifty year old woman started going on and on about whether she gets a free bagel with her chicken caesar. Finally bagel man realizing the error of his ways, as my Tasmanian bagelholic reached higher and higher pitch, handed over the bag. Placated, Maggie smiled and said “tank you.” At least she is a polite bitch.

Uh Oh, it’s the Monster Cookie

There is an insanely gratifying feeling when your children begin to speak. Awe mixed with love mixed with complete adoration. Maggie has begun her Uh Oh phase. Dropped a sippy cup? Uh Oh. See Daddy? Uh Oh. Eat your one thousandth strawberry of the day? Uh Oh. Mommy’s glass of wine is empty? Uh Oh. Okay fine, the last one I said. The Uh Ohhhing toddler is incredibly cute. She also says Daddy, Mama, thank you, hiyeee, waffle and a few others I am forgetting because she is my second kid, and who cares, right? My first born on the other hand was very select with his words and did not really say too much. Now the kid is a yammering fool. From his “Mama, I miss you” when saying goodnight to the holy cow you are awesome “Monster Cookie” in reference to the cookie monster. Who is that Owen? Mama, that the Monster Cookie. Who could correct that? He is speaking so well these days and becoming this little person. They are no longer babies, they are an almost 3 and a half year old monster cookie loving kid and a 13 month old uh ohhing toddler. Both whom I love exceedingly.

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 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.”

Maggie Smiles; Owen Does Grease

Maggie Smiles from Cassandra McCall on Vimeo.

Owen Does Grease from Cassandra McCall on Vimeo.

The Terrible Twos

Oh sweet Jesus, you know when you have one kid and are contemplating another kid and you are all – how hard can it be? Let me be the one to tell you – freaking hard. Actually hard is not proper in its description. Let me rephrase it this way, this entire water boarding torture method – CAKE!! I really do believe that at times I would like to have a bucket of water pour on my head while semi-upside down than to live the life of a mother of two. You might be thinking at this time I am embellishing but dear readers, I am not. My daughter, god bless her, is for the most part a wonderful baby. But for every plus she has there is one thing that blackens it all and that is her banshee like wail. Actually I wish it were a banshee’s wail, because upon hearing it I would be dead. But nope, when I hear Ms. Maggie’s mighty mouth, I am right there next to her, with my ear to her wailing willing every part of my body not to tense up. It is said that your anxiety transfers to the baby making them even more of a mess, so it is best to take the abuse and sojourn on not caring that there is a good chance your hearing has been damaged permanently. I am getting better at going to my safe place during this child inflicted abuse, but at the same time I am thinking – is this what doctors refer to as blacking out during traumatic events? Maggie’s biggest issue so far is her uncanny ability to miss her window of sleep so that she will stay up for about five hours straight during which time she will quietly lull herself into a sense of calm only to ten minutes later find her way back to crazy baby. This leaves me to the entire three hour scheduling window – she gets up, I feed her, awake time, then 90 minutes of sleep. When on this schedule, things are beautiful and lovely, I am blessed, but when the train derails, it is a massacre of carnage. Luckily the train has not been derailing too often, and my willingness to leave and join the circus quelled. Owen is adjusting aside from a few issues involving his going to bed, and the fact that he likes to cry out Mommy!!! Daddy!!! for a good 20 minutes. This from a child who for an entire year did not even go boo when put to sleep. But he is also in his two no stage, or as he likes to say “No Way”. Which is pretty cute and completely irritating at the same time. But he does seem to love “mine baby.” I try to tell him that it is my baby, and that I carried her for nine months, but he does not seem to care, because everything is “mine.” Its like I did not get the memo or something.

BABY!

Sorry about the lack of posting, but I had the baby. I will detail the joy in a post, but let it be know that Maggie Nicole McCall was born on 3/23/09, weighted 6 pounds, 15 oz and is pretty darn awesome.

8 Days and Counting

Dear Maggie McCall,

You are eight days away from your due date, but that means nothing because I think something like on 10% of babies are actually born on their due date. You do what you want though, no complaints from me. Your father and I think you are going to come every day, because last night as I lay in bed, I screamed "ouch" three times in a row from pains. But then they disappeared. I don't know if you know what the term "tease" means, but I am thinking that you might be very familiar with it someday. And then this morning, you dad said "moving or just pain" and I was like "moving with pain". Which is an appropriate album title and description for the last couple of days. I guess there is nothing to do but wait. But it is so boring. I have reached the max of television I can watch, I am actually enjoying the Today Show and laugh like they are my friends and we are on this secret mission of happiness and fun together. Its sad, really sad, but that is slow descent into madness. My mother thinks that you are going to look like her with dark hair and dark eyes. Your Nana is so modest. She does not want you to have red hair, but since your Nonni has auburn here and my Nana McInnis also had auburn hair there is a good chance you can go red. So, when you are older and reading over this you can understand why Nana never thought that much of you. I kid. Maybe. Anyway, your brother Owen is insane, and if you can be half as insane as him, I will be happy. Also he was eleven days overdue. So again, I stress to you arriving early or on time, might win you votes in our future estate planning.

Your Mummy

And The Verdict is . . . .

Labia. Yep, that is exactly what the ultrasound tech said, "I see labia." Well now. So, the beast within is a girl. We are very happy, I have to say that I am a tad shocked I was having a girl, only because I was playing the odds of probabilities within my friends and people I know and it seems that another boy/girl combo was not going to be had. And this girl will probably be the girlest girl on the Planet Girl. But according to my father, I was a very girly girl. Obsessed with red and barbies, I can't believe it either. And after much going back and forth, I love the name Maggie, and I don't care if Maggie McCall sounds like an Irish bar, that is the name - but maybe I like it because it sounds like an Irish bar. We will never know. So, Margaret (Middle Name to be determined by John with my right of first refusal) McCall, see you in 20 weeks. Love, Mama.