Mr. Man started crawling last night. It's more of an army-style shimmy, the kind that would let you wriggle under barbed wire, but it's locomotion nonetheless.
So...I have two kids under two and a half, and they are both mobile.
Yipes.
My sister was watching the kids yesterday while I finished some work at the office. I stopped by a knitting shop on the way home looking for a pattern for a particular kind of hat I would like to make.
I don’t profess to be a talented knitter. I can make scarves and hats, and I suppose I could manage a sock if someone held a sharpened knitting needle to my head, but that’s about it. My interest really doesn’t extend to a sweater or shawl or anything that would outwardly identify me as a knitter on the street. I read the Crazy Aunt Purl blog not so much for the knitting posts but because I really enjoy Laurie’s writing style and drunken snapshots of the TV weatherman. I’m really not into crafts. Their meticulous nature appeals to me, though, and I find it helpful to gather my thoughts while my hands are ticking away at something repetitive.
When I was a kid my mom taught me how to do counted cross-stitch projects. I realize now that she knew that it would appeal to my burgeoning pathological need to set order to things; it would teach me patience, and, it must be said, get me out of her hair for a while. I never really liked what I made, or had any inclination to frame or otherwise use my creations. I like art, but not craft. I keep doing silly things like knitting scarves every once in a while because it gives me pause, lets me think without actually sitting still, and, well, you know what they say about idle hands...
So I wanted to find a particular hat pattern, and I found myself in a shop called Gail Knits. Yarn lines the walls and there’s a big table in the center of the shop where customers can hunker down and jabber while they knit. I caught myself eavesdropping while I thumbed through the pattern books.
The youngest woman at the table couldn’t be a day under 50. One of them was recounting how awful her desk job is and how incredibly rude and savage her co-workers are. She reminded me of every single entry on Passive Aggressive Notes. Then another knitting frau enters and sits down. She’s obviously not new to the group; the others welcome her and ask “So how is your relationship with your daughter this week?” “Not good,” she replies
I listen in. How could I not?
“So I confronted her last week with her behavior like you all recommended. I told her that it was unacceptable and steps needed to be taken to fix things.”
Oh, really? Yarn drama, where have you been all my life? She continues:
“I eventually forced her to take her medication, and she started thrashing and scratching me and yelling like you couldn’t believe.”
Another: “I told you that might happen. My son did the same thing.”
What the hell? Who are these people?
“Yeah, the vet warned me, too. He said that felines never learn to take medication well, and that I’ll just have to wear long sleeves every time I do this unless I’m willing to declaw her.”
What the-? They’re talking about their CATS. And then it hits me: I’m in a KNITTING SHOP, eavesdropping on OLD, KNITTING CAT-LADIES. Oh, fuck a duck. I gotta get out of here. I am NOT part of this demographic.
I’m not I’m not I’m not.
I still want to make the hat, though.
Last week:
Mr Man: (babbling)
Bean: No, Mr. Man. Obama. Ohhhh-BAAAAAHHHMM-ah.
Last night:
I was watching Fox news (I know. Bad for my blood pressure. Be quiet.) while feeding the kids. Sean Hannity was talking about Obama and his terrorist-sympathizer ways, and discussing how quickly he and Bin Laden laden will take over the country while Bill Ayers lobbies for a lift on the baby-eating moratorium currently in place. They weren't showing any video of Obama, just discussing him in a panel format.
Bean looks at the TV, sighs, and says "Guys, Obama is nice guy."
I say "you're right sweetie. He is a nice guy. What are these guys?" and point to the panelists on the screen.
"Knuckleheads."
Conversation in the car alone with Bean:
Bean: Hey! Mama!
Me: Yes?
Bean: Bean time, Mama time, fun, huh?
Me: You like just Bean and Mama time? Me too, sweetie. I love spending time with just us girls. I lov-
Bean: Look! A flags! Purple one and yellow one!
Sigh.
I’m planning a dinner party for eight for tomorrow. One of the recipes calls for a loaf of Brioche bread. A few weeks ago I tried to make it myself – it was such a disaster that I think the flour secretly sniggers at me from the pantry.
After Bean’s gym class, I toted her to a French bakery a few miles from my house. Here’s how the conversation went.
Me: Do you have brioche?
Frenchie: Oui.
Me: Good. May I buy one please?
Frenchie: Non.
Sigh.
I was digging through some old documents on my computer when I came across this birth plan. I wrote it in anticipation of Chris' birth. None of it was needed, since I ended up barreling into the delivery room at 88 miles an hour and dilated to 8 centimeters, but I still think that it's a fun read:
Obstetrician: Dr. X, Hospital X
My husband, Dimitri, should be present with me through all stages of my delivery. Unless, of course, I brain him with a bedpan because he says something stupid like “Come on, it can’t hurt that much,” in which case, please assign him to scrub toilets.
Corrective Lenses: I need to wear contact lenses or glasses at all times when conscious, as my vision is so bad that being without corrective lenses is unbearably disorienting. If I don’t wear my contacts, you could hand me just about anything weighing approximately seven pounds and tell me it’s my son, and I’ll believe you. My contact lenses take very little time to remove in the event of an emergency, and furthermore are extended wear, so there would be no problem if they were left in my eyes for an extended period of time, up to a week, including periods of sleep. My husband will have my glasses in case I need to remove my lenses.
Prep: I would prefer to avoid an enema or extensive shaving of pubic hair. Once you see me with nothing on but a hospital gown, you will also prefer to avoid performing these activities on me.
Free Movement: I wish to be able to move around and change position at will throughout labor. I would like to be allowed to choose the position in which I give birth, including squatting and/or strangling husband.
IV: I do not want an IV unless I become dehydrated. I will accept having a device (heparin lock?) inserted into a vein so that an IV can be started up quickly when needed, but without the IV being connected until it is needed. My good mood and general willingness to not kill people is inversely proportional to the number of tubes and cords and beeping things attached to me.
Visitors: Other than my husband, I do NOT want visitors while laboring or during birth. I will express my wishes beforehand to my and my husband’s family, but they’re slippery buggers. The grandfathers will happily stay far, far away, but you know how grandmothers are. Now multiply that by two. They’re feisty, and I wouldn’t put it past them to try to use mind control on you to gain entry to the labor ward. Be strong, ladies. For my sake, JUST SAY NO. While in recovery, I will gladly entertain them so they can see their new grandson, but beforehand, while laboring, no way, Jose.
Artificial Rupture of Amniotic Membrane: I do not wish to have the amniotic membrane ruptured artificially before the birth unless signs of fetal distress require an internal monitor. If it becomes necessary to break my water, insert a catheter, and an internal monitor, I want that to happen after an epidural, not before. During my daughter’s birth, I got to experience that all at once and without any sort of anesthetic beforehand. How is that nurse coping without the use of her limbs, by the way?
Anesthesia and Pitocin: I do not wish to use any anesthesia unless I request it during labor. I am no hero, nor am I the earth-mother, bongo-beating, granola-chomping, natural birth type. I will TOTALLY want drugs: I just want to be the one who decides when I get them. I will want local anesthesia for repair of tears or of episiotomy, of course. I do not want routine pitocin to be used.
Episiotomy: I do not wish an episiotomy unless required to avoid an extensive tear. I would prefer a medium-sized tear to an episiotomy, although I imagine that it may be hard to judge how much tearing will occur. I intend to take all possible measures to avoid the need for an episiotomy. Extensive prayer and bargaining with God will likely be involved. Please, don’t cut into my hoo-hah unless it’s medically necessary. I like my hoo-hah, and it likes me.
Birth: I would like to be allowed to hold the child immediately after birth. My husband would like to cut the umbilical cord. This is our first son, and my husband might be nervous, so please make sure that it’s the cord that he’s cutting.
We realize that many of these demands relate to the early stages of labor, which would ideally happen at home rather than wallowing around a labor ward for hours and hours. We are reasonable people, and will most likely follow the reasoned advice of Dr X, even if it conflicts with our wishes stated above. We hope that, like our last birth experience at Hospital X, the nurses will be similarly reasonable and supportive. Except the lady who broke my water and shoved a catheter tube up my….well…without arms anymore, how much harm can she be?